Work Text:
"I'm thinking of stepping down as an RA next year," Jean remarks idly, during a break in one of their study sessions spent in Eula's kitchen/dining room.
"The frosh finally getting on your nerves?" Eula drawls. She sets a fresh mug of tea on the countertop in front of Jean before flopping back onto the stool beside her.
"They are starting to resemble legitimate campus security threats," Jean says ruefully. This year's cohort includes a girl who's set off the smoke alarm in the dorm kitchen no less than seven times before the end of fall term, and another who triggered a literal explosion in her room with some "borrowed" equipment from the chemistry lab.
"Come on, Gunnhildr," says Eula, lips twitching into a smile. "You love dealing with campus security threats."
Jean rolls her eyes, unable to deny this entirely. As big of a headache as they are, the biggest troublemakers invariably end up becoming some of her favorite freshmen.
"So why do you really want to quit?" Eula asks.
"I just think I'll be too busy," she admits. "We'll be getting ready to graduate next year, grinding through the recruitment cycle for jobs... and I have to move out of residence sooner or later, right?"
"It might be useful for you to learn how to make something other than pizza," Eula agrees.
Jean flicks a pencil shaving at her. Eula crinkles her nose, bats it away from her face. It's unbearably cute.
"My mother won't be happy, though," Jean comments, her brows knitting together. "She never likes if I quit anything, but this—"
Well, becoming an RA was always just another inevitability for her. Frederica was one in college, and her mother before her. She assured Jean she would love the experience, and it would look great on her transcript.
"Frederica can go eat a bucket of nails," Eula says, voice cold and flat. She tips her head back, her eyes flickering to meet Jean's for one electric, teetering moment before darting away again. "You should do what you want."
Easy for you to say, Jean almost retorts, but doesn't.
Eula leans back in her chair, stretching her arms languidly behind her neck. Sunlight spills through the windows and Eula angles her body toward it, lazy and graceful, soaking in the bright warmth.
Watching her, Jean wants to reach out and slide her fingers through Eula's hair, rub the sensitive spot on the back of her neck that only she knows about. She wraps both her hands around her mug of tea instead.
Because that'd be weird, right? This is their study time. Well, the scheduled break in their study time that Eula always insists on including and setting alarms for, because otherwise Jean is known to lose herself in work for seven hours straight without stopping to eat or go to the bathroom.
The point is, she probably shouldn't be thinking about suddenly reaching over and rubbing Eula's neck during their study time. Eula isn't her girlfriend, after all. She's her—her—
Neither of them have ever really been keen to define what they are. They study and do their coursework together (because Eula insists no one else in their program can keep up with her pace). They compete every term for the number one spot in their class rankings (they swap between first and second place with regularity, but if they're keeping track—and Jean knows they both are—then Jean is ahead by the slightest margin). Eula brews her tea in her kitchen, remembering how Jean likes it (because obviously they need caffeine to do work, and Jean is trying to cut down on coffee).
And, when they're done studying, they have sex. Strictly to let off steam and release endorphins, of course. Jean even schedules it on their shared Google Calendar. It's all very above-board.
So, yeah—Eula isn't her girlfriend. That much, she knows for certain.
(Jean unintentionally brought it up once, in a roundabout sort of way.
"According to the expert opinions of my friends," she remarked, "you and I could technically qualify as 'fuck buddies'."
"Absolutely not," said Eula. "And tell Lisa Minci to mind her own business and that she should never say the word 'fuck' in the same sentence as my name ever again."
"How did you know it was Lisa—"
Eula gave her a withering look.
"Okay, fair," said Jean. "But you think it's inaccurate? I mean, we do fu—"
"You and I are most certainly not buddies."
"Uh-huh," Jean said skeptically. "I'm just your...?"
"Dearly detested rival," Eula answered without hesitation.
"Oh, of course."
"Now please come back to bed. According to your absurd Google Calendar, we have fifteen minutes left before we have to go back to working on Thursday's problem set, and I fully intend to make every second count."
Jean smirked. "I'm holding you to that."
"You'd better.")
Jean takes a sip of tea, hiding her smile. She suspects even if she did indulge her irrational urge to play with Eula's hair just now, Eula would simply hiss and splutter and scoot away, face flushed pink and scrunched up in a confused glare.
None of Jean's friends would ever believe her if she told them how Eula will sometimes cling to her in the afterglow, falling asleep with her cheek resting on Jean's collarbone. So she keeps this a secret between them, a ball of warmth spooled cozily in her ribcage.
"You know," Jean says, "you remind me a bit of a cat I used to have when I was little."
Eula scoffs, but Jean catches the tinge of pink in her cheeks. "Did your cat happen to bite often?" she says, lazy and lilting.
"Sometimes," Jean laughs. "Mostly he stared at me suspiciously from across the room, like he thought I was conspiring against him. He'd run off when I tried to pet him, but whenever I wasn't paying attention to him, he'd get sulky and cuddly and jump into my lap."
"I'm afraid I don't see the resemblance," Eula says haughtily. "Unless—"
"Hm?"
Eula cocks a smirk. "Are you hoping I'll jump into your lap, Gunnhildr?"
"Maybe later," Jean says cheerfully, innocently.
"Don't hold your breath," she drawls. But the hungry, tender look in her half-lidded eyes betrays her.
Jean meets her gaze, tilting her head to the side, a sun-bright smile on her lips. She's content, relaxed. She almost doesn't want to resume working, once that timer on her phone goes off again. Almost.
"You, too," Eula mumbles.
"Huh?"
"You remind me of a dog I used to have. When I was little."
"You had a dog?" Jean asks, surprised.
"For a little while," says Eula. "A golden retriever. Or maybe it was a Labrador. One of those big, blond, dopey-looking ones."
Jean pouts. "Who are you calling dopey-looking?"
"Not you in general," Eula grumbles, glancing away. "More like... a dopey look in your eyes. Like you're just—stupidly happy to see me, I suppose."
"Oh," says Jean, her heart thudding wetly in her ears.
Eula stares at the wall, her own ears burning pink.
I am, Jean thinks. I am always happy to see you. For some reason, she can't bring herself to say it.
"What happened to your dog?" she asks instead.
Eula's face shutters, goes carefully blank. "One of my uncles took it out back and shot it."
"Oh," Jean repeats, but this time she feels sick, bile rising in her throat. The worst part is, she can't even say she's shocked, based on everything else she knows of Eula's family.
Her fist clenches on the counter.
"What about your cat?" says Eula.
Jean blinks, the rage that was building up fizzling in an instant. She deflates.
"I came home one day and he was gone," she admits, a stupid lump forming in her throat. How childish. "I—I, uh, got a B-plus on a math test, and my mother said I was obviously too distracted, too irresponsible. So she got rid of him."
"Yikes," says Eula.
On another day Jean might argue, scramble to find excuses or deflections. But today Jean just unclenches her fist, stares at the course notes still open on her laptop. Fuck, she misses that cat.
"Yikes," she agrees.
Eula nudges her hand on the countertop. Her fingers, for once, are warmer than Jean's.
"Your tea's getting cool," she murmurs. "I'll make you another."
She does, moving around the kitchen with polished, confident efficiency. She presses the warm mug into Jean's hands with a rare gentleness, and Jean accepts it wordlessly.
"If you do decide to quit being an RA next year," Eula begins, slow and measured, "then I assume you'll need to look for a place off-campus?"
"Unless you know a way I can squat undetected in the library," says Jean.
"Well, Amber is planning to move out to live with her girlfriend." Eula's voice stays steady, but there's a wobbly flicker in her sun-soaked eyes when she meets Jean's stare. "So I find myself in need of a new roommate."
Jean's heart stops, then restarts twice as fast. Heat unravels in her body, warming her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. She decides to blame the tea.
"Miss Lawrence," she says, "are you asking me to move in with you?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I mean, you'd have your own bedroom and—" She crosses her arms over her chest, looking away. "It was just a thought—you can probably find a place with Lisa in any case, so—"
"Eula," she says, gently. The other girl stills, settles, at the sound of her name. "Thank you. If I do stop being an RA, I think this would be perfect."
Her mother would probably pop a blood vessel. But Jean—Jean is starting to think that might not be her problem anymore.
"Hmm. Well, it seems like a logical arrangement," Eula says, relaxing. A grin plays at the edge of her mouth. "After all, you know what they say about keeping your enemies close. This way, I'll have intimate access to my greatest rival's most private sanctum."
Jean snorts. "Please, tell me more about getting intimate with my private sanctum—"
"Shut up, Gunnhildr."
Later that week, Jean's inbox pings with a new email. She clicks on it.
Attached is a link to their city's local animal shelter. The body of the message simply reads:
My landlord allows pets. Just a thought, Gunnhildr.
Jean opens the link, and feels warm, warm, warm.