Chapter Text
Sylus Qin was your absolute worst enemy.
Sylus was pretentious, ostentatious, and just downright annoying.
He was also your roommate for your summer semester abroad to Tours, France.
The first time you met, you were both in your second year at the University of Linkon.
Sylus was studying English, Literature, and Philosophy in preparation for—you guessed it—law school, and you were still trying to figure out what to major in; opting to take French as one of your many electives.
He was your partner for your French midterm.
You had taken notice of Sylus during your first day of class. It wasn't his black turtle-neck or his perfectly coiffed hair that made you take notice of him. No. It was the fact that he fought with you to answer every question the professor asked.
No one likes a know-it-all. Especially not you.
Coming from a high school of just under five-hundred people, there were forty people in your graduating class.
And you were at the very top.
You were used to being the one the teacher relied on to keep the class going through participation, and now you had competition.
Fine. That was fine.
Or at least it would be if you hadn't arrived late and been forced to sit at the back of the auditorium.
Now—in a class of forty-four with a participation grade weighing 40% of your final grade—your hand was lost. While it was just you and Sylus raising your hands, he was the one getting called on because he was the one in the front row.
Good seat, you thought to yourself. Sylus was sitting in the left-middle of the front row. It was far enough from the front entrance that he wouldn't be disturbed by the door opening and closing during class, but it was just close enough that he could quickly pack up his things and be the first to leave once class ended; maximizing his time.
That should have been your seat.
And if that wasn't bad enough, the class also had weekly discussion posts which counted towards a separate writing-based portion of your final grade.
You had fun in these forums. If there was one thing you knew, it was grammar.
You knew how to conjugate verbs and when to make accords. You knew indirect subjects from past participles like the back of your hand.
You had this in the bag.
...
It was two minutes after you submitted your first discussion post to the class forum that Sylus replied with a list of corrections for you to make to your post.
God, you hated his guts.
Six weeks into class, the group was separated into assigned partners for the midterm. Of course, you would get stuck with the annoyance himself.
You tried to make friends with him.
Really you did.
Sylus just didn't care much about anything other than school.
He was cold and mechanical. He was sub-human.
Like a demon from hell.
You tried being nice; inviting him to a café to work and buying him a cup of coffee because you were two minutes late.
You wanted to befriend him. Maybe it was ego because you wanted to be seen as an equal to the clearly gifted man.
Maybe it was curiosity. Sylus didn't care to make friends with anyone. Maybe there was a reason for that...
But, in the end, the project was completed swiftly and smoothly; you were both volunteer-notetakers, after all—the only two in the class.
It was a straightforward research paper. You wrote the introduction, Sylus wrote the conclusion. You wrote the first five paragraphs, Sylus wrote the last five. Easy.
You both got a great mark.
You bid him a curt good-bye after you submitted it together, and he did the same to you.
Good-bye and good-riddance.
You prayed that you'd never have another class with him ever again.
Tonight was your night off.
You had given yourself the night to do whatever you wanted.
You didn't have to make small-talk—which you were already so burnt-out on. You didn't have to worry about your three assignments due over the weekend.
If relaxing meant going to an art gallery and then to a play afterwards, so be it.
It was your night.
Nothing was going to ruin it for you.
“Excuse me,” you heard. You looked up to see none other... than Sylus. Asking you if the seat next to you was taken.
You considered for half a second to say that it was. That you were saving it for the friend you didn't have.
But...
The theater was getting pretty full. And you did like Sylus's cologne—notes of cedarwood and rose spice.
But you didn’t have the energy to talk to him right now.
Nevertheless, you shook your head.
And Sylus sat down.
And of course he started talking:
“You might not remember me," he said, reintroducing himself, full name and programs of study. Gods, he was such a douche. "We had FRE210 together.”
“I remember you.”
“Cool.”
Ignoring your internal pleas to end the conversation there, you were curious why Sylus of all people would be seeing a play during midterm week.
You continued: “So, what brings you here?”
“My friend's performing. He’s the lead, actually. He plays the God of Lust, Asmodeus. What about you?”
“I just love Gods and lust.”
“Ah. What noble interests.”
The play was excellent. Of course it was. The University was internationally renowned in every area of speciality, drama included.
You and Sylus didn’t talk much after the play.
You bid him goodnight.
At least now you knew he had a friend. That was something,
The next year, the two of you had a third-year ethics course together.
The course was debate-based. You were taking it for interest, Sylus was taking it for law school practice.
You almost dropped the course on the spot when you saw him walk in.
And of course, he took the seat right next to you.
He greeted you by saying your first name and sticking out his hand for you to shake.
You were—obviously—taken aback. You didn't think Sylus would remember you. You didn't even think he saw other people when he walked down the street; his nose either too far stuck in a book or up his own ass.
You shook his hand and smiled.
He settled into his seat and snuck a few glances your way; clearly wanting to say something.
You looked around hoping to see some other acquaintance to make small-talk.
Anyone else.
Unfortunately, the two of you were the only ones in the classroom; you were the only ones half-an-hour early to class, after all.
Sylus cleared his throat before he continued: “Sorry for being... such a monster last year. I was under a lot of pressure. I’ve learned to deal with it though. So, hopefully you’ll give me another chance.”
You looked at him then. You did notice the dark circles tattooed under his eyes last year. Sylus was in third year. He’d be studying for the LSAT if he hadn't started already. All that on top of a full-course load...
You took pity on him.
“Alright, but you should be fore-warned. Debate is kind of my thing.”
He smiled. “Mine too. Good seat choice, by the way. I usually come early to get the best seat in class, but you swooped it up before I was able to.”
“I hadn't noticed.”
Because the course was so interaction-based, you would often need to pair up with your elbow-mates for simple mind-mapping and brainstorming activities. It was easy to work with Sylus—who had decided that if he couldn't get the best seat, he would sit in the one right next to it during each class instead.
It was fun. The two of you were basically the same person. Intense. School-focused. Both working part-time and both incredibly sleep-deprived.
During the second week of classes, Sylus had made a habit of bringing you your coffee order from the single time you two had been to a café; glazed donut included. He made the excuse that he was going to get something from the shop anyways, so he thought he’d pick you up something as well. He needed his brainstorming partner at full power, after all. Sylus said that he only sat next to you because you actually did work in class, but you doubted it. But, then again, you did work really well on the French midterm together...
So, when Sylus asked you to be partners with him again, this time on the final debate of the course, you agreed.
He was a hard-worker, you would give him that.
The two of you worked tirelessly the days leading up to it—it was worth 25% of the final mark after all, that could make or break someone’s GPA.
The day of, he brought you your coffee and snack and he wished you good luck.
And it was a complete disaster.
Halfway through the seven-minute ordeal, you made a statement. The law in question was accepted in 1449. You needed to state this fact clearly and pointedly. The entire second and third quarters of your debate depended on it.
You thought it was going smoothly. You delivered it without stumbling over your words—hard to do when talking about ethics in the middle-ages—and the crowd was on your side. The entire class was engaged. It was going wonderfully.
“You got the year wrong.”
“... Sorry, what?”
“The year,” Sylus said. “It was accepted in 1649. Not 1449. Your argument is invalid. We aren't talking about that time-period.”
The blood ran cold in your veins.
Shit. you realized as soon as he said it. It was wrong.
The professor was looking at you. Waiting to evaluate how you’d respond.
Sylus noticed just a beat too late that he had screwed up.
He tried to save it. Saying, “but, maybe you should tell me what it would have meant if the law was accepted in 1449. What would that mean in the context of the debate?” He was trying to get you back on track, you knew. You knew that it didn't really matter that you had gotten the year wrong. What mattered was how you adapted and conducted yourself. That was what was being evaluated. That was what the final mark was based on.
But you just couldn't get over the embarrassment.
Maybe it was the stress of the situation. Four hundred students looking at you. Waiting for you to say something.
Maybe it was the stress of the semester. It was finals week, and you were so tired and so close to being done. This was just one more thing that you didn't need.
And so, the straw broke the camel's back and you started crying.
It was only a few tears, and no one saw it except for Sylus. But still.
Sylus—still trying to do damage control—skipped ahead to his next point. He knew that it would take him at least two to three minutes for him to make his case, hopefully that would be enough time for you to catch your breath.
You did.
And you salvaged what you could of your argument.
Luckily, you never did anything half-way, so you were able to make-up a new argument on the spot excluding the fact about the law whose year you had gotten wrong.
You answered questions once the debate had concluded, eyes slightly red and cuffs of your sleeves tear-stained.
Your classmates politely clapped when the two of you were finished.
You packed your bag and made your way to the exit; you didn't care if half the class still hadn't happened, you needed to get out. To breathe. And to wash your face.
Someone called your name.
You kept walking.
“Wait!” Sylus said, catching up to you.
“What?” you spun around to face him. He was also carrying his stuff; papers crumpled and sticking out the top of his bag as though he had left right after you had. He was more disheveled than you had ever seen him.
“I’m so sorry—”
“It’s fine.”
“No, I shouldn't have.”
“Really, Sylus. It’s fine.”
“... It doesn't look fine.”
You rolled your eyes. Sylus offered you a few tissues from his bag. You took them with a huff.
“You didn't have to point it out in front of everyone,” you continued.
“I know. I really am sorry. I got caught up in—”
“Winning?”
“No. Just... being right. I got caught up in trying to be right. I’m sorry."
“Well, you’ll make a fine lawyer, at least.” The comment came off colder than you had wanted, but you were still riding the adrenaline of the scene inside.
Before Sylus could respond, you turned on your heels and made your way to the washroom.
Once in a stall, you tucked your head between your legs to try and stave off the panic attack that threatened to consume you.
I never should have worked with him, you thought. Fucking Sylus.
Luckily, you'd be doing just that by the end of next year’s trip to France.