Chapter Text
The representative from the Student Union explains that he really is very, very, exceptionally, inordinately, embarrassingly sorry, as well as a range of other adverbs you don't catch, but there's been a problem with housing. What the problem is, exactly, still remains unclear. He's rambled about the situation in the vaguest of terms upwards of four times now, becoming sorrier with every explanation he gives, though the stack of paperwork he's shuffling through must be for show. You've caught a few words here and there as he flicks through the wad in his hand, and you highly doubt it actually has anything to do with accommodation at all.
The girl next to you huffs loudly, then leans towards you, saying that she'd wish this chump would hurry it up and sort out whatever the hell actually is the issue. She might be speaking in your direction, but there's no way she's trying to do anything other than rile up the representative. You see him frown, and fight with the urge to look up from the text message he's just got, the one he assures you strictly pertains to business. Half an hour ago, you might've felt sorry for him, but now you're sorely tempted to leave him alone to face off against the girl who complains every eight minutes, like clockwork, that she wants to go outside and smooooooooke. Still, her constant complaining can't be held against her, because you yourself are so irritated that you're actually considering thinking about entertaining the idea of possibly smoking, maybe. Not that you ever would, but the thought of actually going ahead and allowing yourself to imagine the scenario does something to distract you from the muddled situation for a few blissful seconds.
It's four-thirty in the afternoon, and you're absolutely starving. It took you three hours to drive here, and you've been stood in the reception of the student village ever since eleven-fifteen, the exact time you were asked to arrive. You filled out all of the forms correctly, checked them over a handful of times, and yet all the other new students who wandered in after you, taking their time, were shown to their flats while you waited and waited. All to no avail, despite the way that multiple people reassured you multiple times that things were being processed, though what things they were, no one ever said.
A fantastic start to your stay at university, no doubt. You're glad that your mother didn't come down with you, because she'd be fretting and fussing like nobody's business right now, whereas you're sure this is all going to be sorted out in due course.
“This is never going to be sorted out,” the girl grumbles with a groan, throws her hands in the air, and then walks in a circle before eventually deciding to drop herself down into one of the armchairs. The representative's text messaging has evolved into a phone call, and he stands some distance from the both of you, one finger in the ear that his mobile doesn't cover to demonstrate just how important the conversation is. With a quick glance across the room, you decide to sit down in the vacant armchair, and then take a good thirty seconds to bring yourself to go through with your plan.
Your companion slouches in her seat, sighing loudly to herself, mumbling under her breath about how stupid this is, how she knew that this whole thing was a bad idea from the start. You concur, but say nothing, head full of half-sentences that don't link up as you try to parse the words together. There's plenty you could say to her. The two of you are stuck in the same situation, and you could make your annoyance known. You could even point out how hungry you are, or say that you hope your belongings are still safely locked away in your car. She's wearing a pair of loosely tied Doc Martens. You could tell her you like that particular shade of red, because like that, you don't have to comment negatively on her wardrobe decisions. Baggy jeans, baggy shirt, neither of which were probably intended to look so oversized; they just hang off her frame that way. Messy black hair, glasses clumsily resting on the bridge of her nose, covering an eye patch. No, no, don't comment on the eye patch.
You could just ask what her name is, because university is supposed to be as much about being social as it is about being educated, but she's biting at her nails, and you feel like you'd be bothering her.
The Student Union representative rushes back over to you, as if you haven't been there for hours already and saving a second or two will make a difference, hand covering the mouthpiece of his phone. He says, Look, guys, here's the deal, and goes on to explain that there was an administrative error with the accommodation allocation. Both of your rooms, two that happened to be in the same flat, were accidentally double-booked, and he's so sorry, but they've made alternate arrangements for you. There's a block of flats down the road, and the university owns a floor of it; it's actually closer to the university than the student village, and aren't you lucky, not having to worry about sharing a kitchen with six other strangers?
You don't feel particularly lucky. You were looking forward to living with so many new people, and you chose these halls of residence for a reason. He can't miss the frown etched into your face, and reassures you that you really will be in the heart of things, and that there will be plenty of other students on your floor. Nothing's set in stone, and so if you really, really can't stand it, then there's probably something the university can do to remedy the problem. The girl next to you is of absolutely no help, as she's now sitting with the soles of her boots against the seat of the armchair, knees pulled up to her chest, staring out of the window. After a moment, you nod, suppose that you'll try it out, and take the keys being offered out to you.
“We're so fucked,” the girl says once you've jotted down the address. “I have the shittiest luck in the world. God.”
She gets to her feet, slings the sort of rucksack that hikers use over her shoulders, nearly tipping over backwards from the weight of it. The suitcase by the door is hers too, and you wait until she's managed to hoist it up off the floor, at which point she realises you're lingering and snaps What? at you.
You fold your arms across your chest, eyebrows raised. You realise that it's been a very, very long day for the both of you, but there's no need for her to take it out on you. Especially not as this girl is to be your new flatmate. While first impressions don't necessary have to be perfect, and are allowed to consist mostly of awkwardness, there's no need for hostility to come into the equation.
“I was wondering what method of transportation you employed to arrive here,” you say, and she shakes her head, knocking misplaced strands of hair back into place. “And whether or not you would appreciate a lift, considering that we are both heading to the same destination, and the fact that your luggage appears to be nothing if not extensively heavy.”
“A lift? You've got your own car? Great!” She cheers up at that, and then barely manages to get out through the reception doors. “Ugh, I had to lug everything here on the train. What a total pain!”
Happily, your car is in one piece when you reach it, no smashed windows to be seen anywhere. Your own luggage takes up much of the space in there, and you're impressed that you managed to be selective enough in removing garments from your wardrobe in order to ensure that there was actually room for you to get into the driver's seat. You move a few things around, supposing that it doesn't matter too much if you block the rear-view mirror, because you're only going to be driving for a matter of minutes. The girl, who introduces herself as Vriska Serket when it occurs to her to be curious about who the hell you are, anyway, manages to get her suitcase in the back, and sits in the passenger seat with her rucksack and two of your saucepans on her lap, a pack of toilet rolls at her feet.
You start up the car, and she drums her fingers against her knees. You get the impression that she'd be smoking right now, if she could actually manage to light a cigarette and get it to her lips without setting her bag on fire in the process. She does reach out for the radio, though, fiddling with the dials, despite not having asked if she can turn it on. When she settles on a station, it's clear enough that she's entirely disinterested in it, not caring even a little about what you're listening to.
For the first time in hours, you're not worried about trying to hold up a conversation, or trying to seem socially competent. This area is entirely new to you, and all of your attention is poured into making sure you're going the right way. When the representative told you that your new flat was only down the road, he may not have been lying, in terms of distance, but there are a dozen turns, roundabouts and one-way systems between you and it. You take in the city as you drive, certain that in a few weeks, you'll be so familiar with all the roads and short cuts that you could get to what, by then, will feel like home, in your sleep.
You pull into your new road, and realise that apprehension and nerves have taken over from the hunger you were previously battling with. At least the uneasiness you feel won't lead to any embarrassing rumbling noises. You want all of this, your time at university, to go well so very much that you're afraid it's unobtainable because of it. There are so many things that could go wrong, so much that could spiral out beyond your control, but then you pull up in front of the block of flats you've been directed to and have to double-check you're at the right address. It looks— well, it looks nice. You've never been an expert in the realms of architecture but you've always had an eye for good design, and from the outside, this already seems a lot more modern and spacious than what you were originally going for. Vriska jabs her finger against the closed window and says that hey, there's one of the campuses, but you can't see it for her rucksack.
Not wanting to get your hopes up too soon, you lock up your car and head up with nothing in your hands but the keys. Vriska trails behind you, hands in her pockets, and then immediately brightens up when she sees you hit the key for the eighth floor in the lift. Grinning, she says she thinks it's great that you're not going to have to deal with any suckers, because you seem okay, Maryam. You decide to file that remark under the category of compliment, having enough to worry about as it is. You unlock the flat when you reach it, after making sure that the number on the door matches the one on the key, step in, and find that, dramatic pause—
There was absolutely nothing to be worried about in the first place. For a moment, you just stare into your new flat, not quite able to believe it. Vriska slaps a hand against your back, between your shoulder blades, and it forces a smile out of you. There are two bedrooms, opposite one another, and Vriska calls dibs on the one she wants first, despite them both being identical, size and contents-wise. The living room and kitchen aren't distinct from one another by means of walls, but they're both decently sized, a sofa in the living area, and enough room in the kitchen to throw a meal together. The bathroom, too, is as big as it needs to be, and the whole set up is wonderfully compact and, dare you say it, cute.
Now all that remains is to make the flat your own. You and Vriska head back downstairs, and she finally gets that cigarette you were sure she'd forgotten about. While she smokes, shuffling on the soles of her feet on one spot of the pavement, you begin taking your belongings upstairs, because you have much more than her to carry, anyway. By the time Vriska's done, you can see in one window of your car and out another again, and she opts to carry as much as she can in one trip. She takes her suitcase and her rucksack, and then hoists up what's left over of yours in her free arm. Probably only because it doesn't occur to her that it isn't hers. She gets back to the flat, walks into her room with it, and then deposits it outside of her door when she realises that belongs to you.
*
The start of the semester is still a week away, and you spend your time settling into your new home. Your fears of being isolated from the rest of the student body were unfounded, because during your very first night there, one of the boys two flats down from you hosted a little get together for the floor, at which there was much takeaway pizza and nervous, excited conversation. It went fairly smoothly, because there were always the topics of So, what are you studying? and Where are you from? to fall back on. You ask these same questions to Vriska, who informs you that she's doing drama, and she's come from, pause, shrug, London. Two hours later, she decides to grace you with the same questions, and then decides that, yeah, you look like you'd be good at fashion “and stuff.” Again, you decide that's a good thing.
You unpack your belongings as quickly as you can, eager to get everything in place. You fill the kitchen cupboards and the fridge with what you brought along with you, but Vriska doesn't seem to have much to contribute, other than a box of chocolatey cereal and some instant noodles. Later, she heads down to the corner shop, buys a six pack of cheap beer, and tells you can you can share them with her, if you want.
You like her. It's strange, but you do. You've been living together for three days, and she makes no effort to get to know you. In any other instance, doing as much would come off as rude, but with Vriska, it makes things seem oddly naturally. Like you've known her for longer than you actually have. There are no tedious questions, like those that everyone you meet asks, and she doesn't hold back from being herself. Even if she does perpetually smell of cigarette smoke and has yet to stumble across the interesting hand-held device known as a hairbrush. She speaks bluntly to you, and after a few of those cheap beers of hers, you find yourself fussing away, as is your wont.
Vriska takes up as much of the sofa as is humanly possible for such a scrawny girl, and you sit comfortably perched on the edge, no longer concerned at being able to taste the aluminium of the beer can. You don't mean to stare, but it's difficult to feel as inhibited as you usually would after a good meal (you made her falafel wraps for dinner, because the most you've ever seen her eat in one sitting is a slice and a half of greasy pizza) and a few drinks. You can't help it. She's an interesting girl, abrasive and thoughtless and actually sort of funny, when you really get down to it. Unfortunately, you may have glanced her way for a moment too long, because she catches you looking, and then props herself up against the arm of the sofa.
Suddenly very interested in your beer, you begin chugging down great mouthfuls as she does the same. And although you're no longer looking her way, you can feel her gaze boring into the side of your face, as she stares at you over the brim of her drink.
“It's not just for show,” she says, and you immediately look around, though you know what it refers to. She taps at the useless lens that covers the patched eye, and honestly, that's not what you were staring at. After a few days, you stopped noticing it quite as much.
“Oh,” you say, and then say no more. Uncharacteristically so of you, apparently, because Vriska gives you a look that says she expects you to ramble on about more. “... thank you for the beer. It really has a unique flavour.”
“You mean it tastes like barf?” Vriska says with a grin, finishing off the last of her can as you press the pad of your tongue to the roof of your mouth, trying to discern whether or not the after taste will ever fade.
*
It's hard to believe that you're already a week into the semester, and harder still to believe that seven days can simultaneously feel both so long and so short. Your mother calls you, and though you have so much to say, when you finally get a chance to discuss things with her, all you can tell her is that yes, the university is lovely and all of the teachers are wonderful, and that you get on well with everyone you've met so far, flatmate included. You're fully enrolled, have had a taste of all your lectures and seminars, and have even been dragged into joining a few societies at the freshers' fair. You suppose you might end up attending several sessions at the cake baking society, but mostly, you're certain you're going to have an inbox full of unwanted emails within a few days.
You make sure to talk to as many people as you can, and don't drink any more of Vriska's beer. You've heard rumours that it doubles as a rat poison. On Wednesday, you have lunch with Aradia and Nepeta, two of the girls from one of your elective modules, and on Friday night, you go to a local bar with a group of people from your course, and a bunch of others they've managed to convince to tag along. Vriska doesn't want to come, though you ask her twice. She seems to make absolutely no effort to talk to anyone, always says that her day was just okay, and grunts when you ask her what the people on her course are like. By the time that Saturday night rolls around, you've exhausted your social reserves, and you're glad of the chance to have an evening to yourself.
Glad of it until it's eight PM, and you've already run out of things to do. Karkat, your best friend from back home, isn't online, and nothing seems to be happening on any of the websites you usually flock to. You study the course material you've already been given two, three times, but each time you only find that you've already gone over and completed absolutely everything you've been assigned thus far. Vriska's not in, and she didn't tell you where she was going, so you have no idea when to expect her back. In the end, you opt to email Karkat, saying that you hope his course is going as well as yours is, and that perhaps he'd like to visit some time soon. The sofa in your living room may as well be put to good use. After a few hundred pages of the book you're in the middle of and some aimless web surfing, it's eleven o'clock, and you suppose that's not too early to go to bed.
You must have been more tired than you first thought, because your body and mind alike give themselves over to sleep without any resistance. You've been exerting a lot of energy this week, both physically and mentally, and worrying certainly does a lot to drain a person. But all the problems you were faced with have resolved themselves, and you don't think it's preemptive to begin believing that things really are going to go well. All of that added up leads to a night of wonderful, uninterrupted sleep; or it would, if Vriska didn't get home at half-two in the morning, making a racket as she stumbles through the flat. It's not the first time she's come home late, and you can't really get angry at her for being frivolous over the weekend. You're not a hundred percent awake, anyway, and by the time she makes it back to her own room, you've accustomed yourself to any disruptive noises.
For some reason, she decides to put music on, kicking off with something you suspect to be Black Sabbath's work, but by then, you're too close to dreaming to care.
Sunday morning naturally follows a Saturday night, but you're disappointed nonetheless when you wake up and it's not a school day. You've little doubt that by the time you're midway into the semester, you'll be relishing every break bestowed upon you, but right now, everything is glimmering in various shades of new and exciting. You decide to stay in your pyjamas for a little longer, because they are, after all, a particularly nice pair, especially after you did a little embroidering around the wrists and collar. It didn't take you long to become familiar with Vriska's habit of spending her days wearing a pair of men's boxers and a vest top, if she can get away with it, and so you decide there's absolutely nothing immodest about roaming around in your nightwear.
After a few moments spent in front of the mirror, combing your short hair back into place with your fingertips, you head out into the living area, greeted by the sight of the lamp having been knocked from the coffee table. Knocked over, but not broken, thankfully. With a sigh, you pick it up, put it back into place, and consider rearranging the furniture so that a drunken Vriska doesn't try to tear a path straight through it in an effort to get to her room. Stepping into the kitchen, you begin taking this-and-that out of the cupboards, and register pleasant surprise when you realise that you can hear the shower running. It's barely nine o'clock, and you hadn't expected to see a no-doubt hungover Vriska for the better part of the day.
Chopping up a handful of mushrooms, you call out, “Vriska, I am making omelettes, which I am told are an excellent dish for battling with whatever internal conflict is currently occurring inside the confines of your skull, sparked off by the last remaining dregs of alcohol. Would you like one?” You may be making the effort to ask, but Vriska Serket is getting breakfast whether she likes it or not.
There's a brief silence, and then a rattling from inside of Vriska room. The door swings open, and Vriska sticks her head out, eye patch on upside down, glasses missing, hair somehow bigger than you've ever seen it before. She looks awful, and the only reason you don't point out that her shirt's on backwards is because there's Vriska, hanging out of her door, squinting as if the light burns her eyes, while someone is currently occupying your bathroom.
“What?” Vriska huffs, as if you've just asked her the singularly most stupid question of all time. You glance at the bathroom door, cringe, but nothing comes of it; she can't make out that much without her glasses, it seems. “Do whatever you waaaaaaaant, Fussyface!”
Vriska slams the door behind her, and you stare blankly at it, like she's still stood there. Apparently, Vriska alone wasn't to blame for all of that noise last night, and in spite of the way that you slowly feel yourself turn red, you can't help but note how considerate it was of Vriska to put some music on. You're hardly naïve to the ways of the world, but knowing that something happens is quite different to being caught in the middle of it. The water's not running in the bathroom anymore, and shake your head to yourself, hurrying to focus entirely on your latest culinary conquest in progress.
You try to think it through rationally. Vriska's in her room, and from the looks of things, is going to spend the rest of the day curled up in a miserable pile with her duvet. The stranger in the bathroom is possibly in a similar condition, and won't want to hang around for long. It doesn't have to be awkward. Well, it does, but it doesn't have to be awkward for you. If anything, it should be awkward for the stranger who's probably dressed already, oh god, and Vriska, because they're the ones getting up to all sorts of painfully stereotypical student activities.
The bathroom door opens. You almost drop your spatula. Despite trying to remain perfectly composed, you can't help but glance over your shoulder and—
And, oh, you weren't expecting that.
Already wrapped in a jacket, preparing to make a quick exit, is a very blonde girl with very, very black lips. Your first thought is that it's strange she's taken the effort to put lipstick on when that's clearly last night's mascara smudged lightly around her eyes, where the warm water hasn't managed to wash away the whole of it. She catches your gaze for half a second, and although she doesn't look anywhere as badly off as Vriska does, her eyes are red, bloodshot. Any claims to any awkwardness not being experienced on your part were utter nonsense, and you squeak out a good morning, to which she nods curtly, one hand wrapped around the strap of her bag, before heading straight to the front door. She's gone without another word.
The pan sizzles as you pour the breakfast concoction in, and as the mixture settles and the noise dies down, you realise that you can hear the blood pounding in your ears. Your face is burning for absolutely no good reason, and it's only surprise that's doing it; you weren't expecting a girl to step out of the bathroom, that's all. Not that you have a problem with that, far from it in fact, but some part of you wishes that Vriska had actually told you.
Now you're being stupid. You've not known Vriska for that long, you've said nothing of the sort to her, so why does she owe you anything in return? You flip the omelette over, biting on your lower lip. Vriska isn't the sort of person who talks about herself, unless it's to brag by way of bringing up the misfortune of others, and you're hardly entitled to know every little thing about her. If Vriska wants to drink and bring girls back to the flat, then that's every bit her business.
You don't knock before taking the omelette into Vriska, and step on what feels like three loose dice on your way over to her bed. You put the plate on her bedside table, along with a glass of water, and she grumbles out her thanks. Vriska doesn't say anything about the blonde girl then, not even dismissively, and she doesn't bring it up when she finally crawls out of bed, the next morning. When three days pass and she hasn't so much as alluded to her, you decide it really isn't something that weighs on her mind.
It's all sorted, then. There's nothing to worry about, because it didn't mean anything.
*
The very blonde girl with very, very black lips works at your campus's coffee shop. She also wears the same make-up to work, sans the mascara smudges.
You're taking the possibility of turning and bolting very, very seriously, but you've been in the queue for upwards of four minutes, and you know she's already spotted you. Fleeing would be all too obvious, and so standing your ground it is. As you wait to be served, you take your purse out of your bag, and poke around at the coins inside, as if you don't already know exactly how much you have, and how much your coffee is going to come to. It serves as decent enough a distraction and helps you avoid making any preemptive eye contact, and the rational part of your brain reassures you that nobody knows you're recounting your money purely to have something to stare at.
When you get closer, you see that the badge pinned to her apron reads Rose, and then feel as if you know far more about her than you ought to. The apron itself is green, standard issue for all those who work in this particular chain, and it goes horribly with the plaid blue shirt she's got on underneath, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. You've absolutely no recollection of what she was wearing when she hurried out of your apartment, but focusing on the painfully obvious fashion flaws this girl puts forwards helps you regain some of your floundering confidence. Realistically, you're aware she doesn't care that you know all about her spate of very casual sex with your very female flatmate, and so you shouldn't either.
But easier said than done.
She smiles at you when you reach the counter, and though she's plastered the same practised, profession expression across her face for the previous handful of customers, you can't help but see something smug about it. Rose recognises you well enough, and it's not until then that it occurs to you there was every chance she didn't even get a good look at you on Sunday morning. She gives you a slight nod, the sort reserved for people you barely know but pass too often in the corridors to ignore them entirely, but after that, it's business as usual. She gives you your drink, you hand over your money, and then you've got a hot coffee and an hour before your next lecture starts.
It's only around the corridor, and by the time you get to the library and back, it will barely be worth the trip. And so you scope out a free table in the corner, and sit yourself down with your laptop. You start it up, take small sips of your coffee, and maybe allow your gaze to wander over to the counter once or twice. No sooner are you online than is someone pestering you.
adventurersGambit [AG] began pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]AG: Kanaya.
AG: Kaaaaaaaanaya.
GA: You Have Reached Kanaya
GA: There Is No Need To Stretch Your Vowels To Their Very Limits
AG: A8out time too!!!!!!!!
AG: I've 8een knocking on your door for minutes.
AG: Literal minutes, Fussyface.
GA: Oh Goodness How Will You Ever Regain Those Precious Clusters Of Seconds
AG: I don't know! You'd 8etter get thinking.
AG: So I guess you're not in, huh.
GA: Your Guess Is An Accurate One
GA: I Am Currently Sitting In The Coffee Shop Of Our Campus Considering That I Have The Better Part Of An Hour Before My Next Lecture But Do Not Wish To Return To Our Joint Dwelling For Such An Insignificant Period Of Time
GA: Wait
GA: Why Were You Knocking On My Door
GA: Is Something Wrong
AG: Uhhhhhhhh, I sure as hell hope not! 8ecause if I was in any REAL danger, like a f8re or something, I think I would've 8urnt to death in the time it takes you to clue in!
AG: Jesus, you are useless sometimes.
GA: Are You Burning To Death Vriska
GA: Are You Currently Engulfed In Flames
GA: Is That Something Thats Happening At This Very Moment In Time
GA: Is The Fire Lapping At Your Skin Is It
AG: Quite o8viously not!
GA: Then Vriska Please
GA: Kindly Shut Up
AG: Ouch! What's got into you?
GA: Nothing Has Got Into Me Why Would You Assume That There Is Something Bothering Me
GA: Would You Just Tell Me What The Problem Is
AG: Fiiiiiiiine.
AG: We're out of milk.
GA: Were Out Of Milk
GA: Thats The Big Problem You Are Currently Faced With
GA: Vriska You Are Well Aware Of Where The Corner Shop Is Arent You
AG: Hey! Don't make light of my pro8blems. How am I supposed to make cereal like this? ::::(
GA: Maybe You Should Consider Indulging In Variety As Part Of Your Daily Dietary Routine
AG: May8e you should consider not 8eing so high and mighty all the fucking time!!!!!!!!
GA: Perhaps You Should Consider Not Insulting Me If Youd Like Me To Pick Milk Up On The Way Home
AG: Ugh.
AG: ........
AG: Ok, you win this round.
GA: Dont I Eventually Win Them All
AG: Wh8tever!
GA: By The Way
GA: Do You Know Who Works Here
AG: I don't even like coffee. Why would I know who works there?
AG: Other than lowlife losers with no prospects! XXXXD Jesus, they'll never amount to ANYTHING.
GA: Actually Its Mostly Students Enrolled In This University Who Work Here As A Means Of Supporting Themselves While They Study
AG: Kanaya, please.
AG: I don't CARE. Just tell me 8efore I can stop pretended to even give a shit.
GA: Hmmm Well
GA: Rose
AG: Who????????
GA: Vriska Serket Is That Honestly Just A Question That You Took The Time To Sincerely Type Out
AG: Hmmmmmmmm I don't know! Sure looks like it!
GA: Think Back Vriska
GA: You Were Rather Inebriated At The Time
AG: Wow, that sure narrows it d8wn!
GA: Saturday night.
AG: Oh.
AG: ........
AG: Ohhhhhhhh.
AG: You mean
AG: Lalonde.
AG: Hahahahahahahaha.
AG: Oh 8oy.
AG: Does she have one of those dum8 aprons on?
AG: I 8et she totally does! Oh man, how retarded can you even get?
GA: Now Please Dont Think That Im Casting Any Sort Of Judgement Or Disapproval On You Vriska But
GA: You Really Didnt Know That She Worked Here
AG: No. Why would I?
GA: Well For One
GA: Because
GA: How Did You Meet Her Then
AG: Dunno.
AG: At some clu8.
AG: Why are you being so nosy, Fussyface?
AG: OH W8.
AG: 8ecause that's all you ever do! Fussing and meddling and poking your nosey nose into other people's 8usiness!
GA: Yes Nosey Nose
GA: That Is An Excellent Description Vriska And Not The Least Bit Redundant
GA: Anyway
GA: Can I Take It That From This You Are
GA: That Is
GA: Your Interests Of A Romantic Or At Least Physical Sort Reside In The Strictly
GA: Shall We Say
GA: Female
GA: Genre
AG: Jesus Christ Kanaya, spit it out.
GA: I Just Did
GA: The Words Have Successfully Been Dislodged From My Throat
AG: And????????
GA: And What Is There Something That Needs To Be Added To That
AG: Ugh.
AG: I j8st
AG: Am I g8ing to get a l8cture from you????????
GA: No Why Would I Possibly Lecture You About This
AG: I d8n't kn8w????????
GA: I Do Wish That You Had Felt Comfortable Telling Me That Much Seeing As I Consider Us To Be Friends But Understand Why You Kept It To Yourself
AG: Wow.
AG: Friends? Really?
GA: Yes Really
GA: Why Would I Lie About Something Like That
AG: I thought I was just your annoying flatmate or something!
GA: Hmm Theres No Reason You Cant Be Both
AG: lol
AG: You're actually pretty funny when you try! ::::)
GA: Thank You I Think
AG: Don't mention it.
AG: Anyway.
AG: Now that the milk situation has been resolved, I need to gra8 a shower.
GA: Yes You Should Forcefully Seize Hold Of The Shower Head And Demand That It Deposit Cleanliness On You
AG: You're also pretty weird when you try........
AG: Anyway, l8rs!
GA: I Will See You Later
GA: With Milk
AG: ::::DadventurersGambit [AG] ceased pestering garmentAmeliorator [GA]
The next time you glance up from your screen, there's a grin as wide as the near-empty coffee cup beside you plastered across your face, and you've forgotten all about Rose Lalonde. Forgotten about her, until you abruptly find yourself less than half a metre from her, eyes locked together, no matter how you try to break the contact by means of blinking. She's stood in front of your little table, designed for two, but having had one of its chairs pillaged, picking up an empty mug thoughtlessly left there by some other student. The smart thing to do here would be to allow a smile to flicker across your lips for the sake of politeness, and then promptly return your gaze to your laptop screen. Possibly throw in some exaggerated typing for added effect, to show that you really, really are busy. Instead, you're vaguely aware of your lips parting, and then it all comes tumbling out:
“Hello,” you say, like a greeting is in any way appropriate in this situation. Rose, just about to turn away from you, gives you a dry, humourless smile in return. She probably wants to get back to work, probably wants to finish clearing the tables, probably doesn't want to deal with you saying utterly absurd things like, “I was just speaking with Vriska,” as if she's actually shown any interest in what you're doing. As if she wants to talk about Vriska with you; as if she even wants you vaguely alluding to the fact that you know what happened between them. Let the woman keep her regrets to yourself, you think, and when she just stares, you pick up you coffee, and gulp down what remains.
You are a fool, you know that; acting as if you can speak to anyone you please with practised ease, just because you've become so accustomed to talking to Vriska without much of a hitch at all. You're getting ahead of yourself, bumbling over your words, your topic choices, not keeping your brain-to-mouth filter in check. Worse still, your coffee cup is completely empty, and yet you're still pretending to drink, because Rose hasn't turned back around again.
After what must be at least a minute, and a disturbingly long minute at that, because you don't think your heart has beaten the entire time, Rose reaches out, pressing her fingers to the bottom of the coffee cup.
“I'll get you a refill,” she says, eyes narrowing in a way that tells you she either thinks you're amusing, stupid or both. You go to protest as she eases the handle from between your fingers, but she cuts you off to point out that'll be on the house. Well, refusing would be nothing short of rude. You sit up a little straighter in your seat when Rose briefly has her back to you, not wanting to look like you're at any more of a disadvantage than you currently feel. While Rose makes you a second drink and attends to the only other customer at the counter, you refresh your inbox, so as not to seem anxious about something you can't pin down. Karkat's emailed you, and while you're sure the content is very interesting, relevant and angry, you can't focus on the words.
Rose makes her way back over to you, coffee in hand, and you close the laptop, fingers laced together, hands rested against your knees. She places the cup on the table, and you don't pick it up straight away, lest you down the whole thing in one go. Dragging a chair over from another table, she sits down opposite you, and this close up, with your nerves settled somewhat, you don't think she looks as intimidating as she did mere moments ago.
“Serket is—” Loud? Obnoxious? Prone to dressing herself in the dark? Chronically lazy when it comes to taking care of herself, but at least slightly narcissistic? Never to blame for anything that goes wrong in her life? Bizarrely pretty, in spite of the bird's nest atop her hair? “A great number of things, which I doubt I have to share with you. You do have the debatable pleasure of living with her, after all.”
“I apologise for bringing her up,” you say, because it sounds better than I'm chronically and unforgivably stupid, “But this does go to show that first impressions really are comprised mostly of awkwardness and spontaneous outbursts that one will never be able to take back.”
“Second.”
“Excuse me?”
“Technically, it's my second impression of you,” Rose says, and you just now realise that you're holding the coffee cup in one hand again. “My first impression was, mostly, that you enjoy a hearty breakfast, and have no objection to cooking in your pyjamas.”
Don't say anything in return. Don't even open your mouth to do anything but sip the coffee.
“My first impression of you was that you require a more effective make-up remover. Preferably one that can be stored in whatever bag you choose to have accompany your choice of outfit.”
Congratulations, Maryam. You can't even listen to yourself. Now Rose is going to throw any and all desire she clung onto to keep this job to the wind and similarly toss your coffee all over you.
Or, for some unbeknownst reason, she's going to crack a smile, and for the first time since you walked into the coffee shop, you're going to feel that she isn't figuratively towering over you.
“Touché,” she says, and then gives pause. “Serket only made mention of you as Fussyface. I'm assuming your parents and/or guardians didn't actively pen this name down on your birth certificate. Although if they did, I'd be interested in knowing more about the relationship you have with them.”
A lot goes through your mind, like pointing out to Rose that it's only you and your mum back at home. Well, it's just your mother back at home, because you're here now, but you don't need to point that out, because surely she can tell that, surely she doesn't think that you live with your mother, and that would just be needless rambling. The best thing to do is recall how cognitive human beings introduce themselves and not call yourself Manaya Karyam, or some such.
“Your powers of deduction are impressive,” you say, like you're in full control of the situation and your own mouth, “My name is, in fact, Kanaya Maryam, no matter what Vriska may say to the contrary.”
Rose gives you the slightest of nods, and then taps at the badge pinned on her apron with a wry smile that, to you, reads But you already know that. Something in the air clears, and you begin to feel that just maybe, you could actually have a vaguely successful conversation with Rose, when, on cue, three more students make their way in, talking about how oh my god, I think I was still a little drunk in that lecture, you should've been there last night.
“Duty calls,” Rose says, back on her feet, and you realise that, shit, you have less than four minutes until your next lecture kicks off. You bid her farewell, albeit in more modern terms, and she says that she'll see you again, when you next need a caffeine boost. As you make your way down the corridor, you avoid looking in any of the mirrors lining the walls, because your face feels a little too warm for your own comfort.