Rosy’s cabin was empty, and her Hermeticism homework was giving her a headache. That whole class had been giving her a headache, and it was distressing. She wasn't supposed to be letting her grades give her a headache anymore. Just people. And yet, here she was, eyes crossing over this stupid textbook, muttering, “Fuck you, question twelve, why don’t you make sense?”
With a dramatic groan, Rosy slammed her book shut and flung her pen at the window. The drooping Sirensong Trumpeter flower outside her window was unscathed by the attack from said pen, and Rosy's head still hurt.
Well, at least there was nobody in here bothering her with their problems.
That was when Chris strolled right through the door, and didn’t pause until he’d climbed into Rosy’s bed and rolled over onto his back. He rested his head on her pillow, clasped his hands atop his chest and sighed. “Dear Diary. The day is November second, in the year two thousand and thirteen. Since last we spoke, a clusterfuck of things have occurred. First and foremost, I haven’t had sex in over two weeks.” Chris sighed again. “Second, I created a working prototype for my senior project. That doesn’t factor into the clusterfuck of things, but I like repeating it, so it needs to be written down for record.”
Oh for fuck's sake.
“Dude, I—” Rosy made a vain attempt at preventing Chris from clambering up into her bed, a half-hearted swat at his legs as they disappeared into her bunk. Jesus Christ. “I’m doing homework,” she might as well have said into the abyss, as her words were overridden by, oh, what was that, his fucking problems.
Sighing, knowing how this was going to play out anyways, Rosy stood up and turned to face her apparent patient, here for his unscheduled therapy appointment. She stepped onto the first rung of the ladder and leaned against the frame of the bed. “You know you carry an actual journal around with you every day, right?”
This wasn’t even a first, and Chris obviously never actually told Rosy everything. But being an asshole and turning this into a joke actually made it easier to talk. Mostly because Rosy was a bit of a dick about it. This would probably be considered flirting if they weren’t such assholes about it.
“Yes, but I can’t write that shit in the actual journal where actual other people see it. Anyway. Where was I?” Chris paused dramatically. “Oh right, making a bombass Batman bracelet for my senior project. Third, took this pretty hot junior to the Halloween dance. Where Cecil made me a little uncomfortable. By telling me I’m a good person in my heart, and I deserve to have fun and hugging me and shit. And Quinn fucking hugged me. And I hugged Diego. That’s weird. I’m probably never going to pretend to be social again. Because social really only seems to mean hugging a lot of random people. And none of the hugging ever leads to sex. So it really just feels extremely personal and unnecessary. Pretty sure I tried to hug Sy.”
Rosy made a show of only half-listening to what he was saying, keeping her eyes pointed at her chipped nail polish and nodding vaguely at his statements. Bombass Batman bracelet, hot junior, hugging everyone? You don’t say.
“Okay, Sy actually gives great hugs, so I don’t see what’s wrong with that part,” she said, glancing up from her nails to give Chris her most sarcastic eyebrows. “Why the hell were you pretending to be social anyway?” And, because that was bordering on sounding sincere, she added on, “It throws off the whole dynamic of your social group.”
Chris rolled his eyes. Chris had no idea if Sy gave great hugs because Sy didn’t tend to try to hug him. That wasn’t their dynamic. Punching, shoving, shouting - that was more their dynamic. He liked their dynamic just fine.
“Why thank you for taking an interest in my life and asking, Diary,” Chris said enthusiastically. “Because I decided to channel a less annoying, less dorky Diego - because that asshole seems happy all the goddamn time. And I learned something that night. Being social is so goddamn exhausting. I hated it. I’m never doing it again. I can’t believe you let me do it in the first place. This is why I have you around, Diary, to keep me from making stupid decisions that are exhausting and disappointing.” There was evident accusation in Chris’s tone, but he was clearly not entirely serious.
Rosy rolled her eyes right back at him. “Uh-uh, after you threw a smoke bomb at me, the advice diary went off the clock and let you make your own bad decisions.”
But, okay, Rosemary understood the exhausting part of socializing, especially at a dance or party or something. She’d been to enough charity bullshit in LA to know how tedious the small talk, the fake smiles, the interaction with your fellow man really was. She could be sympathetic. Even if you couldn’t necessarily tell she was being sympathetic. “Too bad you didn’t go as Hannibal Lecter, you know. A straitjacket could have stopped all of that rampant hugging going on.”
It should probably occur to Chris that Rosy is probably familiar with socializing, given her name and her family’s name. It doesn’t, because this is about him, this is his therapy session. He doesn’t have time to consider that other people understand the issue more than he does. That’s not why people go to therapy.
Chris rapped his fingers across his sternum. Rosy’s bed smelled nice. That was a weird thought, he told himself. But this whole cabin smelled way better than his. Did they just burn incense in their free time or some shit? “I should’ve gone as Hannibal Lecter. A straitjacket would’ve been useful,” he said - as if this was his thought, and he wasn’t just repeating Rosy. That was a genius idea. “But Robin and Trixie wanted me to go as some cat thing person thing. I didn’t really get it. I gave into peer pressure. That’s probably the real lesson here. Smoke bombs were pretty cool though.”
“You know, I'm really proud of you,” Rosy said, not an ounce of sincerity in her words as she went back to checking her nails. She would have to fix that chip in her nail polish once this random asshole got out of her bed. “That’s exactly the advice I would have given. Don’t succumb to peer pressure and you'll have sex more often or something, I don’t know, are we done?”
Dropping her hand, Rosy looked back up at Chris. She tried not to smile. Yeah, maybe she liked him being here sometimes, and maybe this was giving her less of a headache than Hermeticism homework, shut up, fuck off. “Or are you gonna bitch about people liking you and wanting to hug you some more? Because you might as well get it all out now.”
The extreme incredulous look that crossed over Chris’s face at hearing the phrase I’m really proud of you probably said some things about his experience with that phrase. But then a look of unamusement quickly erased it from his face. “That’s a lie. Caving to peer pressure gets you more sex,” he said. Partially because it was true and partially just to contradict her. Contradicting her felt more important than being right.
“I have another confession, Diary,” he continues as if Rosy wasn’t in the process of trying to kick him out. “People liking me and wanting to hug me feels weirdly empty. The fuck is up with that?”
Some people just cannot take a hint. Or will not. And stubbornly refuse to try. “I don’t know, Christopher,” Rosy sighed. “Have you considered the possibility that you’re just dead inside?” The world’s worst amateur therapist stepped off her ladder, moving back toward her desk. “And you realize that no amount of hugs or friendship will ever fill the black hole where your heart should be?” She flipped open her textbook again.
“Because my advice is to just accept it and get used to living a half-life. It’s easier that way—hey you’re in hermeticism, right?” The transition from Bad Advice Mode was not subtle. Chris clearly did not do subtle.
Chris arched an eyebrow, looking over at Rosy. He didn’t consider that he was dead inside, but Rosy’s reaction to it - while being a terrible therapist - was questionable, like maybe she felt a little bit dead inside? Or was just a major dick? This could’ve been a serious cry for help. It wasn’t; but it could’ve been.
“Yeah, top of the class,” Chris answered, rolling over and propping himself up on his elbow so he could watch her. “Diary, do you feel dead inside?” Because Chris really didn’t do subtle.
Rosy looked back up at Chris, her own eyebrow arched in return. “The diary’s not on the couch today,” she said, shaking her head. “Or bed. Whatever. But neither are you,” Rosy picked up her notebook and brandished it in Chris’ general direction, as if that alone would communicate her very specific academic struggle to him, “you have to get down here pay me back for my awesome advice by telling me why question twelve is such a dick.”
“Question twelve is a dick because you’re a dick, Diary,” Chris told Rosy calmly, as if this was his sage advice to her. This was just generally not how someone should speak to someone else they took with them to a dance, right? But then he held out his hand, the universal sign of let me see it so he could actually read question twelve because they definitely did not share this class so he had no idea why question twelve was a dick.
“You wish you were as big a dick as me,” Rosy muttered, looking at his hand, asking for the book. She hesitated for a long moment, unhappy with the idea that someone else might see her mild scholastic trouble and judge her for it, think of her as someone who isn’t good at Hermeticism and, by extension, school in general.
Through teeth she had to work very hard to unclench, she said, “You gotta get off my bed if you want to show off your mastery of question twelve, therapy is over and you're making my bed smell like boy.”
Chris rolled around, nuzzling his face against her pillow and closing his eyes. He looked like he was very close to taking an impromptu nap just to piss her off. But finally, he rolled over and gracefully hopped off the bunk without using the ladder.
He grabbed the book from her hands and walked past her to make himself comfortable in the chair she’d vacated. Was he trying to make her whole cabin smell like boy? Probably.
He read over question twelve. Oh yeah. He remembered this question because it’d fucked him over the year before. “I think we both aspire to be the level dick this question is,” he finally observed, sounding far more amused than he’d been last year. “It’s worded fucked up. I remember the equation for it because Cricket said it out loud in class. It fucked her over too. It was a class wide bonding activity. An orgy, if you will, we all got fucked on that day. Got a pencil?”
Rosy hesitated again, longer than she really should have considering she asked him to help and he actually seemed to be helping. “Yeah,” she said slowly, grabbing a pencil off her desk and tossing it at him. “But I swear to god, if you draw a dick on my notes I’m gonna make the whole school hug you.”
Chris caught the pencil and smiled at her. Because yeah, okay, that was an effective threat, and he was contemplating drawing a dick on her notes. Instead, he scribbled out the appropriate equation and then wrote a couple lines thoroughly explaining the equation and how it correlates with question twelve. He tended to explain these things better on paper than out loud. There were a lot less sex metaphors when he wrote it all down. He handed her book back to her. “Happy? I didn’t even use a metaphor about sex to explain it. It’s damn near professional. Also, you got question four wrong. So I corrected it. You know, we can end all of our therapy sessions with hermeticism homework. This is kind of-” Chris stops himself, because he almost said fun and that was weird. Nerds find homework fun and he’s not a nerd. He’s just smart. There’s a vast difference. He clears his throat and finishes “super helpful,” lamely.
Rosy had no problem admitting homework can be fun. Rosy had never had any problem letting her nerd flag fly. What she didn’t like was how the prospect of future bullshit therapy sessions interrupting her quiet homework time didn’t annoy her.
“I—yeah, thanks,” she cleared her throat and immediately hid her face behind a curtain of hair as she inspected just what the fuck she had done so wrong in question four. There was definitely no blush creeping across her face or anything, that would be dumb.
“Are you saying I didn’t solve all your problems this time?” Rosy looked up again, biting the inside of her lip as she smiled a little too genuinely. Gotta make that smirk a little more wry and sarcastic, Rosemary.
“Or are you just really excited about the prospect of correcting my homework again? Because I’m probably never going to make a mistake ever again.”
“You don’t even know all my problems,” Chris said. Because he wasn’t fully in denial. He liked spending time with Rosy. She smelled nice and her smile can be sharp enough to shear through steel and he liked that too. So obviously, there’s a section of actual, serious problems, he never really planned on talking about here. Like how being in the same room with Levi physically pained him - partially because that was a vulnerability, but also partially because you don’t tell those problems to someone you actually like.
“And you say that shit now, but soon as I walk out the door, you’re gonna be going over the problems going ‘wow, Christopher explains shit so succinctly, I should bring all my homework problems to him; how is a quidditch player this much of a genius, I’m grateful I get to talk to Christopher. Signed, Christopher’s Diary.” Chris beamed at Rosy and was fairly positive this was where she attempts to kick him out - not for being a sarcastic asshole, but for being entirely correct. And also partially for doing a shitty impression of how he believes females talk. It was a little pitchy, and a little California valley-y.
Rosy gave him her most sardonic look, her face a perfectly unamused mask. “It’s terrifying how much that sounded like me,” she said, and her voice was also very flat. Only the very corners of her mouth, just barely twitching up, betrayed her slight enjoyment of the dumb impression “Which is why I think it’s time for you to get the fuck out of my cabin. There’s only room for one Rosemary in these parts.”
Chris rose to his feet. “Okay but I’ll be back. Your roommates love me. And low key you do too - that's the problem I came here to complain about.” He took a step toward her, opening his arms in the universal group hug gesture. “Wanna end this full circle and hug me?” He asked.
Rosy, who objectively sucks at hugs, stuck out her hand instead. “How about a professional handshake?” she offered. “I have a very good handshake, you’ll be impressed.”
Chris smiled at Rosy and dropped his open arms but he does take her hand to very formally shake it. “You’ve got a very strong grip for a diary,” he said because is this not how you hit on people. He should probably leave before he gets unbearable. He should probably question hitting on his captain’s twin sister what that says about himself but Rosy is her own person. And also hotter.
Rosy squeezed his hand pretty damn hard one last time before letting go. “Got a killer left hook, too. For a diary. Now get the fuck out and bask in your improved mental health.”
Chris didn’t recoil from the strength of Rosy’s ‘hand shake.’ If anything, it brought another smile to his face. One that quickly disappeared when he realized that he was smiling way too much right now. He needed to stop it. He had the whole scowling thing going on, so he really needed to fucking go back to that. That worked just fine.
“See you next week, Stoker,” he said as he headed for her door. Two things were wrong with that sentence. One - he was definitely going to see her before next week, the campus was too small for them not to. And two - the first time he calls her by her name probably shouldn’t have been her last name, a name he’s shouted at her brother. He should’ve called her Rosemary, damn. |
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gooseberryhigh2017-07-26 02:04 pm
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Me and Alex basically gave birth to a baby
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