Chapter Text
“Hey Theo, your girlfriend’s here.”
Just as she always is: 2:00pm every Wednesday and Sunday, carrying a maroon Kånken bag slung over one shoulder, dark brown hair up in an (adorably) messy half-bun. Today, she’s wearing a black turtleneck under a plaid coat, because it’s early fall now, and every day is a little colder than the last. Mustard-colored shorts over leggings, high-cut Doc Martens. She’s looking at the books on display through the window, hand pressed lightly on the glass.
Theo looks up just long enough to confirm that it is her, their favorite customer, before he disinterestedly returns his gaze to his book. “She isn’t my girlfriend.”
Working in the most reliable, well-known bookstore in a university town means a lot of university students come and go regularly, whether it’s for books needed for class or idle reading. There are a lot of familiar faces. But hers is arguably the most recognizable, considering she’s there twice every week.
Like on clockwork.
Arthur, Theo’s only other co-worker, has just finished shelving the new stock of books by the register when she finally decides to enter. The little bell hanging by the door rings as she does.
Theo doesn’t even bother. Arthur makes up for it with his enthusiasm. “Welcome to Dragon’s Hoard Bookstore—oh, it’s you, little bird!” He walks up to her and they do a little high five.
She smiles; it crinkles the corner of her eyes ever so gently. “Hey, Arthur! Nice to see you.”
“How’s your class with The Professor Everyone Hates?”
“Oh, please, don’t get me started,” she sighs. “Considered shifting to lit yet? I could use the company.”
Arthur smiles conspiratorially. “Only for you, luv.”
Theo flips a page on his book. Ah, of course Arthur’s become friends with her. Arthur hits up anything that vaguely resembles the shape of a woman—a couch, a shelf, name it. He’s not really interested in his co-worker’s woman-hunting pursuits.
Arthur, however, seems to be a little more up to it. Theo doesn’t quite know if it’s because he’s interested in the girl he keeps insisting is Theo’s girlfriend, or just because both of them are friends. That makes her a bigger weirdo. Who wants to be friends with Arthur?
“So, how can we help you today?”
“I actually came in to pick up my book! I got the message that it’s in—and I need it for class. I ordered it last week.”
Theo feels the stare directed at him all the way across the store—not that it’s that large to begin with. He doesn’t need to look up to know that Arthur is throwing him that glance he has become so familiar with—but he raises his head anyway just to glare back at him, a silent Please don’t.
But when did Arthur ever listen to him anyway?
“If it’s a special order then it should be at the register,” the playboy sing-songs, ignoring the death glare he’d received. “How about go over and ask Theo, hmm?”
A tick of a vein on his forehead. Don’t get him wrong—working retail in a small quiet town isn’t anywhere as bad as, say, being employed in a big fancy spot downtown, but when Arthur is regularly like this to him… it’s rather easy to work up a temper. Calm down, Theo says to himself, as he puts his feet down from the chair to sit a little more appropriately for work. The girl takes a pause—gauging, measuring, making sure?—before answering with a half-hesitant, but still lively “Thanks Arthur!”.
The store is just small enough that in five steps, she is in front of him.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” He steels his face to a practiced, charming customer-service smile that makes Arthur snicker from across the store. One day Theo’s definitely going to get that idiot fired, or mangled, and no one will know it was him. “A special order? I need an ID for that.”
“Yeah, sure!” she pulls out a student ID from her pocket, places it on the counter, and wrings her hands like she’s nervous. Why, though. It’s just a book. Theo takes the ID, looks at her name, gives it back to her, and coolly looks through the stacks of books underneath the desk.
Theo doesn’t know where she gets this curiosity and her fidgety hands, but by the time he’s pulled out her book—a book of literary criticism on 20 century poets (that just makes sense, doesn’t it. A literature major in the bookstore, he thinks to himself)—she’s already flipping through the book he was just reading, chewing on her lower lip. She near-jolts when she realizes her book is already on the counter, lost in between the pages of his book.
Ah, the thought pings in Theo’s mind. Arthur’s a trying-hard literature major. That’s probably where they’ve met.
“Any particular poet you’re interested in?” he asks once he’s gone up, dusting the book off gently with his hands. He doesn’t really like small talk, but it’s bookshop etiquette at this point.
“Cummings, maybe?” she answers, and it makes Arthur stifle a laugh from the other end of the store; it’s audible to everyone no matter how hard he tries.
“A world of made is not a world of born,” Theo recites, to which she beams.
“Yes, pity poor flesh and trees, poor stars and stones,” she finishes. She looks entirely too visibly pleased by their exchange: Theo isn’t too thrilled about it. “I suppose you’ll find it cheesy that I like his love poems.”
“They’re great, hard to not like,” he says, following up with another poem: “kisses are a better fate than wisdom, lady i swear by all flowers.”
“You are whatever a moon has always meant, and whatever a sun will always sing is you,” she offers, as well. Grinning awkwardly as she puts Theo’s book back on the counter—a Camus, not really her jam—she says, “I really didn’t take you to be a poetry kind of guy.”
“Not only literature majors read poetry,” Theo answers.
She flushes and pouts a little, making Theo chuckle under his breath. “Well, I don’t really know what major you’re taking,” she says, recomposing herself. Theo has an inkling why she’s so nervous now, but he’s not really interested in it. “No way to find out.”
Theo shakes his head and pushes the order-claims log and a pen in her direction. “How about give it a guess.”
She presses the cap of the pen to just below her pink lip and thinks. “Hmm… political science?”
“Wrong.” Theo slips her book into a paper bag with the bookstore’s logo stamped on it.
She pouts, but a little less seriously than earlier. She signs the log and pushes it back to him.
“Aww, dammit. You looked like a crook, too.”
It takes a few seconds for it to sink in, Theo busy sorting the files into their proper boxes. “What?”
“I’m kidding!” she says with a grin. She doesn’t move to take her book, just rests her elbows on the counter and her chin on her palms. She’s here every week at this hour, she knows when business is slow; she can go and pester the employees, sure. And with Arthur enabling her, there is no escape for Theo. He’s really going to strangle Four-Eyes soon. “History?”
Theo doesn’t want to indulge her, but he’s a good employee. “What stereotypes are you going on, here?”
“Well, literature isn’t really a favored field as it is, and you’re reading Camus, so…” she trails off. “Figured poetry was just your little nerd thing, and you’re some serious dude elsewhere.”
He’s not usually the confrontational type, in fact, he’d rather get this conversation over with, but somehow he can’t stop. He’ll never hear the end of this from Arthur later. “A nerd, says the one who is always at the bookstore, peering over the window looking at books. Can almost see your tail wagging excitedly like a little hondje.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “I don’t know what that last word means but it sounds like an insult.”
Theo shrugs, trying to freeze the smirk out of his face. “Guess you’ll never know.”
At that exact moment, a trio of what looked like exhausted seniors enters the store, the bell at the doorway announcing their entrance. Theo half-heartedly calls out a Welcome to Dragon’s Hoard! because Arthur is in the back room.
“Times up for me,” their—no, Arthur’s—favorite customer finally says in defeat, after what seems like ten years. She picks up her book from the counter. “One day I’ll figure out your major and find an even worse insult to tell you, Theo,” she teases, grinning as she turns away.
“Try,” Theo only drily answers, to which she puts out her tongue, and finally leaves the bookshop with a spring in her step.
Like any regular devil, Arthur’s timing is impeccable, as right at this moment he emerges from where he’s sorting books some shelves away, swinging by the register with a grin. He turns to check that their other customers are far from earshot, but then it’s his turn to torment Theo. Of course. Theo doesn’t get paid enough for this.
“Aww, didn’t want to get caught flirting with an employee. What a sweetheart.”
“What the hell are you talking about,” Theo asks. “If that was flirting then she wasn’t trying at all. Had no effect on me whatsoever.”
Arthur pulls a face of mock disbelief. “Sure, sure. She was making such a cute face, too. But if ever you change your mind, she left her number in the order log, so you might want to—”
“Leave me alone, Arthur,” Theo sighs, and Arthur laughs like he’s won.
Was that worth it? Was that actually worth it? Holy shit.
She walks two blocks away from the bookshop before turning into a random street corner to breathe. She presses the paper bag against her chest, feeling her heart trying to keep up with the demand for blood, mostly to her face. No, it wasn’t, her brain almost answers for her, but did she actually expect anything else? He’s mighty fine—easily one of the more tolerable face in this drab university town, and with a stare like that that could easily throw people off, push admirers away… he couldn’t, in this lifetime, have been someone who would go down without a fight.
And what a fight it was, if she could call that one! She didn’t expect him to answer back, much less tolerate that much conversation from her, and yet! Her head was spinning so fast, trying to process the information.
“What the hell man, relax,” she says to herself, leaning against the brick wall behind her with a thump. Why the hell did you do that? What the hell is wrong with you? Oh my god.
Even with her heart pounding angrily inside her chest, so loudly she can barely hear anything, she doesn’t find the strength, the will, or the desire to get the grin out of her face. Oh, boy, was that worth it. Kind of fun, really.
She wouldn’t call herself a heartbreaker in any way—she’s close to Arthur, being in the same club and such, but she is no way near his level. All she really wants is to be done with this and get out of this goddamn town that’s been keeping her hostage for years. But god, why did she had to have slipped and told Arthur she thinks his co-worker is kind of hot?
Arthur knowing about her crush and Arthur knowing about her little penchant for doing things she’s either been told not to do or told she would not be able to do—really was her undoing. One little you know, Theo’s the last person you want to befriend if you want a hint of romance; he probably won’t even spare you five seconds, and they both know from that very moment that she would go for the kill.
She does.
She does and it is glorious.
She could feel Arthur grinning at her from across the bookstore the entire time.
It’s taken her weeks to gather the courage, but—who knew it would be this thrilling? It wasn’t like she was looking for a relationship, she just “wants to join in on the fun,” as Arthur likes to say. Oh, is this why the man’s so addicted to doing this? It sure is adrenalizing. Kind of fun.
When her breathing is a little more stable and her legs a little steadier, she resumes her walk to her favorite café with a little spring on her step. She hasn’t felt this determined to get on with reading in a long time.
“Welcome!” the familiar baristas call out when she arrives, and she waves at them as she piles her stuff on her typical spot. When she approaches the counter, the barista with sunflower-yellow hair and a smile like summer recognizes her, beaming. “Hey! The usual?”
She smiles back. “Yep, thank you!”
Ah, why does this feel so good?
“Are you opening shop tomorrow, or am I?”
Arthur is sweeping off the dust by the register and Theo is closing down the windows—it’s 5:00 in the afternoon and the shop closes early on weekends. It’s phrased as a question, but Theo’s voice is resolute: Arthur is opening the shop tomorrow.
It’s the least he can do for all the chaos with bringing that girl from the literary club.
Arthur isn’t even a literature major. Yet. This is ridiculous.
“I will, I will,” Arthur pledges, shaking off the dust into the bin. “I really don’t understand though, when you’ll still be here 10 minutes earlier than I will be,”
Theo doesn’t even blink. “It’s called being on time, Arthur.”
“No timecards in this bookstore, are there?” Arthur answers, but he’ll still be here right on time tomorrow anyway. Not early, just on time. Just like most of him, Theo supposes—isn’t that why he’s on a gap year in the middle of his medical degree? Dabbling in electives in the literature department of all things. Arthur seems to catch onto this train of thought and adds—“Pardon good sir, but you, too are only taking one class this semester.”
And that’s true—Theo only has one class, on Saturday mornings, when his day off is scheduled. He could have taken his thesis course already this semester, but… “I have other priorities right now,” he says, just as he always does, and then quips, for good measure, “but you are just loitering. Don’t make comparisons.”
Arthur laughs at that only because he’s so used to Theo already, saying, “Oh, you wound me.” He puts away the broom to its compartment at the back and goes to the door to leave. Not before he looks back at the register where Theo has just finished packing his bag. “If you need the miss’ number—”
“Go home, Arthur.”
—which is answered by boisterous laughter, the chimes at the doorway ringing.
Late that night, hair still damp from the shower, she suddenly remembers to look up the word that’s been stuck in the inside of her head all afternoon, disrupting her thought processes, letting her lose her train of thought. Hell, she doesn’t even know how to spell it—she has to wrangle with letters being added and removed to get the translator to recognize the language.
Hawje.
Hanje.
Howche.
Honje.
Hondje, the app finally offers, pinging with recognition as it shows her the translation.
She takes a moment to stare at the screen, taking it in.
“What?”
She presses the flip button. English turning to Dutch. Same results. Presses it again, Dutch to English. Same results. She looks up, stares at the blank wall, remembers what he told her.
“…Can almost see your tail wagging excitedly like a little hondje.” Her mouth falls open in offense, eyes darting back to her phone.
“DID HE CALL ME A DOG?”
Ah, the beginnings of a twisted, cruel love.