Work Text:
“And her hands,” Varka laments, with enough feeling in his voice to make an Oscar nominee cry. “God, Flins, her hands…!” He looks down at his own hands, which are plain and weathered and currently holding his fourth beer of the night. Terrible things. Not beautiful at all.
Flins pats his arm sympathetically. “There, there,” he says, perfectly mild, like he knows the theory of comforting people but has never had to put it into practice. “I’m sure her hands are very nice, yes. Your hands are also nice.”
“She’s just—argh. You don’t get it,” Varka sighs, looking at his amber-colored reflection in the dregs of his beer. He tips the rest of it back and slams the empty glass down on the heavy wooden table. It’s probably antique. He doesn’t know where it came from. He just knows that Flins brought it with him when he moved in, and it’s been their table ever since.
“Indeed I don’t,” says Flins, nodding sagely. “I’ve been homosexual all seven hundred years of my life.”
Varka snorts.
Flins holds up the six-pack of beer. It’s missing five bottles: the four Varka drank, and the one in front of Flins that he’s been annoyingly sipping all night. “Shall I pour you another?”
Varka looks at the beer and groans. “No, no.” He waves his hand wildly. His indelicate hand that isn’t pretty at all. “I don’t want any more. That’s enough.”
“You have been drinking quite a lot,” Flins agrees, in that strange gentlemanly way of his that somehow simultaneously says You poor thing and I know I’m better than you. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yeah. Just lamenting.” Varka sighs and tips his head up to the ceiling. “What about you, though? You never talk about your love life. Surely you’ve got these kinds of troubles too.”
Flins looks a little amused. “I do not have these troubles.”
Varka rolls his eyes. “What fucking ever. These kinds of troubles with men. Same thing.”
“Ah,” says Flins. He sets down his beer. “I meant that I do not have these troubles because I have a boyfriend.”
Silence.
Flins takes a sip of his beer. He hums approvingly, like he’s savoring the taste.
“Wait,” says Varka weakly. “What?”
“I have a boyfriend,” says Flins. Then he pulls out his phone.
“Oh no you don’t,” Varka interrupts, snatching the phone from him. “You do not get to scroll your fucking YouTube Shorts or whatever after you dropped that bomb on me. You have a boyfriend?”
“Yes. Give me my phone back.”
Varka doesn’t give him the phone. He stares at him across the table. He’s staring a lot. Maybe this isn’t a conversation he should be having when he’s four beers deep. “This feels like the kind of thing you should tell me,” he says weakly. “We’re, like, friends and stuff.”
Flins shrugs and takes his phone back. “You never asked.”
“Well, you should have told me when it happened. If I got a boyfriend or a girlfriend, you’d know the minute it happened.”
“That’s you,” Flins points out, which is actually a great argument, because if Varka was dating someone, everyone would know. He’d be posting pictures of them every day and wearing their clothes and doing annoying couple shit, and he’d be damn proud of it. “And besides, you and I weren’t yet living together when I started dating him. I always go to his place, rather than taking him here. I didn’t feel the need to tell you.”
Varka still would have liked to know because he’s nosy, but that checks out, so he sighs and lets it go. They’ve only been roommates for about three months now; it’s totally reasonable that Flins might have gotten a boyfriend four months ago and not found the time to tell him about it. “Well, okay,” Varka says. “So how long have you been dating? Four months? Five?”
“Three years,” says Flins.
Varka blinks.
What.
***
Three years.
Three fucking years?
***
“Do you know Flins has a boyfriend?”
“Mm-hmm,” says Lauma over her croissant.
Varka stares at her. “You did?”
“Mm-hmm,” she says again. “They’ve been quite happy together. It’s very sweet. Would you mind going over that last problem again?”
Varka ignores the problem set open on her laptop and stares at her. A few croissant crumbs cling to her graceful mouth. “But, like, did you just find out, or did you know the whole time?”
“Know what?”
“That Flins has a boyfriend!”
“Yes,” says Lauma. She wipes her mouth with her napkin and looks down at the crumbs with a small frown. “Excuse me for saying this, but do I have something in my teeth?”
Varka stares at the table.
Does Flins not trust him? Does Flins think he’s, like, homophobic? No—he couldn't possibly think that. He knows Varka’s bisexual, and he makes jokes about their sexualities all the time. But why else would he keep it a secret? Does he think Varka might try to steal his boyfriend? Does he come across as that much of a dick??
Someone sits down next to him. He doesn’t look up.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Lauma says brightly. Must be Nefer; she’d never call anyone else that. “Do I have something in my teeth?”
“Uh huh,” says Nefer, leaning down. There’s a strange sound, a little wet, like they’re kissing. “Yeah, you’ve got some of my lipstick right there. On your front teeth.”
Varka finally looks up from the table. “Right in front of my banana bread?”
“Fuck off,” Nefer says, grinning at him. She sits down in the seat next to him and looks over at the empty chair. “Hey, where’s the boytoy? I thought he was coming too.”
She’s talking about Flins, probably. He usually comes to their study meetups, but he’s not here today, because he’s— “Busy,” Varka says. “He’s seeing our RA about something. Floor problem, I think? I don’t know what, exactly. Hey, by the way, did you know he has a boyfriend?”
Nefer blinks rapidly. Her false lashes flutter exaggeratedly, like they’re lagging a few seconds behind her actual eyelids. “Of course,” she sniffs. “I know everything.”
Varka raises his eyebrows.
“I do,” Nefer says, bristling like a cat. “I know everyone’s love lives. I know you’re pining after that blonde from—”
“Nononono,” Varka says quickly, slapping a hand over her mouth. “You can’t go around saying that. I am doing absolutely nothing of the sort.”
“Oh, are you seeing someone?” Lauma asks excitedly. She sits up straighter; she’s very tall, and when she sits up straight she’s almost exactly eye-level with Varka, who isn’t a short man at all. “That’s wonderful! Is this why you’re asking about Flins? We should go on a triple date, all of us!”
Varka cuts her off by waving his hands wildly. “Please! I’m not seeing anyone. And I won’t be.”
“Nicole Reeyn. From the history department,” says Nefer, the snitch.
Varka glares at her. But he’s dramatic at heart, and he might as well commit, so he just leans his head down on the table. “It’ll never work,” he laments, laying his head down on the wooden table. “She’s so out of my league. And she’s my thesis advisor. There’s gotta be a conflict of interest there, right? Or a power thing?”
“Well, no,” says Lauma. “The only one who’d have a power disadvantage is you, and you seem quite amenable.”
Varka sighs heavily.
Lauma brightens. “Is that why you’ve been going to office hours so much recently?”
“No,” Varka lies, quite pathetically.
Nefer laughs at him.
“This isn’t about me,” Varka says petulantly. “I meant to ask who Flins is dating. Because I didn’t even know he had a boyfriend until yesterday.”
Lauma’s smile slips away.
“Don’t you live with him?” Nefer asks, looking baffled. “Certainly you’d have met him. I can’t imagine Flins is the kind of man to be celibate in his own relationship.”
Varka blinks. He hadn’t even thought about Flins having sex. What a concept. Actually, maybe it’s good that he hasn’t met the boyfriend; he’s glad to know that Flins hasn’t been getting it on in their dorm. “He said he always goes to the boyfriend’s place instead of bringing him back to ours.”
“Hm,” says Lauma. “But surely he goes to see him quite frequently?”
“Not really,” Varka says. He spends plenty of time with Flins, and it’s not like he goes out every night or anything. He’s always at geology club meetings or at work or seeing their RA for some disciplinary consultation. And when he’s not doing that, he’s hanging out with the three of them. Not a lot of time for boyfriends in there. He suddenly feels worried. “Hey, are you sure he and his boyfriend are, like, okay? Are they fighting?”
“Certainly not,” Lauma says, looking distressed. “Flins would be distraught if they were fighting.”
“Yeah,” Nefer says, nodding. “Remember that time back in second year?”
Varka thinks about it. Flins is a year behind him in university; his second year would be Flins’s first. They’d met in an archaeology course, and Flins had been a little too interested in excavating ancient coins, so Varka had liked him immediately. That year he’d been in a fantastic mood, except for the part where he’d had a month of being depressed and dragging his feet around, right around winter exams.
“That was December,” Nefer continues. “He missed his boyfriend’s birthday, apparently. Forgot to call because he had finals that day. He was sad about it for almost three weeks.”
“What a gentleman,” Lauma sighs, smiling. “He’s such a sweet person. Would you do that for me?”
“Of course not,” says Nefer coolly. “I’d never forget your birthday in the first place.”
Lauma smiles softly at her. Nefer leans in across the coffee shop table.
“And suddenly I’m really invested in this problem set!” Varka says quickly, snatching Lauma’s laptop from across the table. “Have fun, ladies!”
***
“Did you know Flins has a boyfriend?”
Sandrone gives him the glare of a lifetime.
Varka puts his hands up. “Woah, okay. I was just asking.”
Sandrone sits up straighter and sniffs. “If you think I pay attention to anyone at all in this university besides the absolutely necessary interaction with my lab partners—” Here she gestures at Varka and the empty seat where Ineffa would usually sit. “—Then you are an absolute fool.”
Right that moment her phone lights up with a text from Columbina.
Varka looks at her pointedly.
Sandrone flushes bright red and shoves her phone back into her bag. “Whatever,” she mutters. “Anyway! Of course I knew Flins had a boyfriend. I’ve seen him texting him; you don’t text anyone that way unless you like them. Duh.”
Varka suppresses a grin. “You’d know all about texting people you have a crush on.”
Sandrone pulls back her fist and prepares for it to meet his face.
“Hello,” says Ineffa, in that same flat voice as always. She takes her seat at the lab bench, precisely on time, not a minute early and not a minute late. “Are you quite alright, Sandrone?”
Sandrone visibly seethes as she puts her fist back down. “Peachy.”
Ineffa’s expression doesn’t change at all. “Fantastic.”
“Hey, Ineffa,” says Varka. “Do you know if Flins is dating anyone?”
“Oh. I am afraid he is not single.”
Varka sputters. “No—no no no! I mean, I love the guy, but—nooo, definitely not. Like, yeah, I guess he’s hot and stuff, but really? Us? I mean.” He coughs several times. “What was I talking about?”
“Flins’s dating life,” Ineffa says steadily. “I did not mean to insinuate anything. However, he already has a boyfriend."
“Everyone knows that,” Sandrone scoffs.
Varka looks at the floor gloomily. He suddenly doesn’t feel like doing the lab anymore. “Uh huh,” he says. “Everyone.”
***
“You have a minute?” says Varka to their chemistry TA.
Albedo doesn’t even blink. Varka has never seen him blink, though, so this isn’t really surprising. “Yes, of course. What’s the matter?”
“So there’s this guy called Flins.”
Albedo looks up from his laptop. “You mean the tall one with the boyfriend?”
Varka walks right back out of the fucking office hours.
Fuck his life.
***
“Hey, so—”
“Speak to me again,” says Arlecchino, perfectly calm, “and perish.”
Varka nods and leaves immediately.
***
“This is getting pathetic,” Flins tells him when he comes home that night.
Varka sets down his bag with a heavy sigh and decides to play dumb. “What’s pathetic? I’m not doing anything pathetic.”
Flins levels him a look. “You’ve been asking everyone we know about my boyfriend.”
Well. Shit. “Not everyone,” Varka protests. He searches his mind for someone he didn’t ask, and comes up with: “I didn’t ask, uh, Sucrose. Or Aino.”
“Aino is eight years old, and you’re scared of Sucrose.”
Varka gives up. “Dude,” he says miserably. “If she’d asked you for your bones, you’d be scared of her too.”
Flins looks up from his laptop, plastered with a large sticker that says PIRAMIDA ANNUAL ORNITHOLOGY CONVENTION NO. 106. It looks to be new, or at least Varka hasn’t noticed it before. “Don’t call me dude. I’m seven hundred years old.”
“Since when did you have an interest in vision? And, like, eye medical stuff?” Varka asks, instead of acknowledging him. He gestures vaguely at the laptop. “I thought you were studying archaeology.”
Flins looks at the sticker, then back at him. “Ah. This is ornithology. You’re thinking of ophthalmology.”
Ah. Well, yeah, actually, he probably is. Varka feels a little put out. What the hell is ornithology, anyway? He should look it up later.
“Anyway,” Flins says, closing his laptop. It reveals a tall glass of sparkling water. He’s the world’s biggest tap water hater, so Varka bought him a giant case of La Croix for his birthday. Flins liked it so much that once he was done, he went out and bought himself three more cases. “I was talking about how pathetic you are.”
“Uh, yeah. Pathetic. That’s me.”
Flins looks amused.
Varka sits down at the table with him and clasps his hands together hopefully. “At least help me out! I just wanna know who my friend has been dating for three years. Seems pretty reasonable to me.”
“Quite,” Flins agrees. “This is why I thought I could help you on your quest.”
“Okay, great,” says Varka. “So will you tell me his name and show me ten million pictures of him on your phone, or—?”
“We can play twenty questions.”
Varka stares at him. He narrows his eyes.
“I am told it’s a fun bonding activity,” says Flins, the nefarious little shit. “Thus, you may ask me questions about him, and I will answer truthfully. Then you will have a much easier time guessing.”
“Hm,” says Varka. What the hell. “Yeah, sure. I’m game.”
Flins smiles with his odd mouth. “Excellent. Ask away, then.”
Varka ponders. He thinks about it for a while. Then he says, “Okay. What’s your boyfriend’s name?”
Flins says nothing.
“Well?” says Varka. “I asked a question.”
“They’re meant to be yes or no questions.”
“Oh.”
Flins takes a long sip of his sparkling water.
Varka thinks about it for a while. Then he asks, “Is your boyfriend gay?”
Flins gives him the world’s most disappointed look. He maintains eye contact and takes another sip of his sparkling water.
“Well, I just ask because I know most of the gay people on campus,” Varka says, shrugging. “Or at least I can find someone who knows them. Like, I think Nefer knows every lesbian ever in the whole world.”
“Is my boyfriend gay,” Flins repeats slowly.
“You didn’t answer the question.”
Flins stares at him.
“…Oh,” Varka says at last. Maybe he’s actually stupid. “Um, okay. Question number three: what’s ornithology?”
Flins visibly gives up on life. “You know what,” he says, standing from the table. “I’ve got a disciplinary meeting with our RA in about ten minutes. I ought to go now.”
“Disciplinary?” Varka repeats, incredulous. “Again? I thought you worked out the issue last time. Is he really that strict?” Varka himself has never been singled out by their RA, even though he’s undoubtedly a bit of a public nuisance.
Flins sighs, long and world-weary. “He’s simply never done with me,” he says, looking at the ceiling. “Rest assured. I’m sure I won’t learn a thing, and I’ll be meeting with him again quite soon.”
Varka watches him go and pities him a little. Flins is far from the only one who breaks the dorm rules. Hell, most of the alcohol they own is Varka’s, and Flins is just an accessory to the deed. He’s rarely ever loud after hours, and he’s a diligent student, and he’s polite to everyone, if a bit flirtatious. He’s not a rulebreaker, not in the ways that matter.
Must suck, getting targeted by their RA so much. And their RA seems like such a nice guy, too!
Varka still remembers the day they moved in. Their RA was there already, and helped carry some of the bags because he was free. He was short, but a lot stronger than he looked; he hauled half of Flins’s things up the stairs, and Varka knows firsthand how heavy some of that stuff is. He gave them a tour and shook Varka’s hand and introduced himself.
“Hello,” he said, in that pleasantly authoritative way of his. “I’m Illuga, and I’m your resident assistant. If there’s anything I can help you with, just let me know. I’m always right down the hall.”
Maybe it makes sense that a guy like that would want to single out Flins. He’d carried half those antiques up the stairs, after all. It could be a lingering grudge. Or maybe Flins has been ragebaiting him, the way he does to homophobes on the internet for fun.
Well, whatever. Flins is kind of a little bastard anyway, Varka reasons; he probably deserves whatever punishment Illuga’s giving him.
***
“I’m hoooome,” Varka announces to the room. Or—well, to no one. No one’s there.
Varka blinks. He could have sworn Flins was home; there’s no geology club today, and they were talking about getting dinner together. Where could he have possibly gone?
He sits at the table and pulls out a deck of cards. Usually he and Flins play against each other, but he’s not around, so Varka starts shuffling to set up a game of solitaire. He lays out the cards on the table, counting out one, one-two, one-two-three.
And then, outside the door, he hears voices.
“…eally do prefer the blue one,” someone says. Varka squints, like this will somehow help him hear better. “I know you like to match with me, but gold hardly suits you as well as navy does.”
Someone sighs. This one Varka recognizes—it’s Flins. “Must the suffering never end?”
Well, at least he’s back! They can play cards together now! He approaches the door and sets his hand on the knob, ready to turn it. But then he waits.
Sue him. A little eavesdropping never hurt anyone.
A strange, half-stilted laugh. “It’s hardly suffering, Flins. Just a social event.”
Varka blinks. Because he recognizes that voice now. It’s Illuga. And, weirdly, they’re very civil with one another. Maybe Flins has finally gotten Illuga to come around and like him again! And all those disciplinary visits will finally stop!
There’s some rustling of fabric. A strange noise like one of them is stepping closer.
“Look,” Illuga says, softer. “Just—wear the navy blue suit, okay? It looks nice.”
Flins hums in his throat. “How nice?”
Illuga laughs again. “Don’t tease me, Flins. You know what I think of that suit.”
“Hm,” Flins says, sounding smug.
Varka frowns. What the hell does that mean? But it’s true—he’s seen Flins in his tailored navy blue suit for formal events, and it does look great. Real classy. Timeless. Sometimes when Varka sees him dressed up he forgets that Flins is weird and cryptic about his age, and thinks that maybe he really is some kind of immortal being.
“I’ll give you my gold pocket square,” Illuga says at last. “And my tie. You can wear those quartz cuff links you like, and the topaz tie pin. It’ll look great.”
Flins sounds pleased. “Ah. Where would I be without you?”
“Licking rocks.”
Flins laughs.
Varka’s heart is actually warmed. He didn’t know Illuga and Flins got along so well now! Clearly those disciplinary sessions have done something to resolve their differences, because Flins sounds nothing but fond. And Illuga, too, has been kind to him. Maybe this is the start of a beautiful redemption arc!
And then the door knob twists.
Varka yelps silently and scrambles back to his seat. By the time Flins opens the door all the way, Varka is sliding into his seat at the table, moving so fast that he swears it whips up a breeze in his wake.
“Oh! Uh, hi,” Varka says, trying for casual. “Didn’t even notice you there, haha! HA. Ha.”
Flins looks at him, still amused. “The cards are on the floor.”
Fuck. The cards are on the floor. Varka must have knocked them over in his hurry to get back into the chair and look like he wasn’t eavesdropping. “Uh. I was playing sixty two pick up.”
“Fifty two,” Flins corrects.
Varka blinks.
“There are fifty two cards in a deck, Varka.”
Varka groans into his hands.
Well, whatever. Maybe this day was a lost cause anyway.
***
Two days later at their study session Varka waltzes in dreamily and announces, “I’m going to learn sign language.”
Nefer gives him the world’s most judgmental look.
“Don’t be like that,” Lauma says to Nefer, patting her shoulder. “That’s wonderful, Varka! What inspired this sudden interest?”
Nefer snorts. “You know what inspired the sudden interest.”
Lauma looks confused. She dwells on it for a moment, and then her eyes widen. “Ah! How romantic. Except—I thought Miss Nicole was only mute? She can still understand speech just fine, yes?”
“Oh,” Varka says. He probably should have realized that, given that he’s been talking to her for the better part of four months. “Still, it’s like, her native language. You know? So I should learn it. To be considerate.”
Nefer says nothing. She takes a long, rattling sip of her iced coffee.
“Stop that,” Lauma sighs. “I think it’s very sweet.”
“What’s sweet?” Flins says from behind Varka.
Varka nearly jumps. “Dude!” he says, beaming as he turns around. “You made it! I was worried Illuga would keep you forever again. He’s pretty strict with you, huh?”
“Ah. Yes,” Flins says, smiling for some indiscernible reason. “He’s been keeping me busy. In fact he’s been keeping me awake practically all night.”
Lauma coughs.
Varka pats his shoulder sympathetically. “I am so sorry. Can’t imagine pissing off the RA that bad. What’d you even do to him?”
Flins adjusts his high collar and clears his throat. “He’s quite justified in his behavior, I’ll tell you that much.”
Varka doesn’t know what that means. He stares at Flins, trying to make sense of it. For the first time he notices a strange discoloration around Flins’s collar. “Hold on, I think you’ve got a bruise or something. Have you been wearing that necklace you’re allergic to again? I thought I told you stainless steel jewelry’s better for your skin.”
Flins’s expression only grows more smug. “Ah. No. That was Illuga.”
Varka blinks. “He’s strangling you? Jesus Christ, man.”
“…” says Lauma.
“…” says Nefer.
“Well,” says Flins.
“You should, like, report this to the dean,” Varka says. “This can’t be allowed. I mean, the RA has power over residents, but not that much power.”
More silence. All three of them stare at him.
Varka suddenly feels a bit sweaty. “Was it something I said?”
Lauma coughs again. “Varka,” she says kindly, “why don’t you, ah, tell Flins about your desire to learn sign language?”
Oh, right! Varka snaps back into action. “Okay! Well, I’ve already picked up a few words because Nicole signs sometimes instead of using her Lightwriter. Uh, so this is ‘I’ and this is ‘love’ and this is ‘you—’”
Flins sighs fondly.
Varka puts down his hands and looks at him. “What?”
“Ah, Varka,” Flins says, sitting down next to him at the table. He smiles and takes out his laptop. “Never change.”
***
Varka forgets about it for a little while, and then one day Flins comes home actually stumbling over his own feet and wincing whenever he sits down.
“Shit,” Varka says, scrambling to help him lean against the wall. “Flins, what the hell? Are you okay? What happened to you?”
Flins has the mental fortitude to grin his stupid grin through the haze of pain that’s making his eyes fuzzy. “Illuga,” he says, like this is an answer all on its own, and then he falls onto his bed like a marionette with his strings cut.
He looks exhausted. Sure, he looks kind of happy about it, but this can’t be normal. He’s always known that Flins is weird—the whole seven hundred years old thing, when he can’t possibly be more than twenty two—but this is too far. If he won’t stand up for himself, he’s just going to keep getting walked all over like a doormat.
Varka makes up his mind.
***
“I need to talk about my residential assistant,” Varka says to the dean, as resolutely as possible. He’s sweating a little under his shirt.
The dean, Nikita, smiles at him with his weathered mouth. “Ah! I recognize you—you’re from my son’s dorm. He helped you move in, yes? Illuga? Wonderful boy, isn’t he?”
Varka stares at him. Suddenly his whole body goes cold.
Of course. Of course Flins couldn't file a complaint with the dean, when the dean is Illuga’s father. The whole situation makes sense now. Illuga knows he can do whatever he wants, because Flins can’t complain, and—oh god, he’s been physically hurting him, and Flins can’t even tell anyone, because the person at the top would never trust his word over his own son’s, and—
“So, what’s your comment about him?”
And they even seem civil in front of other people, like that time he found Illuga praising Flins’s clothes! He’s keeping up the illusion so that he can get away with whatever he wants behind closed doors!!
Nikita looks at him sideways. “Mr. Boreas?”
Varka feels like he’s going to be sick. “Nothing,” he says weakly. “Uh, it’s all great. Everything is great. Thank you.”
Like a coward, he flees the dean’s office.
This is a deeper web than he thought.
***
There’s only one person he can turn to for help.
Well, actually, there are two—he could also ask Sucrose, because he’s pretty sure Sucrose doesn’t care about anyone’s opinion except for her research supervisor, Albedo, and maybe her lab partner, Timaeus—but Varka is fucking terrified of her, okay, so there’s only one option.
So he comes flying through the door of Nicole’s office hours and says, “I have the world’s weirdest favor to ask.”
Nicole doesn’t even look surprised. She just smiles a little—wow, she’s got a really nice smile, like, a great smile, the kind of smile you want to stare at for a while, a Mona fucking Lisa smile—and taps something out on her Lightwriter. Is this related to your history thesis?
Varka’s confidence suddenly slips. Right. Office hours are supposed to be used for academic inquiries. Not… whatever this is. “Yes…?”
Nicole gives him a skeptical, amused look.
He folds instantly. “Well, no,” he admits. “But it’s really important to me, okay? And I don’t know who else to ask. It’s—an administration problem, and I know you care enough to stand up to them.”
Nicole looks flattered. Thank you. I didn’t know your opinion of me was so high.
“Very high,” Varka says, and then instantly regrets it. “Uh, I just mean. You’re really cool. And helpful. And patient. Probably the only TA who’s actually understood how to help me get where I need to go.”
Nicole makes a soft sound through her nose, like a half-laugh. I’m not used to people taking advantage of my office hours. You’re very kind to keep visiting.
Varka huffs a laugh and sits down in the chair across from her. “You’re very kind to keep putting up with me.”
You are easy to put up with, Nicole types, and then quickly sets the Lightwriter down again, like the words are too much to keep.
Varka’s face warms up. He sits there.
Nicole looks at him, then away again. Her fingers hesitate over the Lightwriter. Eventually she types, What is the favor?
“Oh! Right.” Varka clears his throat. He sits up straighter in his seat. “I need to figure out how to take a stand against a faculty member. Well, kind of. Our RA. I need to take a stand against him. My roommate is being, like, assaulted by him, I think.”
The dean’s office has a reporting system for these—
Varka waves his hands quickly, and she stops typing and listens again.
The Lightwriter’s abrupt cease makes his stomach sink. He’s used to conversations being simultaneous rather than turn-based, but he’s not sure what the etiquette is in this situation, with the speaking device. “Sorry,” he says, ducking his head. “I, uh, didn’t mean to interrupt you. I just mean that it’s a bigger issue than that.”
Nicole nods. Don’t worry. Please speak to me as you would anyone else.
Varka wouldn’t want to cut her off anyway even if she spoke with her voice, but he digresses. “Well, the thing is, the dean is our RA’s dad.”
Nicole pales.
“So I don’t know what to do,” Varka admits. All his bravado rushes out of him and leaves him exhausted. He slumps down onto her desk. “I need to help him, but I don’t know how.”
Nicole spends a long moment in silence. Eventually he feels something in his hair. Her hand. Her beautiful hand, sweeping his hair out of his face for him. Varka tries not to breathe.
You’re a good friend, Nicole types eventually. She must be using one hand; the other one’s still resting in Varka’s hair.
Varka sighs out a long breath and closes his eyes. “I want to help him,” he says quietly. “I mean, he’s been called for disciplinary consultations, like, every day.” Well, more like twice or thrice a week, but still. Same thing. “And he comes back with bruises, like he’s been beaten up. And somehow they still act nice with each other in public, but behind closed doors…”
Nicole’s hand goes absolutely still in his hair.
Varka blinks open his eyes. “Is everything alright?”
Instead of typing, Nicole nods. She takes her hand back and starts keying things out by hand, slower than usual: Your roommate doesn’t happen to be Kyryll Flins?
Ah. That explains why it took so long; she must have spelled out his name instead of using automatic functions. “Yeah. You know him?”
I know his boyfriend, Nicole types. Then, slowly, key by key: Illuga Koschmar.
Varka blinks.
Nicole blinks back at him.
“No,” Varka says, aghast.
Nicole nods gravely.
“No.”
Nicole nods.
Varka looks at the desk without seeing it. “Dude,” he says faintly. “Oh my god.”
Nicole huffs a laugh through her nose and reaches out for his hands. She holds them across the table, deathly serious, and nods again.
Never let it be said that she isn’t funny. Varka only wishes it wasn’t at his own expense.
“So the disciplinary consultations,” Varka says. “And the—oh my god, he said he goes to his boyfriend’s place instead of ours. And he doesn’t fucking go anywhere except—oh. Oh. OH.”
Nicole ducks her head to hide her quiet, muffled laughter.
Varka huffs. “Don’t laugh at me,” he says petulantly, mostly on instinct.
Nicole lifts her head. She’s still smiling, wider this time, and she’s got this amused slant to her eyes, and color in her face like she hasn’t been this happy in weeks.
Varka stares at her. The room gets about five degrees warmer.
Nicole reaches for the Lightwriter again and hides her face in her jacket collar.
“You don’t have to—uh, I mean, your laugh is nice,” Varka says in a rush. “I mean, I am an idiot. And I like when you laugh. So I don’t actually mind if you’re laughing at me. You know?”
Nicole’s smile softens. I’m not laughing at you.
“You are.”
Maybe a little.
Varka doesn’t even mind. If he can make Nicole laugh, maybe he’ll just have to be an idiot forever.
Anyway, Nicole types. Do you still feel that the incident justifies intervention? There’s a separate office for dating violence if that’s the problem.
Varka grimaces. No, yep, it all makes sense. “On second thought, I think Flins is exactly where he wants to be.”
Nicole makes a vague, half-humming sound that Varka has learned means approval.
“But thanks for trying to help,” Varka says, turning to her.
Nicole’s eyes flicker. She reaches for the Lightwriter again, and types: I’m not only here for academic help. I also like you as a person.
“Oh! Oh, uh, great,” Varka says, flushing. “I like you as a person too. You probably knew that already. I’m a big Nicole fan. You know me.”
Nicole just smiles. She looks faintly endeared. Varka, she types. It only takes one click.
Varka looks down at the device, baffled. “Did you put my name into your autofill options?”
Nicole’s smile widens. If you want, she types, instead of answering his question, I’m free on Tuesday after my office hours conclude.
Varka’s voice dies in his throat.
We could get coffee, Nicole types, spelling it out slowly with a smile on her face. I want to tell you about all the inaccuracies in the historical fiction novel I’m reading. And you can pretend you know what I’m talking about.
“I’m not pretending,” Varka says, aghast.
Nicole looks at him.
“But really, I’d like that,” he says, a little quieter. “What kind of coffee do you like? I know a place that does really good espresso, but there’s also a place where they do drinks with, uh, juice and coffee? Cold brew flavors? Really cool stuff. Barista wears her cat ears to work every day.”
Nicole’s face goes red. I don’t actually like coffee very much, she types, her fingers fast. I shouldn’t have offered that. I’m sorry.
“Then why’d you ask?”
Because that’s what people do on dates, isn’t it?
Varka’s brain crashes.
On. Dates.
Okay! Okay, so they’re doing this!!
“Well—it doesn’t have to be coffee,” he says, too high-pitched. “I can take you to the library. Or, like, the parking lot. We can sit in the parking lot on the curb and talk until it’s time for you to go home.”
The parking lot, Nicole types, raising her eyebrows.
Yeah, okay, maybe that one sounds weird in isolation. “Good spot for talking,” Varka mutters, embarrassed.
Nicole looks amused. I like going for walks in the campus garden, she types. Let’s start there.
“The garden! Yeah. I can do that,” Varka says, waving his hands wildly. “That sounds fine. Actually, that sounds great. The garden. I’ll be there.”
Nicole smiles.
***
“I’M GOING ON A DATE WITH HER,” Varka declares, twirling around in an ecstatic little circle as he throws open their door.
And then.
“Oh,” says Illuga from on top of their couch.
Varka blinks.
Because that’s Illuga, on their couch. And that’s Flins, underneath him. And they’re, like. Disheveled. And Illuga’s face is bright red. And—okay, yeah, they’ve been making out or something.
“Hello,” says Flins, looking highly smug.
Illuga makes a face like he wants to die. He stands up hastily.
“Oh, great, all your clothes are on,” says Varka. He plunks himself down at the table, where the cards are still in disarray from the last time they played. “Well, whatever. Anyway, she asked me on a date! I think this is the greatest day of my life.”
Flins stares at him. He raises his eyebrows.
Varka blinks. “What?”
“You aren’t surprised?”
“Well, of course I’m surprised. I’m still, like, out of breath from all the dancing I did on my way here.”
Illuga coughs.
“Oh, you mean about—” Here Varka gestures vaguely at both of them. “Oh. No, in retrospect it was actually really obvious. I don’t know how I missed that.” He looks at Illuga briefly. “I guess you didn’t seem like a dateable option. Respectfully, you’re really not my type.”
“He means you’re not tall,” Flins says helpfully. “He only likes people who are six foot and above.”
“Actually, Nicole is five eleven,” Varka says proudly.
“I am actually so fucking sorry,” Illuga says flatly, looking at the wall. “I told him we should go to mine like we usually do but he insisted. This is an incredibly inappropriate breach of conduct and I promise it won’t occur again.”
“What, like, you being here? Dude, I really don’t care. Go crazy. Just use protection and put a sock on the door or whatever.”
Illuga stares at him. He sits down heavily in the chair.
“He thought you were beating me up,” Flins says proudly.
Illuga pales. “WHAT?”
“Well, since we have alcohol in the dorm,” Varka says conversationally. “So I thought you were, like, abusing your position to punish him physically. Which in retrospect is kind of idiotic, I guess.”
Illuga’s eyes sharpen. “You have what in your dorm?”
Varka blinks several times.
…Ah, shit.