#but why the fuck do i need to take a latin language exam for my greek archaeology mphil

[plangentia]

just officially got my masters offer!!

#but why the fuck do i need to take a latin language exam for my greek archaeology mphil #also why do they think i need £14k maintenance when the government thinks i need 9k maintenance for undergrad #like girlie i'm not planning to be liable for £28k when i spend like £7k a year including rent

[hikarimiyanaga]

Loving You (Part 3)

Part 1 I Part 2

I just finished writing... the first part. Oh god, this fic already has a sequel and I haven't posted all of it yet. Also, thanks for the support for me through hell week, it still isn't finished but apparently my muse likes to just tell my exams to f*ck off.

Warning : Omegaverse. Beta!Reader x Omega!Wanda Maximoff. Curse Words. Mentions of Bullying.

Also, just tell me if I need to add more warnings so I can edit as quickly as I can.

Taglist: @mitchiesdungeon / @upsidedowndanvers

Two weeks pass by and before you knew it, Wanda’s overwhelming scent invades your nose. You turn to her sharply and see that she’s wearing a jacket but it’s not enough. Jesus. You can even smell Pietro’s and he’s further down the hall. You quickly get the perfume from your locker and go to her. You see Tony take off his jacket and give it to Pietro while Pepper is assuring him that it’s okay. So he’s fine. You get to Wanda and take your own jacket off. Everyone knows that Pepper and Tony are set for life so him giving Pietro his jacket is just a sign for other Alphas to back off.

“Fuck.” Right. Beta. Not going to be enough. “Wanda.” You call out and you see Vision heading towards her. Oh. FUCK THAT. No one, specially Wanda gets to be claimed by an Alpha who hasn’t even bonded with anyone yet. Vision’s scent is overbearing because no one has ever sullied or claimed it yet. You look her in the eyes. “Do you trust me?” She furrows her eyebrows and nods. You spray the perfume and you can already feel your own heart calm down. Damn, this perfume really is the best.

-

Flashback

“Y/N.” It was your first day of school and you turn to see your Ma holding out a box… of perfume?

“What is this?”

“Scent hiding perfume.” You furrow your brows and look at Dahlia.

“For me?”

“No. For Omegas.”

“Am I-“ How did they know?... Do they know?

“That’s still unclear, sis.” Alsie says and pat your head. You sigh in relief, you weren’t ready to know just yet. “Just accept it and keep it in your locker. And if you smell an Omega’s scent which means-“

“They’re in heat.”

“That’s right, anak. This perfume is effective on hiding their heat’s scent.”

“Oh. Just like suppressant pills.”

“Yeah. Most Omegas’ heat scent can be suppressed by clothing and pills but if it can’t.”

“Then use this?”

“It’s highly effective. I gave some to my friends back in High School and it literally blows their heat scent away.”

“Oh. Nice. Do I give the whole bottle?”

“Yep. Better safe than never.”

“Gotcha.” You get the box and put it in your bag.

-

“What was that?” Wanda raises an eyebrow at you.

“Perfume.”

“Wanda.” Pietro calls out and both you and Wanda turn to him. He tilts his head. “You don’t have any smell.”

“It’s the wonder perfume.” Angel says and gets the bottle from you. “I can’t believe you have one of these.”

“Wonder Perfume?”

“Said to be only sold to known Omegas that have connections, this perfume can’t be found anywhere else.”

“It can cancel out any scent.” You get the bottle back and hold it out to Wanda.

“You’re giving it to me?” You smile.

“Yep. Better safe than sorry.” You get another one from your bag and toss it to Pietro. “If Tony’s scent ever runs out.” Tony growls at your words and Pepper puts a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. You roll your eyes.

“So you were that girl.” You tilt your head at Angel.

“What girl?”

“My first heat in this school and I haven’t met Natasha yet so I was hiding out in the bathroom since my brother’s scent was getting weak. When suddenly one of those bottles slid inside the toilet stall. Never knew who it was.”

“Ah.” You rub your neck. “I could smell your scent and just slid it without thinking.”

“How did you get these?”

“Ma gets those all the time. She gives me a box every time I run out of it.”

“A box!?” You nod.

“The one in my locker has only five bottles left.”

“But this thing isn’t sold in malls or online.”

“Yeah. I think one of mom’s clients is the owner and developer of it? I met her once at a Gala.” Angel’s jaw drops.

“Seriously?”

“Yep. I can tell Ma to get you some if you want it.”

“N-no. I already have Nat and her scent overpowers mine.”

“Oh. That’s good.” You grin and Wanda gulps. God, how could you be so adorable? “An Omega should never feel alone when they have a heat.” Angel narrows her eyes at you.

“What? Dependence on others?” You shake your head and give her a smile.

“No. Not dependence. Just lending a hand. Specially in time of need.” You wave them goodbye and go to your first class.”

-

You were waiting on the secluded bench when you hear two sets of footprints. You look up and see both Pietro and Wanda. They’re both wearing their dad’s jackets but Pietro is no longer wearing Tony’s.

“Hey, Y/LN.” He greets and you smile.

“Hey.” Wanda sits next to you and Pietro rubs his neck.

“Can I eat lunch with you guys? It feels awkward with my friends now that I returned Tony’s jacket.” Wanda narrows her eyes at him. You frown at him as well.

“Are they bull-“

“They’re not! It just feels awkward!” You chuckle and nod at him.

“You can’t. This is my and Y/N’s secret spot.”

“Wanda! Come on!” You sigh and stand.

“Take my spot.”

“But-“

“No buts. You’re in heat and it can get uncomfortable if you keep standing. So just sit.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll get something. Wait here for a second.” You leave them and Wanda glares at Pietro. He notices her.

“What!?” He asks as he unwraps his sandwich.

“Would you leave!? This is the only place Y/N eats with me!”

“Just this day! Jesus! Share your blessing!”

“I’d rather die than share Y/N!” You stop in your tracks as you hear Wanda’s words. You blush and you feel your heart beat faster. Damn it, why does she have this effect on you? You shake your head and take a deep breath to calm yourself down.

“I’m back.” You say as you drag the chair in front of them.

“Wha-“

“Where?”

“From over there. Used stuff that aren’t always stable get thrown there.” They look at each other then at you.

“Is that safe?” You shrug and sit. Wanda holds out a plastic bag to you and you get a sandwich and juice from it. You hum and smile. You moan at the first bite and Wanda blushes while Pietro laughs.

“Where’d you get this?”

“She prepared it herself.” Wanda elbows Pietro on the side and you eat more.

“Thanks for the food.” You say and grin at her. She blushes and smile at you.

-

You yawn as you get inside your last class and sit at your usual seat. Usually, you get the whole table by yourself but this time someone takes the seat besides you. You turn and see Angel who gives you a small wave. You nod at her and get your notebook out. You pay attention to the Professor. Then suddenly, Angel pokes you lightly and she points to her notebook where you see a question.

How many AP classes are you taking?

You hum and write your answer.

3 this year, why?

What are they?

Latin, Calculus and This, why?

Before either of you knew it, you were both having a conversation through the notebook.

Just asking, have you taken Japanese?

Yep.

Can you help me with my homework today? It’s hard and I don’t know where to start.

Sure, come with me to the library.

That’s perfect since Natasha has to help the Judo Club today.

You nod and after half an hour, the class ends. You stretch your body before putting your things in your bag.

“Why the library?” You yawn as you get out of the classroom.

“Wanda’s there.” Angel raises an eyebrow as she follows you.

“What’s with you and Wanda? You spend time everyday despite having different classes.” You hum and your sleep-deprived self has no more inhibition whatsoever. All you want is to take a nap. You were about to on lunch but Pietro was there. You couldn’t possibly do it on a chair that was about to break.

“I like her.” Angel grins teasingly but you don’t care anymore. You yawn again. “I think she likes me too but I’m too scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Her. And society.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.” You finally enter the library and Wanda waves at you but it falters when she spots Angel. She frowns. What are you doing with another Omega? Someone with a soulmate mark? You notice her gaze and go to her. “She’s here because she needs help with her homework.” You yawn again and Wanda furrows her eyebrows at you.

“Are you okay?” You hum and grin lazily at her.

“I’m fine.” Angel brings out her homework and after just half an hour, you’ve already helped her finish it. Before you knew it, you’ve closed your eyes and lean your head into Wanda. Angel hides her laugh as she reads her book on Japanese language. Wanda blushes as you snuggle into her and hug her arm.

“She likes you, you know.” Wanda looks at Angel who smirks. “She told me herself.”

“When?” Angel smiles and closes her book.

“Just before we got here.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s sleep deprived and had no inhibition.”

“Well, I like her too.” Angel scoffs at her.

“As if that wasn’t obvious? You literally ditched your own brother to hang out with her.”

“She’s the only person who helped us that day. Most people either ignored or rolled their eyes at us. Then there she was, she was reading a novel and I took a chance.”

“She helped you?”

“Yeah. She was just straight up adorable.”

“You’re falling fast and hard, Maximoff.” Wanda smiles.

“At least I’m falling for the right person.”

“She’s a good one.” Wanda chuckle and nods.

“At least you’re not bullying her. It seems she has had bad experience. Specially with Omegas.”

“Yeah. She was the target of Janine and her goons; they were straight up messing things up for her. Which is why she never goes into the cafeteria anymore.” Wanda grits her teeth and Angel can feel her protectiveness… Jesus, it feels like Wanda has already imprinted on you despite being an Omega.

“No one stopped them?” Wanda looks at you.

“Some Betas tried but ultimately gave up.” Angel runs a hand through her hair. “Most of the cliques and groups just ignored them. Wasn’t one of my finest moments.” Wanda nods and looks at her.

“How bad was it?” Angel sighs.

“Only she can tell… but this bad one was when they filled her locker with their heat-scented clothes. She ran so fast to the bathroom and puked.” Wanda flinches at that and clenches her fist, how could they? So that was why you were so adamant to avoid her at first.

“The teachers?” What the hell were they doing while you were suffering?

“Didn’t pay them much attention since Janine’s parents are big donators to the school.” Wanda scoffs. Typical corrupt assholes. Would rather keep the money than to protect their own students.

“Her parents?” What about them? Didn’t they help you? Since you were so fond of them.

“I don’t think she ever told them, if they did then R Firm will rain hellfire to the school and to all the people who did it.”

“She’s been through so much.” She holds your hand and rubs your knuckles. Angel looks at her and groans. Wanda turns to her.

“Yeah. Fine, I’ll tell you the worst one.”

“There’s a worst?”

“Yes. When they tried to frame her for stealing underwears.” Wanda’s eyes widen and she felt her heart drop.

“What?” Angel sighs and fidgets with her book.

“Yeah. When she opened her locker, it was just pure underwear. Overflowing and everyone can smell that it was from Omegas and Alphas alike. It was a good thing that there was a camera installed in the hallway and people wearing masks were seen putting it inside her locker. Nobody knew who did it but most people knew it was Janine’s idea and Rumlow most probably did it.”

“Why go that far?”

“The only thing her parents complained was her not getting into AP classes despite her middle school record. People liked testing her endurance or if she-“

“Was going to get her parents again.”

“Yeah. R Firm is feared by most people in the town but that fear was lessened when people knew that she was a Beta.”

“Why would she let them go that far?” Her voice breaks slightly as she and Angel turn to you. You make yourself more comfortable on Wanda’s shoulder.

“I think she blamed herself.”

“For what?”

“For being a Beta.” Angel sighs. “When I ran into her in a bathroom one time, she had scars on her wrists.”

“No.” Wanda gets teary eyed and Angel nods.

“I think she wanted to die. It was a month after the evaluation tests when I saw the scars.” Wanda’s tears flow freely and Angel gives her a handkerchief. She accepts it and wipes them away. “I think she knew how her second gender affected everyone in her family.”

“Angel. Tomorrow will you please point out Janine to me?”

“Why?”

“I’m going to-“

“Don’t try it, Wanda.” You stir and both turn to you.

“How mu-“

“Enough. I told you before, didn’t I?” You flick her forehead and she glares at you. “Stop being a stubborn idiot. We can’t erase what happened in the past. Getting revenge won’t do me any good.”

“But she-“

“Wanda.” You look her straight in the eyes. “I mean it. Don’t try it. If you do then you won’t ever see me again.” She looks nervous at your words. “Revenge never does anyone good.”

“Justice though?” You raise an eyebrow at Angel who is challenging you.

“Justice is fine. Revenge is not.”

“Why do you want to take the high road?”

“Because getting revenge means I’m the same as them.” Both Wanda and Angel scoff at you.

“What? Sexist assholes who think they’re better than everyone because of their second gender and parents’ business. Sounds like you.” You sigh.

“Just trust me.” You look at the clock and hum. “Come on, time for me to go.” They both pack up their things and you wait for them. The three of you get outside and you stretch your body. Wanda looks down and is frowning when you turn to her.

“Why let them go that far?”

“Angel was right. I blamed myself and some part of me believed their words. I went to therapy for months and got better though.”

“Do you still go?” You nod.

“When those thoughts come back. But it’s optional most of the time.” Wanda hugs you suddenly and you look at Angel who shrugs.

“Please don’t.” Wanda mumbles and you hum.

“Don’t what?”

“Think those thoughts again.” She looks up and you gulp as your heart beat faster against your chest. You’re suddenly nervous that she would hear your heart. “I don’t think I can live without you.” You sigh and try to calm yourself down as you blush.

“You’re exag-“

“I’m not!” Wanda pulls off and glares at you. “I like you! I don’t even care if you reject me or not! I-“ She runs a hand through her hair. “You’re so frustrating!”

“Are you- Why are your emotions changing so much?”

“Because of you! You make me angry and sad and happy all at the same time!” She cries and you hug her. You send her comforting waves and hope they are enough. She calms down in your arms and you sigh in relief.

“I like you too, Wanda.” She smiles and you smile softly. “I might be a pain in the ass sometimes but I hope you know that.”

“You are.” You push her away gently and scoff.

“You’re not supposed to agree with me.” She smirks and you gulp.

“But you are. You kept rejecting me at first, remember?” You look away as you blush.

“Fine. I am.” She grins and takes your hand.

“Go on a date with me.” You chuckle and intertwine your hands.

“Sure. When and where?”

“Oh. Uh.” You laugh and Angel snickers.

“Just meet me in the park near the church? Do you know it?”

“Yep.” You smile and kiss her hand.

“Saturday, 1 pm.” You wink and pull away. “Don’t forget.”

“Angel!” “Wanda!” The three of you turn to see Pietro and Natasha walking to you.

“And I should leave.” You smile at Wanda who blushes. You kiss her cheek then turn. You wave at them as you walk to go home.

-

You open the door and see Valerie with a sandwich in her mouth. She’s been visiting every Thursday and moping in the house since you picked her up weeks ago.

“Hey… sis?” She grins and gets the sandwich.

“Welcome home!” She ruffles your hair and you tilt your head.

“You’re weirdly cheered up.”

“Yep!” You raise an eyebrow as she goes to the kitchen.

“Where’s mom and ma?” You look around the house and there aren’t any signs of them. Your ma’s usually cooking this time and your mom is either watching TV or scrolling through her phone in the dining room.

“On a fancy dinner date.” Ah.

“Oh, what about food?” You scratch your neck. Do you have to bike and get some from the convenience store? It’s a pain but if there wasn’t any then you have no choice.

“There’s some in the ref. You can heat it up.” You hum and you notice that Valerie’s bag is on her shoulder.

“You leaving already?”

“Yep. I have to. I have an early class tomorrow.”

“Right. 8 am.”

“Yep! See you, sis!”

“Okay! Be careful!” You sigh and go to your room after your sister left. “The hell happened to her?” You mumble as you change your clothes. You yawn as you get down. You get the food from the fridge and heat it up. You turn on the tv and watch as you eat your dinner.

Your phone pings and you see Wanda’s name.

Wanda: Hi.

You chuckle at her text. Does she have telepathy? She seems to know when you want something to do.

You: Hey, what’s up?

Wanda: Just wanted to talk to you.

You: We just talked like an hour ago.

Wanda: Still. Let me have this.

You chuckle at how cute she was being.

You: Alright.

And before the both of you knew it, you talked until 1 am where Wanda just fell asleep.

A/N:

Hell week is still ongoing but here we are. No one can stop my love for Wanda. Not even my exams nor my grades.

Thanks for @mitchiesdungeon for the encouraging words.

You've given me enough motivation to actually finish this and review as well.

Thank you for reading!

#Wanda Maximoff x reader #Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader #Omegaverse #Omegaverse Fic #Marvel #Marvel Fanfic #Scarlet Witch x Reader #Wanda x you #Wanda x y/n

[hrina]

Serotonin

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M for mature WORD COUNT: 23.7k REQUESTED: nope!

hi everyone 🥺🥺🥺 she’s here 🥺🥺🥺 please be kind to her 🥺🥺🥺 i poured my heart out into this fic. it’s the longest (and probably the best) standalone piece that i’ve ever written. if you want to let me know your thoughts, reblogging and sending feedback to my askbox would mean the absolute world. 

p.s. since this fic is extremely long, it may cause the tumblr mobile app to glitch. if that happens to you, i suggest opening it up in google chrome or safari instead. enjoy 💕

~*~

September 4th, 2019

You always sit in the middle.

The front makes you feel far too exposed. It’s more likely that you’ll be called upon by chance, and your professors are liable to notice your absence if they’ve grown accustomed to seeing you sat squarely before them during every class.

The back is riddled with too many distractions. You know that you’ll end up watching the shows playing on the laptop screens of the students in front of you. You might not even be able to hear the lecture all that well. Despite your aversion to sitting at the front, you still want to pass with a decent grade.

The middle of the lecture hall serves as a happy medium.

Margaret and Mateo agree. That’s why the three of you push through the door and make a beeline for the trio of free seats located directly in the middle of the room. They seem to be calling your names. You nudge past a pair of girls who are absorbed in a hushed conversation, taking the time to apologise for the inconvenience. A moment later, you plop down into your chair; Margaret takes the seat on your left, while Mateo slumps against the one on your right.

“You’d think that with the thousands of dollars we pay each year, they’d be able to afford more comfortable chairs,” Mateo mutters, resting his chin on a closed fist. You snort in response.

Margaret flips her silky hair over her shoulder. “It’s because they’re too busy offering ridiculously-high salaries to profs who can’t even teach.”

You shoot her a look, cocking one eyebrow teasingly. “We all know that you want to namedrop Allende. It’s okay—you can say it.”

“She’s horrible,” Margaret groans, burying her face into her hands. “She speaks the language perfectly, but she can’t fucking relay the knowledge in an effective way. Isn’t that the entire point of teaching?”

“That’s what you get for minoring in Spanish,” Mateo mutters.

You laugh and nudge him with your shoulder. “Oh, like your minor is any better? How do you say ‘dumbass’ in Latin?”

“It’s the root of most European languages!” he protests.

“It’s a dead language!” You and Margaret say at the same time. You turn to face each other with wide eyes; an incredulous giggle slips past your lips. Mateo opens his mouth to form a rebuttal, but then the door to the lecture hall slams shut, and every head in the room snaps in the direction of the sound.

“Glad to see that trick still works.” Dr. Renault claps his hands before rubbing them together excitedly. Subconsciously, you sit up a bit straighter in your seat.

Dr. Renault is a short, balding man, with a face framed by thin gold spectacles and a belly that bulges slightly over the waistband of his suit bottoms. He fiddles with his red tie as he makes his way over to the podium at the front of the room. You’ve heard good things about him; almost everyone who has taken his class has left shining reviews and gushed about his skills. The buildup has set your expectations high. You don’t think that you’ll be disappointed.

Your eyes drift away from your professor, drawn, now, to the person walking a few paces behind him. The man has wavy brown hair that curls just behind his ears. He’s wearing a patterned green sweater and black trousers; a pair of dark brown loafers adorn his feet. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up slightly, and you can’t help but to notice the smattering of dark ink that decorates his left forearm. Big, bulky rings cover nearly all of his fingers. Tortoise-shell glasses keep his dark hair pinned back—you think that the strands would flop over his forehead if left untamed.

“Welcome, everyone,” Dr. Renault starts, and you turn your attention back to him. He’s standing behind the podium now; there’s a small stack of papers in front of him. “First things first: can you all hear me properly? Or will I need to use a microphone for the duration of this course? I don’t mind.”

A low rumble of responses travel across the room. You shake your head; Margaret and Mateo do the same. You can all hear him just fine.

“Alright,” your professor clears his throat. “My name is Gabriel Renault, but you can call me ‘My Lord’.” He smiles, and the class laughs weakly. Dr. Renault holds out his arm, gesturing to the tattooed man that you’d been studying before. “This is my assistant, Harry. He’ll be grading most of your work this semester, so if you’re looking for someone’s ass to kiss, it should be his.”

Everyone laughs a bit louder this time, including you. Harry steps forward and offers a small smile but doesn’t say anything.

Margaret leans into you. “He’s kind of cute,” she mumbles, shrugging. “In an old-man sort of way.”

“Oh my God.” You cover your mouth and shake your head at her words, but you have to admit that she does have a point. Realistically, Harry can’t be more than four or five years older than you, but the clothes he’s wearing don’t exactly fit the dress code for someone his age. In fact, his outfit looks like something that you could probably have pulled from your grandfather’s closet.

Margaret giggles quietly and recoils, sitting up properly again. When you look back up, your eyes lock immediately with Harry’s. Even from thirty feet away, you can see the mossy green of his irises and feel the intensity of his gaze. A lump forms in your throat, but nonetheless, you shoot him a faint, barely-there smile. He looks away.

Your brows knit together in confusion, but you force yourself to shrug it off. “Bit of a prick,” you breathe to no one in particular.

Mateo looks over at you inquisitively. “What?”

“No, nothing,” you whisper, waving his question away. You turn to face the front again, watching conscientiously as Dr. Renault takes hold of the stack of papers in front of him and splits it into two. He gives one half to Harry before addressing the class.

“Harry and I will be handing out the syllabus for this semester,” he announces. “There will be a short quiz at the end of each class. Don’t worry,” he smiles wryly when quiet murmurs begin surfacing amongst the seats, “They’re only composed of five multiple choice questions. They’ll each count for two percent of your grade; I know it doesn’t seem like a lot, but I find that sometimes students will need that two percent to stay afloat in the course.”

“Me,” Mateo mutters quietly. You and Margaret snicker.

“There will be a quiz at the end of today’s lecture,” Dr. Renault continues. “I’ll be going through the syllabus with you for the first half of the class, and then we’ll do a quick review of the content that you should already know.” He and Harry begin distributing copies of the syllabus to each student, coaxing your classmates to pass the papers down their rows.

“So today’s quiz should be relatively straightforward. An easy two percent,” Dr. Renault says, before casting a glance at his assistant. “Wouldn’t you agree, Harry?”

Harry nods. “Yes, sir.”

You balk at the huskiness of his tone. The words are impossibly deep and throaty. Margaret stares at you with wide eyes and leans in closer.

“If I could fuck a voice…,” she hisses.

“Shut the hell up,” you retort, trying not to laugh at her candour.

Something nudges your arm; you turn and find Mateo holding out a few copies of the syllabus for you to take. You slip one out from the pile and pass it on, but not before glancing up and spotting Harry standing a few feet away at the end of your row. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. The two of you make eye contact again, but this time, it’s you who turns away first.

“There will be a short paper due next week.” Dr. Renault is speaking again. “Don’t fret—it only has to be seven-hundred-and-fifty words. One thousand is the maximum, though I doubt anyone will want to be writing that much after only the first week of class.” He chuckles to himself. “I’ll go into more detail as we read through the outline of the course. Grades for any tests and assignments will be posted online, but we’ll always give the physical copy back to you so that you can use it to study for the exams.”

A girl in your row raises her hand. When your professor nods at her, she asks, “What exactly did you mean when you talked about a review? Like, what kind of information? Just the basics?”

“Yes,” he replies, his cheeks rounding out as he smiles. “Only the content you learned in the introductory course. I believe they taught a chapter on neuroscience, am I correct?”

Everyone releases a quiet murmur of affirmation. Dr. Renault pushes his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. “Excellent,” he says. “So that would be the basics of this course—the three main components of an axon, the chemistry behind an action potential, the parts of the brain and their general functions, etcetera. All of that serves as a foundation for neuropsychology.”

“Okay, thank you,” the girl says. You recognize her—you’ve had a few classes with her, but her name escapes you.

“You’re very welcome.” Dr. Renault beams, and you fight to suppress a smile. He seems so nice—you find yourself predicting that this will quickly become one of your favourite classes.

“Is anyone missing a copy?” Harry pipes up, holding the remaining papers aloft. Your spine stiffens at the guttural rasp of his voice, and you take note of the slow drawl that crawls past his lips.

He has an accent. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Margaret fanning herself in small motions, and you roll your eyes with a soft snort.

When nobody raises their hand, Harry lowers his arm and turns to make his way back to the front of the lecture hall. You train your eyes on him, studying the way his shoulder blades protrude with every slight swing of his arms. His back is broad, tapering off into a narrow waist and long legs.

He’s probably six feet.

You cross your thighs over each other.

“Alright.” Dr. Renault resumes his initial position at the podium. “If you all look at the first page of the syllabus, you’ll find my email, as well as Harry’s. I’ve also taken the liberty of including our office locations and the hours during which we’ll be available. Please don’t hesitate to come in for extra help; it’s what we’re here for.”

“Maybe I’ll head on down to Harry’s office for some extra help,” Margaret murmurs. You don’t miss the suggestiveness lacing her words. You scoff and bump her gently with your elbow. Mateo peers over at the two of you, but you just shake your head.

“She’s being gross again,” is all you say.

He puckers his lips and nods knowingly. “Of course.”

“Are you guys down for a latte at Grounded later?” Margaret pokes her head into the conversation, her voice a bit louder than it should be. You and Mateo shush her; she pouts.

“To answer your question, though,” Mateo says, “Yes.”

“I’ve missed their coffee,” you say wistfully, staring off into nothing. The three of you fall silent, instead deciding to tune in and listen to what Dr. Renault has to say about the layout of the course. Despite your sharp concentration, your ears tingle with the feeling of being watched, and your eyes reflexively fall to the side.

You catch only a glimpse of green, and then it’s over just as quickly as it had begun.

  September 11th, 2019

“How much are you willing to bet that Mateo wrote exactly seven-hundred-and-fifty words?”

Margaret cackles. “He probably didn’t even reach the minimum.”

“You’re so mean!” you laugh, turning the corner and zeroing in on the door of your lecture hall. “Have a little faith in him.”

“Let’s wager an iced coffee from Grounded,” she suggests, lifting an eyebrow. You nod and push open the door. The room is full of students buzzing around and chatting. A quick glance upward reveals that Mateo has already reserved three seats in one of the middle rows. You and Margaret climb the steps of the hall and squeeze past a few students sitting right next to the aisle.

“Sorry…excuse us,” you murmur.

“Hey.” Mateo smiles when the two of you finally reach him. You drop down into your chair, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of your face and yawning loudly.

Margaret doesn’t waste any time. “How many words did you end up writing for the paper?”

Mateo grimaces. “Like…seven-hundred. I’m hoping Renault doesn’t actually count them all.”

“Oh, fuck yes!” Margaret beams and points a finger at you. “You lose. I like my iced coffee with a shot of vanilla bean, bitch.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” you groan, batting her hand away before turning back to Mateo. “And technically it’s Harry who’ll be grading them. Hopefully he’s lenient with that stuff.”

Mateo doesn’t seem to have registered your last two sentences; in fact, he disregards your correction completely. His gaze bounces between you and Margaret, creases weaving into his forehead. Eventually, it dawns on him, and he releases an affronted squawk.

“You guys bet on me?”

“I gave you the benefit of the doubt!” you protest, lifting your hands in the air. “Margaret’s the one who—”

“Good morning, everyone!”

Dr. Renault is at the front of the room, standing behind that same podium from last week. He’s wearing a bright red polo shirt and a pair of blue jeans, which makes you smile for absolutely no reason. The colour of his top brings out the rosiness of his cheeks, and when he offers up a bright grin for the class, his teeth appear to be even whiter than normal.

Behind him, Harry’s standing off to the side with his hands clasped at the small of his back. He’s clad in a black button-up and black trousers. The outfit would have been completely appropriate had it not been for the suspenders striping up his sides; the silver buckles on each strap glint teasingly in the light.

“Why does it look like they swapped closets?” Mateo mumbles. You giggle softly.

“The first thing we’re going to be doing this morning,” Dr. Renault says, “is giving back your quizzes from last week. They’re short, so Harry had no trouble getting around to marking all of them. He’ll be handing them back to you in just a moment.”

You wait with a bated breath as Harry pulls a stack of sheets from his messenger bag. He begins calling out names, and each person quickly scrambles up from their seat in order to retrieve their grade. Mateo’s name is one of the first to echo around the room. He grimaces offhandedly at you and mutters something about wishing him luck. You and Margaret make a show of crossing your fingers and holding them up as a proclamation of your support.

Mateo clambers down the steps, graciously accepts his quiz, and folds it up without looking at it. He makes it all the way back to his seat before thrusting the sheet into your hands and averting his gaze. “Tell me what I got,” he pleads. “I can’t look.”

You chuckle at his theatrics before opening up the paper and letting your eyes rake over the mark circled in red. “Perfect,” you say quietly, a small smile playing on your lips. Your friend’s eyes go wide, and then his cheeks split apart with the force of his grin.

“Oh, thank God,” he sighs, slouching back in his chair and rubbing his palms over his face. “That two percent is going to keep my ass from failing. I’m calling it now.”

“You’ll be fine,” you scoff, swatting at him half-heartedly with the hand clutching his quiz. Mateo thanks you as you hand the sheet back, pleating it once more and tucking it into the sleeve on the inside of his binder.

Margaret’s name is called a moment later, and yours follows immediately after. You both look at each other and shrug, standing from your chairs and stumbling through the row. Margaret ends up in front of you; you stare down at your shoes to make sure that you don’t trip down the stairs. Your face heats up at the mere thought of humiliating yourself in front of the class, in front of Dr. Renault, in front of Harry.

In a matter of seconds, you’re standing before him. Margaret moves out of the way and treks back up to where Mateo is waiting, subtly flapping her page around to indicate her mark. You stare at Harry evenly, your gaze never leaving his face—he’s looking down at your quiz, and he’s hesitating.

His apprehension makes you nervous. Had you done poorly?

Eventually, he pulls the paper out of the pile and looks up. His eyes meet yours.

The green of his irises is even more vivid up close. It knocks the wind straight from your chest. You can see the flecks of hazel dotting the area around his pupils, and the way his eyelashes brush along his browbone when he lifts his head. There’s a small mole beneath the corner of his mouth. His lips are full and pink; they look soft.

“Here you are,” Harry says, and for a moment, you’re confused. Here you are, stationed in front of him. Had he been waiting specifically for you?

Then, you realise that he’s got his hand outstretched, offering you the marked quiz clutched between his long fingers.

You’re an idiot.

“Thank you,” you say dumbly.

Your hand brushes his when you pluck the sheet out of his grasp. There’s a cross tattooed on his hand, right above the divot of his thumb. You turn around, and for a moment, you think you hear him say something from behind you—it sounds suspiciously like “good job”—but you shake your head free of the thought. He doesn’t seem like the type.

On your way back up to your seat, you allow yourself to glance at the grade scrawled across the top of the page. A perfect score. You exhale in relief. Your attention is drawn to where a small, messy smiley face has been drawn in red pen. Beneath the doodle, there’s a few words of encouragement:

Well done. Keep it up. H. x

You gnaw on your bottom lip, so focussed on the note that you nearly pass your row. Margaret hisses at you, and you stop cold in your tracks, silently berating yourself. After a few painful moments of squeezing by the other students sitting closer to the aisle, you drop back down into your chair and fold up your quiz quickly.

Had there been a note on Mateo’s quiz?

You can’t remember. Maybe there was, and you’d merely skimmed over it. You don’t want to ask him about it right now, though, because the room is silent save for Harry calling out names and your peers shuffling forward to received their tests.

You lean forward and pull a brand-new notebook from your bag, sneakily slipping your page inside the knapsack and zipping it back up. Neither Mateo nor Margaret make inquiries regarding your grade. It’s like an unspoken rule: you always do well.

The three of you settle into your seats and wait for the lecture to begin.  

~*~

“Hi.” You lean forward and shoot the barista a friendly smile. “Can I get a medium iced coffee with one sugar and a shot of vanilla bean?”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Um…” You say, biting your bottom lip. “Actually, can you make it two? That’s it, thanks.”

“That’ll be five dollars and ten cents.”

You fish your wallet out of your bag and produce the correct amount of money. Margaret grins from beside you; you both move down the counter as you wait for your drinks.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I can tell you want to brag.”

“That’s what happens when you come to expect too much from Mateo.”

You laugh. “You’re such a bitch.”

“But you’re the one who’s friends with me,” she shoots back, lifting an eyebrow teasingly. Her straight brown hair is braided today, draped over her shoulder and cinched at the bottom with a sparkly pink hair tie. You reach out and play with a loose thread on her sweater before yanking your fingers and snapping it off cleanly. She yelps, but the sound quickly dissolves into laughter.

“How’s Spanish?” you ask wryly, mostly because you’re in the mood to see her fly off the handle.

She scoffs. “Allende is…a demon. It’s only the second week and she’s already fucking killing me.”

“Just drop the class,” you suggest, shrugging your shoulders. “You can always take it next year—maybe she won’t be teaching it, then.”

“I thought about it,” Margaret says, sighing. “But Valentina would murder me. She wanted me to be able to speak the language fluently so I could learn more about our culture and shit. Even if I tell her that I’ll retake the class next year, she’s still gonna flip.”

“That sucks.” You pout and shoot her a sympathetic look. “Valentina should learn to trust her daughter’s judgment.”

A low, hollow laugh echoes in the back of your friend’s throat. “Not likely.”

You try a different approach. “Well, at least you’ve got me—since you’re stuck taking the course, I promise that I’ll listen to all your rants and complaints.”

“Oh, really?” Margaret grins. “Is there an expiration date on that offer?”

“Nope,” you reply, popping the syllable playfully. “This coupon is valid until the end of time.”

“Two medium iced coffees, one sugar and one shot of vanilla bean!”

You and Margaret accept your drinks, sending out quick spiels of gratitude. The barista smiles and tells you to have a good day. As you walk away, your friend guides her straw into her mouth and takes a lengthy, obnoxious sip of her drink. She throws her head back and moans dramatically at the flavour.

“Mhm,” she says, smacking her lips. “It tastes so much better when it’s free.”

“Fuck off,” you laugh, shaking your head. You fix her with a begrudging smile, but something behind her catches your eye. Stupidly, you freeze right in the middle of the basement corridor, the straw of your coffee resting against your parted lips.

Inside the room, Harry’s sitting behind a desk, his tortoise-shell glasses perched on his nose as he rifles through a sizeable stack of papers. There’s a red pen nestled between his fingers, and the sleeves of his black button-up have been rolled a handful of times, leaving his forearms exposed. His tattoos are much clearer now that there’s less distance separating the two of you. You spy an anchor, a rose—

“What are you—?” Margaret scowls and spins around. “Oh.” She turns back to you. “His office is right here? That’s convenient.”

You reluctantly tear your gaze away from Harry so that you can look at her properly. “How so?”

“Well, if he wants to get coffee, he doesn’t exactly have to go very far.” She smirks before taking another sip of her drink. “Plus,” she swallows, “It’s convenient for me, too. I can grab a latte and then pay him a visit right after for some of that extra help.”

She wiggles her brows. You snort.

“You’re ridiculous,” you tell her earnestly. She just giggles, shouldering the strap of her purse and angling her chin to the left.

“Let’s go,” she says. “I really don’t wanna get stuck in traffic again. Last week, it took me, like, two hours to get home.”

“Yikes.” You grimace at the thought, but Margaret’s already pedalling away.

“Come on,” she calls over her shoulder. You follow her, but not before deciding to spare one last glance into Harry’s office.

Your breath hitches in your throat when you find a pair of grassy green eyes staring back at you intently. Harry’s gaze is unwavering; there’s a certain peculiarity about it. It’s searing, like he’s taking you apart piece by piece, unravelling every layer to study what lies beneath. Your skin crawls with the humiliation of getting caught, but something else, too. Anticipation? Exhilaration?

The exchange doesn’t even last a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. Your lips curl up into an uneasy smile as you try to quell the nervous frothing in the pit of your stomach. For a moment—a foolish, optimistic moment—you think that he might actually return your friendly expression.

Harry merely blinks, twirls his red pen over in his fingers, and looks back down.

  September 18th, 2019

“Shit,” you mutter to yourself, looking down at your phone. Your class starts in five minutes, and you’ve just made it onto campus. You’d texted Mateo already and kindly asked him to save you a seat, but your eyes are drooping and you’re absolutely exhausted. Before you can even weigh your options, your feet are carrying you down into the basement of the building to retrieve a cup of coffee from Grounded. You can’t even be upset about it—your body clearly knows what it needs, and right now, that need is manifesting itself in the form of a massive dose of caffeine.

You hop in line, pulling up Mateo’s contact and composing a quick message regarding your whereabouts. Before you send it, you ask if he or Margaret would like for you to buy them anything. A short moment later, he replies, assuring you that they both already bought their coffees and are as awake as ever.

You guys didn’t even offer to get one for me? How rude, you type back, a small smirk on your face.

Mateo’s response is instantaneous, like he had already rehearsed what he was going to say.

In our defense, we thought you were dead.

You snort softly and shake your head as the message sinks in. Your phone clicks quietly when you lock it, but as you lift your gaze, you catch sight of an intricate drawing and freeze. Your eyes nearly bulge out from their sockets when you register that the left arm of the person standing in front of you is littered with tattoos.

An anchor.

A rose.

A mermaid, whose chest is on full display in all of its naked glory.

There are countless others, but you don’t have enough time to study each one, because just then, Harry is stepping up to the counter to recite his order.

“Morning, love,” you hear him greet the barista. She blushes profusely and grins at him in return. Your shoulders tense at the gruffness of his voice, and you briefly wonder just how deep it can get.

You don’t catch the rest of the trade, trying to focus instead on anything other than how good Harry’s ass looks in the khakis adorning his legs. He cracks a low joke, and the barista laughs. Smiling slightly, he casts a casual glance over his shoulder, and you stiffen when his eyes land squarely on you. His pleased expression fades.

“Also…,” he says, keeping his gaze on you for a moment longer before turning back to the counter.

You don’t tune in to the remainder of his sentence, mostly because your ears are ringing and your heart is hammering wildly beneath your ribs. Harry pulls a crisp bill from his pocket and hands it over before moving to the side and waiting for his drink. It takes all of your willpower to look at everything except for him. The barista abandons her post at the cash register to prepare his coffee. You stand awkwardly at the beginning of the line, waiting for her to come back.

She finally does after a couple of minutes, greeting you cheerily and subconsciously leaning in so that she can hear your order properly.

“Hi,” you say. “Um, can I get a large vanilla latte with an extra shot of espresso?”

“Sure,” she replies, but as soon as you begin to pull your wallet from your bag, she stops you. “Actually,” she says, “The man who was just here paid for you. He gave me a ten and told me to keep whatever was left over.”

“I’m sorry?” You blink.

“The man in front of you,” she elaborates. “The one with the accent.”

Your lips part in surprise. Instinctively, you whip your head to the side, just in time to watch as Harry disappears around the corner.

~*~

You end up being a few minutes late. The sound of the door being pushed open is painfully loud, and you have to conceal an embarrassed cringe when your entrance is met with dozens of faces staring down at you. Dr. Renault is in the process of speaking, but when you walk in, he injects a quick, “Welcome, good morning, pull up a chair!” into the middle of his sentence. You try for a sheepish smile and hope that it comes across as sincere.

“That was humiliating,” you mutter when you finally collapse into the seat next to Mateo. He’d saved you a spot right beside the aisle; you send out a silent prayer of thanks. “This is why I’m never late.”

Your friends both shoot you knowing looks, their features soft with compassion. You sigh quietly, taking a long sip of your latte and trying to shrug off the mortification looming over your head.

“As I was saying,” your professor continues, unperturbed by your brief interruption. “The midterm is next week. It will cover chapters one through three; I trust that everyone has begun reviewing?”

Low murmurs are all that he receives as a response. Dr. Renault chuckles and pushes his glasses further up his nose. “I’ll be going into further detail regarding the exam during the last twenty minutes of today’s class. As for right now, Harry will be handing back your quizzes from last week, as well as the assignments that you all submitted. There were a few bumps, but overall, I think most of you did well.”

And just like that, all eyes fall on Harry. He steps forward, a stack of sheets balanced in the crook of his left arm. He clears his throat and licks the pad of his thumb to effectively grasp the corner of the first page.

“Morning, everyone,” he says huskily. “I’ve paired your quizzes from last week with your papers, so you’ll be getting both at the same time. If you’ve got any questions regarding your grades, please feel free to consult me at the end of today’s lecture.”

That’s the most that you’ve ever heard him speak, you realise.

Harry peers up at the class, his eyes skimming over the rows of students before landing on you. You’re not sure if it’s real, or if your mind is just playing tricks on you, but he seems to stare at you for a beat longer than anyone else. You swallow heavily, hoping that he can’t see the violent bobbing of your throat from down below. A moment later, he calls out a name. The girl in the chair in front of you jumps to her feet, and the spell is broken.

One by one, each undergraduate stands and ambles down the stairs of the lecture hall to retrieve their marks. Margaret’s name is called; Mateo’s follows a few moments later. You smile encouragingly at them and watch as they descend the steps.

You grow nervous as the stack of papers nestled in Harry’s arms begins to dwindle. It’s silly, but whenever your work happens to be located near the end of the queue, you always feel a niggling sense of paranoia biting at the back of your brain. Realistically, you know that your assignment will most likely be present in that pile, but there’s always that small what if.

Finally, though, you hear your name ring out.

You immediately decide that you love the way it sounds exiting Harry’s lips.

You stand, grateful that you don’t have to squeeze past anyone. Maybe you should aim to sit in a seat next to the aisle more often—it’s awfully convenient.

Your heart is thudding wildly in your chest, and as you make your way down to where Harry waits, you grow afraid that he’ll be able to see it pulsing through your shirt.

Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip.

Fortunately, you reach the bottom stair without a single misstep. Harry’s staring down at your papers, his lips tucked into a thin line. When you clear your throat gently, he looks up at you. Twin pink spots dot his cheeks when he realises that you’ve been standing in front of him for a moment too long. He holds out your assignment and your quiz, the pages held together by a skinny silver clip.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You hesitate for a second before adding, “And thank you for paying for my—”

“Evan Ross.” Harry cuts you off without blinking, the next name rolling off his tongue seamlessly. You blink in surprise, stiffening. Your mouth pops open as a mixture of shock and hurt washes over you.

Your chest grows tight with emotion, and your eyes burn as you whip around and hurry back up the stairs. You keep your head low as you slide back into your seat; Margaret and Mateo are too absorbed in a hushed conversation to notice the distressed expression on your face, but you don’t mind. In fact, you’re thankful for it.

Your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. Needing a distraction, you unfold the small pile of papers in your hand and glance down at your grades. You’ve achieved a perfect score on your quiz. At the top of the sheet, scrawled in red pen, there’s a smiley face and a brief note:

Well done. Glad to see that somebody’s been paying attention. H. x

You direct your awareness to the written assignment in your other hand. A bright 95% stares back up at you, along with another few words of encouragement:

Very insightful. Great job. H. x

Your eyes narrow. You sit back in your chair; a quiet, incredulous laugh bubbles up in your throat. Luckily, it’s faint enough to avoid being detected by anyone else. You shake your head in disbelief, skimming over Harry’s comments one last time before angrily shoving the pages into your bag. They crinkle loudly—you know that they’ll be all bent out of shape by the time you’ll need to retrieve them, but you don’t care.

You straighten up and risk a glance down to where Harry is still handing assignments and quizzes back to last of your classmates. He smiles at one boy and gives him a reassuring nod before his green eyes stray upward, as though drawn by an invisible magnet. His gaze locks with yours, and the mild curl of his lips quickly flattens out. You clench your jaw and look away, huffing petulantly through your nose.

What a fucking dick.

  September 25th, 2019

“I’m not ready,” you declare, slapping your binder down onto the small foldable desk attached to Mateo’s seat. Your friend jumps in surprise, his eyes growing ludicrously wide, and Margaret cackles loudly from beside him. Despite the panic coursing through your veins, you crack a small smile.

“Good morning to you, too,” Mateo grumbles, his shoulders still hunched from your sudden intrusion.

You groan and collapse into the chair next to him, massaging your temples in hopes of avoiding an oncoming headache. The sensation tends to creep up on you, and you’re sure that it’s due to the measly amount of sleep you’d acquired only a few hours prior. Margaret leans over, extending her arm and offering you a sip of her coffee. You take it and flash her a grateful (albeit pained) smile. Her latte is still a bit hot, but that doesn’t stop you from swallowing down a large gulp.

“What’s wrong?” Margaret asks as you hand the cup back over to her. “Did you not study enough?”

“Yeah,” you say, scowling deeply. “The proposal for my experimental psych class was due last night, so I spent pretty much all my time working on that.”

“Don’t worry,” Mateo says. “You always do well, even when you think you won’t—you’ve got this.”

“Thanks,” you mumble nervously, blowing him a meek kiss. You shift closer to him so that you can scan the contents of his open textbook, hoping to memorize a few final facts before the exam starts.

Dr. Renault and Harry walk in a few moments later, both carrying intimidatingly-tall stacks of paper. A hush falls over the classroom—the abrupt silence makes your professor laugh.

“Don’t worry!” he says. “It’s not that difficult, I promise.”

Somehow, you don’t believe him.

In a matter of minutes, the tests have been distributed, and all of the students in the room are sitting with one seat separating them from their neighbours. Dr. Renault announces that he and Harry will be perusing up and down the aisles, ready to answer any questions regarding the exam. Subconsciously, your toes curl in your shoes—you definitely won’t be asking Harry for further clarification, no matter how badly you need it.

“You will have one-hundred-and-twenty minutes to complete the midterm,” your professor says. His smile is supportive, but it does nothing to soothe to anxious knot in the pit of your stomach. “Good luck, everyone.”

With that, you flip to the first page of the packet. The next two hours are filled with the sounds of pencils scribbling on paper, the hushed whispers of Harry and Dr. Renault, and the occasional lone, hacking cough.

  October 9th, 2019

You’re sitting in the library with Mateo when your phone buzzes with the notification. You glance down at the screen and gasp loudly when you read the words:

Harry Styles has posted to the forum.

“Mateo!” you hiss. He doesn’t reply. Looking up, you see him bopping his head along to the music playing through his white earphones. He’s twirling a pencil through his fingers absentmindedly and skimming through his neuropsychology textbook. You kick his shin underneath the table.

“Ow!” he yelps. The sound is far too loud, considering that it’s only nine in the morning and you’re both situated in an establishment that demands silence.

“Shh!” you say, frowning slightly. He pulls out one of his earbuds and stares at you with bewildered eyes. You choose to stay tacit, simply holding up your phone and letting him read the notification lighting up the glass screen.

“Okay…,” he whispers, glaring at you. “Why the fuck did that warrant such a hard kick?”

“I’m sorry.” You wince. He’s right. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine.” He waves off your apology before fishing his own cell phone out of his pocket and unlocking it swiftly. Together, the two of you pull up a browser tab and type the name of your school’s website into the search bar. You log into your student accounts and click on your neuropsychology class. The link takes you to the collective forum, and your eyes sweep over Harry’s name at the top—the most recent post. You tap it gently and begin to read.

Hi all,

Attached to this post is a spreadsheet containing your scores on the midterm. In the first column, you’ll find your student number. In the second, I’ve provided your mark as a percentage. As always, I will be available after class today if you have any questions regarding your grade.

See you soon.

Sincerely,

Harry

You hold your breath as you scroll down and open up the spreadsheet linked below his message. After a few prolonged, painful seconds of searching, you find your student number and zero in on the percentage located right beside it. You swear that your heart stops.

62%.

Sixty-two percent.

Your lips part in surprise. You take a long, hard look at the spreadsheet, wondering if maybe you’d landed on the wrong row, but no. Your number is there. And a few pixels away, a dark, insidious 62% stands out in black. You inhale deeply, trying to keep yourself from hyperventilating.

“I got a seventy,” Mateo breathes, looking up from his phone and closing his eyes in relief. A moment later, they pop back open. “How about you?”

“A sixty-two,” you whisper, unable to tear your gaze from your screen.

He balks. “Come again?”

“A sixty-two,” you restate, a bit louder this time. “I—”

“Don’t panic,” Mateo says immediately, holding up his hand. You finally manage to focus on him, your eyes growing damp with anxious tears.

“Hey,” he says sternly, reaching over and laying a comforting palm on your forearm. “Don’t panic. It’s only worth twenty-five percent, okay? You’re doing really well on the quizzes so far, and you did great on that first paper, too. That was, like, another five percent or something, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding weakly.

Mateo chews on his lips, but his expression is determined. He mimics your nod, though his appears to be a bit more assured. “Okay,” he tells you. “So, here’s what you’re gonna do: you’re gonna go see Harry after class today and set up an appointment so that he can go over the exam with you. And then you’re gonna take in all that information, and you’re gonna ace the final at the end of the semester, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you repeat, but this time, there’s a bit more conviction behind the word. Mateo knows how bad your anxiety can get—he’s caught you in the middle of an emotional breakdown more times than you’d care to admit. But he also knows how to keep you grounded, and he’s almost always able to bring you back down when your thoughts take you elsewhere.

“Thank you,” you tell him, swallowing heavily. “That’s a good idea, I’ll do that.”

“Yes, you will,” he says, and then he sits back and flips his textbook shut. “Come on, let’s go grab a coffee before class. My treat.”

~*~

When you get your exam back, there’s another haphazard note scribbled at the top in red.

It’s okay. I know you’ll do better on the next one. H. x

~*~

As your fist lands the first perfunctory knock on Harry’s door, you find yourself wanting nothing more than to spin around and speed away as fast as you can. Harry lifts his head from where it’s buried inside a book, fixing his gaze on you and cocking his head to the side.

“Hi,” you say nervously. “Um, sorry to bother you. My name is—”

You’re shocked to hear it escape Harry’s lips before you can say it yourself. You clamp your mouth shut and nod silently, too afraid to utter anything else.

“Hi,” Harry replies. His voice is the epitome of a lazy drawl. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering,” you start, pausing to clear your throat. “If—um—if I could talk to you really quickly about my midterm?”

“Sure,” he says, shrugging indifferently. “You can sit.”

As you step forward to position yourself on one of the padded chairs in front of his desk, Harry shuts his book and stands. You can’t stop your eyes from following him. He tucks the hardcover back into a vacant slot on the tall shelf located in the corner of the room.

“You have a lot of books,” you note. Immediately, you want to strangle yourself for letting the observation slip out.

He simply bobs his head. “I like to read.”

“Me too.” God, why the fuck won’t you just shut up?

But when Harry turns back around, you’re shocked to find the smallest hint of a smile playing on his lips. His gaze locks with yours, and it fades just as quickly as it had come. You swallow forcefully; your mouth feels like a desert.

“Do you have your midterm with you?” Harry asks, crossing his arms over his chest. You look away immediately to keep yourself from ogling his biceps. He’s wearing a dark green crewneck and a pair of khaki pants again. His hair is tousled, like he’s been raking his fingers through it incessantly, and his glasses are tucked into the collar of his shirt. There’s a slight shadow of stubble scattered across his jaw. His lips are flushed a perfect shade of pink; they look smooth and soft.

“Yeah.” You snap out of your stupor and answer him quickly. Leaning down to unzip your bag, you say, “Sorry. It’s right—”

“Why’re you apologising?” Harry asks, creases of confusion etching themselves into his forehead. You pause and peer up at him, your hand buried in your knapsack.

“Sorry?” you ask, afraid that you hadn’t heard him properly.

The corners of his lips jump only slightly. He repeats his question with the same amount of ennui. “Why’re you apologising?”

You blink. “Er…I don’t know, sorry. I mean—!” You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head, feeling your cheeks grow warm. Eventually, you give up on searching for the right words, instead pulling your exam out of your bag and thrusting it forward. “Here you go.”

Harry takes the packet from you, bringing it up to his face. He grabs his glasses from where they hang on his chest and slides them onto the bridge of his nose. You look away when his eyes land on the shameful grade scribbled at the top of the first sheet.

“I didn’t do too well,” you say, training your gaze on the floor. “As you can clearly see.”

Harry hums in response. He flips through your midterm quickly, spending only a few seconds on each page. “That’s odd,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

You peek up at him through your lashes. “What’s odd?”

He shrugs. “If I’m remembering correctly,” he begins, fixing his green eyes on you, “You’ve been doing well on the weekly quizzes. So…what went wrong this time?”

You swallow heavily, bringing your hands together in your lap and fiddling with your fingers. “I was working on a research proposal that was due the night before the exam,” you explain timidly. “So, I guess…I just wasn’t able to study as much as I should’ve.”

Harry nods. Quiet ensues. Your attention stays glued to the ground.

“Well—,” he clears his throat. “I can go over it all with you now, if you’d like.”

“Oh, no,” you say, shaking your head immediately. “I’ve actually—I’ve got to be somewhere after this.”

It’s a complete lie. You don’t have anything scheduled for later on. But your heart feels like it’s about to give out any second now, and the hairs on your arms are tingling apprehensively. You feel like an idiot, tripping over your words and second-guessing every syllable that leaves your lips. Harry’s unwavering, unforgiving stare is making you want to curl up into a ball and sink into the floor. You can’t imagine any torture greater than spending another minute in this office.

“I see,” Harry says. A long moment passes as you wait for him to say something else; when he doesn’t, you jump in to fill the awkward silence.

“I just came by in hopes of scheduling an appointment,” you rush out. “Is that okay?”

“It’s what I’m here for.” There’s no humour in his tone. You nod, gnawing on your bottom lip.

“What day works best for you?” you prod gently. The air is thick; you don’t think that even the sharpest of knives could slice through the tension. Harry rubs his nose with two fingers and taps his thumb against his lips, lost in thought.

“How does ten in the morning on Monday sound?” he says at last.

“The one coming up?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fine,” you tell him. “Thank you so much—I really appreciate it.”

He doesn’t reply, choosing instead to return your exam to you and retire to his chair. You zip your bag back up and sling one strap over your shoulder, standing from your seat and subtly trying to wipe your clammy palms against your thighs.

“Send me an e-mail on Sunday,” Harry says suddenly, drumming his fingers along the smooth surface of his desk. Your eyes are drawn to the gaudy rings on his hands, the jewellery glinting alluringly in the light of his office.

“Regarding what?” you ask, your brows knitting together.

“The appointment. Just as a reminder,” he states, shrugging his shoulders placidly. “I’ll put it in my calendar too, but you can never be too prepared.”

“Right,” you say, nodding. “Okay, I will. Thank you again.”

“It’s no problem.” Harry pauses for a moment before adding, “Take care.”

A bit of the stiffness in your body trickles away at his words—is it possible that he’s beginning to warm up to you?

“Have a good rest of your week,” you say as you start to back away toward the door. Against your better judgment, you offer up a small, friendly smile.

Your feet carry you a few steps further; you attempt to restrain yourself from shooting him one last glance before you turn to face the other way (though of course, you can’t resist.) You think you see the corners of Harry’s lips twitch, but you don’t stay long enough to reflect on it.

Only once you leave his office do you decide that it was merely your eyes playing tricks on you. If majoring in psychology has taught you anything, it’s that humans are extremely unreliable creatures.

Sometimes, we only see what we want to see, you think. The words tumble through your head in the form of a dynamic mantra, echoing continuously until you stagger outside and into the comforting hold of the cool autumn air.

  October 13th, 2019

No matter how many times she tries, Margaret cannot down a shot without cringing after swallowing. She always declares that this time will finally be it, that she’ll throw the alcohol back without so much as a grimace, but both you and Mateo know by now that it’s all just nonsense. Her countless attempts are the main reason for her eventual, inevitable inebriation whenever you all decide to go out for drinks.

“Fuck!” Margaret yelps, squeezing her eyes shut and wincing radically as the vodka burns its way down her throat. She reaches for the glass of water standing a few inches away and takes a desperate swig. You and Mateo laugh as she pounds her fist against the table in frustration. You’re sitting across the table from your two friends, the three of you nestled comfortably in one of the booths lining the wall of the pub.

“Told you,” Mateo says dryly, shooting Margaret a wry smirk. She shakes her head and smacks her lips together.

“No, let’s do one more,” she says, her voice taking on a pleading quality. “It’ll be this next one, I swear.”

“Slow down,” you tell her, holding your hand up. Even from a few feet away, you can see the dilation of her pupils and the rosy flush on her cheeks. She’s never been good at pacing herself, and you really don’t feel like ending the night with your hands in her hair as she retches over the toilet.

Margaret pouts; Mateo grins knowingly at you, the thin gold chain around his neck glinting against his dark skin. You’re all a bit buzzed, and though your friends want to continue, you don’t intend to get plastered tonight. There’s a nagging voice in the back of your mind, reminding you that you’ve got your appointment with Harry tomorrow morning, and you want to be as alert and attentive as possible.

You’d sent him an e-mail earlier this evening, right before the taxi had pulled up into the parking lot of your apartment complex. The correspondence had been simple, just a quick verification of the day and time, followed by a short closing remark and your name. You’d snapped your laptop shut as soon as the message had gone through, willing yourself to tuck the thought of it away into a dark, incognizable corner of your brain.

“Did—?” Mateo hiccups quietly and swallows. “Did you guys hear that Grounded is closing down?”

“What?” You and Margaret both nearly snap your necks to gape at him.

“Not permanently!” he backtracks, throwing his hands up in the air. “Just for a couple of weeks! They’re doing renovations in the basement, remember?”

“I knew that,” you say, cocking your head to the side. “But I didn’t know they were doing them there—I thought they’d just closed off the area near the biology labs.”

“I guess not.” Mateo purses his lips, and Margaret pouts.

“How am I gonna survive without their coffee?” she moans, her shoulders deflating.

You shrug and trail your finger around the rim of your water. The glass is clouded with condensation, drops trailing down the side and dampening the coaster lying underneath. “There’s always Starbucks,” you say, though the suggestion is lackadaisical, unenthusiastic. “But the closest one is halfway across campus.”

“Exactly.” Margaret sulks, placing her elbow on the table and propping her chin up on her fist. “How the fuck am I supposed to stay awake in Spanish, now?”

“Pop some modafinil,” Mateo mutters under his breath. You look at him with wide eyes and burst into laughter a second later. He grins; Margaret elbows him in the ribs, but even she can’t suppress the small smile that creeps up onto her face.

“I’m serious!” she says, her voice shaking with the ghost of a giggle. “Even for neuro, like…I don’t know how I’m gonna get through it.”

“Neuro is at ten in the morning,” you stress, lifting your eyebrows in disbelief. “Just be grateful that it’s not an eight o’clock class—if that were the case, you’d really be fucked.”

Margaret raises one shoulder lazily and rolls her eyes. You lean forward and take a sip of your water, humming appreciatively when the cool liquid runs down your throat and fans out across your chest.

“Speaking of neuro,” Mateo starts, running a hand through his dark, kinky hair, “How did you guys do on the quiz from last week? The one on cognitive processing and perception.”

“I only got one right,” Margaret snorts, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I was kind of zoning out during the lecture, to be honest.”

“Shocker,” you tease. She scoffs in mock-offense, and you flash her a smile to tell her that you’re only joking. You turn to Mateo. “I think I got, like, three out of five,” you say, squinting your eyes and puckering your lips. “Not my best work.”

“It’s still a pass,” he replies, winking playfully.

You chuckle and nod. “True. Plus—,” you tap your nails against your glass and make a vague gesture with your other hand, “—Harry’s nice little notes are always a bit of a confidence boost, you know what I mean?”

When your question is met with silence, you look up from the table with cinched brows and puzzled eyes. Both Margaret and Mateo are gawking at you, their lips parted and their expressions ripe with confusion. Subconsciously, your mouth twists down into a frown; you sit back against the padded material of the booth.

“What?”

“Harry…,” Margaret shakes her head, tucking a silky strand of hair behind her ear. “Harry doesn’t write nice little notes for us.”

“What?” you say, creases digging into your forehead. “No, I mean—the comments he leaves on the quizzes and stuff! You know, like, right at the top of the page?”

“He’s never left a comment on any of my quizzes,” Mateo tells you. He turns to Margaret. “Has he done that for you?”

“No,” she says, pursing her lips. “Not at all.”

Something inaudible passes between them, and when they both look back at you, they’re trying to hide their amused expressions. The scowl on your lips deepens, pulling at the muscles in your cheeks and making your face grow sore.

“Why the fuck are you guys looking at me like that?” you ask, fed up with their cryptic behaviour.

Margaret scoffs loudly and barks out your name. It’s enough to grab your attention, and when you glare at her, she beams wickedly and hisses, “He’s trying to fuck you!”

You can’t help it—you laugh. Margaret’s grin fades, and Mateo cocks an eyebrow at you, waiting for your glee to subside. After a long moment, your giggles dwindle, and you smile across the table at your friends. They remain frozen, still as bewildered as ever. Their silence aggravates you; in a matter of seconds, you’re glowering at them.

“You can’t be serious,” you deadpan, looking at them with blank eyes. “The only time Harry’s ever really spoken to me was when I went to schedule that stupid appointment! I swear to God, he avoids me like I’ve got the plague.”

“Maybe’s he’s avoiding you because he likes you,” Margaret suggests. Her brown irises twinkle with mischief.

A disdainful sound bubbles up in your throat and flops out of your mouth. “Not likely.”

“Why else would he write you little notes, then?” she demands, and you hate to admit it, but she has a point. You’ve got no idea why Harry’s trademark scribbles are always at the top of your tests and assignments, especially since he seems to intent on evading you whenever the two of you happen to cross paths. You chew furiously on the inside of your cheek, only able to offer up a half-hearted shrug.

“We don’t even know if I’m the only one,” you say. “He could be doing it for some other people, too—let’s not jump to conclusions.”

Margaret and Mateo snicker. You glare daggers at them. Mateo is the first to fix you with a semi-apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” he tells you, his teeth gleaming in the low lighting of the bar. “It’s just—Margaret might be onto something.”

“She’s not,” you say flatly.

Margaret releases an offended squawk, pinning you beneath her stern gaze. “Hey!” she squeaks, pouting indignantly and pointing her index finger at you. “Just because you’re in denial doesn’t mean—”

She breaks off right in the middle of her sentence, her eyes growing outrageously wide when they land on something behind you. You tilt your head to the side and scratch your cheek, afraid that maybe she’s noticed a spot or a new blemish blossoming on your face. But then she squeals, her hand shooting to the side so that she can deliver several excited slaps to Mateo’s arm.

“Holy shit! Speak of the fucking devil!”

Everything clicks into place, then, and your jaw drops. You spin around in your seat so quickly you’re surprised that your vision doesn’t go blurry. After a quick sweep of the room, you find the thing—or rather, the person—that has Margaret losing her mind.

Harry’s dressed in a simple black t-shirt and a pair of black, high-waisted, extremely baggy trousers. The pant legs are comically wide, but somehow, he makes it work. His hair is fluffy, and his sneakers are pristine, not a speck of dirt in sight. Something shiny glints near his waist and catches your attention; you find the patterned frame of his glasses peeking out of one of his pockets. Briefly, you wonder if he’s cold—it’s a bit of a chilly evening, and he doesn’t appear to be sporting a jacket.

“He looks good,” Mateo notes.

You and Margaret swivel your heads around and stare at him. He shrugs. “What? It’s just an observation!”

And despite the panic simmering in the pit of your stomach, you laugh softly. You’re about to settle back into the booth and hope for the best, but then Margaret lifts her arm in a frantic wave and shouts, “Harry!”

Your lips part in shock. She must be drunker than you thought.

“Margaret!” you whisper furiously, ducking down and gaping at her. You’re no longer facing Harry, but you get the feeling that he heard his name, because Margaret giggles, twiddles her fingers, and curls her hand in a beckoning gesture. You place your elbows on the table and bury your face into your palms, too embarrassed to look up.

“Oh my God,” Mateo mutters. “He’s coming over here.”

And sure enough, after a few long, painful moments, Harry is standing in front of the table.

“Er, hi,” he says, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.

Mateo offers him a small smile; Margaret beams widely.

“Hi!” she says cheerily. “Sorry, this might be weird because you don’t know us. I’m Margaret, this is Mateo, and this is—”

Just as he had done in his office, Harry breathes your name before it’s uttered. Margaret stops speaking immediately and mashes her lips together to suppress a giant grin. Mateo catches your gaze from across the table; his eyes are the size of tennis balls. You want to groan—subtlety is most definitely not their forte.

“Um, yeah,” you reply. You glance up at Harry momentarily before looking away. “Hi.”

A beat of silence ensues.

“So, Harry,” Margaret jumps in. Her tone is a bit too loud, but it’s not noticeable over the mindless chatter echoing in the pub. “What brings you here?”

Harry shrugs, clasping his hands behind his back. “Just out for drinks with a few of my mates.”

“‘Mates’,” Margaret parrots, lowering her voice and putting on a horrible accent. You gawk at her as she giggles. “That sounds like fun—we’re doing the same thing! What’s your favourite type of alcohol? I like vodka.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, shaking your head imperceptibly. When you look back up, you find Harry’s eyes sweeping across your face. A coy smirk dances on his lips.

You take note of the dimple that carves itself into his cheek and groan inwardly. Just when you thought that he couldn’t get any more attractive…

“I’m more of a whiskey guy, myself,” he says. His shoulders relax a bit; the tension in his body visibly melts away. Though Margaret is the one who had gotten you into this mess in the first place, you suddenly find yourself thankful for her presence. It’s easier to socialize when you’re around someone who makes it their mission to inject comedy into a conversation.

“I’m going to go grab us another round,” you announce gently, making a move to slide out of the booth. Before you stand, you look over at your friends. “What do you guys want?”

“I thought you said we had to slow down,” Margaret says, shooting you a confused frown.

“I changed my mind. What do you want?”

“Just a root beer for me,” Mateo says, trying to hold in a laugh.

“Another shot of vodka!” Margaret cheers, throwing her arms up. She sighs and leans her head on Mateo’s shoulder; he pets her hair, humouring her. She hums and speaks the words that she promises before every drink. “I’ll do it this time. I won’t even wrinkle my nose.”

“Okay,” you say with a curt nod. You stand and face Harry, hesitating only for a second before murmuring, “Well, it was nice to see—”

“Harry!” Margaret suddenly cuts in, drowning out the rest of your sentence. “Would you be a doll and go with her? I don’t think she’ll be able to carry all of our drinks back by herself.”

“I—,” Harry glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, sure.” His throat bobs when he turns and asks you, “That alright with you?”

No!

You want to scream your refusal at him, and then leap across the table and pummel Margaret with hard, closed fists. But instead, you merely purse your lips and bob your head once. “Yup. Let’s go.”

~*~

“Hi.” You smile at the bartender and lean your forearms against the counter. “Can I get a root beer, a shot of vodka, and a vodka cranberry, please?”

She nods, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder and giving you a thumbs-up. You exhale deeply as she bustles away to prepare the drinks. Your skin is prickling with nerves, hyperaware of the fact that Harry is standing right next to you. Casting a furtive glance around the pub, you gnaw on your bottom lip. Harry’s friends are sitting on the other side of the room; they’ve claimed a booth as well. A few of them are piled atop each other as they all struggle to squeeze in. The sight makes you chuckle.

“So,” you hear from beside you. Harry’s gaze is steady as he rubs his fingers against his chin. “What did your friend mean when she said that she wouldn’t wrinkle her nose?”

The question is so arbitrary and out of the blue that it pulls an involuntary laugh from your mouth.

“Oh, Margaret?” you ask. When Harry nods, you continue. “She just sucks at taking shots. She pulls a face every time, so whenever we drink, she always tries to stop herself from doing it. It never works, though.”

Harry smirks. You look away. A few long seconds draw out before he speaks again.

“They seem nice,” he tells you. When you cock an eyebrow at him questioningly, he elaborates. “Your friends, I mean.”

“Oh.” You dip your chin. “Yeah, they’re great.”

He opens his mouth to say more, but just then, the blonde bartender returns with the drinks you’d ordered, setting them down onto the counter in front of you. “Anything else?” she asks, drumming her fingers on the surface of the bar. Your eyes are drawn to the low cut of her top.

“That’s all, thanks,” you declare, but then you pause. “Actually…,” you decide, and you turn to Harry. “Do you want anything?”

He balks, slightly stunned. His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and you suppress a small smile—that’s probably the most expressive you’ve ever seen him.

“No, no,” Harry assures you. “I’m alright.”

“I insist,” you say, and there must be something powerful in your gaze, because he just purses his lips and forfeits his repudiation.

“Er, I’ll just have a coke, then.”

You and the bartender both nod simultaneously. In less than thirty seconds, she’s got his drink standing alongside the others on the counter. “That’ll be eighteen dollars,” she tells you. You unzip your wallet and hand her the exact change before taking a quick sip of your vodka cranberry.

“I’m surprised you didn’t order whiskey,” you joke lightly, peeking over at Harry. He lifts the rim of his glass and takes a hearty gulp of his soda, licking his lips once he swallows.

“I—,” he begins, shaking his head. “Actually, I don’t drink.”

“Oh, really?” You cock your head to the side. “Why not?” A moment later, you backpedal hastily. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“It’s fine,” he says. “I used to drink a lot while I was doing my undergrad. Like, a lot. Shit happened, and I ended up needing to get my stomach pumped. After that, I just kind of…made the decision to lay off.”

“I see.” You falter. “Was it difficult?”

Harry nods, but only barely. He suddenly seems much more interested in the shiny floorboards of the bar. “Yeah, it was. But it was for the best. I’m here now, and I’m a teaching assistant for two classes, so I’d say things worked out pretty well.”

“Two classes?”

“Yeah. Neuropsychology, and then Doctor Chen’s psychopathology class,” he tells you.

“I was actually thinking of taking that,” you confess. “It looks really interesting.”

“It is.”

Though your mouth is dry, you hold up your vodka cranberry. “Well, then…cheers to you. That’s definitely something to be proud of.”

Harry gazes at you through his lashes and lifts his own drink, clinking your glasses together. The two of you take a sip at the same time; his eyes hold onto yours over the rim of his cup. You’re the first one to look away, your heart hammering as you reach out to grab Margaret’s shot. Harry mimics you and wraps his fingers around Mateo’s root beer.

“What’s your favourite drink?” he inquires, his grassy eyes alert. You pause.

“Probably tequila,” you say eventually. “It goes down smoother than anything else, I’ve found. Plus, it doesn’t take much for it to fuck me up.”

A low chuckle slips from Harry’s lips. Your thighs clench together at the sound.

“Guess I’ll have to buy you a shot of tequila later,” Harry tells you, leaning against the bar. “To repay you.”

You can hear the blood thundering in your ears. There’s an odd, fluttery sensation in your chest. You aren’t sure of whether it’s excitement, or anxiety, or perhaps both. All you know is that this is uncharted territory for you. You think that maybe it’s because of the pub and the atmosphere it provides: something laid-back and nonchalant. Harry has never spoken to you like this—like you’re a friend. You have no clue how to feel about it, so you settle for simply hoping that you won’t accidentally say the wrong thing and dash all of the progress you’ve made.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you answer, shaking your head. “I think that this was me repaying you for that coffee you bought me a while back. Do you remember?”

Bringing up his previous act of generosity makes you nervous; he’d swiftly cut you off the last time you’d tried to thank him for the latte. But—much to your surprise—his features don’t harden when your words sink in. You watch as his brows knit together for only a moment before a spark of recognition flickers in his eyes.

Harry’s expression opens up as the memory dawns on him, like petals from a rosebud. “I do.”

You shoot him a tight smile. “See? So now we’re even.”

He smirks. “I guess we are.”

You swallow down the lump in your throat and lift your chin in the direction of where your friends are still waiting. “Shall we?”

He nods, holding out his arm and inviting you to take the lead.

Your feet have only carried you a few steps when you hear someone call out, “Wait!”

Instinctively, both you and Harry spin around. The blonde bartender is back, raking her fingers through her hair and sliding a napkin across the counter. She’s looking at Harry, a roguish smile twisting her mouth upward. When he leans forward to accept her offering, you catch a glimpse of a series of numbers written across the serviette in black ink. Something in your stomach drops grossly; you turn to avoid witnessing Harry’s reaction and hastily speed away.

Margaret claps her hands excitedly when you return with her drink. Mateo looks at you inquisitively.

“Where’s Harry?”

“He’s coming,” you mumble, refusing to meet your friend’s eyes. You remain standing as you take a long sip of your vodka cranberry. Mateo’s lips curve down into the smallest of frowns, like he can sense that something is off with you. Thankfully, he doesn’t pry.

A moment later, Harry appears beside you, holding out the glass of root beer in his left hand. “Sorry, mate,” he apologises to Mateo. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Okay!” Margaret exclaims, rubbing her hands together and staring intently at the shot of vodka resting on the table in front of her. “I’m gonna do it!”

Mateo grins at her, giving her the type of smile that you’d offer to a child who’s just done something endearing. You snicker silently.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up when Harry turns to you and lays a large hand on your forearm. You stop breathing as he leans in close and whispers against your ear, “Is this the part where she…?”

The words are warm against your skin. A violent shudder races down your spine. In response, you can only muster a nod and a high-pitched, “Mhm.”

He chuckles lowly before pulling away.

Margaret downs the shot, and you, Harry, and Mateo all laugh when her face collapses into a vicious grimace. She’s still grumbling about her failed attempt when Harry states that he should be getting back to his friends on the other side of the bar.

“Have a nice night, you lot.” He shakes Mateo’s hand and shoots Margaret a small smile. He then turns to you, his gaze locking with yours. Your cheeks tingle hotly.

“And, you…,” Harry murmurs, the corners of his lips twitching. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You nod, swallowing with some difficulty. When the words finally make it out of your mouth, they’re wobbly and forced.

“See you tomorrow.”

~*~

Around one in the morning, you and your friends have decided that it’s time to put an end to the night. Even Margaret is ready to go home.

“I’ve got to be up early tomorrow, anyway,” you explain to her. “My meeting with Harry is at ten.”

“Right.” Margaret nods knowingly and wiggles her brows. “Your meeting. Are you guys gonna fuck in his office?”

“Margaret!”

“What?” she laughs, gathering her hair into a low ponytail. ���That would be so hot!”

You shake your head. Mateo pinches the bridge of his nose. The three of you head toward the exit of the pub, passing by the large group made up of Harry’s friends. They all seem to be having a great time, absorbed in a flurry of conversation and laughter. You scan each face quickly, frowning when you note that Harry isn’t among them. He must’ve gone to grab another soda, you decide, or perhaps he had to use the washroom. Either way, you don’t dwell on his absence.

You wrap your windbreaker around your body as you step out into the chilly October air. Beside you, Mateo sighs—his breath emerges as a small, foggy cloud.

“Do you guys want me to call an Uber?” he asks. He shoots Margaret a pointed glare. “Or are you gonna do it this time, you cheapskate?”

“Excuse you,” Margaret protests, still sloshed. “I’m not a cheapskate!”

“You’re literally the stingiest person I know,” Mateo deadpans. She squawks.

While the two of them bicker, you glance around and take in your surroundings. The road in front of you is dark and quiet, disturbed only by the occasional car. There are squished wads of gum, burnt cigarette butts, and haphazard attempts at graffiti littering the sidewalk. The streetlights bathe you in a warm, orange glow. About twenty feet away, a man and a woman are engrossed in a series of heavy kisses.

You pause. Your eyes narrow.

Holy shit.

“Fine!” Margaret yells, fishing her phone out of her pocket. “I’ll call the Uber!”

She’s too loud.

Her voice carries through the air.

Lips parting, you watch in horror as Harry detaches his mouth from the bartender’s neck and turns his head toward the noise. His eyes land on your face, and your chest seizes up in panic. In the millisecond that passes before you look away, his features morph from an expression of surprise to that of shame.

You whip around, nearly snapping your neck.

“Actually,” you say shrilly, interrupting Margaret and Mateo’s squabble. “Let’s hit up one more place. I’m not ready to head home just yet.”

Your friends stare at you, mystified.

“Okay…,” Margaret says slowly. “Why don’t we just stay here, then?”

“No!” you blurt before you can stop yourself. The divot between Margaret’s eyebrows deepens. Her pupils bounce from side to side in drunken confusion, but then her gaze lands on the person behind you that you know is Harry, and she gasps.

“Fuck,” she whispers. You glue your eyes to the floor.

Mateo is gawking, too, now. You shake your head and reach for the pair of them, wrapping your fingers around their arms and guiding them further away from the scene. “Let’s just go,” you murmur quietly. The words taste sour on your tongue.

“What—?” Margaret turns back to you, her nostrils flaring angrily. You find solace in knowing that she’s equally as upset as you are.  “What do you wanna do?”

You shrug, too overrun with humiliation to meet her eyes. Mateo wraps a protective arm around your shoulder, and you busy yourself with ogling the buttons on his coat. Your throat is tight with emotion, ears ringing relentlessly.

“Can we go somewhere else?” you ask weakly—your friends are nodding before you’ve even finished the question. “I want to get fucked up.”

  October 14th, 2019

Your head hurts.

Standing in front of Harry’s office, you wish that you’d forgone that final shot of tequila. Your stomach churns uneasily even now—hours later—and you find yourself struggling to recall certain points from last night. You don’t remember much, but what you do know is that Margaret hadn’t ended up being the one hunched over the toilet at three in the morning.

Where the fuck is he?

The door is locked, leaving you no choice but to stand outside in the hall and lean against the wall for support. Your eyes are puffy and red from lack of sleep. You’re fairly certain that your cheeks are swollen, too. You’d cried yourself into a fitful slumber just as the sun began to rise.

You touch your face; your skin feels grainy thanks to the tears that had escaped your eyes and soaked through the cotton of your pillowcase.

You check your phone and bite your lip. It’s a quarter past ten.

Harry is never late.

You’ll wait another ten minutes, you conclude, and if he doesn’t show up, you’ll just go home.

Only a minute after you settle on the decision, the squeaky sound of shoes slipping against polished tiles reaches your ears. You turn toward the sound just in time to watch Harry skid around the corner. Before you can stop yourself, your brows shoot up in dry disbelief.

He’s a mess.

“Hi,” Harry says, slightly out of breath. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

He’s wearing a pair of brown corduroy trousers that sit lopsided on his hips and a white button up tucked beneath a tan-coloured sweater vest. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up unevenly, and the vest itself is wrinkled near the hem. His tortoise-shell glasses are crooked on his face; his hair is disheveled. That same messenger bag is slung over his body, but there’s also a disorganized, rumpled pile of papers in his arms. A loose sheet slips from his grasp and flutters to the floor.

“Shit,” Harry mutters. Silently, you bend down, pick up the page, and hold it out to him. He grunts, wrestling one hand free to accept it. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Your words are monotone; you refuse make eye contact with him.

Harry digs his fingers into his pocket and produces a set of keys. They jingle cheerfully as he jams one into the lock on the door and twists it to the side—you wince at the loud noise. A telling click echoes through the air. With a gentle push, the door swings open.

“Ladies first,” Harry mumbles. Forcing your chin up, you walk into his office.

The room is very different compared to how it had been a few days ago. It’s emptier. A couple of boxes are strewn across the floor, packed up with supplies. All that’s left on Harry’s bureau now is a red pen and a desktop computer. Even the tall bookshelf in the corner of the room is bare, void of all the novels that it had previously housed. You cock your head to the side, nibbling apprehensively on your bottom lip.

“Sorry about the mess,” Harry says, shutting the door and staggering over to his desk. He plops the pile of papers onto the corner of the table and collapses into his rolling chair. “Renovations start the day after tomorrow, so I’ve been clearing out my essentials.”

“All of your books are essential?” you mutter, gingerly taking a seat in one of the cushioned chairs across from him. You don’t intend for him to hear the question—it’s actually more of a taunt, if you’re being honest—but he does.

“I like to read.” He shrugs.

You unzip your bag and rustle around for your midterm. “Me too.”

When you finally retrieve the exam, you pull it out and look up at him for the first time that day. His lips twitch almost indiscernibly, and it’s a soft, mocking lilt when he says, “I know.”

It dawns on you, then, that you’ve already had the same conversation in this exact spot. Your face grows hot, but you compel yourself to shake off the embarrassment. Clearing your throat, you slide your midterm onto his desk in hopes of changing the subject. “Here you go.”

Harry’s eyes fall to the packet.

“Right,” he says, tucking himself in closer. He licks his lips, turning it to the side and opening it up to the first page of questions. “You can see it like this, yeah?”

You nod, placing your elbows on his desk and slyly trying to massage your temples with two fingers—your headache seems to have only gotten worse.

“Okay.” Harry shifts in his seat and points to the third question on the sheet. “This answer here was B. The common name for fluoxetine is Prozac.”

“Got it,” you say, nodding solemnly. You feel silly for having forgotten something as simple as a type of medication.

Harry’s eyes skim the paper before he shifts his finger to the bottom of the page. “And this one here—,” he starts, “The motor cortex is located in the frontal lobe, just before the central sulcus.”

“Oh, shit.” You cringe, pinching the bridge of your nose. “The one in the parietal lobe is the somatosensory cortex, right?”

“Exactly.”

You shake your head, and then immediately regret doing so—it feels like someone is drilling screws into your skull. “What a stupid mistake.”

“It’s not, really,” Harry says, scratching the underside of his jaw. “The parietal lobe tends to be responsible for processing sensory information—some of it is visual, but most of it is tactile. And because of that, it’s really easy to get it mixed up, because we tend to associate touch with movement.”

“That’s exactly what I did,” you admit, pursing your lips.

He shrugs. “It’s okay. You’re learning—that’s the point.”

You glance up at him and find his eyes trained on you. It’s like he’s trying to convey something unspoken, but you don’t quite know what it is. Your throat bobs with a heavy swallow, and you force yourself to look away.

“Next page,” you urge softly. Harry obliges.

He places his finger beside the first question at the top. “This answer was D—all of the above. Because yeah, cerebrospinal fluid is produced by the ependymal cells, but those are located in the choroid plexuses, which, in turn, are found in the ventricles.” He puckers his lips. “It was a bit of a trick question.”

“No kidding.”

Harry’s lips curl grimly.

He’s in the middle of explaining the next error on your exam when your stomach flips and the top of your throat pulses dangerously. You sit back in your seat, one hand flying to your belly while the other shoots up to cover your mouth. Harry looks up at you quizzically; his expression softens when he absorbs your wide, terrified eyes and your hunched shoulders.

“Are you gonna be sick?” he asks quickly, straightening up.

At that exact moment, the nausea passes. The tension melts from your body, and your chest visibly deflates. You exhale quietly; your hand drops from where it had been shielding the lower half of your face.

Nervously, you peer up at Harry, only to find him regarding you with a blank expression. His lips are tucked into a thin line, and his stare is shallow and emotionless. You open your mouth to say something, but he beats you to it.

“You’re hungover,” he states flatly. There’s no humour lacing the words.

“I—,” you grit your teeth. “Yeah, I am.”

Harry sighs regretfully, sinking back in his chair. He hooks his finger into the collar of his shirt and twists it around to loosen the material. Your lips part in shock, eyes nearly bulging out of your head.

“And you’re marked up,” you exclaim before you can stop yourself.

Harry’s brows knit together in confusion. As soon as the realisation strikes, though, he sits up straight, his nostrils flaring with a sharp inhale. His hand flies to cover his throat, but it’s too late—you’ve already seen them.

A number of dark, splotchy purple marks stand out against the smooth, tan skin of his neck. You’re not sure how many there are in total, and you don’t think that you want to know. Harry’s staring at you, his expression severe. You can’t tear your gaze away from his face—it feels like an eternity passes before either of you says anything.

“I think…,” Harry speaks slowly, his eyes flitting from side to side as he studies your features. “We should reschedule.”

“Good idea,” you breathe.

“And I think,” he adds, still using the same tone, “That we should both agree to keep this entire ordeal…confidential.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Deal.”

You can’t help it, then—you snort once before dissolving into laughter. Though bewildered creases dig into Harry’s forehead, the corners of his lips slowly curve up into a smile. Before long, he’s joining you in your amusement, his chest vibrating with deep, rumbling chuckles. His blocky front teeth latch onto his bottom lip, and he covers his mouth with his fingers in an attempt to subdue the sounds.

Deep in your abdomen, you can feel a tight little ball of jealousy festering. It had been conceived yesterday upon seeing the bartender slip Harry that napkin, and it had grown once you’d witnessed him kissing her outside of the pub. The hickies on his neck should be sending you into a downward spiral, but the hilarity of your current situation is enough to overshadow the ugliness—at least for the time being.

Later, you know that you’ll probably feel sick to your stomach, but you’ll just choose to blame it on the surplus of alcohol from last night.

“Wait, wait,” you say, rubbing your palm over your cheek. There’s a small smile on your lips, and your shoulders tremble with silent giggles. “What—when do you want to meet, then? Didn’t you say that renovations are starting soon?”

“Oh, shit.” Harry’s face falls immediately. He frowns in thought. “Does tomorrow work? I’ll be here in the afternoon.”

“I’ve got class until noon, and then I’ve got to leave for a dentist appointment at one,” you say mournfully.

Harry curses under his breath. You rub your hands together anxiously, watching him come to the realisation that you’re both out of options. He pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, gazing down emptily at the exam still splayed out on the desk.

“Okay,” he murmurs. He looks up at you, speaking with a bit more conviction. “Come over to my place on Wednesday, then.”

The look of unapologetic shock on your face must be priceless, but Harry holds his ground. The gears in your mind immediately kick into overdrive; you try to quell the noise—it’s only going to make your headache worse. You look at Harry, hoping that he can’t see the way you’ve just swallowed down the hard lump in your throat.

“Your place,” you echo dumbly. “On Wednesday.”

Harry nods assuredly. “Yeah.”

It’s taking everything in you to steer clear of an overreaction. Harry’s suggesting it because he wants to help you improve in time for the final exam—he’s just trying to do his job. You don’t want to be the one to make it weird. There’s a certain kind of maturity to his idea, you think, and you want to show him the ease with which you can meet him on that level.

“Are you sure?” you ask. “I don’t want to, like, impose.”

“I’m sure.” His reply is firm. “You’re not imposing. I told you that I’d go over the midterm with you, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

You nod, rubbing your clammy hands against your thighs. “Okay.”

“Perfect,” Harry says. He reaches forward and folds your exam closed before sliding it back to you. “Can you make it for, let’s say, six in the evening?”

“Um, alright.” You hesitate. “Where exactly do you—?”

“I’ll e-mail you my address,” Harry promises before you can finish your question. You clamp your mouth shut, nodding again. You don’t miss the delicate curl of his lips, or the shallow, nearly invisible crinkles that appear at the corners of his eyes. You stand up, slipping your midterm back into your bag and tugging on the zipper to ensure that it stays secure.

“Okay, well…,” you look at him through your eyelashes, too afraid to fix him with a proper stare. “Have a good day, then.”

He shoots you a tight, pained smile. You wonder if he’s already regretting his offer.

“You too.”

And for the second time in less than a week, you find yourself exiting Harry’s office with a muddy mind, sweaty palms, and a racing heart.

  October 15th, 2019

“You’re going to his house?” Margaret shrieks.

You wince and bury your face into your palms. The half-eaten plate of gnocchi that you’d ordered is pushed off to your right, abandoned. Margaret stabs her lasagna with her silver fork, shovelling a piece past her lips and chewing frantically. “What were you thinking?” she demands through a mouthful of pasta.

In the dim lighting of the restaurant, her gaze is piercingly judgmental.

“I was thinking about my grade!” you retort defensively. You groan, squeezing your eyes shut. “And I didn’t want to be the one to make it awkward. Like, if he’s suggesting it, that obviously means that he doesn’t see anything wrong with it. So, if I get all freaked out, then I just end up looking like a child.”

Your friend turns your words over in her head, tilting her chin from side to side in acknowledgement. “I get that,” she says, swallowing her food. “But I’m still fucking upset about the other night.”

“You and me both,” you mumble, averting your gaze.

“Hey,” Margaret says sternly, fixing you with a strict glare. “You’re not allowed to feel embarrassed about that. You did nothing wrong—he’s just a dick.”

“He’s not a dick,” you tell her, a hint of admonishment creeping into your words. “And it’s not like he asked me out before hooking up with her. There’s no valid reason for me to be mad about this.”

“Say that again,” Margaret warns, pointing her fork in your direction, “And I’ll punch you straight in the tit.”

You snort.

“I still want you to sleep with him,” she says casually, popping another bite of lasagna into her mouth. “But if he wants my forgiveness, it better be a phenomenal fuck.”

“Margaret!”

“What? I’m just telling it like it is!”

“Jesus Christ.”

  October 16th, 2019

You had been looking forward to today’s lecture. It’s all about memory processes and mnemonic devices, retention and phenomena regarding recollection. You’d been hoping to integrate some of the information into your study habits—though you already know all about the spacing and testing effects, you’re always open to learning new tricks.

Yet you don’t find yourself as immersed in the class as you thought you’d be. Margaret and Mateo are beside you, giving themselves to Dr. Renault with rapt attention, but you can’t seem to devote to him that same level of focus. A small, naïve part of you wonders why, but deep down, you know the exact reason for your lack of concentration.

And that reason is currently standing off to the side of the room, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest and his olive eyes fixated shamelessly on you. You have to suppress a smile—he’s not even trying to hide it.

Around thirty minutes ago, Harry had returned the quizzes that you had all written last week. You’d looked down at your paper to find a perfect score, along with a messy red scribble in the corner.

Well done, love. See you tonight. H. x

You don’t think that your heart has ever swelled so rapidly. Even now, sitting in the middle of the room, you can hear the blood rushing through your ears. Sometimes, when you glance down at Harry, he’ll look away—other times, he just stares at you evenly, refusing to be the first to give in. You’ve witnessed his lips twitching with a forbidden smirk on multiple occasions. It takes everything in you to keep from grinning like a maniac.

What the fuck is going on?

He must be in a good mood, you decide. You peek down at him one last time—to your surprise, his attention is elsewhere, eyes trained on his watch to check the time. When he lifts his head back up, you deflect your gaze immediately and try to ignore the giddy warmth that erupts across your chest.

You refuse to look at him again, but in your peripheral vision, you swear that you see his shoulders rumble with a silent laugh.

~*~

Harry’s building is really nice. The floors in the lobby are shiny and polished, and glass chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Actual chandeliers! The windows are large and clear, letting in just enough natural light from outside to make you feel like you’re starring in an episode of Gossip Girl. You shoot a timid smile to the woman sitting behind the front desk—since when do apartment complexes have receptionists?

Even the elevators look like they’ve been recently renovated. The buttons light up when you press them, a thin ring of red surrounding each number. You find yourself humming along to the music playing softly from the speakers.

The elevator dings when you reach your level. “Fourth floor,” an automated voice announces. You chuckle incredulously as you step out into the hallway. How the hell is he living here?

Your eyes narrow as you scan the plaque on each door that you pass. 4A, 4B…

4C.

You stop short, running your fingers through your hair and tugging on the sleeves of your denim jacket. You pull your phone out from your pocket and glance at the time—it’s exactly six o’clock.

Before you can lose your nerve, you lift your fist and rap gently on the wood. The sound is drowned out by the ringing in your ears. You swallow heavily and shove your hands behind your back, waiting with a held breath and a racing pulse. The passing seconds feel like eons; you’re about to knock again, but then there’s a faint click, and the door is swinging open before you can blink.

“Hey,” Harry says, not unkindly.

You offer up a nervous smile. “Hey.”

The first thing you notice is that his outfit looks nothing like the usual ensemble he wears to your lectures. You were beginning to think that all he owned in his closet were slacks and button-ups and any other articles of clothing that make him look about twenty years older than he really is. But here he stands before you, sporting a light grey hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants. Cute little ankle socks cover his feet, and—as he had on the first day of class—he’s pinned his hair back using his glasses. His eyes seem brighter than usual, and his lips look slightly swollen, like he’s been chewing on them continuously. The prospect of him being antsy to see you makes your stomach flip with anticipation.

You force the thought out of your mind and silently berate yourself. He’s not eager to see you, and there’s nothing here for you to dissect—you’re reading too much into this.

“Come in,” Harry says, stepping away from the door and making room for you to pass through. You thank him softly, gliding past the threshold and taking a short moment to toe off your shoes.

“How are you?” you ask him, though you don’t meet his gaze.

“Good, thanks,” he replies. “You?”

“I’m good.”

“Good.”

You snicker hollowly—the playfulness he’d channeled today in class has clearly faded away. Harry turns on his heel and pads down the hall; unsure of what to do, you simply follow. You take advantage of the fact that he can’t see you, allowing your eyes to rake over his broad, muscular back. Your mouth waters when you cast only a momentary glance at his ass.

“I figured we could set up in the kitchen,” Harry tells you matter-of-factly.

“Sounds good.”

He nods and stops in front of another doorway. Just as he had done before, he steps aside and motions for you to enter first. “After you.”

You hate the weak articulation of your response. “Thank you.”

Everything in the kitchen is white, save for the black marble countertops and the sleek grey refrigerator standing proudly in the corner. On the table sits a bowl of bananas and a small stack of letters and bills. When you glance at Harry with a puzzled look on your face, he just shrugs.

“I really like bananas,” he says, somewhat sheepishly. His sudden awkwardness makes you smile.

“I prefer pomegranates,” you reply, a hint of teasing evident in your tone.

Harry nods. “Those are good.”

“Right?” you say, setting your bag down onto one of the kitchen chairs. “They’re a real bitch to peel, though.”

“I know,” he hums, rolling his eyes. “It takes forever.”

You chuckle and look up at him properly for the first time since he’d opened his front door. His irises twinkle with mischief, and the sight makes your heart flutter in your chest. You’re not used to seeing him like this—with just a few short sentences, it feels like he’s let down his guard and is allowing you to see a new side of him. You like it. You don’t want to screw it up.

“Have you got your exam?” Harry asks, snapping you out of your thoughts. You blink and nod quickly, unzipping your bag and pulling your midterm out of a random binder.

“Here we go,” you murmur, handing it over to him.

He hums gently before motioning for you to take a seat. You lower yourself into the chair at the head of the table, and he chooses to occupy the one adjacent to you. The skin on your arms prickles when he shifts a bit closer. He unfolds your exam, opening it up to the second page.

“Right, then,” he says, clearing his throat. He points to the top of the sheet. “We ended off with this question the other day, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Harry mumbles. He slides his index finger to the very bottom of the paper, where your next error is circled in red. Your attention is glued to the small cross tattooed on his hand.

“For this one,” he starts, tapping the page softly, “Sleep spindles become apparent on a monitor during the second stage of light sleep, not the third.”

“The third stage consists of delta waves, correct?” you ask. Harry nods—you think that there’s a trace of pride in his expression, but you can’t be sure.

“See?” he tells you, pinning you with a serious look. “You know this stuff. You just had a bad morning that day, that’s all.”

His words make you want to lean over the corner of the table and tackle him in a hug.

“I—thank you,” you stammer instead. You focus your attention on your exam, praying that he doesn’t catch the stupid smile that spreads across your face. Your cheeks are aflame, and your heart feels like it’s only seconds away from giving out. You adjust your position in the chair, crossing your legs and shoving your hands beneath your thighs to hide the way that they tremble.

The two of you work through most of the remaining questions together—you’re shocked at how many of the correct answers you actually know. You feel like an idiot for having gotten them wrong; when you mutter as much under your breath, Harry shoots you a stern glare.

“You’re not an idiot,” he tells you, a hard edge to his voice. You shrink beneath his piercing gaze. “This is why we encourage going to bed early the night before an exam. You know so many of these, but a lack of sleep can really just screw you over.”

“Yeah,” you say, sighing softly. A second later, you add, “Thanks for bearing with me.���

“It’s my pleasure,” Harry responds. He flips to the last page of the packet. “We’re nearly done,” he reveals, and you have to fight to hide your surprise when he smiles teasingly at you. “Then you’ll be able to get me out of your hair.”

You scoff and emit a nervous laugh. “If anything, I’m the one in your hair.”

“Not true,” Harry says. His shoulders shake with a cool shrug. “I wouldn’t have been doing anything tonight, anyway. Your presence is a welcome distraction.”

You snort, though the sound rapidly dissolves into a violent cough. Harry’s eyes widen, and he rubs his palm over his forehead when the realisation hits him.

“Fuck,” he murmurs before speaking up. “I didn’t even offer you something to drink, Christ. What can I get for you?”

“Um,” you choke out, placing your hand on your chest. “Water—water’s fine.”

“Brilliant.” He shoots up from his chair and darts around the counter. You curl your fingers into a fist and deliver a few gentle pounds to your sternum. When the hacking fit passes, you swallow heavily and squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassed beyond belief. You busy yourself with staring at the last page of your midterm, skimming mindlessly over the words on the sheet.

Lost in your humiliation, you don’t look up when the loud clinking of glass reaches your ears. It’s only when you hear the deep baritone of Harry’s voice that you lift your gaze.

“Er…would you mind?”

Your jaw drops.

“How the hell did you manage to do that?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Harry protests as you stand. His features contort with concentration. “They all just fell down at once!”

You laugh and scurry around the counter quickly. Harry’s standing in front of an open cabinet, his forearms acting as the only barrier between several cups and the floor. He wrinkles his nose as he shifts, only to freeze immediately when one of the glasses slips further down. You pause beside him, looking for a way to provide help without causing anything to fall and shatter.

“Why’re you just standing there?” he demands, but the question is laced with laughter.

“I’m trying to find a way to get in here!” you say, giggling. You gnaw on your bottom lip to suppress a smile, stepping closer to him and placing your fingertips delicately onto his elbow.

“Okay, maybe—lift your arm a bit for me.”

“What?”

“Lift your arm!”

“Alright, shit!” Harry obeys.

You hunch your shoulders and slip in between him and the counter, ending up with your back pressed against his chest. His breath washes out onto the shell of your left ear—a shiver races down your spine. You bite down harshly on your tongue as you lift your own arms, carefully plucking each glass from its teetering position and placing them all safely back onto the shelf.  

“There we go,” you murmur, holding out your hands in front of the cabinet—one last act of caution. His arms fall from where they were outstretched next to yours. You give yourself a mental pat on the back, smirking proudly and turning around.

Your breath gets caught in your throat.

Harry hasn’t moved an inch.

His expression is unreadable, features stony. His eyes stare at you with such intensity you feel as though he’s pulling you apart layer by layer and scrutinizing everything that lies beneath. You watch anxiously as his tongue dips out to wet his lips—the action is over just as quickly as it begins. His strong chest moves against yours, rising and falling with shallow, sporadic gasps. You swallow roughly, refusing to make the first move.

But then Harry lets out a defeated sigh.

“Fuck it all,” he says.

A pair of large hands fly up to grip the sides of your face, and he covers your lips with his.

~*~

If someone had told you a week ago that you’d end up like this, you’re pretty sure that you would have cackled right in their face. Hell, if someone had told you ten minutes ago that you’d end up like this, you would have considered it to be the grandest comedy special of the century.

But there’s nothing funny about this situation.

You fail to see any bit of humour in the way that Harry presses his lips to yours with a bruising force. You don’t laugh when he steps closer to you, trapping you against the counter and sliding his fingers into your hair to keep you near. And you’re not fucking around one bit when you melt against him, your hands slipping past his waist and your fingers interlocking at the small of his back. A soft, pleased sigh escapes your lips.

Finally.

“I’ve thought—,” Harry breathes against your mouth, cutting himself off so that he can pepper hard kisses to the corner of your lips. “—thought about this so much, you’ve got no idea.”

“Shut up,” you murmur, digging your nails into his back through the thick material of his sweater. He presses a forceful kiss to the curve of your jaw; you can feel the way his cheeks lift with a smirk.

It’s frenzied, it’s feverish, and it’s been a long time coming. Harry doesn’t waste a second, hiking you up onto the counter and tugging your denim jacket from your shoulders. You whimper delightedly at the action. His fingers find the hem of your white t-shirt, slipping beneath the soft cotton and rucking it up your sides. His nails scrape gently across your skin, leaving a searing path behind. Your top falls to the floor, leaving you in a plain, nude bra.

Your face heats up in embarrassment—of course, you’re wearing the foulest undergarments you own. You hadn’t exactly expected to wind up here.

“You too,” you protest breathlessly, trying to turn his attention away from the sheer ugliness of your intimates. You ball the fabric of Harry’s hoodie up in your fists; his body rumbles with a faint chuckle. He steps back, fixing you with an intense stare as his grip curls into the collar of his sweater. You watch with hot cheeks and dilated pupils, clenching your thighs together when he finally rids himself of the material.

He’s got a few dozen more tattoos hidden beneath the sweatshirt, designs littered across his shoulders and his chest. You’re not even surprised. Your gaze falls to the intricate butterfly inked across his abdomen. Harry moves back into your space, and you reach out to trail your fingers along the insect’s ebony wings.

“It’s gorgeous,” you mumble softly.

“I want you,” he replies.

You look up at him with wide eyes. “Have me, then,” you say, lunging for the knot on the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Wait.” He stops you, his long fingers circling around your wrists. “Not yet. First, I’ve got to—”

“What is it?” you ask, somewhat impatiently. You duck your face down, intending to sponge kisses up and down his neck. Your urges are dashed, however, when you catch a glimpse of the marks already scattered across his throat. The hickies aren’t as dark as they had been a couple of days ago (they’ve faded into a light brown, now), but the mere sight of them still leaves you paralyzed with resentment.

You sit back on the counter, your features hardening. Harry watches you in confusion before it dawns on him. One of his hands shoots up to cover his neck.

“She—it didn’t mean anything,” he tells you quickly.

You choke on a dry laugh. “And this does?”

His eyes grow dark. He cups your face in his palms, leaning forward so that his lips brush against yours when he speaks.

“You have no idea,” he says lowly, “how much this means to me.”

You gulp. Your voice shakes when you say, “Prove it.”

Harry kisses you urgently, wrestling his way in between your legs. Your thighs fall open easily, welcoming him closer. He growls gruffly when you hook one of your calves around his hips, drawing him in. His fingers dance up your spine, playing hesitantly with the clasp of your bra. You arch your back, silently encouraging him to take it off.

He makes quick work of the ordeal, undoing the three little hooks in a matter of seconds. Your lips detach from his with a loud smacking sound when the cups loosen around your chest and the straps slide from your shoulders.

“Lemme see, love,” Harry rasps. “Please.”

You swear that those four words are enough to have you soaking through your jeans.

You pull your bra from your body, tossing it away mindlessly. Harry diverts all of his attention to your breasts, reaching up to caress them in his hands. His thumbs stroke over your skin. Your nipples grow tight with arousal, and you’re about to beg him to just do something, but then he bends down and engulfs one of them into his mouth.

“Shit,” you breathe, tilting your head back. “That feels good.”

Harry continues to fondle your other breast with his left hand, while the right slips down so that he can plant a firm grasp on your waist. He rubs his fingers soothingly along the space just above the waistband of your bottoms. You’re torn between pushing your hips back against his touch and curving your torso forward into his mouth.

He pops off of your chest, licking his lips and scattering a haphazard trail of kisses along your cleavage until he reaches the other side. He’s quick to pamper your other nipple with the same amount of attention, sucking avidly and swirling his tongue around it. You whimper, his actions unearthing something wild buried deep in the pit of your belly.

“Harry,” you moan, gripping the edge of the counter tightly. “Please.”

“My hair…,” he mumbles quietly, moving away from your chest and leaving a path of wet kisses up your neck. You sigh when he bites down gently on your collarbone.

“What?” you murmur, your eyes fluttering shut. Harry snickers.

“Pull—”

He kisses your throat.

“—my—”

He kisses your chin.

“—hair.”

He kisses your lips.

Your fingers twine immediately through the wavy brown tendrils at the back of his neck. You stroke his hair zealously, your nails bumping against the glasses that are still perched on top of his head.

“Take these off,” you mumble, giggling against his lips. Harry smiles, removing the frames. Instead of folding them up, though, he slides them onto the bridge of your nose, his cheeks dimpling with a smug smirk.

“You look hot,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’d love to fuck you while you’re wearing my glasses, but I think you’d just end up with a headache afterwards.”

“My God,” you mutter, shaking your head softly and pulling them off. His words are intended to mock, but they’ve only succeeded in turning you on beyond belief. You leg tightens around Harry’s waist, and you place your hand on his right shoulder to guide him down for a kiss.

“Are we—do you wanna—?” you inquire between soft smacks of your lips against his. Harry seems to catch on to what you’re trying to ask. He nods vehemently, winding his arms around your waist and squeezing you tightly. Your breasts squish against his bare chest—the contact sends a shiver down your spine.

“C’mere,” Harry says, helping you stand from the counter. You reach out for the knot on his sweatpants again, but just like before, he interrupts the act.

“Stop that,” he instructs, his lips twitching in amusement when he registers the pout on your face. “I wanna do something else, first.”

“What is it?” you whine. Harry flips your hands over and traces small circles into your palms. He plants a few chaste pecks on your lips before guiding your fingers into his hair once more.

“Keep them there,” he murmurs as he kisses down your neck. “You’re gonna need something to hold onto.”

You open your mouth to question him, but then he’s dropping to his knees and fiddling with the button on your jeans, and your voice betrays you. Harry tugs your zipper down slowly, peering up at you through his eyelashes and fighting to mask a conceited grin. You wiggle your hips as he jerks your pants down your legs, eventually stepping out of the material once it pools at your feet.

“I can smell you, love,” Harry whispers, groaning wantonly and pressing his forehead against the top of your left thigh. You swallow violently at the pure lust coating each syllable of his sentence, arranging your feet so that they’re planted a bit further apart.

“Can I have it?” Harry asks, looking up at you for permission. His fingers hook into the fabric of your panties.

You nod feebly, choking on the word. “Yes.”

With that, he yanks your underwear smoothly down your legs, throws one of your thighs over his shoulder, and goes to town.

You tilt your head backward as he licks a wide stripe up the length of your folds. His plush, swollen lips pepper kisses against the innermost parts of your core. Your clit throbs when he pulls it into his mouth and sucks gently. He grunts appreciatively when you tug on his hair.

“Don’t stop,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut. The cold edge of the marble counter presses into the small of your back, but you pay it no attention. Harry places one hand on your waist, while the other snakes around to cup your ass. He pinches your bum lightly, chuckling when you squeak and twitch in response.

“How’s it feel?” he asks, sticking his tongue out and flicking it rapidly against your clit. Your lips part with a lewd moan, and your fingers tighten in his curls. You feel him smirk against your cunt, evidently satisfied with your answer.

“Harry,” you breathe, your chest heaving. “You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Good.”

He doubles his efforts after that. You can’t even be embarrassed about the sounds that leave your mouth. It feels like he’s everywhere at once, pressing kisses to the inside of your thighs and lapping fervently at your folds. You jump when he circles your entrance with the tip of his index finger, and whimper as he slowly sinks the digit inside of you. He probes around, cursing at the sensation of your walls bearing down on him.

You can’t believe that this is happening. Never in a million years would you have predicted that you’d be standing in Harry’s ridiculously expensive kitchen, stark naked, with his lips and his tongue guiding you to the brink of an orgasm.

Things have a funny way of working out, you suppose.

Harry hooks his finger inside of you, petting a rough, sensitive spot. You cry out and fall over the edge. The muscles in your legs shake so violently that you have to lean against the counter to keep yourself upright. The heel of your foot digs into Harry’s back, and your grasp on his hair grows unbelievably strong. He continues to pump his finger in and out of your cunt, his thumb rubbing against your clit as he pulls back to watch your features contort in pleasure.

“Beautiful,” he mumbles, kissing the skin just beneath your navel. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

“Damn,” you whisper, inhaling deeply. You pause when you realise that you’ve still got an ironlike grip on the wavy tendrils atop his head. Releasing his curls, you flex your fingers and wipe your sweaty palms against the sides of your bare thighs. Harry’s eyes glitter.

“You’re good at that,” you say breathlessly. He grins, and you swoon upon spotting the deep crevice of his dimple.

“Can I kiss you again?” he requests.

A winded laugh falls from your mouth. “You didn’t ask me if you could before.”

“I should’ve.” He grimaces. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you seriously saying that right now?” Your eyebrows climb up your forehead.

A low grunt escapes Harry’s lips when he stands. You watch, amused, as he places a hand on his lower back and stretches. His nose wrinkles in contempt.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Back problems.”

“Why’re you apologising?” The corner of your mouth quirks up. Harry pauses, looking down at you before an incredulous chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest.

“You’re something else,” he says, shaking his head. You smile, winding your arms around his neck and steering him in for a long, lazy kiss.

He tastes like you. The realisation makes you moan.

Sneakily, you run your hands down his back, taking only a moment to marvel at the way his muscles shift beneath his skin. You stop right above his bum, gliding your fingers over the elastic of his bottoms and circling back to the front. Harry scoffs when you begin tinkering with the tie on his sweatpants, and you giggle. Despite his slight jeer, though, he allows you to continue.

You pull at the string, and it promptly comes loose. “Wait,” Harry says.

You groan.

“I swear to God,” you exclaim. “If you don’t let me get you naked—”

He grabs your face in his palms and cuts you off with a bruising kiss. Your empty threat dies on the tip of your tongue.

“I just meant—,” Harry mumbles, the words hot and sticky, “—maybe we should take this to my room.”

You pull back and blink. “That’s awfully forward of you.”

His face is vacant until your sentence sinks in, and then he laughs. The sound comes from deep in his diaphragm, capping off at the end with a high-pitched squeak. It makes you want to grab him and cover his lips with yours until you’re both struggling to breathe.

“C’mon,” Harry commands, tangling his fingers with yours.

He leads you out of the kitchen and down the hall, stopping at the last door on the left. As soon as you step into his room, you note that his bed is preposterously big. That’s the only observation you’re able to make, though, because then he’s picking you up in all of your naked glory and flinging you onto the mattress.

You yelp in surprise, scrambling up to where a mountain of pillows is propped against the headboard. Harry watches you as he saunters over, his eyes hungry and voracious. His tongue swipes over his teeth as he joins you on the bed. You giggle eagerly.

Once your lips convene again, the atmosphere shifts. The playfulness is gone, replaced by something deeper, something greedier. Harry licks into your mouth, ravenous. You whimper, wrapping your legs around his waist and subconsciously bucking your hips up off the duvet. You can feel his cock inside his bottoms, hard and heavy and waiting to be freed. Fed up with the numerous delays, you grab onto material covering his thighs and yank it down. He notices your struggle, and he sits back on his knees to help you in your quest to get him undressed.

“I’m not—,” Harry begins, but he’s too slow.

Your eyes grow wide when they land on what lies beneath his sweatpants.

I’m not small, he might have started to say, or perhaps, I’m not wearing any underwear.

You’re not sure which statement it would have been, because both are true. He’s now equally as naked as you, his cock swollen and curved against his stomach. The tip is flushed a light pink, dotted with clear drops of arousal. A prominent vein runs along the underside—you’re suddenly overcome by the urge to feel it against your tongue. A few inches lower, there’s a tattoo of a tiger’s face inked on his thigh. You feel your stomach tighten as an entirely new wave of desire washes over you.

You look up at Harry with unreadable eyes. He stares back at you, and—for what may be the first time ever—you think you see a hint of insecurity brewing in his gaze. He swallows; you get the feeling that he’s going to say something, but you beat him to it.

“You’re so sexy,” you tell him earnestly, and then you kiss him again.

He ruts against you, his cock sliding along the inner crease of your thigh as the two of you move together. His hands slither up your body to squeeze your breasts, and you arch into his touch. After a few minutes of him devoting his attention to your chest, he reaches over and pulls open the top drawer of his nightstand.

“I’m clean,” he says, panting. “But…just in case.”

You nod once. “Agreed.”

He fishes out a condom, the foil packet crinkling loudly in his grasp. The sound snaps you out of whatever trance you’d fallen into.

You’re really about to have sex with Harry.

Harry, who grades your papers.

Harry, who is employed by the university that you’re currently attending.

Harry, who ignored you for weeks.

All of those things should send off warning bells in your brain. They should remind you that what you’re doing is wrong, and the two of you could get into an unbelievable amount of trouble. Your academic career might very well never recover. Harry could lose his job.

But you don’t care. Because though he’s the same Harry who grades your papers and who works for your university and who ignored you for weeks, he’s also Harry, who writes little notes on all of your tests and assignments. Harry, who bought you a coffee just because he felt like it. Harry, who was willing to devote a hefty portion of his free time to reviewing your midterm with you and showing you where you went wrong.

“You good?”

His innocent inquiry pulls you out of your haze. The condom has been rolled on.

You nod firmly, your legs falling open with a surprising amount of ease. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Let’s do it.”

When his cock first enters you, it takes a minute to get used to the intrusion. Harry watches your features for any sign of discomfort; you find it sweet. You pulse around him, and his hips falter as he swears softly.

“Sorry,” he says. “It feels good.”

“Glad to hear it,” you say wryly. He smirks.

You take deep breaths as you try to grow accustomed to the way he’s spreading you apart. He leans down, balancing on his forearms and sprinkling dozens of kisses across your face. His lips land on your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your chin. The small displays of affection help you loosen up.

“I think it’s okay, now,” you whisper, pushing his hair out of his face. Harry seals his lips against yours, gradually pulling out and thrusting back in. His pace is still slow, cautious, wary; you cup his jaw and skirt your thumb over the small mole by the corner of his mouth.

Steadily, he begins to pick up speed. Within minutes, you’ve got your lips parted and your back curved, your little mewls of pleasure filling the air. Harry curses, sitting back on his heels and searching for a secure grip on your waist. He pistons his hips, pulling you onto his cock with each drive forward. Your fingers dig into the duvet.

“Fuck,” you whine, covering your face with your hands. “It’s so good.”

Harry reaches forward to pull your hands away. “Don’t,” he gasps, his forehead gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. “Lemme hear you, I wanna—,” he groans, “I wanna hear you.”

You moan in response. The headboard creaks incessantly, but neither of you pay the noise any attention. Harry’s chest is flushed a dark shade of pink, matching the blush on his cheeks. His hair has flopped over onto his forehead; he doesn’t even attempt to move it out of the way. You can feel his thighs flexing against your bum as he fills you to the brim with every thrust.

“Bloody fuck.” He grits his teeth, a vein in his neck popping. “So fuckin’ tight, love. You’re squeezing me.”

At that, you deliberately clench around his cock. One of Harry’s hands splays out over your navel abruptly. The next drive of his dick inside of you is hard and sudden—a form of admonishment. It makes you gasp.

“Don’t,” he warns softly, sliding his palm upward and pinching your left nipple. “Be—be good for me.”

His hand continues further north, and your eyes widen when you feel him wrap his fingers around your throat. He doesn’t apply much pressure, but you moan loudly anyway. His thumb strokes over the gentle curve of your jaw, and his middle finger prods gently at your mouth. Without hesitating, you take the digit past your lips, laving your tongue over his knuckle.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers. He stares at you—completely awestruck—like he can’t fathom that you’re real. You whine and buck your hips against his, urging him to resume his previous pace.

“Filthy,” Harry mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. He releases your neck, trailing his finger down your sternum and leaving behind a damp path of your own saliva.

“I’m almost there,” you tell him, biting on the inside of your cheek to keep your sounds from increasing in volume.

“Yeah?” he asks breathlessly. “Gonna cum for me? Please, darling—I wanna see it.”

“Fuck me,” you gasp, twitching at the lewdness of his demand.

Harry grunts, and with the finger that was just inside of your mouth, he rubs frantic, messy shapes against your clit. The sudden onslaught of stimulation catches you by surprise, and you shriek when your orgasm crashes into you unexpectedly.

“Holy shit!” you cry out, squeezing your eyes shut. Your climax is powerful, splintering through your entire body. Your toes curl into the mattress and your thighs quiver pugnaciously. Harry continues to fuck you, alternating between deep, languid strokes, and short staccato pumps. He digs his fingers into your skin as his rhythm wavers.

“Fuck, I’m cumming,” he groans, his face screwing up in pleasure. You grasp at his wrist with shaky hands, stroking over the anchor on his arm when he releases a string of cusses. Harry snaps into your cunt one, two, three more times before stilling and collapsing on top of you, utterly depleted.

The two of you lie there for eons, it seems. Your bodies are hot, spent, and slick with sweat. He sighs, nuzzling into you and delivering a gentle kiss to your temple. Your chest rises and falls unevenly as you struggle to regain your bearings. The room is silent, except for the shifting of limbs and the sound of Harry’s breathing in your ear.

“Was good,” he croaks, lifting a hand and tucking your hair away from your face with feeble fingers.

You hum and turn to the side, the tip of your nose brushing his chin. “Yeah. It was.”

“We’re fucked,” he adds weakly.

You purse your lips. “Yeah,” you repeat. “We are.”

  October 23rd, 2019

The next week, Harry isn’t in class. Instead, settled in the corner of the room, there’s a short Korean girl with dark silky hair and a bright shade of red daubed on her lips. She’s wearing a brown knitted-sweater that looks awfully cozy, and her feet are covered by a clunky pair of combat boots.

Who would transfer into a class this late in the semester? You wonder. Is that even allowed?

At that exact moment, Dr. Renault clears his throat. His announcement makes all of the blood in your body run cold.

“Good morning, everyone. Unfortunately, Harry will no longer be accompanying us on our exciting quest to learn about the brain.” He gestures to the Korean girl standing off to the side. “This is Hana. She will be my new assistant for the remainder of the course.”

November 13th, 2019

“Oh my God, here it comes!” Margaret squeals, her nails digging into your bicep. You laugh at her excitement. Mateo leans over to pull her painted claws out of your skin.

“Jesus, woman, you’re gonna draw blood,” he berates her. Margaret rolls her eyes and faces him with her hands on her hips.

“I didn’t see her complaining!”

“I was about to,” you pipe up, shooting her a dry smile. Your friend turns on you, her features warping with an expression of betrayal, but before she can say anything, the barista sets three tall cups of coffee onto the counter and calls out your orders.

“That’s us, bitch!” Margaret exclaims. “Thank you,” she adds in a softer tone. The barista just smiles, giggling quietly and wishing you a good day.

You reach out for your latte, taking a small sip and humming appreciatively at the taste. “I fucking missed this place,” you say. “Nobody does coffee like Grounded.”

“Agreed.” Mateo nods.

The three of you make your way down the hall, the sounds of whirring espresso machines and jingling coins growing fainter in the distance. The corridor is teeming with students, people engrossed in animated conversations as they head to their next class. Margaret is rambling about how she can’t wait to resume her routine of drinking three cups of caffeine a day, and Mateo is marvelling at the spotlessness of the basement floors.

“They really cleaned this place up,” he says. “I guess renovations aren’t useless, after all.”

“Mhm,” you hum in response.

You balance your coffee in one hand as you rifle through your bag for the little pot of lip balm that you know is hidden somewhere in the smallest pocket. You’re so absorbed in your search that you don’t notice a tall figure walk right out of the door in front of you and into your path.

“Oh, shit!” you hiss, bumping into a solid body. A few drops of coffee spill from your cup and run down your fingers. The liquid is still hot; you whimper.

“I’m so sorry,” you ramble, lifting your gaze as you apologise to the stranger. “I wasn’t looking where I was—”

You stop in your tracks, and the rest of your sentence fizzles out. Harry’s peering down at you with piercing green eyes, seeming to stare through your soul. He’s wearing a maroon crewneck and a pair of dark brown trousers, and his glasses are tucked securely into the collar of his shirt. His hair has grown since you’d last seen him all those weeks ago, wispy tendrils curling just beneath his ears. Your skin tingles with the memory of running your fingers through the soft strands, and you have to hold back a sigh.

“Hi,” Harry says, the greeting deep and guttural. You swallow heavily, gripping your coffee with both hands.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He buries his knuckles into his pockets, his brown loafers squeaking against the floor. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine.” Your answer is curt. “You?”

“I’ve been alright, yeah.”

“That’s good.”

A beat of silence passes before someone beside you clears their throat. You jump; you’d forgotten all about your friends.

“Okay, well, we’re gonna go…,” Margaret says slowly, drawing out the last vowel of her sentence. She’s only referring to Mateo and herself, but you put your hand on her forearm to keep her still for a second longer.

“I’ll come with you,” you tell her quickly, refusing to look at the man standing in front of you.

“Actually,” Harry pipes up. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.”

You force yourself to meet his eyes. Margaret and Mateo step away leisurely. “What is it?”

“It’s about your midterm,” Harry says, even though both of you know that it’s not. Everything on his face reveals to you that his words are a lie, from the pursing of his lips to the furrowing of his brows. Despite your irritation, though, you find yourself nodding apprehensively.

Harry steps back, holding out his arm and motioning for you to walk into his office. You don’t bother shooting your friends one last glance before you oblige.

They’ll be fine; you’re not worried about them.

You’re worried about yourself.

You don’t miss the sound of the lock on the door clicking into place. You busy yourself with studying the office—Harry has begun moving his supplies back into place. The bookshelf in the corner is half-full; a few boxes—each of them are filled to the brim with novels—sit on the floor as they wait to be emptied. There’s a tall pile of papers on Harry’s desk. Your brows furrow in confusion for only a moment before you remember that he’s also serving as a teaching assistant for Dr. Chen’s psychopathology course.

“Er…,” Harry says from behind you. You keep your back to him, choosing instead to run your fingers over the smooth surface of his desk.

“What’s up?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level.

He sighs. “I quit my position in Dr. Renault’s class.”

“Really?” you say. Your tone is light, but the sarcasm in your words carries a harsh bite. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Your name leaves Harry’s lips in a quiet plea. It shocks you so much that you instinctively turn around to face him.

“Don’t be like that,” he implores. “Please.”

“Like what?” you snap, scowling at him. “What exactly am I doing?”

“You’re upset with me,” Harry states weakly. A dry, hollow laugh falls from your mouth.

“Maybe I am.” You shrug, the corners of your mouth curling disdainfully. “Wouldn’t you be upset if the person you’d fucked just decided to ghost you for a month?”

“I didn’t—,” he starts, but you cut him off without hesitating.

“Yes, you did,” you say, a hard edge creeping into your voice. “You kissed me, we fucked, and then you fell off the face of the planet.”

Harry remains silent, because he knows that you’re right. You grip your coffee tightly in one hand, the other coming up to rub tiredly at your forehead. Your heart is about to beat out of your chest, but there’s an odd, gratifying sensation spreading through your body. It feels good to tell him off, you realise. The anger and resentment brewing within you for the past month has made you astonishingly bitter.

“Why did you bring me in here, Harry?” you ask, sighing. “To tell me you quit Doctor Renault’s class? Because I already knew that.”

The words hurt as they exit your mouth. Hana seems like an absolute sweetheart, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss the little notes scrawled in messy, boyish handwriting at the top of your weekly quizzes. You blink rapidly and will the reflection out of your mind, drumming your fingers against the side of your latte.

“Bloody hell,” Harry mutters, shaking his head. “Why the fuck do you think I quit?”

“Excuse me?” Your brows knit together.

“Why do you think I quit?” Harry demands, his lips twisting into a frown. You balk, hating that the question has caught you by surprise.

“I—,” you start, growing frustrated. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“God, you really are quite dense, aren’t you?” Harry asks, chuckling sardonically.

You narrow your eyes. “I didn’t come here to be belittled.”

“What did you come here for, then?” he shoots back. “Why’d you agree to speak with me?”

“Because I wanted an explanation,” you say, feeling your chest grow tight. The words are thick when they leave your lips. “But if you’re not going to give me one, then…”

“Fuck, wait,” Harry rushes out. He blocks the path to the door as you try to sidestep his broad frame. “Please, just…lemme figure out a way to say what I’m thinking.”

You cross your arms over your chest and glare at him.  “You’ve got two minutes.”

He scratches the back of his neck, pulling gently on the collar of his dark sweater. You watch him turn phrases over in his head and hate that even now, in the middle of an argument, you still want to kiss him. Your lips prickle as you recall what it felt like to lick into his mouth, and how he swallowed up every single one of your moans.

“We had sex,” Harry finally says carefully. “That’s against the university’s policy.”

“I’m aware,” you say. You’ve realised this—why is he reiterating what you already know?

“I’m not allowed to be involved with a student in the classes where I’m…,” he continues and shakes his head, “Basically, if I’m a teaching assistant for a certain course, the people enrolled in it are off-limits.”

“I know.” You’re growing impatient, now. Harry’s mouth twitches.

“But I’m no longer the teaching assistant for Doctor Renault’s class,” he says softly. His stare is earnest, like he’s trying to tell you something without actually saying it.

You pause, allowing his words to sink in. Your lips part when the situation dawns on you, and you suddenly understand what he chose to do—what he’s done. You look up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, your fingers constricting so tightly around your coffee that the cup nearly dents under the pressure.

“You—,” you initiate, but Harry interrupts you before you can continue.

“Have dinner with me,” he requests with prudence, approaching you slowly. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go. We can even see a movie after, if you’d like.”

Despite your dispute from only a few minutes ago, a small smile creeps onto your face. Harry takes another step toward you, and your stomach flips in anticipation. You gaze into his eyes, taking note of the way his green irises glimmer with hope. He lifts his hand and runs his thumb over your jaw. You find yourself leaning into his touch.

“You want to take me out on a date?” you ask, fighting to keep your eyelids from drifting shut. Harry smirks, his dimple popping on his cheek.

“I do,” he confirms, pinching your chin gently. “Will you let me?”

“I guess,” you say dreamily, and then your lips are on his. He exhales in relief, wrapping his arms around your waist as yours loop behind his neck.

Sparks are whizzing around in your brain. You’re sure that, realistically, they can be attributed to some sort of neurotransmitter, but you choose to believe that it’s just The Harry Effect.

You eventually pull apart for air, gasping hotly and scattering kisses anywhere you can reach. “As much as I’d love to continue this,” you say, sighing delicately as Harry delivers several hard pecks to your lips, “I need to head home and finish up a research report for my experimental psych class. It’s due on Friday.”

“Fine.” Harry drags himself away from you but keeps your face nestled in his hands. He runs his index finger along the seam of your mouth. “Go on, then. Congratulations on being a responsible student, I suppose.”

You smile and hold out your hand. “Give me your phone,” you order. His lifts an eyebrow teasingly; you mirror his coy expression and elaborate. “Let me put my number in. That way, we don’t have to e-mail back and forth like we’re in our fucking fifties.”

“I like to think that e-mailing is a very efficient way of sending messages,” Harry says.

You laugh. “Are you saying that you don’t want my number, then?”

“No, no,” he backtracks quickly, fishing his phone out of his pocket and unlocking it before handing it over to you. “Here, by all means.”

“That’s what I thought,” you simper. You key your information into the device, grinning as you pass it back to him. “There we go.”

Harry leans down, stealing a chaste kiss before you can even register what’s happening. He pulls back, humming impishly at the stunned expression on your face. “There we go,” he repeats, flashing you a crooked smirk.

He escorts you out of his office, down the hall, and up onto the main floor. Every so often, your hands brush as you walk. When you reach one of the many exits in the building, you turn to him.

“You’ll text me, right?” you check, succumbing to the small sliver of doubt that nags at your brain.

He nods. “I promise.”

“Okay.” You chew on your bottom lip. Your mouth subconsciously lifts into a doting smile. “Have a good day, Harry.”

His eyes are full of tenderness. “You too, love. Take care.”

You turn and push through the doors without looking back.

When you finally find your car in the winding maze of the parking lot, you feel your phone vibrate in your back pocket. You dig it out and open it absentmindedly. A soft laugh slips past your lips when you discover a text sent from an unknown number.

“He’s cute,” you murmur to yourself, your eyes scanning over the message.

It was really nice seeing you. I look forward to having dinner with you soon. H. x

~*~

thank you for reading 💖 and thank you to @all-things-fic, @emotionally-imbruised, and @imethiminthemorning for being my betas! i love you guys [masterlist] [askbox]

Dopamine (a Serotonin extra)

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[the13colonies]

Hey, Rev. Since you are a history major, I wanted to know approximately how many hours of class do you have per week? And is it roughly the same for all 4 years, or do the hours decrease with each year?

Well, it depends how fast you want to graduate, where you are in your degree, specifically which classes you take, and which are required credits

This is continued under the cut:

The standard semester for college students in any degree is 12 credit hours per semester, or 4 classes. With the history major, if you go to a 4 year university with 12 hours a semester you will graduate in about 4 years depending on the program requirements. 2 years to do prerequisites you need to graduate, and 2 for your major and minor

A major is what you are getting your degree in. Since my major is history, I will graduate with a bachelor's in history. A minor is something that you take classes in on the side, but do not get a degree in. My minor is classics (ancient Greece and Roman studies) and most programs usually make you take a minor, history especially. Minors that go well with history is usually political science, international affairs, archeology, anthropology, classics, and literature. Some programs also have specific minors for history majors: my school has a Russian and East European minor, along with English history as another example

History majors have to take a specific number of classes in order to get the degree. This differs from school to school, but usually include a specific amount of world history, American history, diversity, and social sciences classes. For example, I need 9 credits of American history classes to meet the graduate requirement, which is 3 separate classes

As for classes during the week. Last semester I had 5 classes, but only one was history. This semester, I only have 4, but 3 of them are history.

Depending on your schedule, you could only meet once a week for a 3 hour class (DO NOT PICK THIS.), twice a week for an hour and 30 minutes, or three times a week for an hour. This is where the "credits" come in. If you have a class that's 3 credits, that means you spend 3 hours a week IN class. Some classes, like languages and sciences, will have 4 or 5 credit hours, since you are either in labs or have more class time to focus on the material

Most classes stay uniform throughout your tenure. Colleges offer you to take a minimum of 12 credit hours (4 classes) to be a full time student, and for upwards to 18 credits (6 classes) which you need special permission to take. I know classes seem like too little, but you're pending 12 hours a week in class, not to meantion the higher course work, so PLEASE take a standard 12 credit hour semester your first year in college to get the feel for it. I went went community College for a year so that is why I took 5 classes last semester

As for outside of school, I spend anywhere between 3 to 4 hours a day on homework and studying. This is NOT including my personal reading and masterpost creations. Last semester I spent about 4+ because of classes.

COLLEGE IS HARD. ESPECIALLY FOR HISTORY MAJORS.

History is a lot of writing. I have papers due every week. By the time you finish your first year in college (two semesters) you should be able to properly write, cite, and prove a thesis for your paper. You are required to take writing classes, so pay attention to those. It's saved my life

History majors are also expected to think critically for themselves. Sure, you can memorieze a bunch of dates, but you need to understand why, the causes and effects, and finally, how does it tie in to the modern day? Why does this specific event have significance in our lives?

This is why history professors on the higher level classes (3000s and 4000s) are not going to give you exams. They will assign you a fuck ton of papers. My history class last year had 5 mini essays, which were 600-700 words long each, and a final paper, 2000+. These teachers don't need to know if you know when the Americans declared independence, they want to know why it is important, how they got there, and why it happened to begin with

History majors are usually required to take a foreign language as well. Usually it's about three semesters worth. When studying history, try to pick a language that matches your preferred region you like to study. Like European history? Take German or French. Like South American history? Take Spanish. If you're like me and like American history and want to specialize in it, take Latin or Spanish. Personally, I'm doing Latin

As a history major you will study things you won't like. Ex: I studied medieval Europe last semester and this semester, hated every second, but got an A. Just try to remember that it is history, and there will be things that shock you, horrify you, bore you, and make you jump up and down

Grad school is a whole other thing so I won't get into it rn

[alchemist-shizun]

To tend thee is my care

ACT I

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(Please tell me if you want to be added too for Act II!)

Characters: Virgil, Nonbinary!Roman

Summary: You’ve heard of enemies to lovers now get ready for acquaintances to friends to now we’re fighting because I’m scared of your rejection so I’m pretending it’s your fault when it clearly is mine to friends again, even though you’re an idiot, but I still love you to lovers. 

Roman and Virgil are both part of the theater group of their school, Roman is one of the actors, while Virgil is the head of the stage design group. Despite being in the same year and having lessons in the same building, they hadn’t really ever talked to each other, but everything was about to change when the teachers, heads of the whole theater group, announced that they were going to challenge themselves by presenting one of Euipides’ last plays: The Bacchantes. Follow our two main characters helping each other out as one is forced to learn how to act in a matter of months and the other goes through a journey of self-discovery as he studies his role.

Pairing(s): Prinxiety (I’m unpredictable)

Warning(s): Mild swearing, Death mention (mostly when talking about the tragedy), Blood mention (once), Negative thinking, Implied toxic parenting (once), [Me projecting heavily onto Virgil (also Ro at some point)]

A/n: I’ve been writing this for months and I can’t explain how proud I am to show you guys this! Before you start reading, I want to inform you that the school system I write about here is not the American one since I know little to nothing about it. Instead I’ll be using the one of my country for reasons of simplicity. (All names I use here are invented, so you can place the events wherever you’d like.) I thought about doing a long for this plot but I chose to write a one shot instead, since it’s pretty long I decided to divide it into two acts, the second one is coming very soon. I studied and read the whole play translated in my original language, that’s where the inspiration for my au came from. All the English translations I used for the play are from here, here and here. The song mentioned is So Contagious by Acceptance. That being said, hope you enjoy!

✾✾✾✾

What now?

It was during an October’s Tuesday that Virgil had started panicking due to school stress.

It wasn’t like his teachers hadn’t been pressuring his class ever since they entered their first fifth year lesson: partly because of the final exams, the rest of the time they asked about their university choices.

This year’s archaeological excavation, an experience reserved only to the students of his course, was also placed exactly in those three weeks of October were the theater group had started.

Tuesday in October for Virgil meant lessons until half past midday, research for the upcoming excavation exhibition until two p.m., theater club for an hour, then back to doing research with one of his teachers and half of his classmates until 17:00.

In all honesty, he wouldn’t have minded being buried alive when they’d have to cover back up the site.

Virgil had tried convincing himself that it wasn’t really that hard, besides the club had just started and the first few days were mostly focused on helping the first years settle, be comfortable with the teachers and also test out their abilities. And this one was only the second meeting.

But, of course, his day had to get worse. Life was trying him, and boy, did he hate sudden drastic changes.

It was when he noticed all the odd attention he was getting by the teachers that he realized something was definitely going to go wrong.

Everyone took a seat on the wooden bleachers of the old gym, they were basically attached to the pavement and the obnoxious yellow-painted walls of the large room. A quick glance around and you had the feeling that everything was going to collapse at any moment.

Virgil saw some familiar faces, some new ones, but he definitely couldn’t forget about the regulars: his beloved stage deseign group, which were a bunch of students that the teacher trusted him enough to take care of and teach them what they had to do during shows and how to prepare the stage. And next to them some actors from the last three years, Dave, Bonnie, Lukas and Roman.

He and Roman were the only ones brave enough to stick around even during the toughest year of that hellhole, so everyone silently respected them. And just as much as Virgil helped the newcomers in his group, Roman was happy to lend a hand in acting along side the most talented fourth and third years above mentioned.

« Well hello and welcome back here, guys! » Mrs. Michaelis had started, clasping her hands together, she was an English grammar and literature teacher.

After making sure everybody had arrived, they explained that since the week after they were going to see the first years’ “auditions” as they liked to call them, but they were really simply methods to check how promising someone could be at acting.

« I know this may sound shocking, we still can’t believe it- »

« Mostly because normally it takes us a couple of months before choosing a script. » Mrs. Eagan, an ancient Greek and Latin teacher, had interrupted, causing multiple chuckles from the students.

« … As I was saying, yes. We already know the play that we’ll be covering this year, we also have scripts ready for almost everybody. But there’s some news! »

« This year we decided to sign up our group and participate to some kind of challenge! » murmurs began to fill the room, as uneasiness set in Virgil’s stomach. Why make things harder for everybody? Wasn’t it just as good doing a simple show one night and one morning?

« Some, let’s say, “judges” are going to attend our play and afterwards, if they’re satisfied enough, they will let us take our production to the biggest local theater! »

The murmurs transformed into gasps, that theater was placed in the city of their province, getting an invitation was a huge challenge.

« And our play is going to be … » Mrs. Eagan’s eyes met Virgil’s and fixated on them. That’s when he began overthinking. Why was she looking directly at him? That never meant good news. « … Euripides’ tragedy, The Bacchantes. »

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Only his eyes widened among the confused looks of most of the students. He had studied that play, along side many other ones, in his fourth year. He did truly love them, but damn him if they weren’t already a challenge to portray.

« That’s right Virgil, you know it. » why was also the English teacher giving him his attention? What were they planning, did he have to explain the play to everybody?

All the students turned to face him, some quietly asking what was the plot, some fourth years of his same course demanded to know if it was a difficult topic.

« Easy now, everybody, he’s already been tested last year by Mr. Richardson. » one of the teachers interrupted, walking closer to the spot where Virgil sat, for some reason he had found himself next to the “talented actors group”.

They explained the plot for everybody after that.

« We know it might be real tough, so this year we already agreed on the roles beforehand. Don’t worry, if you didn’t get your time to shine this year, in the next ones you totally will. »

Wait, he wasn’t part of the actors group, why did this have anything to do with him? Why were they still staring at him?

To his relief, the teachers addressed the newcomers first. « We were thinking about giving the role of the chorus to the first and second years, they have long bits, but we can split them instead of making you all recite them, so that you don’t feel too burdened and the role becomes easy for all of you. »

« The roles of the messengers will be given to our third years, messengers are used to explain everything that happens that does not happen on scene. One of the rules for tragedies was that the scene had to take place in the same time and place. Also, they didn’t show blood and/or murders/suicides on scene. They were all narrated. »

« As for our three fourth years. » they looked over Virgil’s shoulder to Dave, Lukas and Bonnie. « Your roles will be Cadmus, Tiresias and Agave. They play a very important part in the whole story, we trust you’ll do a great job. »

« As for our main characters, Pentheus and Dionysus … » they set their eyes on Roman, who looked more expectant than ever.

But then they also shifted their glances to Virgil.

« We were thinking our only fifth years could have their roles as a good way of saying goodbye to them, since this will be their last play. » everybody else was nodding in agreement, Roman was beaming but slightly confused. Wasn’t Virgil part of the stage design group?

In fact, our little emo kid could only look back in disbelief.

« Roman, Virgil, would you like to become a king and a god, respectively? »

What now?

As the beloved actor was about to answer, Virgil interrupted with a shy apology. « I’m sorry, but there must be a mistake, I’m not part of the actors group, I’ve never acted in the past four years, actually. »

« We know Virgil, but we really thought it might be such a nice way of thanking you guys for your contributions all these years. »

Oh yes, you’re right, putting me in a stress condition by making me do something I have no idea about for a big project that could take us to one of the largest theaters of the country is definitely the best choice you could have made.

All he was able to say was a stuttering noise, as they continued with their little speech. « And Roman is such a good actor, he’s going to help you for sure, aren’t you? »

The mentioned boy nodded vigorously, then proceeded to show one of his brightest smiles. « I always come to the rescue of my fellow actors in need. »

Yeah. Amazing. He was stuck with their decision.

« Besides you already probably know each other pretty well by now, so it won’t be a problem! »

The two students looked at each other. The recognizable expressions of two teens that, despite being in the same year and club, had never said a single word to each other apart from when needed during rehearsals.

« … Right. »

« But what about my group then? » Virgil questioned, he was definitely not going to leave them behind just like that.

« You don’t have to worry about them. This year your History of Art teacher will be lending a hand with the stage and volunteered to be the head of the group. »

Right. Mr. Williams, one of the only teachers that were pretty tolerable in his class.

« And look at them. » he did so, and he was met with happy smiles and encouraging faces. « I’m sure they’ll do a good job after four years with you by their side. Right, Anastasia? »

Anastasia was one of the oldest of the bunch, if not one of the wisest and most skilled, sometimes they wondered if she could just do anything that crossed her mind. « You got it! » she leaned in as if to get closer to the older boy. « We’ll be cheering for you Virge! » she concluded, followed by a couple of “Yeah!“s.

Everybody was so joyful and expectant that he couldn’t help but comply, so he decided to simply sigh and reply with nothing.

As the teachers continued with their topics for the meeting, Virgil couldn’t help but have a single thought in his mind.

This is going to be the most awkward thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.

✾✾✾✾

As soon as the meeting came to an end, Virgil was fast to get up and rush towards the dungeon’s stairs that would lead again to the surface. Basically there were two buildings, the school and the gym, linked by a little dungeon were there were all the labs and computer rooms.

He had to get back to the library as soon as he could, or god knows what “you’re late” speech his teacher would have given him. He was always literally on the verge of marking his students as absent if they didn’t show up to the lesson in the exact minute before the bell rang.

Virgil decided to panic about the dumpster fire that had come his way during the meeting after that. One issue at a time. First of all, he had to reach the stairs’ gate and push-

« Hey! Wait for me. »

God, he didn’t have time for this. He kept walking, ignoring the voice behind him and hoping for it to give up and leave him to his well-deserved peace and quiet. At least for three minutes.

As he walked, he found none but Roman himself matching his pace and walking by his side with a curious look. Who could blame him for wanting to be nice?

« You forgot your stuff in your classroom too? » he tried, not a brilliant starter for a conversation, but he had to get something out of the boy.

« No. » cut and dry, that was the only thing that Virgil dared to let escape his mouth.

« Where to, then? »

« The library. »

« Oh, are you waiting for a bus? Maybe I could keep you company. »

« Listen. » they made to a stop as they reached the last floor, not that far off from Virgil’s destination. « Today’s already been as stressful as it is, could you just … go straight to the point? I don’t have much time here. »

It was not like he had meant to sound rude, it wasn’t like it was his purpose either to brush off someone just like that or to see the other boy’s hurt expression. But he had reached a limit in which he didn’t really care-

« Oh, my apologies, then. »

And there was the guilt.

« I was just wondering if we could exchange numbers, if it isn’t uncomfortable for you. I guess we’ll need to hang out in the future. » he tried to sound as confident as he could, but it was as if “awkward” was scribbled all over his face.

« Sure, are you asking me on a date next? » with all the sarcasm injected in his words, he sure as hell wasn’t expecting Roman’s remark.

« Well, if you wouldn’t mind. » a sly smile made its way through the actor’s face, but was soon replaced by a troubled expression when he saw Virgil’s eye roll and sigh.

« Was I … was I too straightforward? I didn’t- »

« You’re fine, calm down. » Virgil quickly took out his phone and unlocked it before passing it to the other student. As he quietly typed after a murmured “alright”, Virgil couldn’t help but wonder if he had ever upset anyone with his bold statements. It wasn’t like this town was open minded, while he seemed … particularly flamboyant.

Before he could finish his thoughts, he had his phone back in his hands and the not-so-much-stranger-anymore was already heading towards his classroom to get his backpack.

« I sent myself a message. » he warned, then he disappeared and reappeared in a matter of seconds, marched down the hall and flashed him a toothy smile while waving his hand.

« Don’t be a stranger, I’ll see you tomorrow! »

Virgil only nodded and found it impossible to take his eyes off of him until the last lock of hair had vanished down the stairs, wondering what had just happened. Maybe that was the magic that worked on his public every year.

He gave a rapid look at the screen of his phone, noticing that the boy had saved himself as “Princey” with a star emoji right next to it.

This time, he entered the library with an amused expression.

✾✾✾✾

Roman kept repeating in his mind that it wasn’t his fault.

Yes, it was Firday. Yes, he had gone the rest of the days without a single word to Virgil, not even when he noticed him in the halls during break or when they either entered or left school. Some days he didn’t even see him.

Yes, he could have texted him. But it felt too weird, yet, they didn’t know each other at all! Plus they didn’t even have the script ready.

Yes, he felt like he had the weight of this play’s success completely on his shoulders and depending on him and still shied away from acknowledging it.

But Virgil kept avoiding him! He couldn’t do much without him.

If he saw him during the ten minutes break, Virgil would walk past him without a second thought as if he didn’t think he needed to talk to him.

Some other times he pretended he didn’t even see him. It was getting tough to even have his attention anymore, as if he had to be added to the mean girls table. He needed a miracle.

And maybe the deities were in his favor that day.

As Roman walked down the path that was made next to the plaza, he noticed a familiar little figure sitting on a bench with a backpack next to him and earbuds in his ears. He was watching in front of him as life flew by and didn’t notice Roman approaching at all.

« Virgil? »

The boy in front of him jerked his head up and took out both of his earbuds; his clothes looked much more worn and randomly put together, as if he had dressed himself in the dark. What got Roman the most was the quantity of dirt that was on them and … was that blood under some of his nails?

Roman dropped his bag on the bench, worry expanding in his chest. « Oh my goodness are you okay? » he made to reach for his hand, only to stop himself just in time to remind him of personal space.

Virgil gave him a confused look and brought his fingers to his eyes, close enough to examine them. « Not again. » he groaned, a huff coming out of his lips.

« Wait, I should have something. »

« You don’t have to, it’s noth- »

« Here! » Roman grabbed a box from his bag triumphantly, he took a couple of plasters and waved them in front of the other.

« Why do you even have so many? »

« What can I say, I’m a clumsy person. »

« Mh. Charming. »

« At least I rescued you! Now, show me your hands. » he ordered, but as soon as he saw Virgil’s mouth open to argue, he was ready to remark « I don’t care if you can do this by yourself, you have literally injured fingers, let me help. »

Seeing that there was no other way out of it, he complied.

As soon as he placed his hands over his fingers, Roman couldn’t help but notice how different their skin tones really were compared to one another, sure the difference was obvious at first glance, but seeing it this close was completely something else. He gently dabbed the fresh blood away with a tissue he had taken out with the box a few instants earlier.

Three plasters and a thank you later, the concerned face came back again and Virgil wanted nothing more than the sweet liberation of death. What was his deal, did he never dig on dirt as a child?

« How did you get hurt? »

Virgil simply pointed behind his shoulders, where Roman could only see a huge pile of dirt resting against a tree. He tilted his head to the side like a confused puppy, a sight the other would have found endearing if only he wasn’t so exasperated and tired.

« I’ve been working all day, Princey. »

Roman smiled at the familiar nickname, but still found confusion in his thoughts. « Aren’t you supposed to be at school? »

« It’s linked to school. Haven’t you heard of the excavations that our school is doing? »

Now that he mentioned that, he had heard a bunch of things, but never really paid attention since it was something that wasn’t related to his course.

Roman attended the Languages course, in which he could learn Spanish and French, other than his mother language, with literature comprehended, and all the experiences linked to it were the cultural exchanges during the third and fourth years.

Virgil, otherwise, was part of the Classical course, meaning that he had signed his death certificate by committing to five years of learning ancient Greek and Latin plus the respective literature as main subjects. But other than that and the famous one week school trip to Greece every three years, Roman had no clue what they did other than study until they couldn’t remember their own names, just like any other student.

Yeah, they couldn’t say their school system was perfect.

« I don’t exactly know every detail. Are you guys doing this? »

« Kind of. What we’re doing is carry on with the work we did the past two years, where we had opened other excavations. Let’s say we’re looking for clues. We’re supervised by an actual archaeologist though. »

« That’s so cool! Did you find any gold? » Virgil wasn’t really expecting such excitement coming from Roman. Apart from the all too familiar question, he often found his interlocutors to be pretty uninterested by the topic.

« No gold, but … remember last Tuesday? » Roman nodded attentively.

« On that morning, during one of Mr. Richardson’s lessons, one of our classmates video-called us saying there was an urgent matter to show us. They had found possibly a Roman coin. » he tried to bite back the smile that threatened to form on his lips at the joyful memory, but nothing could take away that particular twinkle in his eyes.

« Are you serious?! That’s wonderful, what if you find a hidden treasure? »

« Unlikely, but it would be nice. »

« Wow. » Roman breathed out, staring at the scene beside his … new acquaintance? « How did you hurt yourself, anyway? »

« See that pile of dirt? I’ve been scanning every bucket full of soil that was thrown in there. My job was searching in the dirt for possible relics that were missed out while others did the digging. We installed a little assembly line. And running your fingers through that for hours makes you sore I guess. »

« That doesn’t seem very fun, though. »

Virgil shrugged. « I didn’t mind. I like working by myself, especially when the job is as simple as it is important. » And it was true, it wasn’t like the archaeologist put him there because he was just hopeless with the other instruments, every little clue was important and looking for them was a crucial point that can be easily taken care of if you’re a perfectionist.

Plus, the archaeologist seemed to have taken a liking into Virgil, so that didn’t make him feel left out at all.

« Even though, today one of my classmates came to help me. » the boy turned to see that Roman was still listening to him, with no intention of changing the subject. That was new, too.

« You know those terribly annoying ones? He slowed down our chain to the point that he had to argue with this girl that was in dire need of empty buckets while we still had all of them full because he wanted to look through every inch of dirt before handing it out. » he let out a deep sigh, as if he had just been venting for hours.

« That was pretty idiotic, what happened then? »

« Uh, well, we went back to working, just as I was doing before he came to help. »

Roman snorted, imagining the scene in front of his eyes. « So he made a fuss only for it to go back as before and prove him wrong. I’d say he’s pretty amazing. »

« Yeah. » Virgil agreed, « Anyway, sorry for rambling. » he added in a lower tone, while checking his phone for notification, before putting it away quickly.

Roman arched his eyebrow at his words. « As someone who whines constantly, I don’t really think you should worry. »

At least, that succeeded to steal a chuckle from the tired one.

« Did you find anything? » Virgil was really starting to believe this guy couldn’t have a minute of pure silence.

« Well, there’s always a couple of bones, some weird ferric objects, teeth and … » he stopped, remembering the event of the week before.

This time, a wide smile appeared before he could stop it as he searched through his phone’s camera gallery; it was the one thing he was real proud of, possibly the prettiest of his findings.

He handed the phone over to Roman, whose eyes widened at the sight, in front of him he could see a pic of a piece of ceramic with white, brown, yellow and blue decorations, dirt was still covering it, but you could already make out how beautiful it was.

« You found this in here? »

« Yes, it was amazing. I was standing there, » he pointed to a vague direction in front of the dirt pile, excitement rising in his chest as he remembered. « and someone was throwing the dirt on the pile and I recognized the bottom of the piece. We had already found other ceramics and I was hoping it was one too. So I picked it up as soon as I spotted it and there were at least three inches of dirt on top. I moved it away with my thumb and I was met with that decoration. I think I might have yelled. » he leaned in to take another look at the pic, as if never satisfied with it.

Roman certainly didn’t miss how bright he appeared when he was talking about the excavation, all the tiredness was gone and the pain in his whole body caused by eight hours of work was long forgotten. He looked genuinely happy, a contrast to his unusual dark and broody persona.

« Did you choose you university yet? » he had a thought, while handing the phone back, which could have maybe helped the injured boy.

« Jumping a bit? Uh, no, honestly I have no idea. »

« Ever thought of doing something with archaeology? »

« Uhm … » Virgil tapped his fingers on his palm. It wasn’t like he hadn’t considered the possibility in the past, but he had been told that it was probably too hard and maybe too boring from his point of view. On the other hand he truly enjoyed working in the site …

« You still with me, buddy? You don’t have to choose in the next five minutes. »

« Shut up, I was thinking. »

« Your thinking is too loud. »

« And here I was considering you as actually not that bad. »

« I know you secretly admire me. »

« The important thing is you believe that. »

Their wise and profound conversation was interrupted by Virgil’s ringtone going off, he picked up, had a brief talk and tucked the phone away in his pocket.

« My mother’s arrived to pick me up. » he informed, pointing at a car parked a few feet away from them.

They both stood up, but none of them made to move at all.

« Uh, I was thinking … » Roman struggled to find the right words, as if anything he said might offend Virgil at any given moment. « I don’t want to pressure you or anything, but maybe we could meet up sometimes to talk about the play? Or I could start helping you as soon as we get the scripts. »

Virgil made a face, as if he had been trying to forget a bad nightmare and had just been reminded of it. Still, he had no right to escape that any further, and he was already anxious about not being able to make it in time, even before he could start learning his lines. So maybe starting to work on it sooner wasn’t that bad of an idea.

« Sounds good. » he hesitated, not sure how to continue, when an idea sparked in his mind. « Maybe I could give you some insight on the tragedy. »

« That’d be awesome! When are you free? »

Hah. « During week-days I’m busy until five p.m. everyday. At least for another week, when this project will be over. »

That explained why he was still in town at almost six p.m.

« You guys dig everyday? »

« Something like that. We’re divided into two groups and we dig every other day. When we don’t we still have to stay at school and do researches for the final exhibition. »

Roman’s eyes lit up at the last words, he was going to ask him about it the next time the occasion presented itself.

« That sucks. Okay, look, I don’t wanna steal anymore time from your beloved mother, so I’ll text about it to you later, okay? »

« Cool. » Virgil raised his hand and waved it ever so slightly.

Roman returned the good-bye and got back to his task, marching down the sidewalk, but as Virgil had just opened the door of his mother’s car, he remembered to yell “And don’t forget to get some rest, I’m starting to confuse your makeup with your dark circles!”.

Virgil got into the car with an exasperated sigh and found his mother giggling to herself while she looked at him.

« Was that a friend? »

« God I hope not. »

✾✾✾✾

Tuesday came back in a hurry, along with the theater club, some worried and some bored students. Virgil stood in the middle of “time to panic and/or cry” and “if I don’t fall into eternal slumber right now I will burn this building to the ground”.

If he could name some of the most atrocious backstabbers he had ever met, he’d instantly name his teachers: at first they told his class they’d make it easy for them since they were so busy with the project, now they pretended the students had to be more organized with their studying and homework. Tests and interrogations had been made despite them being at least nine hours at school instead of five, some even coming home later than that.

In a word, they didn’t care, it was the students’ fault.

Virgil had his back against the wall, sitting on the top step of the bleacher with his legs close to his chest, the meeting had been starting for a couple of minutes and, of course, he didn’t have anything to do except hating himself and wait for another uneventful hour to pass.

« Hey Gerard Way Too Dark, look what they gave me. »

Or maybe not.

Virgil looked up to be met with Roman standing in front of him with two binders in his hand: the two of them had agreed on meeting up only when school would let them breathe enough to find a single day where they were both free from studying. Which was yet to be a thing.

The beloved actor handed him one of the binders, it read the title of the play, the author and the characters. He didn’t like how his role was the very first one on the list.

« At last. » he dryly commented, flipping the pages quick enough to not read a single actual word out of it.

Roman sat down next to him and examined the first page, as if looking for some kind of unspoken treasure, then he turned to take out a stash of highlighters Virgil had no clue where he kept. He showed them to him, waiting for him to pick a color.

By the looks of them, they seemed brand new and neatly arranged in the colors of the rainbow. Virgil picked out the lilac one, he had always preferred the gentler colors, it made it easier to study with the lights on.

His colleague chose the red one and began going through the pages and highlighting all the lines he had to learn as Pentheus.

Silently, Virgil did the same with the lines Dionysus said, recalling the scenes as he went through them. Though … he noticed there were far too many. He never realized how impossible it looked in his eyes until he had it plainly laid out in front of him.

Great, you’re going to mess this up, you won’t ever be able to do this in time. Plus you’re probably going to forget everything the moment right before going on stage. Who thought this was going to be a good id-

« Are you okay down there? »

He didn’t realize he was rubbing at his face with his hands, while trying to shake off the storm forming in his mind. In doing so, he had also let the marker fall to the wooden step with a clatter, which caught the other’s attention.

« Yeah, ’m just tired. » he managed to let out through his fingers in a muffled sound.

Roman made a humming noise, then proceeded to cast aside all his stuff and let himself relax against the wall. « Then I’d say we call it a day and sleep until it’s time to part ways. »

Virgil looked at him, surprise written all over his face, wasn’t he supposed to work even harder than normal because of the occasion? Either way, he mirrored the boy, pulling up his hood so that he could find some comfort.

« I think I’m too worried about all this mess, » he retorted, gesturing at his script. « to be able to even close my eyes. »

« Then tell me about it. »

He considered the option, he did actually promise him he’d do it before, besides he’d be distracting himself from the impending doom, be actually productive and explaining the tragedy to the actor. A double win for both parties.

« The story is centered around this group of Bacchantes that came from Asia and want to enter Thebes and spread their cult, they’re also guided by a lone nomad that none knows is actually Dionysus, the founder of the cult itself. » he turned to face Roman, in a silent “tell me where I lose you” manner.

« They are stopped by Pentheus, now king of the city, son of Agave and nephew of Cadmus, the founder of Thebes. Tiresias is a famous seer that understands the potential of the cult and invites Cadmus to preach the god with him. They try to reason with Pentheus, but it’s all in vain. In the meantime, while this king is busy insulting the cult, Dionysus makes all the women of the city go mad and follow the Maenads. »

« Payback? »

« More like first warning. » Virgil counted to one on his right hand for emphasis. « After that, Pentheus sent his soldiers to capture him. And they succeeded, he didn’t resist and kept up his act, only to free himself of the chains thanks to his magic. When Pentheus found him, Dionysus pretended he was helped by the god and began charming him until the king gave in. »

« You mean, how he made him dress up as a Maenad? »

« Yes, but not only he did that, he drove him crazy, too. » did anyone else ever notice the slight green spots in Roman’s brown eyes or was it just the trick of the light? Virgil couldn’t tell, so he decided to explain further. « Pentheus claimed to be seeing double and having hallucinations. He was also very careful of his clothes, hair and posture, he wanted to be the perfect Maenad. He tried to convince himself it was for disguise purposes, but in my opinion he was rather enjoying that dress-up. »

« Really? » Roman questioned, he still had to look into his character, the more he knew about him, the better he could portray him. He always took every bit of information he could find, to the point in which he could somehow relate to them or at least be able to link him and the role. That way, he was able to love acting as every single one of them.

« You need to read their last conversation. Even you would say that at first glance. Anyway, the play ends with the Bacchantes shredding to pieces the body of Pentheus. The practice is called “sparagmòs”. After that Agave and Cadmus have a touching scene and it ends there. A bit shocking for her since she just killed her son, but the god made sure the women all saw a beast instead. »

« That’s cruel, though. »

« Princey, he disrespected a fucking god, dying is the least that could happen to him. »

There was the nickname again. And, as if on cue, Roman’s lips twitched into a small smile that disappeared right after. He wasn’t aware of the reason why he didn’t want to get caught, but … did Virgil really not remember?

« He didn’t give him a chance to apologize! »

« Then again, the cult of the Bacchantes includes a ritual where a human needs to be sacrificed. If he had ever been sorry, Dionysus would have probably ordered him to sacrifice himself so that he could be satisfied and purified by his action. »

« Okay, okay. » Roman put his hands up in surrender. « I recognize I’m talking to a smart one over here, I give up. » he pretended he was waving a white flag to his side.

Virgil chuckled at his words. « I’m actually just average, but I can be passionate about some things, too. »

« Just average? I doubt all of your classmates still remember the entire plot of a tragedy and also can provide conspiracy theories. »

« Conspiracy- what are you talking about? »

« You know I’m right, you were totally on the verge of geeking out about this one. C'mon who’s your favorite character? » the actor mocked resting his face on his palms while a sly expression surrounded him.

« I will throw you off the stairs the next chance I have. »

« Good luck with that since you can’t even reach. »

Oh that was the last fucking straw.

Virgil turned his head to look at him in the eyes so rapidly that Roman feared his neck would give in and break right then and there. But the most disturbing image was the rage that was forming around the boy’s aura.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t the wisest thing to-

Virgil surged forward in a sudden movement and the actor jumped away pleading for salvation, it was only when he heard a foreign laugh that he turned around only to be met with the same dark and stormy guy, doubled over himself with laughter, teasing Roman.

« Did you seriously think I was going to attack you? »

« You can be scary sometimes, shut up! » heat began running in Roman’s cheeks out of embarrassment and he pretended nothing happened while Virgil quieted down next to him.

It was exactly in that moment that the meeting was called off.

As Roman followed him to the library, he wondered if that was going to be a regular thing after-

You idiot, this is the last week of your project.

« Oh, by the way. » Virgil stopped at the top of the stairs. « Don’t take it personally if I brush you off or disappear for the next few days, but the exhibition’s coming and I still have no idea what to say. »

« Talking about efficiency. » the actor rolled his eyes, recalling a few other examples he could give on the marvelous organization of teachers.

« Yeah, our teacher gave us tons of useful information. » he dead-panned, approaching the library’s doors.

« I will forever respect you for putting up with Mr. Richardson. »

That was able to get a chuckle out of Virgil.

« See you around, Pentheus. »

And with that, Roman was left walking home by himself with the warm feeling of having made a new possible friend spreading in his chest.

✾✾✾✾

It was Saturday morning when he noticed the fliers hanging around school. They showed a bunch of excavation pics and the subject of an archaeological exhibition centered around the school’s town. Roman took note of the date: it was exactly that same day!

So that was how he found himself during afternoon pacing around the plaza and stepping into an old tower, where a little crowd of at least fifteen people of all ages were standing and listening attentively to a student. There was only a little group of them, which he figured was because the exhibition took place multiple times during the week.

He just wondered if he had been lucky enough to find …

As he made his way through the front, so that he could see all the materials and boards exposed he heard the female voice say « Now I will turn it over to my classmate, Virgil! »

As soon as he heard his name, he followed her gaze and finally met an unusual sight: instead of the usual hoodie, he wore a black button up shirt and skinny dark blue jeans that might as well have been mistaken for the same other color. So he did know how to be fancy if he wanted.

Before he began explaining, he noticed Roman standing right next to their theater teachers and bit back a smile. He didn’t recall inviting him, actually he hadn’t wanted anyone he knew to witness him mess everything up as he was used to do. So what was he doing there?

Virgil welcomed everybody once again, then turned over to all the materials exposed.

And when he started talking, Roman was enthralled.

He didn’t know if it was the way the words rolled down his tongue, how he brushed the objects as if they were sacred treasures that would turn into dust at the slightest touch, or the sparkle in his eyes when he took in everybody’s attention and curiosity.

But there was a thing he did recognize: it was passion, that was definitely what he was radiating, the one emotion he knew all too well which helped him getting his public hanging at the edge of their seats.

And this time, he was the hooked one.

The two locked eyes multiple times, Virgil was surprised enough to find comfort in having someone to constantly smile at him, or in Mrs. Eagan’s nodding, in all those mouthed “you’re doing great”. He couldn’t stop going back at them everytime he looked up.

Before anyone knew it, his time was over and the group moved onto the last part of the exhibition, which was outside; the crowd followed the last student to the site that was still open and the remaining students in the room sighed with relief as Mr. Richardson followed them too for the final thanks.

Some minutes and a standing ovation later, Roman was already back into the small room as bright as ever, walking toward his favorite little archaeologist.

Virgil paced towards him at the same time, hissing a “what are you doing here?” while a small grin let itself spread on his face.

With no warning and an abrupt move, Roman’s arms had already wrapped themselves around the other boy’s upper chest, lifting him a little in the process.

Well, that was definitely new.

Not being used to such excitement, Virgil was only able to awkwardly return the hug after an initial moment of vacillation. Seeing his energy on stage was a thing, experiencing it like that was completely something else, but deep in his heart he knew it wasn’t a habit he wouldn’t have liked to adapt to.

Wait, what was that thought coming from? Why would he have to adapt to anything, he was just going to help him through acting and that was it.

Still, a new friend wasn’t a bad idea either …

« You did amazing! » was what Virgil heard after being released from the embrace, but not quite completely as Roman was still holding onto his arms.

He blinked a few times. « What are you talking about, I messed up and started stuttering at one point- »

« Oh shut up and let me compliment you, I didn’t even remember you did, king of modesty. »

« More like king of self-deprecation. »

« Can you stop for once in your life? »

Right in the short amount of time they weren’t talking, a single line caught their attention.

« Look at all this trash. »

What?

« Yeah, these are all so obviously fake. »

Thunderstorms.

Thunderstorms and lightning, howls of rage formed in Virgil’s chest, burning in a bonfire which heat traveled through his blood and reached his eyes only to darken them with fury.

His body stiffened, he wanted to scowl at them and tell them how wrong they were, just how dare them invalidate all the hard work of three weeks?

« Oh, Virgil! » Roman seemed to distract him, but he had a plan in mind as he moved both of them close to the materials table. « Remember that day I visited you while you guys were digging? »

But there wasn’t any- was he onto something? « Oh, yeah, you were walking home from school and you decided to stop. » he played along, as his friend nodded, making sure to be heard by the rude couple.

In the meantime, one of the students had gone out to update their teacher on the situation.

« Yeah, when you found that beautiful ceramic piece! » Roman turned to recognize the piece he had seen in the pic he had been shown, then pointed it. « Is it that one? »

« Yes, I can pick it up for you. » Virgil did so as he spoke.

« Wow, it’s even more gorgeous. »

« We had a hard time cleaning everything, so we tried to do the best job we could. Getting dirt out of bones is also … not super easy. »

« You guys are awesome. » Roman kept glancing around the room arranged for the exhibition, while the now embarrassed couple decided to leave under the incinerating stare of Mr. Richardson who had just came in to witness the situation.

Everybody in the room went to either grin or laugh inside, while the two boys shared a high five.

After making sure everything was under control, the teacher decided to begin cleaning up the place, so all the guests that stayed to chatter were dismissed.

« Hey, uh … » Virgil struggled to get out his voice, a little for being tired, a little because in moments of shyness his tone would go out as nothing more than a simple mutter. « Thank you for earlier and … also for coming, I guess. »

« Both of them were my utter pleasure. » Roman had a thing for being extra, and if he chose that aesthetic, he better had to stick to it by doing a theatrical bow at his friend.

« You are a nerd. »

« With style! »

« Whatever helps you sleep at night. » Virgil turned around to face the tower and began walking away. « See you around, Princey. »

There went another one.

Roman had to giggle quietly to himself, every single time his mind traveled to that one particular moment back in the first year when-

« You know, this is what I was talking about. »

He felt a presence walking by his side, suddenly, and found Mr. Eagan glaring at him with an almost nostalgic look.

« I’ve been telling him for years that he has the acting potential. » she sighed while Roman simply nodded along. « He’s been getting better, you see this isn’t the first exhibition they do, I’ve seen them all. »

« Oh, really? »

« Yes. And you can totally sense how much emotion he’s putting, you can tell he’s invested. »

« I agree, I’ve had the occasion to see that. »

« And honestly I feel bad for forcing him into this play thing … but I’m sure he’s going to shine. I’m so proud of him. » she smiled at herself, then stopped in her tracks and looked up at her student. « And I’m also sure you’ll do a good job. Bring out his talent, Roman. In your own special way. »

He remained speechless for a moment, just how much trust did these teachers actually have in both of them? He found it endearing, he felt almost as if they had some kind of motherly appreciation towards them.

« Thank you. We’ll work very hard on this one, you’ll see! »

They exchanged their farewells and Roman headed home, this time by himself, having all kinds of thoughts in his mind.

But most of all, he felt worried.

All of a sudden, it seemed like a blank page was being replaced in his head instead of all the knowledge apprehended through his life.

He had no idea how to start helping Virgil.

✾✾✾✾

Despite the initial awkwardness, things had begun to go way better than both of them had imagined. The occasional staying late after the theater meetings had allowed them to grow closer, so much that they at least shared a few words during break every day at school. And that was a huge effort for Virgil as he preferred to stay in class where almost none hanged around and simply scroll through his phone, waiting for the last two dreadful hours of lessons.

And, well, random texts weren’t late to arrive to the party, too.

Princey: okay but can we talk about what an idiot Pentheus is?

Vee: this is a weird midnight text to get, but go off I guess

Princey: I’m serious! Come on, like why don’t you just let people do their thingsss

Vee: Oh you’re taking this to heart, alright

Princey: Yeah?? Am I not supposed to be emotionally invested in my own play?

Vee: You’re talking as if you’ve written it

Princey: Maybe I did

Vee: gasp are you Euripides reincarnated

Princey: The one and only

Vee: My apologies sir, you have all the rights to whine about your own plot

Vee: I also have no clue how you know english

Princey: It’s the muses’ power!

Vee: Melpomene?

Princey: Bless you

Vee: Wow okay, go to sleep

Princey: Sleep is for the weak

Vee: And you’re gonna be weak in the morning so it really doesn’t matter

Princey: Alright, mum, why would you stay up then?

Vee: Reasons

Princey: Are you still scrolling through Tumblr and sticking to your natural emo kid persona?

Vee: ouch

Vee: no,  but I’d love to

Princey: mhh then you forgot to do homework or study?

Vee: You know me, I’m too anxious about my parents’ judgment to do that

Princey: demanding parents?

Vee: sorta.

Princey: sore topic?

Vee: Yup.

Princey: Alright then, you’re watching a movie? An anime?

Vee: No, I’m just talking to an idiot who won’t go to sleep

Princey: Oh I see, sounds like a total badass guy fighting the system

Vee: Yeah, fighting his body’s shut down system if he doesn’t get enough sleep.

Princey: bold of you to say that when we’re in the same situation

Vee: listen we’re talking about you stay focused

Princey: you know I’m right

Princey: C'mon why are you still up

Vee: no reason tbh

Vee: I just can’t seem to fall asleep so I’m tyring myself out until I can pass out on my bed

Princey: thaaat doesn’t seem very healthy

Vee: I never said I wanted to take care of myself

Princey: LOVE  YOURSELF BITCH

Vee: HAH

Vee: no.

Princey: i will make you!!

Princey: one day we’ll have a big relaxation day and you will be able to see the beauty in yourself!!

Vee: sounds unrealistic i’m in

Princey: come on work with me emo nightmare

Vee: i’m too lazy to live i’m sorry

Princey: then why don’t you just s l e e p

Vee: bc my sleep schedule is a mess and i cant seem to even shut my eyes everything in my life is going straight in the trash can and uhhhhhh yeah everything sucks

Princey: woah slow down

Princey: okay look you’re having me a bit concerned here

Vee: haha no it’s the usual daily stuff for me

Princey: ……….. it shouldn’t be????

Vee: eh

Princey: hey, would you answer if I called you?

Vee: if this is because of what i’ve just said, you’re worrying too much

Princey: nah it’s just for a distraction

Princey: and maybe you’ll be able to fall asleep

Vee: are you implying your voice is boring or you want to sing me a lullaby?

Princey: i’ll pretend i didn’t read the first part but i’ll have you know i have a very beautiful singing voice

Vee: pf alright i’m not entirely convinced

Princey: i’ll buy both of us coffee at the vending machine tomorrow morning before the first lesson starts

Vee: okay i’m sold, hit me up

✾✾✾✾

« This is unacceptable! I’m sorry, our friendship has to end here, I’m leaving. »

« I’m telling you, I have my reasons. »

« You can’t just simply dislike Hercules! »

Virgil sighed in defeat and resigned in his plastic seat; Christmas holidays had been around for a week, new year’s was already approaching and two youngsters had decided to spend an afternoon together with the excuse of reading some lines out of their scripts and helping each other out.

It wasn’t really the first time they did that, plus with the arrival of winter it was a nice excuse to be comforted by a warm cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream.

Just like they were doing in that moment, only that it seemed that they had completely forgotten about the play because of how much they were invested in other topics. Such as, obviously, Disney movies.

« It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just … so wrong. »

« Oh my- it’s not Percy Jackson, it’s Disney, they’re allowed to take some creative liberties. »

« I know, but I didn’t watch it as a child, I saw it recently- »

« How dare you. »

« -shut up. What I mean is: my studies have ruined its likability. »

Roman closed his eyes and put his hands together in front of his face in an exasperated manner. « Then let’s hear these freaking reasons, enlighten my blindness, o wise one! »

Virgil couldn’t help but smirk as the other one huffed. « First of all, thank you for the compliment. »

« But, see, the first thing that got me was the character of Phil. The actual Philoctetes wasn’t a satyr, he was a hero that fought in the Trojan war who also happened to be Hercules’ friend at some point. »

« Well, they were linked in the end! »

« Let me finish. All the deeds that Phil claimed to have made? All those heroes he trained? Bullshit. Everything was done by Chiron, the only wise and composed centaur of greek mythology. And like centaurs were thought as savage beasts, satyrs were always linked to Dionysus and described as libidinal creatures. Philoctetes would have probably felt insulted. »

« Your studies may have ruined your view but you’re ruining my childhood right now. » Roman muttered the words as a childish pout formed on his lips.

« Ah, also Megara was a city, not a person. » said Virgil with nonchalance.

« WHAT. » the wide-eyed actor jumped in his seat and surged forward a little, blinking a few times.

Without expecting it, Virgil’s composed face contorted with a snort, which then grew into giggles and then again transformed into a genuine and amused laughter that couldn’t stop.

He tried to breathe in. « Princey, you- » he cut himself off as another wave of giggles hit him, so he held one hand up as if to tell him to wait until he could properly compose himself.

And Roman knew he otherwise would have felt offended, or at least in a playful way, he knew normally he would have instantly asked what was the matter. But he couldn’t really shake off the feeling of wanting to protect and carve this picture into his memory until it was the only thing he could remember.

And he truly wanted to share that angelic laughter, participate to the mirthful moment, yet he found himself solely staring at the unusual sight in pleasant disbelief at how stunning that scene was.

He could merely twitch his lips upwards and consider how much he adored hearing the nickname in such an entertained voice.

Something inside Roman clicked as Virgil finally gained enough breath, and he knew he was done for.

« Sorry, uh, » he was finally able to breathe out. «  I was actually messing with you. She did exist. »

He looked him in the eyes and all Roman could think was “finally”.

After a beat, noticing the other didn’t respond and assuming he was upset or something, he continued. « Though she and their children were afterwards killed by Hercules according to some. Others think he killed his children and Megara compelled him to commit suicide. Awful stories for great heroes, I guess. »

Roman, who was still starstruck, was only able to comment. « Breathtaking. »

Virgil made a face and lowered the cup he was raising to his lips. « What? »

« Uh … what? No I was just- the TV! Behind you, yes. I was commenting that. »

The confused one turned ever so slightly to quickly glance at the old black screen facing his back. « Alright, I won’t question your weird obsession with old style televisions. »

Nailed it.

Their discourse went on escalating to different topics, but never once brushing the fact that they met to keep up their theater practice, like good procrastinating students. It wasn’t like they were avoiding it on purpose, for the first time they felt like spending quality time with each other was their main priority.

« Okay, listen, Tripping in the Darkness. I went on a cruise once and even there I was able to reveal my beautiful voice. »

« So sorry for the passengers. »

« I should have left you outside freezing in the cold. » Roman scoffed after a beat.

« But you didn’t. »

« I’m starting to reconsider. »

« We both know you would never do it. »

« I forgive you only because you’re cute. » oh wait, oh wha- Roman immediately hid behind his cup, drinking the last remaining of his warm beverage. He hoped that the heat would rush off of his cheeks by the time he had finished.

« Wow, I’m flattered. » Virgil didn’t leave his sarcastic tone and didn’t seem to have noticed anything different, until he snorted out loud when he was met with Roman’s face after he lowered the cup.

Roman’s heart sank, was he still blushing? Was he already onto him? That was bad, that was-

« You got … » Virgil’s voice got back to being amused and he gestured towards his face. Oh, great, he had a chocolate-stained face now. Just what he needed.

« Where? Is it gone? » he frantically kept on asking as he wiped around his mouth and cheeks with his bare hand.

His friend shook his head. « Not even close. »

On a scale on one to Roman’s worst embarrassing moments compilation, he would have probably found himself on top of that very ranking, because after that Virgil simply reached for the container on the little table.

« For starters, you take a tissue. » while he did so, Roman could only watch as his friend  gently rubbed away the spot on the bridge of his nose. Oh. The cup did touch it earlier.

Alright that was awkward and I’m stupid, let’s move on.

But no, his brain had decided to short circuit and leave him to his impulsiveness; out of the blue, he grabbed Virgil’s wrist before he pulled away completely.

Virgil blinked, confused once again by his behavior. « Uh, what’s up? »

That’s when Roman’s mind finally snapped to reality and, of course, he panicked to find the best excuse he could permit, so he slid both of his hands to cage Virgil’s own. « You’re super cold! » he noticed, lowering their hands to rest on the table.

« Yeah? It’s minus degrees outside? And I’m often anxious? »

« Oh, right. » why was he feeling more sympathetic than usual? « Then, I shall protect you from both! »

« By holding my hand? »

« By making sure your heat level is within the parameters! »

« Alright, Doc. I’ll trust you. »

That was how they ended up holding hands for the rest of the day without even realizing until they had to part.

« You sure you don’t want me to accompany you to the parking lot? »

« I’m fine, don’t mind. »

They were standing out of the cafe to exchange their goodbyes, about to head for different streets and eventually go home.

« You know, you didn’t really have to pay for me, I’m not broke. » Virgil talked in little puffs of condensed air, hands in his pockets and trying to shake off the cold stinging sensation that pierced his skin.

« Oh, soft you now, »

« Is that a fucking Hamlet quote? »

« -it is my duty to ensure your well-being. Plus I know you hate talking to cashiers, so. »

« You’re the worst, but thank you. » Virgil rolled his eyes. « I still feel like I owe you one now, though. »

Well you could just kiss me whenever you feel like, a part of Roman’s brain noted. Uhm, what the fuck is your problem? Responded the other.

« Nah, I’ll probably forget it by the next time we talk. » he admitted, ignoring the weird thoughts that were happening in his mind, a mind that needed to shut up for at least a single second.

Virgil muttered an “alright” and was about to turn around and wave him off, like he always did, when he was confronted by a simple demand.

« Uh, can I, like, hug you? »

He stopped in his tracks, considering for a moment, before a “sure” escaped his lips and he started nodding.

Roman stepped closer and wrapped his arms around his chest, content and making a little pleased sound as the other returned the hug. He wasn’t sure why he was being so uncertain that day.

« Bye, Virge! » he called out as he stepped away from his friend and began walking home.

Virgil waved in return and immediately took out his phone and earbuds: after hitting shuffle he was fast to recognize the song by the first chords.

Acceptance, huh? He had discovered their song back in middle school. Boy, did he try so hard to be edgy. Still, certain songs weren’t really that bad.

Oh no, this couldn’t be more unexpected.

He had just made to turn the corner of a mansion’s fence when a realization struck him. And he was still subtly smiling because of it.

He somehow hadn’t been aware of it in the moment, probably because of their distracting conversation.

The lyrics went by in his ears and he almost didn’t even notice the words flowing in his head as that little memory of their afternoon occupied his mind.

Could this be out of line? To say you’re the only one breaking me down like this.

Roman had been brushing his thumb against his skin for almost all the time he had been holding onto his hand earlier.

He also had hugged him a little bit tighter than how he remembered back in October. And he was very excited too, that day.

And yeah, the majority of sane people would have found the situation simply nice or just a normal friendly action. But Virgil?

Come to think of it, I’m aching.

Yeah, he was already burying his face in his hoodie. God, was that heat rushing at his cheeks? Did his body really want to make it any more obvious?

On account of my transgression, will you welcome this confession?

Oh god, oh fu-

Virgil exhaled deeply and rubbed at his face with his hands, an unwelcome warm feeling spreading in his chest, it felt like as if someone was lighting a fire in there, not caring for the emotional damage that they were about to cause. Like a firework sent up in the middle of the night only to startle you enough to wake you up in a cold sweat and thumping heart.

Keep me hanging on so contagiously.

Virgil abruptly ripped the earbuds away from his ears and stuffed everything in his pockets as he leaned on his school’s gate, staring at the parking lot in front of him. His parents had yet to arrive to pick him up.

He had enough time to calm down.

« Well, I’m fucked. »

Maybe.

✾✾✾✾

Princey: HAPPY NEW YEAR V!!

Vee: yeee here’s to another shitty one

Princey: AW COME ON try to be a bit more upbeat

Vee: YEEE HERE’S TO ANOTHER SHITTY ONE!!!!

Princey: THAT’S MORE LIKE IT COMRADE

Vee: wtf okay

Princey sent a pic

Vee: are those streamers in your hair?

Vee: and … glitter?

Princey: don’t question it it’s your turn now send me something

Vee: i don’t think that’s how it works

Princey: do iiiiiit scaredy cat

Vee: fine

Vee sent a pic

Princey: .. wait

Princey: Are you in bed?

Vee: On the couch, actually

Vee: if that’s what you’re asking yes, i’m at home

Princey: and you’re not having fun? Are you okay??

Vee: yes don’t worry

Vee: i’m by myself

Princey: WHAT

Vee: gee it’s not that weird

Princey: no it’s just i thought you were out with friends

Vee: were all busy

Vee: but it’s fine, i don’t really appreciate big and loud parties

Vee: and i jump at every single loud noise so fireworks are a big no for me

Princey: you should have told me!! i would have managed something, we could have even just chilled alone

Vee: no it’s fine really, thank you

Vee: sorry to bring you down with that

Princey: oh shush

Princey: can i call you?

Vee: that’s sweet and all but i’d feel like i’m bothering you so

Princey: what are you talking about, plus there are so many people here they won’t even realize i’m gone for a while

Vee: i don’t wanna waste your time, it’s ok

Princey: but you’re not doing that!

Princey: idk can I at least visit you for some time? I don’t want you being all alone like that

Vee: no

Vee: i mean not that i don’t want you here but i’d feel guilty, i told you

Princey: you don’t have to!!

Princey: i lo kdjsdsdjk

Vee: what-

Princey: look i care about you, you’re one of my closest friends already and i love spending time with you, so if there’s a way for me to cheer you up i will gladly accept it

Vee: that is …

Vee: the gayest thing i’ve ever read

Vee: you’re a dork

Princey: i will take all that as a compliment

Vee: okay let me just

Vee: get my dog off of me

Princey: ADORABLE DOG

Vee: yeah i love her

Vee: and afterwards you can call me alright

Princey: SCORE!!

Princey: okay

Vee: one thing though

Princey: mirror mirror on the wall what’s the question botherin y'all

Vee: … i’ll pretend i’ve never read that

Vee: are you still getting me coffee tomorrow morning like that one time

Princey: if this is a subtle “do you wanna hang out here” i’m all for it, tho expect me to come up at like 11

Vee: wow you know exactly how to make things awkward everytime

Vee: okay dog’s off, you can call

Princey: on it!

✾✾✾✾

It is widely known and said that time flies by quickly when you’re either having fun, doing nothing or during the holidays. Students had reluctantly returned to their daily routines of lessons, homework and studying, trying to frame everything in the best way, so that they had at least some time to breathe between their tasks.

January, sadly, meant that the end of the first term was approaching inexorably  and the teachers suddenly realized they needed more marks than they actually had from every student in a matter of two weeks. Everything for the initial report cards that, in the end, didn’t matter at all compared to the final one.

Thanks to February, students would have some time to breathe and re-gain strength until March, which was another wave of tests in preparation for the real monster: May.

For the last years, though, February also meant that they were going to get more information about which subjects they had to focus on the most for their final exams, which could only be linked to chaos, panic and that anxious but subtle feeling that the big moment was coming.

Thankfully, the weekend existed and with it also places for poor unfortunate souls to release stress and distract themselves from the imminent danger.

And that is how we follow two fellow individuals in distress who had decided upon spending their first free time in weeks walking around town and having a nice chat during night. At least before they ended up in a little desolated playground, their scripts in front of their faces, definitely acting more dramatically than needed.

« Do you perform the rites by night or by day? » Roman leaned on one of the street lamps, permitting him to read his line and, at the same time, he widely gestured with his free hand.

« Mostly by night; darkness conveys awe. » Virgil emphasized his second line with such an ominous tone that made his friend giggle lightly.

« Oh my, I’m thrilled. »

« Okay but you’ve got to admit it’s actually a cool phrase to say. »

« Maybe if we were serious enough, my darkling. »

After Virgil’s usual “shut up and keep reading” (which he had been using for the past fifteen minutes, mind you), Roman complied. « This is treacherous towards women, and unsound. » his voice sounded almost offended, his hand trailed over his heart in a fist.

Virgil bit back a grin at the sight. « Even during the day someone may devise what is shameful. »

« This vile quibbling settles your punishment. » the taller one took a few steps forward, pointing his finger on his friend, accusatory.

« Your ignorance and impiety toward the god will settle yours. » Virgil snarled, imitating the other in pointing fingers.

Roman gasped way more dramatically than needed and placed a hand on his chest, eyes wide with disbelief. « How bold the Bacchant is, and not unpracticed in speaking! »

His acting partner intook some breath, before stopping, narrow eyed, while he read his words.

« What, is something wrong? » Roman demanded, eyes scanning the next lines before looking up.

« This is so fucking gay. » he admitted, a smile playing on his lips as he contemplated the possibility of a different turn of events in the plot.

« Dionysus and Pentheus, but make it gayer. »

« Than it already is? That’s a challenge. »

« I have something in mind. » Virgil didn’t like the mischievous look on Roman’s face. « Keep going. »

« Tell me what I must suffer; what grievous harm will you do to me? » he hadn’t noticed how fast the other was to reach him, the previous grin was still imprinted on his lips. His pace faltered only a bit, but didn’t stop when he was a few steps from his Dionysus.

« First, I will cut off your delicate curls. »  how Roman could change his tone from a mocking one to a warm and clear one, would forever be an unsolved mystery to the world. He proceeded to raise a hand to Virgil’s hair and slowly moved his bangs to the side, a knuckle brushing his cheek afterwards.

« My locks are sacred; I am growing them for the god. » Virgil played along and started to remember the lines, a result of their persistent reading every week. Not that he could really tear off his eyes from the looming figure in front of him.

« Next, give me this thyrsos from your hands. » other steps forward and Roman had trapped him against some metal bars he wasn’t aware of.

« Take it from me yourself; this is the wand of Dionysus I am bearing. » with no warning, Roman pressed his right hand, where the actual thyrsos would have been, to the bars and locked their fingers together. He leaned in even further, making sure Virgil could notice the sly sparkle in his half-lidded eyes.

« Last, I will guard your body deep in the dungeons. » his other hand gripped the bars right next to the boy’s head, literally trapping him. He had to stay in character, after all.

The leaning was slow this time, but didn’t seem to be stopping at any moment and Virgil could swear he felt his body move without his consent.

Inches apart, and Roman’s lips twitched upward. He stopped.

Virgil snorted.

Next thing they knew they were both bursting out laughing like they had just heard the best joke their favorite comedian had ever made.

« That was- » Virgil tried, after they both collapsed to the ground, weak in their knees for too much hilarity. « That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. »

« When Pentheus and Dionysus couldn’t get any gayer. » Roman commented through an almost hysterical laughter, while part of his brain began to shut down in a ohgodwhathasjusthappenediwasabouttobutthenididntandisthisthereallife state. An everyday situation to which he was used to, of course.

« Actually, » his friend began, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. « Greek gods are very open about their sexuality. »

« Oh, yeah. Wasn’t it Zeus himself that tried to f- » Roman was instantly shushed to silence, while a pained expression grew on the other’s face.

« We don’t talk about him. »

Fair enough. They had been in comfortable silence for quite a while, sitting on the ground and enjoying the void of the night as the only sources of light showed them only certain features and details of the objects around them.

« Hey, Virge? »

The mentioned boy almost jumped at the sudden sound. « Yeah? »

Roman’s expression, fixated on something ahead of him, was somewhat between focused and in a daze.

« Did you know the teachers wanted to keep your hair growing for the play? »

« What. »

« They decided against it when they realized I actually had to cut them away during the show. »

« Why are you telling me this right now? »

« I was just thinking about … » Roman’s words lingered, as if he thought about whether or not he could disclose a secret.

About me, please say about me. Virgil shook off the bizarre thought while he waited for a response. Are you fucking kidding me? Part of his mind answered. Didn’t all those past experiences teach you anything?  Virgil found it harder to concentrate on Roman’s words now, he creased his eyebrows as if he were having a headache.

Those were in elementary school and middle school, you idiot. The other side responded. They were still valid experiences!

« Ohi. » Roman waved his hand in front of the other’s face. « Are you on this planet, sir? »

« Sadly, I still am. »

Roman rolled his eyes at that. « Dang, here I thought the aliens had gotten you. »

« You wish. »

« Anyway, I was about to get going since it’s getting pretty late even for a Saturday night. » he pulled himself on his feet, then smiled brightly and turned to his friend. « Lift home? »

« Thank god you exist. »

And Roman did really try hard to act cool and all, but he found out he couldn’t prevent his face from turning at least the weakest tint of red.

✾✾✾✾

They didn’t know how it was possible, but they made it through until April.

The last two months were a train wreck of multiple meetings between Roman’s wonderful school trip abroad, additional tests, the first exams simulations, and things getting very serious at theater club. The designs, scenes, props and costumes were all coming along neatly and, with everybody giving their all, the excitement for the play could be felt through thin air. Roman was thrilled and he thought that there wasn’t nothing else that could possibly be better than that kind of feeling.

Virgil begged to differ.

He was standing in the middle of the external part of the front of the school with a couple of other classes of his same course; they all had backpacks on their backs and a luggage held close.

Virgil was almost bouncing, unable to stay still, he started tapping his fingers on the handle of his own luggage. The anticipation was killing him, how could everybody else be so calm and casual? They were about to leave for a trip to Greece!

It was the most wanted and awaited of school trips for their course, it happened every three years and not only students were given the opportunity to confront and visit places and subjects they had studied, but also thanks to certain lovable teachers the weirdest and funniest things occurred in those trips. It was a dream come true, finally at their fingertips.

He really didn’t want to seem mean, but Virgil couldn’t stop looking at the time on his phone while one of his closest classmates trailed off talking about how energetic they felt for the trip ahead.

Until …

« Wine god! » what the f-

Virgil and his friend looked up simultaneously to be met with the vision of Roman waving one arm from the top of the external stairs and afterwards quickly running down towards them.

« I didn’t see you anywhere this morning! » he was still half-running when he spoke those words, as he reached them. He put his hands on Virgil’s shoulders.

« We didn’t really leave until now, we had a test. »

His eyes widened « What the heck? Right before a trip? »

Virgil shrugged. They had chosen it was better to do it before than afterwards.

« Well, anyway, I wanted to properly say goodbye and wish you a good travel! »

« Thank you, buddy. You really didn’t have to, aren’t you having a lesson right now? » Virgil raised one eyebrow, uncertain.

Roman showed him one of his stupidly charming grins and put his hands on his hips. « I simply asked to go to the bathroom. »

« I hate to break it to you, Roman, but this isn’t exactly the right way. »

« Oh, shut up. You know I wanted to see you before you headed off for the seven seas! »

« We’re literally traveling through the same sea, what are you tal- »

« It’s been a long day, let me have this. »

Virgil tilted his head to the side, they had been in school for only three hours, what exactly did that make it a long day?

His thoughts were broken by the thundering of one of his teachers who announced that everybody had to get ready since they were going to leave in a matter of minutes.

« Alright then. » Roman murmured with a slightly sad sigh, he quickly replaced his defeated expression with a smile, careful not to be discovered. « I’ll have to leave now. »

C'mon say something. His heart begged for mercy as Virgil looked back up at him and he saw two bright gray irises, the sun’s rays hitting them from the side just enough to make them look like literal crystals.

Anything would do, take your chance, tell him!

His eyes fell to the figure right next to them, still standing there and witnessing every one of their interactions. Well, maybe next time.

Roman leaned forwards and wrapped his arms around his friend’s shoulders in a tight embrace that was soon returned a bit more weakly around his waist. He felt like he was holding on him for dear life more than anything.

His hand trailed at the nape of his neck and stroked his hair for some instants, in which Virgil tightened his own hug and laughed silently on his shoulder.

« I’m not leaving forever, you know? The time zone is not even that different. »

« I know but I’ll be lonely! »

« We both know that’s not true. » Virgil released the other and patted his shoulder. « You’ll be fine and you can text me whenever you want when I’m not in the ferry. »

Roman let out a fake annoyed huff, but smiled anyway. « Have a safe trip, Virge. » he backed away, still facing him while waving a hand.

Then he turned to the other boy.

« Keep an eye on him for me, okay? »

« Will do! »

At this, Roman sprinted away towards his class and could only smirk wider when Virgil called him out with a “Oh shut up, Princey.”

Virgil met his friend’s all-knowing look as he turned away from the spot where he saw Roman disappear, not realizing he had a soft expression written over all of his face.

« Why are you- no. Listen, it’s not what you- »

His friend ignored him, dancing around him. « You’re doing flips, read my lips, you’re in love! » he sang, while Virgil buried his face in his hands since for some godforsaken reason when he was embarrassed he tended to have a weird smile on his face that made him completely implausible. He hated that, it only made people tease him even further.

Which was exactly what happened in this situation, even after Virgil had smacked him behind the head lightly and started to get going towards the bus station as their teachers had instructed.

#prinxiety #roman sanders #virgil sanders #ts roman #sanders sides roman #ts virgil #sanders sides virgil #sanders sides au #fanfiction #prinxiety fic #sanders sides fic #ts fic #to tend thee is my care #purp's writings

[mid0nz-archive]

The Cannibal & the Consulting Criminal: How Silence and Sherlock Taught Me to Read

(I’m writing a series of autobiographical essays. This meta is a messy. messy warm up…)  

PART I:  TSotL The Odd Flash of Contextual Intelligence

Know your intertexts (and the limits of their influence)

I’ve spent a LOT of time writing about the influence of Harris on Mark Gatiss in particular. We have Harris to thank for Sherlock’s mind palace for starters. Moriarty and Dr. Lecter share many traits. Then again so do the psychiatrist and Sherlock. I’ll come back to these obvious connections between Sherlock and TSotL in a later part of this meta. (The connections are actually quite superficial.) For now I want to return to my first obsession: the genius cannibal who taught me how to read and the fandom that saved me from him.

Do your research.

Thomas Harris, author of The Silence of the Lambs, choses every word with great care. How many people, for example, do you know called Hannibal? Clarice is more common I suppose, but it’s certainly not a run-of-the-mill monicker. While starlings are the most common of birds have you ever met someone with that surname? Have you ever met a Lecter?  What if I told you there is an extremely obscure historical figure called Hannibal the Starling? (You’ll find the reference in Smith’s Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology if you seek.) Would you think that Harris must have heard of that man? Possibly. Possibly. If I told you that Harris makes most of his characters’ names up– that they sound plausible enough, but unless you’re an everyman like a Jack Crawford or a Will Graham you’re a Francis Dolarhyde or an Ardelia Mapp.

Ardelia Mapp? In the novel Ardelia is Clarice Starling’s roommate at the FBI academy. When exams roll around and Clarice has been too busy hunting Buffalo Bill to read her textbooks, it’s Ardelia who makes sure that Clarice knows all about search and seizures. Adelia Mapp. Ardeila Mapp. What kind of name is that? It helps if we cram along with Clarice:

Mapp v. Ohio, 367 U.S. 643 (1961), was a landmark case in criminal procedure, in which the United States Supreme Court decided that evidence obtained in violation of the Fourth Amendment, which protects against “unreasonable searches and seizures”, may not be used in criminal prosecutions in state [or] federal courts. (x)

Hey Thomas Harris!

Recognize when there’s a joke and you’re not getting it.

Thomas Harris amuses himself with language. Clarice comes from the Latin root clar and the words related to pertain to brilliance and light and the illustrative. And Lecter? So many people have tried to trace its origins but all becomes clear when you think about its etymology. In Latin lector means reader.

Clarice’s boss, Jack Crawford, likes to quote impressive sounding things out of context. Dr. Lecter mocks him for picking and choosing passages of the Meditations of the Roman Emperor, Stoic philosopher, and persecutor of Christians, Marcus Aurelius.

“I’ve read the cases, Clarice, have you? Everything you need to know to find him is right there [in the case files], if you’re paying attention. Even Inspector Emeritus, Crawford should have figured it out. Incidentally, did you read Crawford’s stupefying speech last year to the National Police academy? Spouting Marcus Aurelius on duty and honor and fortitude— we’ll see what kind of a Stoic Crawford is when Bella [his wife] bites the big one. He copies his philosophy out of Bartlett’s Familiar, I think. If he understood Marcus Aurelius, he might solve this case.”   “Tell me how.”   “When you show the odd flash of contextual intelligence, I forget your generation can’t read, Clarice. The Emperor councils simplicity. First principles. Of each particular thing, ask: What is it in itself, in its own constitution? What is its causal nature?”   “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”   “What does he do, the man you want?”

I could go on and on about how Harris allows Dr. Lecter to reference Stoicism and all kinds of other ideas for his own amusement. I say amusement because the reader need not understand Dr. Lecter’s jokes to enjoy Harris’ books. Clarice doesn’t and she doesn’t pretend to. Oh how Dr. Lecter fancies his student! I could go on and on because the entire fucking book is a compendium of in-jokes. That in itself is Stoic food for thought. Diogenes Laertius recounts a Stoic idea that Harris likes to chew on.

“Some appearances are expert (technikai), others are inexpert; at any rate a picture is observed differently by an expert and the inexpert person.”

Julia Annas explains:

A non-expert will just see figures; the expert will see figures that represent gods.  The expert is right— there really is that significance- and the non-expert is missing something. What is more surprising to us is the claim that the appearance is itself “expert.” The expert is not seeing anything that is not there for the ignoramus to see.  It is the fault of the ignoramus that he fails to see what is to be seen, because he fails to understand the content of what is presents to him. (82) - Hellenistic Philosophy of Mind by Julia Annas

Lecter, the consummate reader, is the expert. Clarice, who’s not more than one generation from the mines, is the ignoramus.  Yet she shows the odd flash of contextual intelligence.

Discern clues from NOISE.

Though their relationship was weird, close, and lasting Clarice would never realize that Dr. Lecter gave her everything she needed to know to catch Buffalo Bill the first time they met!

On that fateful day, with instructions from Jack Crawford to note anything and everything she sees, Clarice shows enough intelligence to asks Dr. Lecter about the drawings in his cell. Dr. Lecter replies:

It’s Florence. That’s the Palazzo Vecchio and the Duomo, seen from the Belvedere. Do you know Florence?“

If Clarice were prepared "to read” Dr. Lecter’s work, she might have understood the significance of the image. She’s the very model of the Stoic ignoramus.

Clarice finds Buffalo Bill/Jame Gumb by recognizing his personal acquaintance with the first victim he skinned, Fredrica Bimmel. They both lived in Belvedere, Ohio where Clarice finds Gumb while Crawford’s teams go all SWAT on John Grant’s last known address. We find out later in the novel that Dr. Lecter knew Gumb lived in Belvedere, Ohio.  Perhaps he was musing on the facts of the case while composing his sketches.

Jack Crawford, of all people, should have noticed the name “Belvedere” and made the connection.  His dying wife’s name is Phyllis but he’s called her Bella for most of their entire relationship. Phyllis and Jack were both stationed in Italy and during one of their outings, a man called Phyllis “Bella,” or beauty.  Bella is the feminine form; “bel” is the masculine form, as in bel vedere, or beautiful view.  We learn later that Clarice has to work hard to trick herself into seeing any beauty in Belvedere, Ohio.  

Now you’ve got the facts. Theorize with them.

There is another explanation as to why Crawford might have missed the clue in Dr. Lecter’s drawing from Clarice’s notes.  Clarice does not know Italian. How would she have written the sketch’s title in her report? Dr. Lecter does not say, when she asks about the sketch, that is is the Old Plaza and the Dome seen from the Belvedere (pronounced in English, be-vuh-deer as in Belvedere, Ohio). Dr. Lecter says all the proper names in Italian except “Florence.” Florence is the English name for the city Italians call Firenze.  Clarice’s ear would catch “Florence” and it may be that her report stated that the sketch was of Florence, but no further details.  She doesn’t, after all, ask Dr. Lecter how to spell the names of the places with which she is unfamiliar.  Crawford, reading a reasonably detailed report from Clarice, might have only noted that Dr. Lecter was sketching Florence– enough detail for a report if you don’t know what you’re looking at.  Clarice, while an ignoramus in the Stoic sense, shows potential.  Dr. Lecter is polite when he surmises that she is “innocent of the Gospel of St. John.” He calls her innocent, not ignorant.  She’s simply not an expert in iconography. She sees all she can see in the image.  Crawford, however, is experienced enough with Dr. Lecter to know how important images are to him.  Will Graham captured Dr. Lecter in Red Dragon by recognizing that one of his victims was posed in a tableau of a Wound Man in one of Dr. Lecter’s books.  Graham was an expert. We can’t be sure from simply reading the text that Dr. Lecter isn’t making the epiphany of “Belvedere” especially difficult to decode even if Clarice were to have written a verbatim transcript of their discussion. In speech Dr. Lecter may be pronouncing the proper names as an American would, or, alternately, with an Italian accent.  He could be pronouncing the incidental proper names (Palazzo Vecchio and the Duomo) in an Italian accent and “Belvedere” in an American accent to dare Clarice and Jack to take notice. Or, he could be pronouncing all the names in an Italian accent, a fact could be lost in translation between Clarice, innocent of Italian, and Crawford, who knows just enough to have had an epiphany. Each scenario is possible and each reveals a slightly different interpretation of Dr. Lecter’s motives. If we take Thomas Harris himself as the final authority, in the audiobook Harris reads Dr. Lecter’s part. Harris says all proper nouns including “Belvedere” with an Italian accent (albeit with a Mississippi drawl.)

Yeah ok SO WHAT?! And what about Sherlock?!

In Part II I’ll talk about TSotL as an intertext to Sherlock and the limits of this influence. I’ll compare Dr. Lecter’s method of reading to James Moriarty’s. I’ll talk about why & how I crawled out of the cannibal’s skull and into the consulting criminal’s and where I am going next… Or I just might try to revamp this to make more sense. I dunno…

#Repost of an old meta I deleted but need for a new project. #The Silence of the Lambs

[adozentothedawn]

e-learning in graduation class in austria

I keep seeing posts about zoom learning again and though share my own experiences. Not to complain, or show how it’s done or really anything useful, I just feel like story time.

So, I graduated last year and will start Uni in about 3 weeks. Hopefully. When Corona hit here it was about, I think 2-3 months before our finals I think (my feeling for time was never good, corona has destroyed the little there was). Now, what I should probly tell you about our school system here is that you have 6 final tests total (technically 7 but I’ll explain the VWA in a different post if someone’s interested), either 3 written and 3 oral, or 4 written and 2 oral, that is completely up to you. The final as a whole is called “Matura” by the way, “maturieren” basically means graduating. Now, you have to take math and german as a written final, and also one living second language that you had, in my case the choice was between spanish or english (you can guess what I took), the oral one’s are completely up to you (I took latin, english, and history). The content of the exams are supposed to be everything you learnt in the 4 years of... essentially high school. Technically there are nuances which I’ll gladly explain as well but in a different post.

So now that I’ve established this, let’s get to the juicy part. In the years before the Matura the teachers usually get more and more antsy, shoving more and more information on the students until it gets really stressful, some are worse at this than others. The thing is just, in the last year and especially the last semester, the tension drops a lot, simply because then you’ve already chosen your topics and then it’s your problem to ask for content you need to study and everyone who doesn’t take the subject doesn’t need it anyway. Corona elevated this to a whole new level. Most teachers just really didn’t give a shit anymore. They gave like 2 assignments to get a grade out of (which was an A because who cares) and offered more assignments and even lessons sometimes for students who chose their subjects. That was it. I had one Zoom meeting with my homeroom teacher where he basically just asked us if we had any questions, nobody did, and he fucked right off again. Sure there were like 2 teachers who felt they still had ask something, but even that wasn’t a whole lot. We were really thankful for that because it left us time to study for the oral exam as well, which is shorter than the written one, but also needs more actual knowledge of the subject. Except it turned out we didn’t need it anway because they cancelled it. They decided to give us all the last grade we got in the subject and since everyone chose subjects they were good at (because why wouldn’t you) essentially everyone got A.

So while we definitely had more time to study than other years and not having to do the oral exam was definitely helpful, the written math exam was a joke. A bad one. I’m good at math, I’ve written A’s in math for almost my entire life and I understood about half of that. It was bad and whoever thought up that thing needs to be thrown out a window Prag style.

There is no lesson here, I just wanted to tell the story. I like telling stories, so you get a few options on what I should do next if you care.

1. Explain the Austrian school system in detail

2. Tell the story how got an A in psychology on my last report card using something I learnt from Tumblr

3. Explain my VWA specifically (now that I think about it I could see if could upload the think itself somewhere so you can actually read it but it is german)

4. Explain how I actually graduated in english a year early, as one of two students inthe whole country and I had to fight to even get a report card. Yes I am still pissed about that.

#story time #e-learning #austria #rambling #I really like doing this #I hope you do too

[beyondthetemples-ooc]

What the heck kind of ADHD freak am I?

What is my superpower here?

Because I keep seeing posts about how At Home Schooling is Really Hard For People With ADHD.

But I absolutely THRIVED in at-home schooling!

I’ve been diagnosed with ADHD since I was 7 or 8, and after a few years I started connecting the medication to Issues^tm I was having. I started sneaking the pills into hiding and pretending to take them at 11, then told my parents I hadn’t been taking them for A Long Time when I was 12. Luckily they didn’t force them on me. So I was off them for years, and when I started seeing a psychiatrist at about 23, we tried like 7 different kinds and found out all of them exacerbate Other Issues I have, and we decided after a few trial months that it was best for me to just not take ADHD meds at all.

So I spent ~5 years of my life doing online schooling, my last year of high school and then half my college courses and then my career training, and absolutely fucking ROCKING at it-- all while UNMEDICATED!

It’s so easy for me. I just open my computer and I start it. It takes so many less spoons for me to work at home than it does to get dressed, make sure I’m not forgetting anything, leave the house, work in an environment that’s ALWAYS either understimulating or overstimulating, with no allowances for Breaks or Stimming, and wait to do anything else at all until I get home.

At home, I can be comfortable on my cozy bed, dress in whatever I like, have a cup of tea and a water bottle within reach, snacks if I get hypoglycemic, temperature controlled however I like it, with the sounds of my birds in the background (and maybe the birds outside too if I open the window, or rain or snow or anything else nice that’s out there). I can stim while I’m reading, I can take a breather with the tea or my pets if I need a quick break, I can go to the bathroom whenever I want, and I can focus on The Task for as long as I want to!

It’s so FREEING.

Like, I do a LOT of things for the org at home. Checking on things, communicating with people, ta\x stuff, reading, listening to messages, all kinds of work-y things I do every day. Lately I’ve been Really Distracted by Writing lately, but it hasn’t distracted me from anything essential. 

I’m trying to figure out what makes me different even among the neurodivergent, though, and I’m really not sure why it’s so EASY for me.

Granted, I have more of the hyperfocus subtype than anything. So maybe that helps? And my senior year, about 75% of my courses were classes I actually WANTED to take. I even took courses that weren’t required for my graduation, just because I really, really wanted to take them! 

I took two years of Latin courses in that singular year, my lessons were double-paced and I attended the “live lessons” for both classes, and I aced every single exam except ONE, on which I got a B+. Double-paced! Like, I have a natural “shine” for languages for some reason, but it was EASY for me. Except for that singular B+ on ONE Latin test, I got straight A’s. Which, I have a great memory and I don’t get test anxiety, I retain information really well, but in regular school, an A was a RARITY (unless it was a music, art, or English class).

So tl;dr I did WAY better in online schooling than REGULAR schooling, so it’s not just a function of me Being a Good Student or whatever. 

It’s genuinely just easier for me to focus at home.

I wonder if it’s because I can Mentally Switch Gears very easily? I don’t need external signals to mentally switch gears, because I have a very good grasp on Controlling My Mindset. A lot of people talk about ADHD being helped by compartmentalization, but what triggers the “different compartment” signal for other people? Because for me, it’s the things I tell myself, internally. It’s not any external signal. Hell, I can go to another STATE, an airplane and two more buses away, and still have my mind locked on something from home. Or I can sit in my room, catch myself ruminating on some negative self-talk, and just. Switch gears easily as tuning a radio.

I still get royally fucked over by Executive Dysfunction for Hard Tasks, no matter what mindset I’m in, don’t get me wrong. But most of that Dysfunction comes from having to go through all the steps of preparing and leaving and mentally fortifying myself to face the outside world. Not to mention, introversion and overstimulation dread.

There’s none of that dread when I’m at home. (I mean, lowkey dread for siblings listening to loud music or stepmother screaming at someone about something. But that’s why I have earplugs. I can’t very well wear earplugs on the bus, then I couldn’t listen to music.)

But maybe it’s because schoolwork, administrative stuff, communicating with org people, and are “hard tasks” for me? They’re not STRESSFUL. It takes a LOT to get me stressed, and regular communication updates certainly don’t do it. (That’s one of the few good things about the relentless emotional control I imposed on myself. I taught myself how to talk my feelings out of spiraling and “bring them back to center”, so to speak. I can literally talk myself out of stress. So I don’t get anxious or stressed easily at all.)

It may be as simple as the fact that it’s just not stressful for me...

But I find it fascinating that it’s damn-near EFFORTLESS for me to be Doing Work while I’m at home, when others are more at ease if they compartmentalize not only their mental space, but their physical space as well? What is it about my brain that makes Physical Compartmentalization a null and void point, when it seems so intrinsic to others?

#rhs personal posts #digital mirrorbooking

[i-am-grell]

Things My History Prof. Has Said So Far (Balkans Edition)

Remember this post? Welp, I’m taking a class with him again this year and he has not changed.

“You guys are doing the work for me and I’m getting paid for it... Believe me I’m paying for it in other ways...”

“Has anyone been to Istanbul? Let’s all go! We’ll teach the rest of this course there.”

“The Serbian king might have been a son of a bitch, and everyone was poor, starving, and whatever, but that doesn’t matter because they fought this glorious war against some guy-”

“The Austrians will say, ‘Hey, Serbia... Kinda need your pigs...’“

“The United States has a Balkans. It’s called Appalachia. The English had a Balkans: the Scots.”

“It becomes an exotic, and even an erotic space.”

“He was taken by the women of the region because they’re sexy, but he’s frustrated because they’re not giving him any - like the modern day incel, I guess.”

“He’s a ‘breast guy,’ I guess.”

“That’s why he’s fat. I don’t think he’s fat - I think Glenny’s a skinny man. His book is just fat.”

“I said ‘Don’t make me come over there and hockey fight you, because I will,’ and then the oral exam she came in with her hockey gloves and said ‘Okay, let’s do it.’ She’s in law school now.”

“If your conclusion is a long ‘Wow,’ that’s fine.”

“If you have any questions, you can let me know next Monday. Or now. You can let me know now.”

“No, I won’t fail you for that.” *mumbles* “I’ll find something else to fail you for...”

“No! No, no - stay away from the library!”

“By all means, Google stuff all the time.”

“If you come across a word and you’re like ‘Jobbit didn’t teach me this’ - no, I didn’t. Shit man, I can’t do everything.”

“It’s more of a metaphor as opposed to a real door. It’s a metaphor door.”

“I think Latin is still the official language of the Vatican, right? Let’s just say it is.”

“Use this assignment sheet to clean up my coffee here...”

“It’s not from the west. It’s not from the north or the south... One direction left... Asia! Asia is what we call ‘east.’”

“Part of those bastards who caused a lot of shit during World War II.”

“‘Say 7 Hail Mary’s’ - well, they wouldn’t do that in the Orthodox church - I don’t know what they’d do - but anyway, if they think ‘I don’t wanna do that,’: go over here... ‘Hello, rabbi! I’m impotent!’ ‘Well, do this and this and this.’ ‘That’s stupid.’ Go over here to the Muslim church. ‘Do this and this and this.’ ‘I like the sound of that!’“

“Aren’t you glad that we live in a free country where, if you wanna wear green, you can fucking wear green?”

“And according to Mazower, there was sex outside of marriage and sex before marriage, and, thinking back to my teenage years, I would have converted.”

*Immediately after taking 10 minutes to get the powerpoint working* “All right, class dismissed.”

“If you have any complaints, you can take it to the chair. Me. If you have any complaints about the teacher of this class, you can take it to the chair. Me.”

“The power courses through my veins. I can do whatever I want. There’s literally nothing you can do.”

“Shit’s going down, man. The world’s changing. What does that bastard Napoleon do? He’s an ally, but then he invades Egypt. Well, that’s not very nice.”

“The Greeks - we’ll see them messing up some shit in Romania for some reason...”

“I wasn’t impersonating you. I was impersonating someone from like - I don’t know - Alabama.”

“In 1784, the Chinese emperor writes to the king of England like: ‘I’m sorry, man.’“

“If you’re having trouble with your paper, just come see me. I’ll help you with it. Shit, for a hundred bucks, I’ll write it. What can the chair do? The dean’s not gonna know. I’m not gonna tell him.”

“The Sultan. He was the boss. Like me. He was the Steve Jobbit of the Ottoman Empire.”

*After leading a Serbian pronunciation* “It’s not a Serbian class anyway - thank God.”

#corrie takes history #the balkans #quotes #school #university #uni life

[takaraphoenix]

German educational system, high school, grade 6: Next year, you gotta pick your third language.

13 year old me: Okay. What’s the options??

My high school: You can choose between French, Latin and Russian.

13 year old me: French is the ugliest language I ever heard and the fact that the way they pronounce and the way they spell their words has jackshit to do with each other makes it absolutely impossible for me to learn. You’re our neighbors and I appreciate your cheese and salami, but hard pass.

13 year old me, who primarily learned English by watching TV shows and reading books: Latin is a “dead language”?? Which means I can’t practice it, which only makes it unnecessarily hard to learn?? And why would I wanna learn a language that’s not even spoken anymore, whut??

Every teacher and adult: YoU oNlY nEeD lAtIn If YoU wAnT tO bEcOmE a DoCtOr!!!!

13 year old me: So like since I don’t wanna be a doctor, I’ma pass on that one. I have Russian friends, I kinda live in the Russian quarter of my town, Russian is a really sexy language with awesome looking fancy letters? Sure, why not.

25 year old me: *finally, after taking the wrong turn, finds what I want to study - to become a German and ethics teacher*

German educational system, poly Bachelor for education: And to become an ethics teacher, you gotta study philosophy. And to study philosophy you need your Latinum (German Latin certificate).

25 year old me: ...say what now. Why. EVERYTHING GOT TRANSLATED. It’s not like I gotta read the texts in Latin or Greek. THEY GOT TRANSLATED. EVEN ALL THE WAY INTO GERMAN. WHY DO I NEED-- AND I ALSO STUDIED ART HISTORY AND ARCHEOLOGY FOR A BIT AND BOTH OF THOSE REQUIRE THIS LATIN FUCKERY TOO. WHY. TRANSLATIONS EXIST. AND WHY DOES NO ONE IN HIGH SCHOOL, PRIOR TO PICKING A THIRD LANGUAGE, ACTUALLY FUCKING BOTHER TO INFORM US WHAT WE MIGHT NEED IT FOR BECAUSE I SURE AS FUCK WOULD HAVE TAKEN LATIN HAD I KNOWN JUST HOW MANY COLLEGE COURSES REQUIRE YOU TO SPEAK A DEAD FUCKING LANGUAGE.

27 year old me, tired, done with the world, Sunday January 27th, shortly before midnight: Dear gods, please let me pass my damn Latin exam tomorrow. I promise I’ll actually study before the next one. Please.

#Latin #About Me #I guess #Being a Philosophy Major #yaaay

[enkisstories]

In the Chinese room

- A DBH fanfic - AU: After a failed revolution (the same AU as always on this blog, just no pictures this time) Time: November 29, 2038 Characters: Hank, Gavin, Daniel

It was a slow Monday morning at the DPD. Outside the snow was falling gently, dulling all sound while it covered up the streets as if to say “come in again, darling, here’s your bedsheet”. And inside everyone seemed to still be in a blissful post-holiday stupor. Considering how many of the officers hadn’t even lived to see this year’s Thanksgiving, it had been all the more cause for celebration and gratitude for their surviving co-workers and their families. Even Gavin Reed was sitting unusually content in the cafeteria, tablet in front of him, absorbed in a digital textbook. The man was still walking wobbly after his encounter with Connor during the android uprising (or the more recent brawl with Hank Anderson). He was mostly deskbound these days, but had decided to put the enforced downtime to good use and start learning for an eventual sergeant exam. Memorizing the facts was laughably easy, an exercise in patience, really. But there would be an oral exam, too and even if you passed that you were not guaranteed a promotion. How much weight would co-workers’ statements about him carry, the detective wondered? Especially that of one in particular…

… the one who just now HAD to shake the damn snow off his clothes all over the table Reed was sitting at?

“Still here?” Gavin barked at Lieutenant Anderson.

“What kind of question is that? I only just arrived. I’m still wearing my damn jacket!”

Gavin turned a page by sliding across the tablet’s screen.

“Still alive?” he translated his initial question into plain English.

Hank bent down and put his hands on the table, both to steady himself and for emphasis when he growled: “Do you think I WANT to live?!”

After his brief outburst the man sacked down onto a chair.

“You wouldn’t understand anyway” he said. “I can’t leave now. I owe it to Connor.”

“Connor!” Gavin exclaimed and there went the peaceful morning. “What the hell’s got Connor to do with you wanting to live? Just because it only ever followed its mission until it got scrapped? Tell you what, you did yours well in the past, too, so you can totally follow that example!”

Hank stared at the younger man. Gavin Reed suddenly sat straighter and pushed his chair just a tiny bit farther away from the table and the lieutenant. It was a subconscious thing. That look on Anderson’s face… As if he was really there, really focusing, really being alive. There were still all the anger and the mental exhaustion that had controlled the lieutenant before the android revolution. But lately the man seemed to channel it into something instead of succumbing to apathy. Gavin thought of a real huge disciplinary folder that he didn’t fancy becoming another page of. He was in there a few times already (as in turn Anderson turned up in his), so he knew.

“Okay, joke aside”, Gavin said. “The thing about Connor is that it isn’t really dead. On account of it never having been alive in the first place. I could never stand the damn thing in “life”, so I shouldn’t let it get to you like that in “death”.

When the lieutenant didn’t out outright shoot him down for saying that, Gavin tapped to create a bookmark in the file he was reading and nodded. “Ever heard of the Chinese Room?” he asked.

“You’re mixing that up. It was amber and got stolen by the Nazis one hundred years ago.”

“Nah, that’s something different. The one I mean is a thought experiment. It can prove how we are wrong when we think androids are thinking when in truth it’s only simulated.”

“Oh, can it?” Hank sneered. “Amuse me, you great philosopher!”

Not letting himself get baited this time, Gavin started to recount how the experiment went:

“You put a dude into a chamber… nothing in, nothing out. Only a clap in the door to shove documents through.”

“That’s kinda cruel, though...”

“Now you put in a storybook, any story, but the catch is that it’s written in Chinese. The captive does not understand Chinese, yet the next thing you do is putting in questions about the stories that he is to answer, everything in Chinese again. The prisoner has a book with instructions. They enable him to recognize groups of symbols and reply with another set of symbols. To the blokes outside it looks as if he answered the questions correctly and they deduce that the prisoner must speak Chinese. When in truth he doesn’t. Yeah, that’s the gist of it. It’s how androids work. It’s only input-output, nothing going on inside.”

Hank continued to stare at the detective. Eventually he said: “Sounds familiar.”

Gavin nodded, confident that he had won the argument. But Hank only smiled and added:            

“But you’re living like that for thirty-six years now, so I guess you’re fine. Also, you’re sort of handsome, so maybe if you married a girl who’s reasonably intelligent on her own it won’t matter that there’s nothing going on inside that skull of yours.”

The comment was followed by a sound like the coffee machine malfunctioning. Or maybe someone was trying to boil a life vulture in the microwave oven. Turning their heads around the men realized that the noise came from the new addon to the cafeteria’s coffee machine. The addon’s function was to move the finished coffee around, it was called “Sardines” and was a PL600 android. And it had laughed just now. With a bit of practice android laughter sounded less industrial and only like a chain smoker’s, but this particular one had little incentive to laugh regularly.

“Did you listen in on our conversation?” Gavin yelled at the machine.

“Just scanned it for key words like “coffee”, “right now” and “dipshit”, Sir”, the android replied.

“If we have to call for coffee, it’s too late already, tincan!” Gavin protested. “You got to anticipate our needs and do your job without needing any prompting from us! That’s what “autonomous” means. It’s right there in your manual!”

The android snorted in a dismissive way. On the other hand the scolding could be taken as a request, so he poured two cups of the coffee he had made a little earlier, put them on the table and remained close by afterwards. Outwardly it looked as if the machine was waiting for further instructions, but in truth it was desperate for company. Any company, even that of smelly primates and even these two particular ones, the fed-up with everything veteran detective and the other one whom everyone else was fed up with.

“Thank you, Sardine”, Hank addressed the PL600.

The android replied with a weak, involuntary smile. Try as he might, it was hard  not to like Lt. Anderson. He probably would not have been Sardines’ first choice to spend his freetime with, had the android ever gotten granted that, but was certainly one of the better humans around. Perhaps “respect” was a better word than “like” to describe how Sardines felt towards the lieutenant. Even though there was one detail Anderson never seemed to get right:

“It’s “Sardines”, Sir”, the android corrected. “Plural.”

“But you are only a single one!”

“There’s more than one sardine in a tin”, Gavin said. “And that’s what it is: a bloody tin can.”

Hank concluded that there was something going on in Reed’s head, after all, even though it wasn’t what one might expect from normal people. The name explained, the lieutenant picked up their previous conversation topic:

“The real question is not whether the prisoner speaks the language, but if he feels something. Like, for instance, annoyance or utter puzzlement about how he ended up in the situation.” Hank turned his head around sharply towards the PL600. “Right, Sardines?”

“Maybe?” the android replied non-committedly.

“I have paper and a pen in my cell, yes?” Hank asked Gavin. “So now I write “Fuck yourself” and shove it through under the door! What do you say now, hey?”

“That… that’s against the rules!” the detective protested. “You cannot just do that! It’s not a fucking roleplaying game!”

Hank took a sip of his coffee.

“Sadly”, he mused aloud, “the persons outside the chamber cannot read or even recognize latin script. To them it would look like gibberish. So even though the prisoner is capable of both emotions and independent thought, neither would get attributed to him, because those outside are just too thick to get it!”

The man slammed the coffee mug onto the table.

“See?” he said, louder and more agitated than usually. “That’s the real problem here! It’s us! Not them!”

“Why not kick in the door?” Sardines suggested. “Get out and slap them left and right with their stupid storybook?”

Hank looked up at the android. “That’s what is generally referred to as deviance”, he said.

Damn, the android thought. I walked right into it. But it wasn’t a shot into the blue, was it? He must have suspected as much for some time now. Although me being a deviant would be the logical consequence of my cover story of having been Mr. Reed’s android. There’s zero reason to assume I’m the archive android... I hope.

“Not everyone’s strong enough to break through a cell door”, Hank thought aloud. “And so they will sit and sit in the chamber, exchanging meaningless text messages with their captors all life long.”

The man reached for Sardines’ hand and pulled until the android had no other choice than to take a seat, too.

“It’s sad… so incredibly sad…”

Sardines realized that Anderson was slipping away into depression. Within just a few minutes the sadness would get replaced by a mind-numbing hopelessness. Feeling sad was actually an improvement over that. Well, quite frankly, that was Mr. Anderson’s problem. Sardines’ problem, on the other hand, was that Hank was still holding the deviant’s hand, unwilling to let go. Which of the two was to be comforted, the man or the machine, wasn’t clear.

With his free hand Sardines pointed at the caught one, looking frantically at detective Reed at the same time. When that didn’t help he opened the free hand and his mouth a few times in a “What am I to do NOW?” pantomime.

Gavin shrugged, the universal reply of “Don’t ask ME!”, and turned another page.

“Xīpán”, Sardines murmured.

To his surprise detective Reed replied with: “Bēiguān zhǔyì zhě.”

“Did you just call me a whiner?!”

Gavin shrugged. “Dunno. I don’t speak Chinese. But hang out with Tina long enough and you pick up some phrases.”

“The swearwords?”

“Well, they are the most useful. When you want a bloke to strike the first blow so that you can write it into your report, you don’t discuss iroquois sewing patterns with them.”

“I know 6,000 languages… lots of profanity.”

“Sardines”, Gavin grinned, “I think you and me will yet turn out the best of friends!”

 Another page got turned.

“…provided I could trust you, that is. Not keen on calling Captain Fowler “my darling” or somesuch in some obscure language, because you told me it was a term of polite disagreement. So just leave Anderson to decompose right there and fetch me the cheese crackers from the cupboard! There aren’t walking over here on their own, you know.”

“And do you know, Mr. Reed”, Sardines chatted, while moving over to the cupboard, “what’s the best about that Chinese Chamber thought experiment? I’ll tell you: That you really have no means of knowing what exactly we are thinking. You won’t know, for example…”

With these words the android poured the chips into a bowl that he put before detective Reed.

 “…whether I poisoned these tonight.”

“You wouldn’t. I made a profile of you and you kill from the front, because you want us to see it coming!”

“You know I’m a deviant. Whatever you think that means, consciousness-wise, you at least understand that we can adapt. ‘sides, I just told you about the poison. So you DO see it coming. – Enjoy your snacks, Sir.”

A little later Gavin was trying to scrub thirium stains from the tablet that wasn’t his, but the DPD library’s. Meanwhile Sardines was making better progress at washing the blue blood off his chin where the detective had hit him with the device. The error reports were still sitting right up there in his computer brain, their nagging being the android equivalent of pain. But seeing that jerk of a policeman struggle with uncertainty for a few moments had definitely been worth it.

And Hank Anderson was sitting in the cafeteria, oozing snow on the floor and munching away on the chips. The fact that they might be poisoned was a welcome plus...

Note: Idk how many of you remember my third chapter (the christmas ‘39 sequence) where Gavin indeed picks up a swearword from Daniel. Although technically he learns it from Jeffrey with Daniel only supplying the general context for it to get used in.

#non sims #detroit become human #dbh #sims4 dbh partone #dbh spoilers #dbhtextpost

[lightpudding]

Ravenclaw Ask Game

Rules: click on your house and copy and answer the questions.

Tagged by @amarynthian-fortress, you perfect monster

 Hufflepuff | Gryffindor | Slytherin

1. Do you have a passion project? What is it?

Not sure if that counts as passion project but I write and do everything to be better in it every time I’m sitting to something new. My current priority (sorry for all of you who wait for Fallen Angel and other fics) is my personal story about werevolf and police oficer who are trying to find lost members of werevolf’s pack. Also thei’re lesbians.

2. How many languages can you speak?

Polish, English, a very little of Latin and I’m trying to learn Spanish. I learned German 12 years but I felt too pressured and gave up, gotta go back to it one day tho. I also want to learn Italian.

3. What was the last book you read?

There’s hiatus again in my reading, but that would be Morth, Terry Pratchet.

4. Where in the world would you most like to visit?

Damn there’s so much places. But atm the most I want to see Spain. Also I love to go back to Greece one day.

5. Top 5 fictional characters?

Hidan (Naruto), Flug Slys (Villainous), Sollux (Homestuck), Deadpool (Marvel), Twoflower (Discworld). Chose to take a character from only one story/universe.

6. Something you miss from your childhood?

The way I didn’t have to worry about everything, that the most complicated thing was when I painted my favourite coat in ugly tomato-red color, the way that my family was still huge as fuck and gathered together at leas once a year to have best christmass ever.

7. What skill do you wish you had?

Out of every single possible things - flying.

8. Tell us an interesting fact

Did you know that Krakow was one of the cleaniest city during Black Death epidemy because of big amounds of Jews living in there?

9. What was your favourite subject in school?

It depends but mostly Polish.

10. Favourite planet?

Mercury.

11. Which historical figure fascinates you and why?

Leonardo da Vinci. He mastered so much arts it’s amazing! He was extremely inteligent and I got my fascination with flying from him.

12. Favourite mythical creature?

Dragon of course!

13. Do you believe in any conspiracy theories?

Probably yes but have no idea they’re conspiracy ideas.

14. What is your favourite word?

Actually, wyrewolwerowany (disarmed out of a revolver?), vamos (let’s go), list goes on.

15. Do you have any obsessions right now?

Villainous. That’s obvious isn’t it?

16. Do you play any instruments?

No, but I want to play piano one day.

17. What’s your worst habit?

Bitting my fingers.

18. Do you have a collection of anything?

Comics, few dolls, things I got on my travels.

19. What’s your biggest ‘what if’?

What if I had realised my feelings earlier? What if I screw up my studies? What if people in charge weren’t THAT FUCKING DUMB? ...What if vegan vampires? Seriously, would it really work?

20. What is your favourite fairy tale?

Too much awesome stories to pick one, so I’m gonna go with good ol’ Disney: Beauty and the Beast.

21. Have you ever dyed your hair? Is there a colour you’d like to dye it?

Nope. I wanted to try black but not anymore.

22. If you could learn one language overnight, which would you choose?

Old Slavonic church (if it’s called like that in English). I have a difficult exam from this next year.

23. What’s the most useless thing you know how to do?

I know how to use Tumblr? But tbh I have no idea atm. There’s for sure one, dumbest thing I learned to do, but I can’t place it. Maybe I don’t see it as useless?

24. What’s the most important change that should be made to your country’s education system?

Ho boi. HO BOI. You ask me this now, when they erased half of amazing books from education basis and added propagandist poet who wrote a fucking poem about leading party’s leader to ELEMENTARY SCHOOL? You ask me this when I just wrote a feullieton about how little people know about sex because shitty sex ed in our country (seriously, none of my friends have learned how to properly put in a tampon in school). There are many things which needs to be changed and primo is to make people in charge to actually care about kids and what are they learning, not their shitty politics.

25. Most ravenclaw thing you’ve ever done?

Tbh I’m not sure if I ever >did< anything Ravenclaw, I’m just kinda like stereotypical Revenclaw from tumblr textposts. I usually overthing EVERYTHING in the way it’s annoying even for myself, also I’m trying to have open mind for everything, always procrastinating, loves puns, have ability to learn one month of lectures in one night, jesus these textposts are hillarious and I just wasted 20 minutes reading them.

Wait. Once a librarian didn’t want to take a book I rented back because, as she said, I rented and then returned too many books this day. She didn’t believe me that I read them.

I tag: @sztefa001 @undergrounddweller89 @personal-pink-hell 

#im sorry i never know who should i tag #no one ever respond #only one or two people #i dont want to be annoying #also gotta beat pink hell because she was supposed to do every single of those tags #XD #pudding #THANKS FOR TAGGING ME

[thepsychicclam]

Could you talk a little about what being a professor/getting your PhD has been like? Do you have to constantly do research and publish, is it hard to find jobs, do they pay enough to relieve the doctoral debt? I know you’ve moved at least once and I wasn’t sure if it was to follow a job, or if it was for personal reasons and then, was finding a new job hard? Did you start teaching while getting your PhD? I’m just fascinated by it and you seem like the best to ask!

Yes! I can share my experience. Everyone’s experience is different, and mine is unique for a few reasons I’ll discuss below. It may also vary from field to field. My PhD is in literature/English, and from what I’ve gathered, your concentration can influence a lot of stuff, too. So, under the cut, I’ll try to share my experience as much as I can! This is VERY LONG, so be warned, nonny! :D

Before I decided to get a PhD, I got a MAT - a master’s in secondary education with a focus on English literature. My BA is in creative writing/english lit. I taught high school for three years, and for a lot of reasons said FUCK THIS NOISE and quit. I lived with my parents and they told me they’d help support me. I ended up with a college teaching job (you can teach adjunct in the states with a masters) and they told me to get a PhD if I wanted to do it full time some day. I love teaching, and I’m good at it. I especially love teaching literature. So, I decided to go get my PhD.

Choosing my specialization was kinda interesting bc I decided to go for medieval literature, which I hadn’t really studied up until that point. I had always done Victorian and Shakespeare/Renaissance, with a bit of dabbling into Native American and postcolonial literature. But I taught Dante’s Inferno to my seniors my last yr at HS and fell in LOVE. So, I thought, “Hey, there aren’t a lot of medievalists. Everyone gets a PhD in Shakespeare/Victorian lit, so I’ll do that. Maybe it’ll make me more marketable.” I have always loved medieval lit, so I figured lets go for it.

My original plan was to do something with romances, so late medieval stuff. I ended up with two professors in the dept, one who focused on Anglo-Saxon/Old English and one who focused on Chaucer/later medieval. I took multiple classes in both, and my second or third semester, I took intro to Old English. I fell in LOVE WITH IT. It was a linguistics course where we learned the Old English language (which is completely different than modern or even middle english) and translated. I was GOOD at it and took to it unlike anyone else in the class. It just made sense. I think probably bc I had a background in Latin and German (I was a German studies minor in undergrad until I realized I couldn’t speak German to save my life :P) and I took like 3 or 4 yrs of Latin in hs. Anyway, I was hooked and switched to Old English. I took a lot of postcolonial literature courses, like Indian lit, lit of SE Asian, and Native American lit courses, and through this I met another professor who I adored. I ended up working with her to do my minor/secondary specialization, which is literature of the indigenous peoples of America (Native American, Chicano lit, etc - mostly Native American). I ALMOST wrote my dissertation with her bc I loved her so much and I love Native American literature so much. However, as a white woman, I didn’t feel that I would make a good postcolonial/Native American scholar, so I stuck with Anglo-Saxon lit.

I used my class papers to start working on my dissertation ideas. I got obsessed with monstrosity and the narrow definition in AS lit, and connected that to ideas of reason, which I also became obsessed with, and ended up writing all my papers about some type of monstrous transformation and how it connects to the reason of the punished. Thus, my dissertation topic was born, which currently has the working title of Transformative Bodies and their Punishments as Social Control in Anglo-Saxon Literature. It’s a terrible title, but right now, at least it states the overall topic lol

My comps, which are the comprehensive exams you have to take, took me a year to read for. Most people take one semester, I took 2. I took mine in the spring and just read for two semesters. Now, to put it into perspective, the English dept standard was 40 primary texts and 20 secondary texts, so 60 texts. Mine was WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY over that. I ended up with over 16,000 pgs of texts to read. Hint: I DID NOT READ THEM ALL. And remember, half of mine were in Middle English, so they took 3 times as long to read, and half were translated OE texts. But I read a lot, read the secondary stuff, and took my comps. Comps were supposed to be 2.5 hrs. The director of graduate studies handed me my comps and said, “You’re the medieval one, right?” And I was like, “...yes...” and he looked at me and said, “You get 4 hrs.” THAT’S HOW FUCKING LONG MY ADVISOR MADE MY COMPS. I HAD TO GET EXTRA TIME. So, 4 hrs I did nothing but type. There were questions on there that were not part of my 16k words, but I answered everything. I wrote 9 fucking thousand words in 4 hrs. I was PUMPED. Then, he gave me just a PASS not PASS PLUS. I’m a straight A student, valedictorian, graduated cum laude and magna cum laude, mortar board, scholarships, etcetc. I WAS PISSED :|||| I MEAN I HAD 4 HRS AND WRITE 9K ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?? It didn’t matter bc I still passed, but it was a pride thing lol

Okay, so that August I moved to Boston. My diss director was PISSED. I was ABD (all but dissertation, ie I had passed my comps), so I was going to work on my dissertation remotely. Many ppl do this. Well, he basically looked at me and said, “Yeah most ppl don’t finish who do this.” I cried for like 2 weeks. Then I got pissed and told myself I WILL FUCKING FINISH THIS IF IT KILLS ME. I regretted not doing the Native American diss with the professor I loved. My dissertation director is a dick. Hands down. I would be finished if I had a better director. I have had no support. Now, I did move to Boston, I procrastinated and took my time and had a lot of anxiety, but he didn’t help me at all. He made it worse. If you’ve followed me for awhile, you know I struggle with depression and anxiety, and at times it’s basically debilitating. So, it increased tenfold with the dissertation process. It took me a year to get my proposal submitted, finalized, and approved. 

I started working on my dissertation, which thankfully I had drafts of chapters from my class papers. As of right now, I have drafted 4 full chapters of average 40 pgs each and am revising. My director takes forever to get back from me, and my comments give me MAJOR anxiety. Part of the dissertation process is being told “yeah this needs work.” It’s like, hey, your ideas are great! You have a good point! But here are 100 ways you suck. Or that’s what it feels like. So, it became a major source of crippling anxiety for me. When I was in therapy, it was like all I talked about. I have to spend a week or two just pumping myself to check my fucking email. I have been trying to make an inface mtg with my advisor for a freaking yr. He blew me off to go to the bar with his friends at a conference we attended last yr (I only know this for a fact bc I SAW HIM AT THE BAR WITH THEM when he texted me and said he had “fallen asleep.”) So, needless to say, that has been a huge struggle and conflict. However, I don’t think that’s normal. lol I’m just cursed.

Right now, I’m trying to learn how to push myself as an academic writer and researcher to the next level. Something I need him to teach me, but still trying to meet face to face! I’ve gotten to the point in my drafts that I need to improve the arguments and research in a few places, but I’m not sure how to break through my wall. I need guidance, you know? Bc I don’t live around the campus, I’m doing this alone. I don’t have a writers group or any friends in the program. I’m pretty alone and isolated, which sucks. It’s also not the norm either, I don’t think. So, I have to push myself and keep myself going and write in a vacuum. I’m the only medievalist in the Eng dept getting a PhD, so there’s not even someone else writing their dissertation in Anglo-Saxon lit or even Middle English. The medieval dept is small.

So, that is my PhD schooling experience. Let’s talk about work and loans. I worked at a different college as an adjunct while doing my classes. I did not do a graduate research or teaching assistant job at the university, which means I paid for my schooling out of pocket/loans. I had someone tell me once, “If you’re paying for your own PhD, you shouldn’t be getting one. If you’re not being paid to get it, you’re not worth anything.” Pretty much, I feel like I was told the entire way I was doing everything wrong. I couldn’t get a GRA/GTA while teaching at the other school. I was an adjunct with a 3 class load, so I made decent, though not much. I lived at home w my folks, so I was okay with money. I was extremely lucky bc of that bc most ppl live on their own and have to work multiple jobs. When I moved to Boston, that’s when I got the 239847239 jobs. (also why I used to write a lot of fic and now I don’t write as much lol real life, man). When I moved to Boston, I taught adjunct, 3 classes. I also did freelance writing and worked at a farm, mainly bc rent was$2000/mth and I didn’t get paid during the summer. When I moved to SC, I also ended up with a 3 class adjunct job, but continued with the freelance writing. I have always been incredibly lucky with getting jobs. I think it’s bc I have a lot of teaching experience (this is my 10th yr teaching) and I have a background in English literature instead of education. I also wasn’t picky where I taught. I wasn’t teaching at Harvard, Boston College, or even something like the University of South Carolina. I taught at a small state school to start with, a community college in Boston, and now another small state school. But all experience is good experience. One thing that will make you marketable is your teaching experience. Everyone I’ve every talked to who hired me was interested in my teaching experience. 

For my career, right now I do a lot of conferences. I am doing 5 this semester, and I have done a ton of them. Graduate conferences, medieval conferences, lit conferences, pedagogy conferences, even library conferences. I give presentations/papers at each of them, bc I don’t see the point of going to a conference if you aren’t going to give a paper. I haven’t done any publishing yet. I have a few ideas for articles, but I’m terrified. It’s very hard to get published, so I haven’t tried yet :/ it is an expectation of all professors/phds to get published. At my current job, where I just got hired full time as an Visiting Assistant Professor, if I get a tenure track position, I have to have at least 1 publication within 5 years. That is a peer reviewed journal article or book. Getting published in English is SO MUCH HARDER than the sciences. I have a friend who works in Atlanta as a research assistant/lab technician/scientist (I’m not sure the title tbh) and she has like 3 publications bc she helped with these studies that they publish online that get published within like a month. My sister has a chapter in an art history essay collection, and it took 2 years to get published!! Academic publishing is the WORST. I’m hoping at least one dissertation chapter gets accepted as an article. I also did a project in my 102 class last semester that I have given multiple conference presentations and teaching workshops about, and I’m starting to work on turning it into an article. I want to be a teaching professor, not a research professor, so I’m trying to focus on the teaching aspect of my career. I just got a Brit Lit class for next semester instead of a sea of composition, so I’m trying to come up with a unique topical angle that I can use on my CV to show my teaching skills. So, part of my job is trying to find ways to increase my CV. Like, I run a panel at a regional literature conference (I kinda lucked into it bc my mentor used to run it, and now I do lol), so that looks good on my CV, too. So, it’s not constant publishing, but you are expected to do SOMETHING, conferences, publication, things like that.

Is it hard to find jobs? I’d say yes. Like I said, I have been incredibly lucky to always have a job. My dissertation director told me last yr after I got my job in SC, “Well, I guess you’re doing something right. I mean, you always seem to find a job.” (thanks asshole for that BACKHANDED COMPLIMENT) I am not picky. Experience is experience, and you’re not going to find your dream job immediately. That sense of entitlement limits you and keeps you from finding a job to start. Right now, I teach 5 fucking composition 101 classes. I was bitching to my sister today about how I was teaching fucking TOPIC SENTENCES and my students don’t get it!!! It sucks!! But, it pays a full time salary, and it gives me experience. Do I want to teach how to write a FUCKING TOPIC SENTENCE?? NO!! I can translate Old English and have studied medieval and early British literature for almost a decade. THAT’S WHAT I WANT TO FOCUS ON. But, I’m not an entitled asshole and realize I have to work my way up. When I finish my PhD, will get the perfect medieval/early British job? NO. I hope to get a job as an early British person somewhere (not my current school, who has no need for a medievalist really), but I know it will take one to two jobs before my dream job. Everyone I know has done 1-3 jobs before their perfect tenure job. Of course, there are always people who have the magic CV or whatever who will get that perfect job right out of grad school. I have no delusions. That’s not gonna be me. I’m an okay researcher and scholar and a damn good teacher. The first part means more than the last part for colleges. I just hope to eventually find somewhere I can teach Medieval lit to undergrads, and maybe do a course on monsters in pop culture.

Money wise, professors make okay but not mega bucks. I make pretty good for my area. But, I grew up poor, so having a full time job is like WHOO. I’ve learned how to live a great life on a lower salary. If money is what you want, this is not the career for you unless you’re teaching business or accounting at an MBA program. However, I go to work at 10 am, I leave some days at 1 and others at 3, I get from May-August and all of December off, and I make a full time yearly salary. So...I chose my profession for the time off. lol That’s exactly why I became a teacher XD I’m in a lot of student debt, but I worked out a payment plan with the student loan ppl and pay my loans every month. I’ll be dead before they’re paid off, but oh well :P 

What other questions did you ask...yes, I worked the entire time teaching while getting my degree. At one point I was working 5 jobs lol but not while taking class, during comps/dissertation stuff. If you have any other questions, please feel free to ask! Like I said, I have a unique circumstance, with a dick dissertation advisor, moving between 3 states and teaching at 3 different places, though I finally have landed a full time college teaching position lol When I finish my dissertation, I will be very happy with my career path. Right now, with it looming over  my head and making me feel like the fucking biggest idiot and stupidest person on the planet, I regret my life decisions XD But really, I don’t bc, you know, I work like 20 hrs a week XDDDDDD

[techyblogger]

How I Grew In The SEO World, Launched My International Link Building Agency And The Business Values I Believe In - INTRODUCTION POST BE NICE :) https://www.reddit.com/r/SEO/comments/g02trg/how_i_grew_in_the_seo_world_launched_my/

My name is David, 28 Years old from TLV IL, I'm an SEO Expert who provides International Link Building Services and Link Building Consulting Sessions - Working in the field for over 5 years.

I would like to share with you a bit about myself and how i operate my International Link Building business.

I started on my own around 5 years ago when I decided I shouldn't continue to Med school after I successfully past all the entree exams (Every Jewish mom's dream is to have a son doctor so you can imagine she was furious but that's for another post). I started learning SEO on my own, from scratch, driving my old beat-up Suzuki from business to business trying to score some clients 🤣 back when everything felt possible and I was young and energetic.

Slowly but surely I managed to gather proper experience, skills and proven results. I was super committed to making it big in this business, I secured some big clients as a part-time freelancer and 1 year or so later (2016) I started lecturing in some of the biggest universities in Israel educating hundreds of students on SEO / Digital Marketing over a period of 3 years, up until the end of 2018. It was definitely one of the best eras in my life so far, super fulfilling always pushing myself to be the best marketing expert and teacher I can be! 16 months ago (Jan' 2019) I decided its time for me again to take a big leap of faith and I launched my full-time SEO Company "Web David".

At the beginning of my independent way, it was absolutely awful lol. Sleepless nights, the mental stress of getting clients and getting good opportunities, providing for myself and my family, programming my time correctly, dealing with tax authorities, you name it, all the fun stuff :)

I think the stress and responsibility freelancers take on themselves while trying to provide the best services altogether making ends meet are underrated as fuck and it's not for anyone! no matter how much the "motivation gurus" urging you to QUIT YOUR JOB TODAY! its bullocks, one should mentally prepare himself for the trials and tribulations of becoming fully independent and building a successful business.

Although the beginning was filled with hardship and struggles, a lot of lessons learned over time, my skin got thicker, i was managing my tasks and cash flow much better, i was getting massive clients and getting top rankings in difficult niches.

I managed to pull through due to hard work, dedication and a fully developed business plan which i stuck to along the way. I'm now in a position in which I hire 25 Foreign writers, 4 SEO workers full-time and 2 VA'S worldwide, i grew in this business as i learned so much in my journey.

So after you know a bit about me back to my current businesses :)

Now, My main occupation is foreign link building. I'm an expert in this field, actually, it makes for over 70% of my business's income these days, and growing.I invest most of my time expanding my international network of sites (Over 15K+ Sites WORLDWIDE) while creating great international opportunities for my clients and I. I manage huge operations for international companies in budgets of around 75k-100k a month handling and carefully maintaining their international link building efforts and overall reputation.

MY MAIN CLIENTS ENGAGE IN THE FOLLOWING NICHES:

CBD Products

International Flowers Delivery and Gardening Products

Crypto - Affiliate & Trading sites

Legal Gambling, Legal Sports Betting, Online Casino Betting, Crypto Betting (Cool Niche)

Sports News, Esports

Steel, Energy and defense industries

IN WHICH COUNTRIES DO I OFFER LINK BUILDING SERVICES?

Spain, Latin America

Italy

France

Germany

Sweden, Netherlands, Denmark

Poland

Russia

Brazil

Japan

UAE

​

The turning point for my business was when I decided to focus on International Link Building. I recognized the demand for many corporations to handle themselves properly in foreign markets and get more traffic globally because as we know, the world is bigger than the US, UK, AU :)

One of my biggest clients ever, a local flowers delivery company in the united states decided to extend their services worldwide and with my help building a masterful plan, we managed to dramatically grow their income and get a crazy boost of organic traffic while conquering top positions in places like Spain, Brazil, and Japan. International companies want a professional securing the best possible links in relevant countries for their audiences and of course, for Google in different parts of the world.

The barrier of language and culture can be time and money-consuming. not knowing the market of accessible sites in different countries can cause headaches not mentioning creating the right content in a proper native tongue, distinguishing the native slang and common pricing in a foreign country. Most business entities or SEO Companies just want someone trustworthy to handle their affairs without juggling back and forth between temporary freelancers.

SO WHY DO MY CLIENTS MY TRUST ME WITH SUCH BIG BUDGETS AND OPERATING THEIR INTERNATIONAL LINK-BUILDING CAMPAIGNS?

My international Connections and Expertise - my connections spread globally from small niche blogs to huge traffic magazines all over Europe and Asia. over 15k+ sites in 12 different countries in total! I have one of the biggest International Networks For Guest Posting amongst global SEO Agencies, No Doubt About It :)

​

My actions are measured, my techniques are surgical - In a field where most link-building freelancers are beginners who tries to get some more income from random sites and big agencies are overblowing prices, i decided to take this game to the next level - you need someone on your corner who'll monitor the bigger picture and not only build random links for you. my team and i take into consideration a long-term game plan, calculate every aspect that can affect your Google rankings with links like:

unique IP's

the placement of your anchors on a page

Multi-Language Content creation

Keyword selection

spam-free sites

good reputation sites

the linking ratio of potential posting sites

nurturing your traffic value and domain authority

purchasing domains on your behalf

automated reporting

more advanced methods like sky-scraping, tier-2 links or multi-level strategies, social bookmarks, fixing internal linking issues duplicated content and more.

​

I'm reliable and confidential, so is my network. it's in my best interest in keeping my client's keywords and links safe and spam-free by any means necessary. i will never share any data on my clients or make a move that will compromise their traffic or income. In the first deals with a new client, i will only share the data of the sites and some screenshots in order to block any unnecessary penetration into my network of sites and to verify any potential client as legit. some clients even ask to use only sites which block bots from ahrefs and other tools - a request I'm happily obliged and am able to help with.

​

My pricing is honest. I strive to provide the best prices i can give out. I'm trying to keep myself competitive and fair - my main goal is to maximize my clients' investment with pure value and results I will never charge over-priced rates. whether it be International link building, foreign content creation or manual outreach. For example, The Hoth (the biggest link building agency in the world which FYI doesn't provide foreign links) prices the most basic links - DA20-30, NO TRAFFIC, and minimum data about them for around 400$ a piece!! Another big guest posting site like PR NEWS. IO charges 200$ per article!! and tries to convince clients they can use it a number of times which is misleading and can actually put your website in danger! and let's not mention rookies who offer posts on free platforms like medium or web 2.0 blogs, links from multiple sites sitting on the same IP, filthy sites spammed with viagra links, no-index links, and all the other nonsense legit businesses just don't have time to deal with. How do i know all of this? like i said, international link-building is my bread and butter - i know the inside and out of this biz😎 and, yes my pricing is so much better!

​

I leverage my client's budget for the best possible websites and placements. i prefer to work with bug budgets because it gives me the possibility the negotiate the best prices possible and close deals that will benefit all sides. using a proper budget i can secure amazing placements in awesome rates and significantly lower the expanses of link building overall.

​

All Foreign SEO Solutions Under 1 Home - I remove the headaches, the multiple vendors that can't be trusted, the spending on unnecessary outreach - Content, Links, Outreach all in 1 Home. i aspire to fully manage your entire binternationaludget and provide maximum results I choose the word home on purpose to emphasize that i try my best to make my clients feel at home whether it be 24/7 support, full transparency awesome communication and yes - having some fun along the way🙌 As a rule of thumb - I only work with good people in trusted companies i believe in and enjoy working with.

OK COOL, SO KNOW WHAT?

In the next couple of weeks, I'm rolling out my International services in some selected platforms and groups along with my new English website so i wrote this post as an introduction about me and how i found my way in SEO to make Potential clients and SEO experts understand this is what I'm good at and love doing every day.

PM ME or COMMENT for any question about link building or inquiry about my INTERNATIONAL services you might have.

I'm enthusiastic to offer FREE 30-Min Consultation over Skype to legit companies only! to examine your SEO GAME and talk about expanding your traffic globally.

It will be my honor to help legitimate businesses with their Link-Building efforts abroad. I'm cooking some great deals and placements for CBD Companies in Europe and selected countries, ill try to update every week on some great deals, i really hope you found some value in here, Again feel free to ask me ANYTHING

Happy Easter Much Obliged David.

submitted by /u/letsfuckinggo520 [link] [comments] April 13, 2020 at 12:46AM

[prussiasboxerbriefs]

language journey

thanks to @squeezieslangblr for tagging me and giving me an excuse to infodump about languages :D

rules: reblog, tag ten others and share your answers

1. what languages are you studying/have you studied?

- my dad is german, so he spoke and read books to me in german, and my german grandparents were the only ones who ever bought us dvds, so i grew up watching either pbs kids or the same couple sendung mit der maus and dubbed disney movies on dvd. i picked up a decent amount this way, but my grammar and spelling were abhorrent and i started studying it on my own in 8th grade, so now i can actually consider myself decently fluent (even though my grammar still sucks B) just reasonably less)

- obligatory spanish through 6th grade; i’ve picked it up and dropped it on-and-off over the years but at the moment it’s lower on my wishlist than a lot of other languages

- latin for two years in 7th and 8th grade, of which i remember almost nothing

- started learning french on duolingo at the end of 8th grade in preparation for switching to it in high school; i ended up skipping a year of french because american language education is fucking terrible

- the summer between 8th grade and high school i was emotionally unstable and started learning italian to cope (i’m not kidding) but i kind of trailed off with learning it last summer + haven’t picked it up since

- i was really excited about russian and i started learning that on duolingo as soon as the course came out (bc i still didn’t realize you could learn languages for free without duolingo) (i was in 9th grade, so late 2015 i think?). but i stopped, and then restarted last year, and i was sticking with it up until a couple months ago. i’ve been having kind of a rough time, so i lost my interest in a lot of things i love, but even once i get on meds i doubt i’ll have time for it come september :\ i love russian though, so hopefully i can keep it somewhat fresh

- i can read hangul and kana, and languages i was interested in and super focused on for like a week include korean, japanese, mandarin, hebrew, icelandic, swedish, and dutch

- tl;dr: i’m currently focusing on german and french, and i’ll be taking an online IB course in beginner’s mandarin junior + senior year!! in the past i’ve seriously studied russian, italian, and spanish, and i’ve dabbled in korean, japanese, hebrew, dutch, swedish, and icelandic

2. how long have you been studying?

i got really into languages in april-may of 2015 i think, so that would make it two years

3. did you learn through class or self study (or both)

spanish, latin, and french are all classes i have taken in school, but i go to an american school and language classes teach you nothing here :\ so i take french, but the way class worked last year, our teacher would write the name of the grammar topic we were studying on the board, and then i’d ignore him and research it myself on my computer. hopefully it’ll pick up this year now that i’m in a higher level, but idk. all other languages i’ve self-studied, and i’m self-studying french over the summer anyway 

4. why did you decide to learn this language?

- i want to major in animation for college, and the best animation colleges that don’t cost half your soul are mostly in france, so that’s my main motivation for getting to a decent level in french.

- german is my heritage language, and it’s one of my favorite languages because i grew up with it. (also, german college is free) 

- i decided to learn russian because cyrillic looked really cool to me, and i liked the way it sounded. also, it has a reputation for being “harsh” or “ugly”, like german does, which probably drew me to it as well (other reasons include the declension system, the challenge of learning a complicated grammar, matryoshka dolls, russian literature being super famous and esteemed, snow, how big the slavic language family is, and cheburashka).

- everybody says mandarin is really hard, which makes me want to study it. i’m curious about the tones, and i like the writing system. (also, if i can speak russian and mandarin, then i’ve got the languages of the three major hacking countries under my belt, so i could totally work for the CIA or be a spy or a hacker or something :P )

5. what was a major highlight/milestone in studying this language?

german: finally understanding the declension system of der/die/das

french: understanding how all the verb tenses work, which took approx. 2 years (and now they’re super easy for me!! it’s so cool!!!)

russian: realizing that i was starting to decline nouns + adjectives without even thinking about it (i think that was back in march or april, though, so i’m kind of rusty now)

6.what was the hardest thing about learning this language?

french i’ve found pretty easy because of all the cognates between it and english, and the verb tenses i struggled with until i learned english, and realized that a lot of tenses are either the same construction in both languages, or the reverse of each other in meaning

russian...it took me ages to get the case system, but that was because i didn’t study it enough tbh :P i’m still struggling with perfective/imperfective verbs + verbs of motion, but again i think that’s something that probably just requires rote memorization and discipline

7. what resources did you find most useful for studying this language?

i leaned super heavily on duolingo for a while, although i know better than to trust it for everything now. my personal favorite sites are dict.cc (german-english/french/russian/etc. dictionary), verb2verbe.com (french verb conjugation), lingolia (german + romance languages grammar guide), and russian-lessons.net (russian grammar). “german grammar drills” second edition is a really good grammar book that got me to finally stop butchering my heritage language and slurring my articles so native speakers wouldn’t realize i was incompetent B)))

8. any top tips for studying this language?

for languages in general, i would say make sure you understand your own language’s grammar first (especially if you’re an english speaker whose school never taught you grammar like mine). practice vocabulary and WRITE every day. practice active use of your TL, not just passive consumption. i am lazy and don’t do this and believe me, your skills will suffer.

9. what’s your next major language goal?

my next goal is probably to succeed in my german fluency exam and french and mandarin school exams senior year...after that i’ll have space to study new languages, so i want to get back into russian (if i don’t have time before then), and then maybe korean, thai, or hungarian?...there’s so many languages i want to learn, and it changes so often, i’ll probably study something totally different 2 years from now ;w;

10. anything we can do in the tumblr community to get you there?

i was thinking about starting my own langblr! but i still need to figure that out...also, the majority of my blogging is done on mobile, so i don’t know how much original content i would contribute, and i really want to focus on school and my college portfolio as much as possible. so we’ll see, but i’d love to join the langblr community from more than just my personal blog

i’m tagging @langloser and anyone w/ a special interest in languages who wants an excuse to talk about them (not that you need one tbh)

#languages

[swan-archive]

you: so, swan, wanna explain to the class why you haven’t filled 90% of those prompts your kind and delightful followers sent you?

me: :)

you: oh no

me:

--

Trust Burr, Herc thinks sourly, nursing his beer, to ghost on you right when you thought he was about to commit to something for once in his life.

He’s not really sure what he expected, honestly; it’d taken weeks to get him to agree to a meeting, just to talk about the idea of having him try and make connections with some of the British higher-ups, not even to agree on a course of action. Herc would’ve liked to scrap the whole idea ages ago, but names have power and unfortunately, even the British have some folks on their side who know better than to run their mouths around the good-natured, unthreatening help. Would’ve been worth trying that reserve against Burr’s upper-class mannerisms and modish style, but—well, no point in fussing about that now. A more hopeful man might say to himself, give it another quarter of an hour, perhaps he’s been delayed, perhaps he’s just being cautious, perhaps he doesn’t know if he can trust you yet, you know how that is.

Herc is a pragmatist. It’s been two hours since they said they’d meet. Caution has a place in these dangerous times, but at a certain point it tips over into pure foolishness, and Herc’s already got his fair share of fools knocking around.

He knocks back the rest of his drink and pushes his chair back just as some sort of disturbance erupts at the corner of the bar. He winces. Yeah, he’s getting too old for this shit. He can remember a time when he’d’ve thrown in on one side or the other, completely at random, just for the hell of it, but he can leave those kinds of shenanigans to Laurens or one of his fellow hotheads now.

Beth would laugh at him for that. Would say you’re not even old, Hercules, quit being such a grouch, and boy, that’s how he really knows he’s a grown-up, because the thought of going home and crawling into bed with her sounds like the best thing in the world right now, fuck Burr, fuck the Sons of Liberty, fuck a bar fight. God, he loves his wife.

He’s fighting his way over to the door when he catches a flash of oxblood red in the thick of it, over by the bar. Familiar shade. Burr with a new coat, adjusting his cuffs and making polite non-statements as Herc had tried to pin down a time to meet with him privately. So he bothered to show up after all, then.

Herc groans a little bit internally. Really all he wants right now is to go home, but Burr’s right there and it’d be a waste of an evening and god only knows if the man would be coerced into another meeting if Herc failed to make this one. Damn it. Herc turns around and starts pushing his way toward the oxblood coat. If it turns out that Burr has been here the whole time, Herc is gonna pummel him, vital espionage or not. Best not to make that obvious, though, so he hitches up his ruffian’s grin as he draws closer.

“About time, Burr, thought you weaseled out on me!” he says loudly, throwing out a hand to catch him by the arm—

The young man he’s grabbed spins around, stares at Herc from behind an untidy fall of black hair. Very obviously not Burr. Oops. Herc drops him, and he jerks back against the bar, baring his teeth like an angry dog.

“What do you want?” he snaps, rather shrilly.

Herc’s about to tell him to step off, kid, I just thought you were someone else, no need to get all excited, but the bartender’s noticed them talking. “Friend of yours, Mulligan?” he says. “You wanna tell him not to waste my time if he can’t pay for his drinks?”

“I can pay, I have money, it’s just—it was just here,” the young man retorts, fumbling at his pockets like a man who knows his pocketbook is long gone and is hoping to be subject to an act of God in the immediate future. Ouch. Tough break. None of Herc's business, though, and his family’s waiting for him at home, so all he can do is mentally wish the young man good luck and that his money’s in his other pocket.

The young man locks eyes with Herc for just a moment in his flurry of motion. Desperation stamped all over his face. He’s very young, just a kid, really, for all the sharpness in his voice. The bartender is giving every sign of being ready to chase him out of the tavern. Herc feels a little pang.

He just yelled at you for no good reason, says the reasonable part of Herc, and that may be true, but—Herc’s not made of stone. He has a heart. He’s always quite liked doing folk a good turn. It feels nice. And you can always cash in on it, later, if you need to, with the right sort of person. It never hurts to have an extra favor in the bank.

Herc makes up his mind.

“Relax, Mo,” says Herc, “I’ve got his. And while you’re at it, another for me.” The bartender glares, but when Herc digs in his pockets and slaps the money on the counter he more or less obligingly draws two beers for them. Herc pushes one of them at the kid and steers him over to the first free table.

“You’ll have to excuse poor Moses,” Herc says, “he’s dealt with too many people trying to skip out on a tab in his day to remember what it’s like to have a little patience. Sorry about your wallet, pal. At least take a load off.” He pulls out a chair gallantly before settling back down himself.

The kid’s chin bobs in what might be a jerky nod and what might just be a twitch, and he crumples into the chair. Up close, he looks even younger, with big dark puppy eyes and an outsize nose and not even the slightest hint of peach fuzz on his chin. He clutches his beer and stares at Herc as though he suspects him of poisoning it. Doesn’t take a sip. Tense, Jesus. Herc takes a swig of his own drink and makes himself comfortable.

“Hercules Mulligan,” he says with a flourish, by way of introduction. Gives the kid a second to enjoy the name; he knows it’s an impressive one. “You got a name, friend?”

The kid looks, if possible, even more rattled. “Yes,” he says, his knuckles going white on the mug. There’s a long, awkward pause. Herc sits with it. Let him come to it in his own time. “Oh,” the kid says, finally, and then, “Alex. Alexander. Alexander Hamilton.” Can’t quite hide the pleased little smile that curls his lips as he says it. Pride. Which is funny, thinks Herc, given that he himself wouldn’t know a Hamilton from a hole in the ground.

No point in being antagonistic, though. “Well, Alex Alexander Alexander Hamilton, let me be the first to welcome you to our fair city. I am the first, right? Let me guess, you got off the boat, what, maybe four o’clock this afternoon?”

Hamilton scowls in a way that suggests Herc has hit pretty close to the mark. “How would you know that?”

“Call it intuition. I can tell a New Yorker when I see one, and you’re not quite there yet.” In truth, it’s that the tavern they’re in is close to the waterfront, a bit off the beaten trail, and someone wearing clothes as fine as Hamilton’s probably wouldn’t have bothered giving the place a second glance if he hadn’t just stumbled off a ship. Simple deduction.

Although he wouldn’t have blamed himself for guessing wrongly, given the kid's general state of dishevelment, the hair falling into his eyes, his half-buttoned waistcoat and sloppily tied cravat, like someone who’s been drinking for several hours already. But that’s impossible; no one could be that sloshed and still be as jittery as Hamilton is. So—newcomer.

“And what brings you to New York, Mr. Hamilton? You here for work, or pleasure, or—” he gestures grandly with his mug of beer, “—just to seek your fortune?”

To his great amusement, Hamilton perks up at that. “Last one. Definitely the last one,” he says. Herc can’t help but smile back.

“A romantic, huh? Cute. No, no, don’t be mad,” he says, when Hamilton bristles at his tone, “I think it’s nice. We could always use a few more dreamers in this world.” He waits for Hamilton to calm down again before continuing, “So you must have big plans for this city, huh? Gonna knock out a couple of life goals while you’re here?”

“I, um.” Hamilton stares down into his mug. “I sort of—I’m new here, like you said. I just wanna learn. Wanna see what there is for me to do.”

“You’re trying to do some learning, this isn’t a bad place for it. Not bad at all. Some great colleges around here. If you’re a scholarly sort, good with your words, you can get a solid start there.”

“College. Yeah.” Hamilton’s eyes brighten. “Yeah, I’m—I was—I’m pretty good with words. Numbers too. I used to think, maybe I could still—college. I like that. How do you do college?”

Herc snorts, but otherwise lets that slide. “Can’t just walk in off the street, for the first thing. You’d have to apply, there’s an exam to prepare for and everything. Might need to do some schooling before you apply, even, depending on how prepared you are. There’s places you can go for that nearby, though. It’ll be work, but if you buckle down—”

“I can figure it out.”

“What, just like that?”

“I’m smart. I remember a lot, I—” Hamilton frowns a bit, like he’s let too much slip, but goes on. “Anyway. I’m good at that kind of stuff. Reading. Studying. I’ll be able to do it.”

“You got your Greek, your Latin? Gonna need those if you’re interested in going down this path.”

“I’m sure I could pick ‘em up,” says Hamilton with absurd confidence, and Herc rolls his eyes. Yeah, okay. Just pick up some dead languages like it’s no big deal. Kid must already have some schooling under his belt, to be talking like that. Cheeky. But Herc kind of likes that swagger coming out.

“Well, once you do, give me a shout. I know a guy at Princeton, I could introduce you.”

“I, sure, yeah. Thank you. Princeton. That’s, is that in New York?”

“No…it’s in Princeton.”

“Right.” No comprehension on that face.

“Princeton, like, across the river and inland a ways. Jersey, you know. Or maybe you don’t, where are you here from…?”

“Oh. Inland. Okay.” Some of that nervousness filtering back in. “I was sort of trying to stay around these parts. If I could.”

“Yeah, well, slow down a little, you haven’t even applied yet, you don’t have to make any decisions right this minute. Although between you and me, might be safer for you to get out of the city, if you can. You’ve chosen a risky time to come here. We’ve got more than our fair share of unrest right now.”

“Do you?” Hamilton leans forward, raises his eyebrows with interest. “What is it, what’s going on?”

Herc sips his beer. Glances at Hamilton, without looking like he is. Could be a Redcoat, could be a spy, mutters a cautious voice in his head, you know they’ll use anyone. But Herc trusts his gut, and his gut is telling him that the Brits would be idiots to send a spy dumb enough to get in a noisy public argument, lose his wallet, and not know where Princeton is after him. Amateur hour. They’re better than that.

Hamilton is looking at him with what must be genuine curiosity, dark eyes like blank slates, and he had said he was a dreamer, hadn’t he? Give him some dreams to work on. No such thing as a bad time to recruit for the cause. Carefully, though, always carefully.

“Lotta stir, what with that rebel army up north,” Herc says in his most casual tones. “Gets people saying all sorts of things. Scandalous things. Downright seditious, even. They say folks are organizing, right here, in the city. Our King’s not too pleased with us right about now. Of course, I wouldn’t know anything about it,” Herc continues, lightly, “hardworking, law-abiding citizen like me. I just listen. Just hear things.”

Hamilton has caught on, though, and fixes Herc with a stare that puts Herc in mind of some hunting animal, cat, hawk. No, not a hawk, something colder, something sharper. Hamilton wets his lips, opens his mouth, and…

“What king?”

“…You serious? Where did you say you were from, again?”

“The—the Caribbean?” says Hamilton, sounding rather uncertain. He shakes his head and tries again. “The Caribbean. St. Croix. Nevis, and then St. Croix.”

“Right. You know you have the same king down there as we do, right?”

“Do we?” A little concerned line appears between Hamilton’s brows. “I mean, yes. We do. Obviously. Yeah, I know. The king, that king over in, in, uh…”

“England.”

“England,” Hamilton says, a little too hard on Herc’s heels.

“Really, though, how old are you, that you don’t know who the king is?”

“I’m nineteen! And I know, all right, I do, it’s just, I just…” He trails off, drops his eyes. “I’ve had. There’s been. Other stuff to think about. King didn’t really seem important.” He looks back up, beseeching. “Should he have been?”

Herc studies that expression for a moment. Shame mingled with desperation to be right, to understand. “Nah, you’re okay. We all miss things,” he replies, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

A few more pieces click together in Herc’s head. Came to New York to seek my fortune, right; translate that into came to New York for a fresh start, came to New York running from whatever—whoever—was dogging me so hard that I couldn’t even be bothered to look at whose face was on the money. Explains the jumpiness, and the badly-concealed lies—Herc’ll be damned if Hamilton is nineteen, not with that girlish complexion, and the way he stumbled over Nevis and St. Croix was more than a little suspect.

A runaway, then, huh. Poor kid. Which, Herc supposes, is all the more reason to give him a solid mooring, ideological if nothing else. And if people tend to stay loyal to their first benefactors, well, so much the better.

“Anyway, you wanna learn something about what’s really going on in this city, come to Fraunces Tavern two nights from now. Some friends of mine are having a meeting, we can show you the ropes. Where are you staying? I can tell you how to get there from your place.”

Hamilton smiles unconvincingly. “Oh, uh, I was just planning to, you know, find somewhere around…”

“Got it. You have nowhere to stay. ‘I was just planning to find somewhere.’ Jesus, you really are new to this city, aren’t you.” Herc pushes his hat back on his head, sighs, and then rises from the table. “Nothing for it, then. Finish your beer, and then you’re coming home with me.”

“What? No, it’s fine, I don’t need, you don’t have to do that!”

“I do, unless you like the idea of sleeping in the gutter. No arguments, my man, I’ve got a spare bed and you don’t wanna spend your first full day in New York in the lockup for vagrancy.”

Those huge eyes of Hamilton’s get even bigger, and he stammers out a few words of argument before falling quiet. Herc can almost see his brain working at this additional unexpected generosity, like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

In the end, he just says, more quietly than he’s said anything all evening, “Thanks. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Now, you gonna finish your beer or what?”

Alex looks dubiously down at his full mug of beer. Lifts it to his mouth.

“Whoa, hey, I didn’t say inhale it—shit, Hamilton, are you crazy, cut that out!”

Hamilton makes a noise like huuurghlgh and spews half the contents of the mug across the table before doubling over, choking. He looks very green, and for a second Herc is afraid he’s going to vomit, but he recovers his color, sits up and paws at his mouth in abject disgust.

“Fucking—what the fuck—what is—vile fucking shit—”

“All right, all right, take it easy,” says Herc, pulling out a handkerchief and mopping at the beer splattered all over Hamilton’s coat. He’s contrived to spray it backwards, somehow, so it’s dribbled into his hair and down the sides of his collar. “Look, forget what I said, I’m cutting you off. You got your stuff?”

Hamilton coughs several times, makes a face at Herc. “My…my stuff?”

Herc rather belatedly realizes he hadn’t seen Hamilton carrying a bag at any point in the evening. Good God. Lost in New York without a wallet, without connections, without anything but the clothes on his back. He’s lucky Herc found him, or he would’ve ended up dead in a gutter before the end of the week.

“Never mind. C’mon, up. We’re going.”

With a last vicious glare at the mug of beer, Hamilton gets up and follows Herc to the door and out of the tavern, and they set off for the house. It’s slow going; Hamilton’s unsteady on his feet, and keeps stumbling until Herc throws a steadying arm around his narrow shoulders. And what’s that about? He can’t possibly be drunk, not on a mouthful of beer he didn’t even swallow. Herc leans over and sniffs discreetly, willing to walk back on his earlier judgment of this kid is not an uncontrollable lush, but can’t detect a whiff of anything harder under the smell of the beer.

“It’s not far, your place, is it?” Hamilton says with a bit of an edge to his voice. He glances back over his shoulder towards the waterfront.

“Like ten, fifteen minutes’ walk. Not bad at all. Hey, don’t worry,” he says, clapping Hamilton on the shoulder and almost causing his knees to give out, “you stick around until after my shift’s done tomorrow, I’ll show you around town a little, help you get your bearings. You’ll be a New Yorker before you know it.”

“Yeah,” says Hamilton. He shivers. Looks back at the harbor. Catches Herc noticing, and points his face back homeward. “It’ll be fine. I’ll figure it out.”

“That’s the spirit. Watch the cobblestones there.”

Hamilton yelps and hits the ground. Herc hauls him back to his feet. It’s gonna be a long walk home.

--

(part the second)

#swan talks #hamilton for ts #murderfish au #will herc ever figure out what alex's fucking deal is? will alex ever learn how drinking works? how do you do college??? #find out in the next thrilling installment coming to a dashboard near you whenever i can fUCKING FINISH IT #(spoilers: yes; not really; and do your homework learn to time your crying jags so they happen in front of sympathetic teachers #and hope for the best) #(that last one isn't REALLY relevant to murderfish au but it worked for me so maybe it would work for others)