Reizo sat on the couch with his arms folded tight across his chest now, lips pursed into a lard line around his cigarette and eyes screwed shut. If he hadn't had his face set in what could only be described as stony determination, then it might have seemed as if he had a headache. Not that it was far off from the truth. Images of the nerd boy crossdressing clouding your head were accompanied with their own type of pain.
He waved Toru off, refusing to look directly at him, and instead focused on Kiriko, and likely in a way that she didn't appreciate. He was, unabashedly, trying to scrub his brain clean with her. He wasn't so much undressing her with his eyes as gibbering and ripping them off.
“I want a TV up here,” he announced, after clearing his throat, “and since this kid's good with all that shit, I figured he'd be as good as anyone to ask.” Not that he needed to clear anything up with Kiriko, or explain the situation to her, it was just that Reizo felt he owed his class rep the truth, at least, and it definitely had nothing to do with the last thing that'd mysteriously slashed across his brain.