Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Katie

The top floor of the university’s library is the smallest one of all and, even then, the majority of it is taken up by the library’s café. A poor placement in every sense of the matter - after all, who’s gonna walk up four flights of stairs for it, when the food hall is essentially across the street? I mean, if you’re already on the top floor or middle floor, fair enough but is it really fair enough to build a café for it? When you’ve worked on the top floor of the library for over a year, these are the kinds of philosophical questions that you begin to ask yourself. That and why does the University own 300 copies of ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ to then enable lecturers to set assignments on the book for the same day? Do they not know what torture they’re creating for poor librarians, also known as - me?

The clock ticks and tocks away, like background music more than an object for information. The Night Library exists on it’s own dimensional plane, there is no time and, sometimes, no (personal) space. I’ve learned not to look at it and instead, have alarms set on my phone to tell me when my shift ends. That clock has broken and trampled all over my heart one too many times.

It must be around 3am, though, as the metallic café door swings open with a boom, indicating that Reagan’s shift has ended. She waves a hand gently and we exchange tired smiles. In the real world, that would signify acquaintances. In Night Library world? We’re practically sisters. A wave and a tired smile is like a wedding proposal here. Acquaintances merely get a caveman grunt. The Graveyard Shift doesn’t allow for chitchat, not unless you wanna actually get some sleep before your class in the morning. Regan leaves through the double doors in front of my desk, heading for the stairs, where a guy has the door open for her before swinging in himself. My eyes glaze over and I grab what must be the 120th copy of ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ and scan it in the system with the gun. A sharp tingle of a bell sounds me back to the present (because apparently, I was sleeping with my eyes open).

“You know, I’m right here?” I sigh irritably like someone recovering from a hangover, the 3am slump clearly kicking in, and hold the bell down until the sound stops. Leaning against the desk is the instigator; the double door holder, a boy with sandy brown hair, paint splattered hands and a lopsided smirk that is decidedly too happy for the time of night (morning?)
“Well, you see, the bell's purpose is to make myself known - I am now known.” he responds, his shit-eating grin growing wide as he flourishes his hands in front of his chest.
“A ‘hello’ also suffices, especially at this time,” I huff before plastering on the best customer service smile that 3am and barely minimum wage can muster, “What can I help you with?”

Opening his mouth to respond, the only sound that appears is the crash as the cafe’s door bursts open for the second time in the last ten minutes.
“Come on, she’s got nothing interesting to say. You’re late.” barks the café owner, Barry, a bald man that’s all bark and no bite (though that’s not to say he’s not terrifying the first 5 months you know him, he looks more like he’d run a Fight Club not a Library Café).
“It’s only just turned 3am?” says the guy, confused and pointing over his shoulder to the clock. My body slumps as it is indeed 3am, which means I still have 3 hours left of this shift - which is information I could have done without knowing. The guy gives me an amused side glance from the corner of his eye. I appear, to him, to ignore it and instead respond with,
“Yeah, in Barry’s book, that’s like being half an hour late.” I muse, like I’m not setting the guy up for the worst night (morning?) of his life. I turn my attention back to “Much Ado About Nothing” and its apparently endless library copies (seriously, has no other course checked out books tonight? I love Shakespeare but Lorde, give me strength!).
Barry points in agreement at me, which from Barry is like getting a fist bump, before he hurls the infamous Ted.R apron at his new victim and disappears through the door again.

“Well, that’s what I was going to ask you for but, uh, I’m glad I didn’t now.” He responds with an amused hesitance as he inspects the apron, a frown forming.
“Ted-”
“I’m not going through this,” I cut him off bitterly, at the apron more than anything. That apron still haunts me in my dreams, in flames, glorious flames. I flash a sweet, slightly venomous smile at him, “ask Barry and have fun.”
“That seems like something I’d rather not do,” he hums in response.
“That seems like something a guy like you would thrive on.”

He leans over the counter, grinning again. “Oh, and what else do you think of a guy like me?”
“That if you keep standing here, you’re gonna be a guy who got sacked before he even started.” I say slowly, still scanning books and then wearing the same grin as him.
“Touché.” He smiles, pushing himself back up and going back to the doors, “Have fun, Crabby.”
I swivel in my chair to throw a name back at him but there’s nothing left but the silver café door swinging gently.

Chapter Text

Katie

For most University students, trudging through the darkness of a cold Saturday night with a banging headache would be the result of a late night of drinking, clubbing and ‘fraternising’. For me, it was the result of: the rush of an assignment due at midnight, working two Graveyard shifts in a row and at said two shifts, having the midnight ball of goddamn sunshine taking any and all chances to irritate me. There’s a small chance he’s actually just making small talk but honestly, at 4am, the faculty are lucky I still smile at students who insist on starting their assignment an hour before it’s due in and essentially have me writing the whole fucking thing for them, let alone at Aiden too. At this point, I could be doing my degree in History, Law - even Ethnobotany. The most useful skill of doing a Drama degree is at least I know how to pretend I am truly interested and have the world of fucks to give about why Ethnobotanists are not simply "Druids in modern disguises and people will be none the wiser"… to be honest though, I am hoping Ocean (yes, yes, his birth name is Ocean) comes back soon - Druids or not, I feel like his degree is interesting… just not 4am interesting.

The cold keeps biting away at my lips and my cheeks and I have to pull my coat up as high around my face as it’ll go. Couples and groups of friends laugh and sing as they stumble past me, the only other people on campus in this weather. Looking at the girls in mini skirts and heels in this weather somehow makes me even colder. If I wasn’t petrified of getting frostbite myself, I’d offer my coat to them. I hear alcohol can keep you warm and also makes you lose any sense of, well, sense but it can’t be that much?

I continue walking and round the corner, walking from the old and historical buildings of the original campus towards the old, but slightly newer, repurposed building that houses the Art Department. What little light that strews from the building makes me warmer just looking at it. When my eyes fall back down towards the entrance, my heart stops before lurching into my chest and I start running.
“Alexa! Why aren’t you inside?” I panic as I reach her, who is standing completely bundled into her puffer coat, hood and scarf. I start trying to drag her but she cements herself to the ground.
“Hi Alexa, nice to see you. How are you? I’m doing well, Katie.” Mimics Alexa sarcastically, wriggling her arm out from my hand. My arms thrust down and I try to argue back but she shushes me and my bottom lip juts out. “I’m okay to stand outside, Katie. The cold air is nice and I’m bundled up like it’s baby’s first snow day. Besides, I haven’t been here long.”
I slowly nod, for peace's sake not in agreement, and turn to walk inside, Alexa deciding to follow me. She lowers her hood and pushes her beanie further down her head, her newly chin length hair poking out sporadically.

“You know, I would have the same reaction, ill or not.” I murmur quietly and Alexa simply rolls her eyes and pushes the button to summon the lift. I sigh and we both pile into the lift, “So, why is it we’re here again?”
At this question, her eyes light up and she grasps my arm excitedly. “I saw, on Instagram, this amazingly talented designer who is creating corsets using tracksuits and sweatshirts and all sorts of fabrics. They’re amazing! It inspired me and I want to see how much I can push the limits of it. I may even contact her about possibly using her as my inspiration for my final piece!” One of her hands lets go of my arm and retrieves her phone from her pocket and scrolls through, showing me many amazing sportswear corsets.

“That’s amazing! But, surely that goes against the principals of like 80% of your course?”
“Exactly! That’s what makes it so great. She can take a fabric as bulky as trackies and make them into elegant, form-fitting corsets. People like her are why Contour Fashion exists and is studied!” The lift dings and Alexa practically bounds out of the lift towards her favoured room, leaving me trailing behind and swallowing any of my panicked commands for her to slow down.

Alexa is already through the door to the classroom when I come to a stop outside the class opposite. The room is dark but the door is ajar. I push it open further and turn the light on. Is it sticking your nose in things when the door is left open? As I do every time, I reason with myself that it isn’t and that classrooms are in the public domain… sorta. Inside, the room is small and dim and smells of paint thinner - he was here not long ago? My chest aches gently, as it does every time I make that same discovery. The discovery of freshly painted pieces, or damp brushes, or paint thinner. Canvasses of extraordinary artwork fill the walls and floor, mainly oil or acrylic but the odd mixed mediums and spray paints. Those are my favourite. The combinations of pastels layered over watercolour and gouache and God knows what. Explosions of colour. In the corner of them, little sticky notes are attached with feedback written in my handwriting.

I rip my backpack open and take out my sticky note wad and pen. Propped up against the back wall, I find two new pieces with a note on the countertop before them.

“Hey!
I have an important exhibition coming up and I can’t decide which piece to show. One is more classical, revered-and-all-that-jazz art style in oil and the second is my newest experimentation. I’d tell you what mediums are in it but honestly? I don’t remember. Maybe graffiti and acrylic? Damn, there may even be some inks in there?
Either way, any critiques from my favourite critic are always appreciated.
-A”

For such a talented artist, his handwriting is atrocious. After all this time, I can’t even tell if it’s just naturally bad or if he’s just always in a hurry. I say ‘he’ as if I’ve met him but it’s more of an educated guess (or “educated wish” as Alexa likes to say). A year of exchanging sticky notes can reveal a lot about a person. I fold the note neatly and sneak it into my backpack safely. Staring back at the paintings, I sigh. He always makes me choose one. It can never be both.

I push the lid on my pen and gently smooth the sticky note on my favourite one and the extra one on the countertop, replacing the last note. I’m a pro at sticking them without ruining anything. I used to stick them in really awkward places on furniture and walls to avoid sticking them on the art and ruining them. When one of them caused an accident - he still won’t tell me what happened - he left detailed instructions on how to stick them to the art depending on the medium, to prevent my worrying and his A&E visits.

“Katie! Have you finished flirting with your Artist yet?” Calls Alexa from the other classroom. Cold creeps up my back as warmth rushes to my cheeks. I grab my stuff and head out the door.
“Shout louder, I don’t think the guard on reception heard you.” I respond as I shut the door and start talking my coat and bag off. Alexa’s sat at her usual desk with her things strewn everywhere like she’d been here for 3 hours already. Her hat is now on the table with her stuff and her hair is sticking up from where she, no doubtedly, ripped it off her head.
“What? I gave you 10 minutes.” She batted her eyelashes innocently, “That was the agreed time, remember. He gets you for 10 minutes, I get you for life!”
I roll my eyes as I start flipping through her sketchbook to take in her new ideas before we start.

“I notice you didn’t argue that it was flirting.” She mumbles, seemingly unsure if she really wants to poke this bear. I look at her from the corner of my eye and see a look that is definitely trying to poke the bear and get all of its secrets. I open my mouth to argue as she says, “Make a Wish Foundation! I want Katie to admit her crush!”
“HEY! You can’t moan at me about looking out for you cause you're ill and then pull Make a Wish on me!”
She juts out her lower lip, her big brown eyes suddenly sparkling, and sniffs, “Well you know, it’s difficult. Being ill a second time and all that.” She kicks the ground gently with the toe of her trainer to further emphasise her pouting.
I groan, “One, it’s not a crush. I don’t even know his name, let alone what he’s actually like and Two, if anyone heard this, have fun explaining how you’re gonna get me out of Hell.”
She scoffs at both statements, “One, exchanging notes and getting giddy whenever I mention him or you spot his artwork around the city? Crush. Two, I’m afraid I can’t do that because I’ll be going to Hell with you. I gotta drag you down with me, can’t be going in alone!”

We both laugh and I take the opportunity to move away from the conversation, “So, what is it you need me to do?”
She takes the bait and swivels her sketchbook in between us. “Just the usual, I’ll do everything and hold it in place. You pin and do anything that may be deemed “can make me bleed and thus, make my mum and doctor kill me”.”

Chapter Text

Katie

Even at 9pm, the Night Café seems to exist in its own dimension too. I walk in, expecting a few hoards of students leftover, only to find the odd dotted person and Aiden trying (and failing) to make himself look busy. I head towards the counter, the smell of coffee and pastries getting stronger with every step.
"You're early? I thought the dead didn't rise until midnight, at least?" He smirks, arms spread wide across either side of the cash register. He's covered in even more dried paint than usual, all up his forearms and shirt. The longer I look, the more paint specks I find.
I sigh and take out my purse, "The dead make exceptions when they have assignments due at midnight." I get out the exact change I owe him as he rings my usual order up and starts gathering the only fuel that keeps me going: Black Espresso and Cinnamon buns.

As he makes the coffee, he pulls his usual grimace at it.
"I still don't know how you drink this, caffeine or not." He grumbles under his breath. I suppress a smile and avoid looking at him. Instead, I see the new chalk artwork on the menu behind him. It usually changes every season but now it's just got random bakery-themed artwork. It's drawn differently to Barry's.
"Who did that?" I blurt, pointing to the drawing of cinnamon buns, matching those on a plate now in front of me. Aiden's face blanches for a second, making me recall that he may have been talking to me before I spoke, but he recovers.
He turns around to look and I move to sit down at one of the barstools at the counter, as if this is a casual occurrence for us. "I drew it."
"And Barry let you?"
"Yeah, he's let me do it for a couple weeks or so now." He states nonchalantly. Barry never lets anyone else but himself draw it.

"You're good." I say, as I continue looking at the drawing and the way that he's combined hues of purple and yellow into the browns. Something about it is familiar, maybe he's taken inspiration from something? I take a sip of my drink and say, "it could use more white, though."
I glance at Aiden, whose eyes are slightly wide. I tilt my head at him. He seems… shy about it? He blinks quickly, like someone finally selected a chat command for him. "I couldn't tell, I thought it would start erring more on the cartoon-ish side."
I shake my head, "I think that would actually work. The café is a chill place to come. If the art was too professional, it'd be out of place though full cartoon would be childish. I think merging the two would look really interesting with your style."
I start breaking parts of the cinnamon buns off and shovelling them into my mouth, mainly to get it to shut up. I've written one too many amateur art critic notes. As if I actually know what I'm on about.
I look up from the plate and Aiden is smiling, genuinely - instead of being hidden behind a smirk or grin. My heart swells slightly and swells more as he darts off for the chalk. He starts adding in the white chalk, messing with the grey tones that appear.

He slaps his hands together, as he jumps down from the back counter, dusting the chalk from his hands. The sound of it makes me avert my eyes. I'd been, staring at him?
"Well, what do you know?" He murmurs, standing back and admiring the alterations. He leans against the cash register, looks back to me and smiles warmly again, my eyes beginning to stare again. "I thought you took Drama, not Art?"
Heat rises to my face and I look down, grabbing my now-cold Espresso and speaking into it. "I, um, I do. I just have an interest in art," words start babbling out of my mouth, "but you know, just like, amateurish. I can't art, well unless it's performing arts, to save my life. So you know, it's not like I know anything…" I drift off quietly and pray for the ground to swallow me up or the dead to actually rise. A zombie apocalypse would be better than this embarrassment.
Aiden lets out an amused chuckle, "well, amateur or not, you know what you're talking about. Some people just have a natural eye for these things." His tone is warm and, also, genuine. He's trying to comfort me? Looking up out of the cup, his eyes and smile match his tone. He may be trying to comfort me but my stomach keeps somersaulting, the social anxiety clearly churning away.

"So," he starts, "how come a Drama student has to write essays anyway? Surely you just, act?"
I laugh and feel some of my tension relax as my shoulders lower, "You'd think, wouldn't you? You’d also think it’d be about something interesting like ‘Examine an actor’s use of the Stanislavsky method in a chosen film or play’ but no, I have to discuss the nine stage positions and what staging should be used in a play".
He stands and simply blinks, “I’m not sure if that was English or not. Plus, I thought you performed the art, not staged it?”
“You and me both, pal.”

After that, more customers appeared and with that, my only method of procrastinating disappeared. I finally pressed the submit button as the clock struck 11:45pm. I slapped the lid down and along with it, my head on top of it.
“Celebrating or dying?”
I respond, my head still lying down not needing to look up. “Both.”
Aiden laughs as his knuckles rap on my shoulder, like knocking on a door. I twist my head and see him sliding another cup and a cinnamon roll.
“On me, you deserve a reward and also, a drink that doesn’t taste like tar.”

My muscles scream as I drag myself up the bare minimum to look inside the cup. The drink that swirls around is a caramel brown, instead of midnight black, and a vanilla scent wafts from it. My lips quirk upwards as I try to hide my grin.
“Thank you, though please let me pay.”
“No, not with money. If you want to pay, you can answer me one question though?”
I sit up fully, bones popping and locking as they try to fit back into their rightful place, and blow on the drink. Too tired to try and argue it, I just nod.
“How did you get into art?”

The mug floats in the air from where I’d picked it up to sip it. That was - not what I was expecting. Cover my shift for me? Maybe. What makes you so crabby? Definitely. I wasn’t expecting a genuine question. He’s looking at me, head tilted like an owl, waiting. I place the mug down.
“I wasn’t expecting it to be a loaded question.” He says, gently.
I shake my head, “No, it isn’t. I’m just finding the words I guess.” I sigh and hesitate, “I’ve always appreciated it but I didn’t really get into it until last year, when I came here, and saw a student’s work on display.”

I smile at the memory. It was a month after starting university and Alexa’s symptoms had started to reappear again. I had been exploring town when she called, told me that the test results came back and confirmed she had cancer again and that her parents were going to take her home for a little while. I wanted to go with her, but she told me not to, to wait a little. People walked past laughing and smiling. Ignorantly blissful. It was only when the Heavens opened and rained slatted down in true English fashion that they felt even half of the misery that I did, all woefully unprepared against the random hot September’s day. I ran around a corner and there I saw it.

“It was a mural that the student had painted on the wall down the side of Piccadilly Promenade.” The indie street in town, housing thrift shops and niche shops like board game coffee shops and indie clubs. “It was… stunning. To this day, I don’t know why it spoke to me. Maybe it was the bright colours or the message of weathering the storm. Maybe a combination that I needed right there, in that moment. I don’t know. All I knew was that I visited it almost every day for 2 months and started paying more attention to art everywhere.”
Somewhere in the cafe, a spoon crashes against the floor and my eyes snap back to reality. Aiden stares at me, his mouth half open and his eyebrows crushed together.
“Are you okay?” I ask, gently.
“Er, um. Yeah, I’m fine. I… Thank you for telling me.” He gave a small nervous smile and shifted uncomfortably. He points to the storeroom behind him, “I should probably get back to work but um, I’ll see you round?”
He’s gone and I’m left with a cold drink and a stone, rooted in my stomach.

Chapter Text

Aiden

“I thought you said you would stop making me choose! I hate choosing, especially when I love them both for their own reasons. It’s like asking a parent to choose their favourite child! Good luck at the exhibition, is it a public one? Will I finally get a chance to brag at having advised the great and mysterious artist?
By the way, how’s your job going? You said you’d have less time to do work now but you’re leaving more work than ever now. Don’t overwork yourself.
K.”

The dayglow pink sticky note is crumpled in my hands and across the room, her chosen artwork sits staring at me, ready to be taken to the exhibition centre. No matter how much she hates choosing, she still does. Every time. I glance across the cupboard room that the University lets me call a ‘studio’ and see all of the other sticky notes staring at me.

“It needs more white.”
“I’m just an amateur, don’t listen to me.”
“The mural on Piccadilly Promenade.”

I drop the note on the table next to me, where paints and supplies are strewn about. I’d come to try to work but nothing wants to come out of my head. Isn’t that what art is for? A mental release? Is it time to start worrying when your thoughts can’t fit through the mental plug anymore, when they just jam it and -

“OPEN UP, ASSHOLE.”

I scrub my face with my hands and heave myself up, flipping the door lock before walking away. Spencer crashes in, his breaths coming in heavy from his evening jog.
“Well, good evening to you too.” He says, sarcastically. Looking at the empty canvas and notes strewn about the place, he raises an eyebrow, “I thought you said you were coming to do work?”

I motion for him to shut the door. The last thing I need is K, whoever K is, to see us in here. I lift myself up on the back wall countertop, my head thudding against the wall.
“I was, until I couldn’t.”
“... becaausee?” He emphasises, drawing out the word.
“Because,” I mock, “of the notes.”

Spencer sits in the chair I was occupying before and steals some of my water from my bottle. “Really, dude? Why is that stressing you out so much? It may not even be her and if it is? Bonus.”
“Not bonus. If it is her, she’s going to hate me even more than she already does.”
“Oh fuck off, I’ve never met the girl but from what you’ve told me, that is not a girl who hates you.” He rolls his eyes at me, still heaving his breaths slightly.

I watch him cautiously, “Hey man, you sure you’re supposed to be exercising this much? Didn’t you have basketball just a few hours ago?”
He smiles, “I’m fine. Really. I shouldn’t do anymore than this, but this is okay. I checked, it’s all good.” He glugs the rest of my water and taps his finger on the note I abandoned on the desk.
“Anyway, don’t change the subject. I thought you said worrying about something before it happened was useless? Though again, I don’t see why you’re upset.”

My head rolls to the ceiling. I think back to her face when I asked the question. I’ve never asked K anything like that before, never asked why she started leaving notes on my work. Never even asked, really, if they were a she. Is it an asshole move to have automatically called them a she? Maybe it is.. “I’m not upset, it’s just, a lot.” If K and Katie are one and the same…

Spencer stands up and hoists my bag with him, “Oh yes, whatever will you do when you find out the pretty flirty girl you work with may happen to be the funny flirty crush who loves your art. I can’t imagine the inner turmoil you are feel- OW.” He spins at me, mock anger in his eyes.

“Just shut up, Shakespeare and we’ll go get the fucking pizza.”
“You could’ve just said that rather than throwing a paint bottle at me.”
“It wouldn’t have got the same message across though.”

Chapter Text

Katie

“So, what do you mean he just ran off?” asked Alexa gruffly, as she munched on her pepperoni pizza. I stare at her until she rolls her eyes and swallows the piece.
“I mean, I answered his question which was essentially baring my soul. No idea why but clearly it was a bad one because he just suddenly found a work ethic.” The words rambled from my mouth as I dragged my hand through my hair.
Alexa hums, “Maybe he did have work to do? Maybe he remembered a job Barry asked him to do and he didn’t want to die that day?”
“Never bothers him normally.” I add sulkily as I rip a piece of pizza from the rest and shove it in my mouth.

The pizzeria is quiet, like somebody has decided to set a story in a cosy setting and recently decided to remove all unnecessary chatter from my life (though I’m not complaining if they want to continue to do that). A couple in the corner grin happily in their ignorant bliss and a group of lads are sprawled in another corner, Alexa and I in the middle close to the shop front.

Alexa, this time after swallowing another bite of pizza, opens her mouth to say something but freezes it there as her eyes bug and instead, in a whispered-screech, says, “Oh my God, where have they been hiding HIM?” just as the door opens, dragging in a cold breeze and some new people walk in.
“Katie, Katie, you need to look!”
“Do I, though? Do I really?” I sigh exasperatedly, not in the mood for the ‘look at him, no don’t look too obviously!’ sketch. Alexa babbles quietly but it becomes white noise as I key into the new people and I hear snippets of them talking (I’m nosey, sue me):

“Look, I’m just saying, you always said you don’t wanna start sounding like your dad and as your right-hand man, I’m telling you - you’re sounding like him.”
A sigh much like my own and then a voice I recognise too well, “I do not sound like him, this is actually a justified worry!”

“Alexa!” I squeak and jangle her arm across the table to get her attention. Her eyes refocus and she looks at me, irritated to be distracted. “That’s him!” I mouth.
Her eyes bug and I know she gets it until she mouths back: “Which one?”
“WHAT!” We continue to argue silently, like Charlie Chaplin & Buster Keaton tribute acts.
“Blonde or brunette?”
“Not important!”
“It is to me!”
“Blonde!”

“Oh thank God!” Alexa exclaims loudly, before clamping a hand around her mouth. I slam my head down on the table as the rest of the restaurant is deadly silent (not cosy at all!) for a moment before most return to their own things. Most, being the imperative.
“Katie?”

Chapter Text

Katie

“Aiden!” I sing-song, in an effort to appear to be a functioning human being (yet probably highlighting all the ways that I am, in fact, not), “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Hi there, I’m Alexa - Katie’s best friend.” Alexa sticks her hand out for Aiden to shake and then towards Aiden’s friend, winking at him as she waits for him to make the next move. Poor lad never stood a chance but he’s taking it in his stride, I’ll give him that, as he winks back and clasps her hand.

“Spencer.” He points awkwardly at Aiden, “Aiden’s best friend.” Aiden squeezes his eyes shut and, for the first time, I see the moment his sunshine dims and a small sulky pout washes over him for a second. It’s a lot less satisfying than I thought it’d be. It’s not satisfying at all. I may even hate it, in fact - even if it’s completely adorable, adds my treacherous thoughts.

“Why don’t you guys join us?” Asks Alexa, clearly forgetting my dilemma - or maybe, just forgetting Aiden and I are there at all.

I open my mouth to argue, thinking that’d make Aiden happier before Spencer responds happily sitting next to Alexa and Aiden dips his head to the side, “Are you sure it’s okay?”

I stare for a moment, the first non-one word sentence he’s said to me for the last few days. “Of course, why wouldn’t it be?”

He sits down and tries to shrug nonchalantly, “Well, you know just, I know I’m not your favourite person is all…” He wrings his hands (no paint, also a first) on the table and looks at an area close, but not quite, around my eyes. Before I can respond he sounds a small grunt and glares across at Spencer, who’s glaring back. Aiden finishes the argument by sticking his tongue out at him and then looks at me from the corner of his eye, a soft (almost shy, even?) smile tugging at his lips. “How’ve you been? We’ve not really spoken lately.”

I raise an eyebrow at him rather sardonically, “We?”

He huffs a laugh and a glimpse of the Aiden I recognise shows. The one that has never had a worry in his life. “Alright, alright, I-” he puts an emphasis on the vowel, “haven’t particularly spoken much, which then results in us not really speaking as you seem reluctant to do any of the heavy lifting.”

A sudden laughter bursts from Alexa as I realise she hasn’t been as absent as I thought. “Katie? Not really speakin-OW!” Alexa glares at me as I remove my shoe from her foot and smile saccharine in the universally accepted polite language of “fuck you”.

“Wow, I guess I’m even less than your favourite person or even well-liked person.” drawls Aiden in an attempt to tease that I can’t believe is completely fake despite appearances.

“I mean you’d never be her favourite because that role is mine. Not even art boy can take that role away.” preens Alexa before her eyes go wide, silently screaming you didn’t tell him exactly, did you? as I shake my head stiffly. I watch as her body twitches towards Spencer before she jumps up, grabbing bags and rambling, “whoops, look at the time! Katie and I have to go to do the thing that - with the thing? That thing we were going to do, right, Katie?”

“Right, yes, the thing. That thing.” I play along, dying inside, as I grab the final bags.

“Art boy, huh?” Spencer echoes in an amused manner but not towards me - to Aiden.

Alexa pulls my arm as I debate whether to ask what’s going on or drown myself and motions to Spencer, “Call me!” as we stumble through the door. Outside, the air is brisk and our coats are only half on, stopping to put them on properly when we’re sufficiently away from the pizza place. Our breath comes out heavy as we gasp for air, when I pause -

“When the hell did you give him your number? They were there for 5 minutes!”

Alexa smirks haughtily as she finishes wrapping her scarf around her neck, “Oh Katie, you should know me better by now - I don’t wait for love notes.” She stalks off dramatically, sure to have the idea in her head that she looks like Miranda from The Devil Wears Prada (rather than the Michelin Man’s stylish daughter).

“No, you just shake them out like a pinata.” I mumble as I trail behind her.

“I heard that!”