Work Text:
"Janey."
A muscle is jumping in your temple.
"Jaaaaney."
Just ignore her, you coach yourself, fighting the urge to snap your pen in two. She'll lose interest soon.
Roxy, who has already decided you'll listen up and you'll listen good, throws herself across the table, covering your work and nearly tearing your paper up. You gasp indignantly and snatch it to safety. You have worked too darn hard to let your slightly inebriated best friend ruin this essay. She smiles up at you, eyes shut, and stretches out comfortably on the table.
"Janey," she repeats, for good measure.
"What." The word grinds out from between your teeth, barely passing for a question.
Roxy rolls over, and you thank the gods that you've picked a table in the far corner of the library, hidden by shelves on three sides. You would've been thrown out ages ago if not for this fact. It doesn't help that Roxy's balanced breakfast today consisted of a shot of tequila and some olives. How the girl has managed to go through school like this, without attracting the attention of campus security (or any other adults, for that matter) is beyond you.
"Shtop bein' so boring," she groans, reaching out and poking you sharply. "You'd think this was a fucking lube-brary."
"First of all," you begin, stepping out of her range of poking, "you definitely just said 'lube-brary,' which, hilarious as that verbal typo is, I will take to mean library. Because we are in a library, Roxy. We've been here for over twenty minutes."
"Oh." Confused, she starts counting on her fingers, as if that has anything to do with anything.
Rolling your eyes behind your glasses, you continue, "Second, we're not here to have fun. I'm trying to finish my English paper, and you're . . . I don't know, loitering."
"Loitering is a shtrong word," she slurs, attempting to look offended but appearing slightly dazed.
"It is also an accurate word." You clear the important items of yours off the tabletop, setting them down on the ugly mint-green carpet and out of Roxy's warpath. "Now will you please get off the table and let me work?"
"Fiiiine," she drawls, sliding into a chair.
"Thank you," you say, returning your paper and a few books to their original positions and sitting down. "Roxy, I'm having trouble thinking of another word for---"
Before you pose the question, you look up to see that she's fallen asleep, having tumbled out of her chair and sprawled half-under the table. You roll your eyes again and take up your pen. This is it. Time to finish your amazing essay. It's your time to shine.
Of course, in that moment, your phone vibrates loudly, clattering against the laminated wooden tabletop. Mr. Dirk Strider has decided to grace you with a text message.
Hey.
You and Jake are supposed to be here already, where the heck are you? I need help with this stupid essay.
Well, we had a bit of a situation on our hands.
Oh, god.
Yeah, it's just as bad as it sounds.
I don't expect anything less from Jake, honestly.
So, anyway, he took about five steps into the library hooting about an adventure in peer-reviewing or some other bullshit and got kicked out. I'm outside with him right now.
Can you hurry up with him? I'd get help from Roxy but she's passed out under the table.
. . . ?
Do you really have to ask?
Not really. Anyway, Jake's going to go home soon. Be there in a few.
See you.
You tuck your phone away and try to focus, only to fail miserably. You guess it's your own fault. You could have (should have) just done your essay at home, but you thought you would give your friends a break and try to have a good time while you worked. Rookie mistake.
Roxy is still snoring quietly on the floor, and just as you're rolling her onto her side (in case she throws up---you've learned early on that Roxy is always at risk of choking to death on her own vomit, just like anyone that drinks and then collapses flat on their back) you catch Dirk approaching out of the corner of your eye. He doesn't comment, instead dropping his backpack into an empty chair and barely batting an eye at you and Roxy.
"Glad you made it," you say, somewhat grumpily, as you take your seat again. "I don't want to sound like a big old stick in the mud, but can we get to work? That's all I want to do today."
"Sure." Not fully paying attention, he roots around in his bag for a pen and paper.
"Thanks." Genuinely grateful, you read through your paper one last time and then slide it over to Dirk. "Just read it, and make corrections. You know the drill."
"Uh-huh." Never the talkative type, he scans the title of your essay. A rare smile graces his lips. "'A Study in Romance, by Jane Crocker'?"
You feel your cheeks heat up. "That's what she assigned to me, you big---oh, just shut up and read it, will you?"
You wring your hands as he reads, the blush on your cheeks remaining throughout the tense silence. Dirk isn't your first choice for peer review. You blindly put your trust in Roxy, hoping that she might be slightly sober and not passed-out-drunk, and look where that got you. Your essay is far too riddled with sappy opinions and examples to be in his hands, but what choice do you have?
When he finishes, his eyebrows are almost to his hairline. "Some paper you got here."
"Yep," you agree, not wanting to give away how embarrassed you are.
He leans closer, putting the paper between you and him on the table, and points with his pen. "Typo there."
"Okay."
"And there."
"Right."
"And you could have used a comma here."
"Gotcha."
You're just glad that he's serving as your spell-check and not getting into the meat of the essay, which is packed with your personal representation of love, facilitated by examples from romantic literature from several time periods. If this doesn't bump your English grade to a high A then you don't know what will.
"Now, let's talk about this." His pen tip taps on the second paragraph. "'Love takes on many forms throughout history's greatest works of literature. Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, a classic that is unparalleled in its notoriety, presented it as a struggle that could overcome society's barriers and, in some respects, death.'"
"So?" You don't see any problem with that.
"I disagree."
You raise your eyebrows, crossing your arms in the same motion. "Oh, really?"
"Romeo and Juliet isn't a love story. It's a testament to the stupidity of young people."
"How can you say that?" you gape. Sappy romances are your guilty pleasures, with Shakespeare's famous play at the top of the list. "It's the greatest love story of all time. Romeo died for her. And she died for him."
He's probably rolling his eyes behind those shades. "Like hell they did. He killed himself because he was too dense to, I don't know, check for a pulse? Talk about fucking brainless."
"He was blinded by love!" you argue, feeling an angry flush on your cheeks.
"Yeah, right," Dirk scoffs. "Wanna hear a love story? Read Dante's Inferno."
"You have got to be kidding me. That book is all about people suffering."
"Ain't that what love's all about?" He threads his hands behind his head. "Suffering, sacrifice, pain."
"No it's not!"
He grins, his face becoming painfully handsome for a moment before it returns to its smooth expression. "Maybe. But think of Dante---he walks through Hell, looks Satan in the eye, and walks right out."
"So? It's not like he did that for a woman, or something."
"Who says he didn't?" Dirk leans forward, chin in hand, elbow on the table. "We don't know that. We read Inferno in English last year, and you know what? We don't know why Dante's wandering through a dark forest."
Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. "I remember reading it. And anyway, it's not like he was actually in a forest---it's an allegory. He just compared being lost in a forest of beasts as a decline into sin."
"Yeah, but there's two sides to every story," he goes on. You're aware of how alone you two are, and how this conversation is feeling like it has two sides, too. "I mean, why would Dante agree to follow a dead fucking poet into Hell? Not just to save himself. Because if he was at such a low place in his life, like you said, he wouldn't have gone through all of that just to stay alive. He had something worth it."
"So you think Dante was in love?" you half-laugh, nervous for some reason you can't place.
"Maybe. Maybe not." He folds his arms on the table, head tilted towards you. "I think I know where he's coming from."
"Oh, yeah?" You almost back away, feeling cornered.
"Sure. Hard times, harder times, but he got out. And there was . . ." He struggles with the words, which is so unlike him. "A light at the end of the tunnel."
"And what's that?" you ask, leaning forward without realizing.
He doesn't answer, closing the distance and brushing his lips against yours. Like a complete dork, you tense up and just sit there, too surprised to do anything. Your friends all know about Dirk's preferences---but, now that you think about it, he never uses labels like "gay" or "homosexual" or anything. You guess it was wrong of you to make assumptions all these years.
He draws away, and you immediately assume that your lack of response set him off. Instead, he's smirking. "Looks like you've got a paper to rewrite."
You feel warm all over, and it takes you a minute to feel properly indignant again. "You think you're some kind of romance god? Well, you're not! My paper is just fine as it is."
"I could change your mind." You know what he's going to do before he does it, and this time you have the sense to close your eyes when he kisses you. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you guess it would be very romantic if not for Roxy's drunken snores from under the table. Your gross inexperience in these matters shines through again. When you try to respond to his advances, you just bump your teeth together painfully.
"Christ, you could just say no." He runs his tongue over his teeth---gosh darn it is he seductive---and almost-smirks. Your face burns.
"Well, maybe you shouldn't go around kissing people," you say, but it doesn't come out the way you want it to; it just sounds breathy. His smirk widens. He knows exactly what he's doing to you.
"Janey. . .?" You feel your eyes widen, and Dirk goes still. Near your feet, Roxy is struggling into consciousness. "Wha . . . where am I?"
"I think my work here is done," Dirk says heavily, standing up. "Good luck with that paper, Jane."
As he's walking away, you grapple for your last chance at having the last word. "Dirk?"
"Yeah?" He pauses on his way out, turning back around.
"Romeo and Juliet is still a love story. I don't care what you say."
"Maybe," he agrees. "You're still going to rewrite that essay."
You sputter, trying to gain the upper hand, but he's already gone. Your lips are tingling. Dirk Strider wins again.
Because you know, for a fact, that when you go home tonight you're throwing this paper out and starting over.