Work Text:
“Do I have to go?”
Marissa looks at you in the mirror and rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Yes, you do. Hand me the setting spray.”
You dutifully pass the bottle over before leaning closer to your reflection to continue applying your eyeliner. “Ugh. It’s just—you know how I am about STEM people.”
“Myself excluded.”
“Obviously.” Damn. The wing looks like shit. You click your tongue and wipe it off carefully. “Look. If they were all as well-adjusted as you, I wouldn’t have a problem. But no. They all act like God’s greatest gift to the universe. And their writing is terrible.”
She says nothing at that, yet, closing her eyes and letting the setting spray mist over her face. “They’re really not so bad. And I promised Josh we would both go.”
Josh. You do not like him, not just because he’s exactly the arrogant STEM grad student you just described, but also because you think he’s terrible for her. But she’s head-over-heels, and you want to be supportive, so whatever. You give it a month.
“And,” she says lightly, fanning her face with her hands, “his roommate is really cute.”
“No.”
“And nice! He’s so nice. I think you’d like him.”
“Probably not.”
Marissa pouts, then, and after a moment she takes the eyeliner pen from your hands and motions for you to turn to face her. You close your eyes as she gently swipes the black ink at the corner of your eye. “Just give him a chance. And if he’s lame, or the party is boring, we can come back here and gorge ourselves on canned cocktails and popcorn. Open.”
You open your eyes and turn back toward your reflection. It is annoying how much better she is at makeup than you. “Thanks. And…fine. But I am holding you to that. And I make no promises about the roommate.”
“Deal. Now hurry up, we’re going to be late.”
--
You’ll give them one thing: STEM students do not do parties halfway.
The two of you had arrived only a little late, and half of the people there were already shitfaced. They must carefully calculate what alcohol to knock back in order to get drunk as quickly and efficiently as possible. Nerds.
Marissa immediately beelines to Josh, leaving you standing in the entryway awkwardly. Fine. You’ll tell her she’s a bad roommate tomorrow and make her buy you a coffee. You head to the kitchen, presumably where the alcohol is; it’s also more well-lit than the rest of the apartment. A few people are standing around, chatting, but you ignore them to survey the bottles crowding the counter.
You settle for making a simple vodka lemonade when someone sidles up beside you. “Hi. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Probably not.” You don’t look up at him from making your drink, because you’re kind of not interested in trying to go home with someone tonight. There is a metric fuck ton of grading waiting for you in the morning.
He doesn’t seem to take the hint. “I’m Ryland. One of the hosts for this evening.”
Why is he talking like that? Whatever. This must be the roommate Marissa mentioned. Even though you told her, multiple times, that you weren’t promising to put in any effort here, you sigh and turn toward him anyway to give him your name in return. “I’m Marissa’s roommate.”
“Oh, Josh’s girlfriend. Nice.”
“Sure.”
Annoyingly, Marissa was right. Ryland is cute. His blond hair is ruffled in a way that screams ‘I don’t care’ but is also most definitely styled that way on purpose. There’s a little bit of stubble coming in on his face. You think he’s recently decided to try growing it out. His blue eyes have a hint of mirth behind his wire-frame glasses as he watches you look him over. “What department are you in? Wait—don’t tell me. I have a sixth sense for these sorts of things."
You watch, then, as he takes his time looking you over. You try not to roll your eyes. He is already giving you the distinct sense that he is the kind of person who is used to getting everything that he wants, and suddenly you are hit with the urge to humble him, to knock him down a few pegs so he can have some meaningful character growth.
He snaps his fingers. “Chemistry.”
You make a buzzer sound. “Wrong.”
“Really? Hm. Okay. Not bio—I would have met you already. Earth sciences?”
“Nope. That’s strike two.”
He grins. It’s annoying. He’s annoying, you have decided, because the alternative is something that you will not allow. “I didn’t know we were going off of the strike system.”
You bring your plastic cup to your lips. Oops. You might have made your drink a little too strong. “We are now. Last guess.”
Ryland leans his hip against the countertop and looks you over again, even more intensely. “Comp sci.”
“Wow. That is…” You let it hang there for a second, so he can feel good about himself before you let him down. “Incorrect. Sorry. No prize for you.”
“There was a prize? Damn.” He’s still grinning, seemingly unfazed by being wrong. Boo. “Well, what is it?”
“English lit.”
His eyes widen. “Yeah, I never would have guessed that.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, for starters, pretty much everyone in this apartment right now is in the sciences.” He picks up his own drink, then, and takes a long sip, looking at you over the rim of the cup. “And you don’t look the type.”
You scoff and cross your arms. “The hole you’re digging yourself into is getting deeper. You know that, right?”
“I just meant—I don’t know, you seem intelligent.” Instead of deigning that comment with a response, you mime digging and throwing dirt over your shoulder. “Alright, that’s fair.”
“This usually goes a little better for you, huh?”
“A bit, yeah. Can I get a do-over?” Ryland mirrors your posture, crossing his own arms over his chest. His shirt has some kind of science pun printed on it, but you can’t see all of the joke.
“No.” You shift against the counter and uncross your arms—no body-mirroring for him—before taking another sip and then sighing. Ugh. Fine. “But you can ask me again after I’ve had a few more drinks.”
This makes him smile again, but this time it’s a little more purposeful, a little calculating. “Bottoms up, then.” He taps his cup against yours, and you both take a deep drink.
The two of you just look at each other, then, sizing up your opponents, until someone yells in the living room. “Everyone, get in here! We’re playing a game.” You’re pretty sure it’s Josh. Man, you fucking hate that guy.
“Shall we?” Ryland gestures toward the doorway.
You say nothing, simply turning around and walking out of the kitchen. You will be doing everything in your power not to sit next to this frustratingly cute and, frankly, annoying man.
--
They have been arguing over the rules for the past fifteen minutes.
Marissa is sitting on Josh’s lap next to you. You are trying not barf at the way he’s groping her thighs. On your other side is Ryland, because evidently the universe is choosing to punish you this evening.
You sigh as someone nitpicks another rule again, something about ‘well that’s not how I’ve always played it,’ and pull out your phone. Initially, you intended to just look up the rules yourself so something will actually happen, but then you see an email from your advisor. “Oh, shit.”
“What?” Ryland leans over to look at your phone, pressing into your side. Great. He’s an arrogant dick who also has no sense of personal space. “You know, it’s a little lame to be on your phone at a party.”
You ignore the last comment. “It’s an email from my advisor.”
“Short story due at eleven, or something?”
Does he think that this is effective flirting? Being an asshole? “English lit, not creative writing, remember? And she wants to meet about potential dissertation topics.”
He hums and peers at your screen a little more closely. You turn it off out of spite. “And do you have those? Ideas for your diss?”
“Victorian novels. I just need to pick a more specific lens.”
“Wow. Isn’t that stuff super uptight and prudish?”
It is actually impressive at this point. “It’s literally kind of the opposite. God, you probably don’t even know who Foucault is, do you?”
Ryland waves a hand and takes another drink. “Sure I do. History of Sexuality, right?” You blink at him in surprise, and he just smiles cheekily. “Not all STEM students are illiterate.”
“You could have fooled me,” you snipe back. You lift up your cup. Damn. Empty.
You start to stand to get another drink, because it doesn’t seem like much progress has been made on the rules, but he gets up instead. “I got it. What do you want?”
“Um. Vodka and…whatever is fine. Don’t roofie me. I watch a lot of true crime. I know how to make it look like you’ve had an accident.”
Ryland laughs, abruptly, like he wasn’t expecting it. “Good to know.”
You watch as he walks away. Marissa elbows you. “Sounds like it’s going well. I told you.”
“Uh, have you even been listening? He’s an asshole,” you scoff. She simply smiles knowingly. “Absolutely not.”
Josh pipes up. You wish he wouldn’t. “Ryland’s a great guy, actually. Probably the smartest person in the department. The faculty love him.”
There are a few things you would like to say in response, ranging from ‘who asked’ to ‘being smart doesn’t give you license to be a prick,’ but you don’t get the chance to pick, because Ryland is already returning from the kitchen and settling in beside you again on the couch. It is unclear whether he is pressing his thigh against yours on purpose. He clinks his cup against yours after he’s handed you your drink.
You sputter the second it hits your lips. “Jesus Christ, what did you put in this? Gasoline?”
“You said vodka and whatever. I might have emphasized the vodka over the whatever.” He clinks you again. “Come on, proper drink this time.”
“Are you trying to get me shitfaced?”
He sets his cup down on the table with a grin before sprawling his arm across the back of the couch behind you. “You did say I’d have to wait for a do-over until after a few drinks,” he points out.
God, it must be 80% liquor. You try not to grimace as you swallow it down. “Actually, I said you could ask for one. I never promised I’d say yes.”
The hand that isn’t behind you taps against his thigh. “Are you this pedantic with everyone you meet?”
“No. Just the annoying people.”
“Mm. I see.” The look he’s giving you is—you don’t like it, whatever it is, you don’t like the way his eyes seem to sharpen at the challenge, how he searches your face, the fact that he’s still smiling, but it’s gained that calculated edge again. “Guess I’ll just have to take my chances.”
Yeah, good luck with that, buddy, you think.
--
“That’s not even—I’m starting to think you haven’t even read volume one, you just threw out the title to try and score some points.”
Ryland is still grinning, and the two of you are still sitting on the couch, because he’d goaded you into a conversation after the game finished. You are pointedly ignoring Josh and Marissa making out next to you. You feel your hand twitch, probably because you would like to punch the look he’s giving you off his face.
“I’ve skimmed it.”
“You’ve. Skimmed it.”
“Yeah. It was kind of boring.”
The worst thing is that you kind of agree with him, because Foucault is so ubiquitous at this point that he can be kind of a chore to read, but you will not be giving him the satisfaction. “Right, sorry, I forgot—your critical thinking skills are probably a little lacking. They don’t really emphasize close reading in microbiology, do they?”
This makes him smile harder. “You remembered.”
“Oh, fuck off, Marissa probably mentioned it before. Speaking of—Marissa? I’d like to—” You turn around and immediately regret the decision, because now you’ll need to and burn the image of Josh’s tongue stuck down her throat out of your mind.
“I think she’s a little preoccupied at the moment.”
“Yeah, I see that now. Whatever, I’m going home.”
His eyebrows furrow. “Uh, it’s, like, one in the morning. Just crash on the couch.” You look at him flatly. “Right. It’s kind of in use at the moment.”
“I’ll just walk, it’s fine. It’s not that far.” You go to stand and then almost fall over. “Okay, I know that made it look like I’m too drunk to stand, but the couch is just really deep.”
“Of course.”
“Seriously. I’m just going to find my shoes and bounce.”
He stands up beside you. “I’ll walk you home.”
“Not necessary.”
“It kind of is.” Ryland finds your shoes before you can and hands them over. “This neighborhood is terrible. My bike keeps getting stolen.”
You slip your shoes on after a few attempts. “Have you tried not getting it stolen?”
“Hadn’t thought of that. Thanks.”
A laugh slips out before you can even register it. You purposefully do not look to see whatever smug expression he’s likely wearing. “Fine,” you sigh. “Just—I don’t owe you for this, or whatever. Don’t go asking for any favors like proofreading your papers, since I’m sure they’re probably riddled with grammatical errors.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
--
The walk really isn’t that long, but he sticks with you the whole way, catching your arm when you stumble over a raised crack in the concrete. He also doesn’t shut up the entire time, bouncing between commenting on the houses or pointing out the meager constellations in the sky above you.
When you finally reach your apartment complex, he turns to face you as you’re fumbling with your keys and unlocking the door. “So. About that do-over.”
You smile at him, sweetly, standing just inside the threshold, before closing the door in his face.
--
Erik Satie is drifting through the apartment from the TV—that three-hour loop of Gymnopédie no. 1, but it’s from your neighbor’s apartment, you know the one—while you skim through the final reading you need to do for next week’s seminar. You are comfortably swaddled in your favorite blanket, and a glass of wine sits untouched on the coffee table, because you are waiting to drink it until you finish the reading. As a treat.
The door to the apartment swings open. “I hope you’re decent,” Marissa calls, “we’re just stopping by to drop some stuff off before we head out again.”
You glance down. You’re only in pajama shorts and a tank top, but most of it is hidden by the blanket, so it’s probably fine. “Yeah, I’m decent. Also, who’s ‘we’?”
Marissa doesn’t need to answer, because then she’s walking in with Josh and—Ryland. Of course. Great. Wonderful. “We’ll be out of your hair in two seconds!” And then she and Josh are walking into her room, leaving you alone with Ryland.
He looks at the TV, then at your blanket cocoon. “Hi.”
“Hey.”
Then, because he’s an annoying prick, he walks over and plops down right next to you on the couch. “What are you up to?”
You shuffle over as best as you can while still wrapped up in the blanket. “Reading for class. Lacan.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Figures.”
“Can I see?” He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, because he’s already grabbing your laptop from your lap and skimming the text, pushing his glasses up while he does so. “Oh, psychoanalysis. That always seemed like a load of BS to me.”
Your left eyelid twitches, not because he’s snatched your laptop without actually asking or even that you disagree with him. It is, once again, because you do agree with him. “Well, it’s important for the history of literary studies, so.”
“How so?” He sets the laptop on the table instead of handing it back to you. Whatever. You were almost done with it anyway. “Also, classic video,” he says, gesturing at the TV.
“Thanks. And seriously? Psychoanalysis has been a dominant critical lens in lit for, like, decades.” Unfortunately.
Ryland simply leans back, making himself comfortable on the couch. Your couch. “I’ll take your word for it.”
The soft piano music is still playing. It feels at odds with your growing frustration. You lean forward to close your laptop, letting the blanket slip off of your shoulders. He shifts, just barely, beside you on the couch. “I feel like it’s been longer than a few minutes,” you mumble, waving your hand in the direction of Marissa’s room. “Aren’t you guys going to be late to—whatever it is that you’re going to?”
“Nah. We’re just going to a bar to meet up with some people in bio and astrophysics.” He sits up a little straighter, then, as if he’s been struck with an idea. “You should come.”
“Uh, no. I already have plans.”
“Right. I’m guessing those plans involve the glass of wine and Erik Satie.”
“Precisely.”
Ryland looks between you and the wine for a few beats, before his hand shoots out and grabs the glass. And then he’s chugging it.
“Dude, seriously?” You whine. “I was saving that.”
He brings the glass down from his lips, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sorry.” He does not sound even a little apologetic. “Here, there’s still some left.”
You make a disgusted face at him and push his hand away. “Ew, no, I don’t want it now. It’s probably got your disgusting backwash in it.”
“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, and then downs the last swallow. “It wasn’t even very good wine. You should try a Zinfandel next time. Maybe a White. I think you'd like it.”
This man. Comes into your apartment. Chugs your wine. And then insults it. “You’re incorrigible.”
The right corner of his mouth lifts. “I get that a lot. Also, ‘incorrigible’? Very Jane Austen.”
“Don’t even. Your lips aren’t worthy to speak her name.”
He laughs, and it’s the surprised one again, and your mouth pulls into a smile without you meaning to. “Well, looks like your evening just opened up. Come with us.”
Marissa and Josh choose that moment to reemerge from her room. “Ooh, yes!” She gasps. “You should totally come. I want you to meet the new astrophysics cohort. I think you’d like them.”
Probably not, but she’s looking at you so pleadingly, and you figure you can leverage this into her paying for groceries in a couple days. “Fine, fine. I just need, like, ten minutes.”
You stand up and leave the blanket crumpled on the sofa. “What, you don’t want to go dressed like that?” Ryland says behind you.
You say nothing as you walk to your room, though there may be a middle finger thrown up somewhere along the way.
--
You are getting so tired of being subjected to science while drinking.
One of the new first-years that Marissa mentioned is chatting animatedly at you. Not to you, at you, because you can’t even remember the last time you said something in this increasingly one-sided conversation. Something about going to Harvard, you think, and it’s unbearable, because he keeps referring to it as ‘the school in Boston,’ as if that isn’t widely known as the way people who go to Harvard and need everyone to know that fact talk about it.
You’re contemplating how much it would hurt to start slamming your head against the bar top when Ryland—because of fucking course—walks up to the two of you. “Sorry—George, right? I have a burning English literature question for my friend here, so I need to steal her away for a second.”
He tugs you away, and you barely have time to grab your drink from the bar. “Not friends.”
“Sorry, what was that? ‘Thank you for saving me from that conversation’? If so, you’re welcome.”
You roll your eyes as the two of you stop and stand toward the back of the bar. “I didn’t need saving. The conversation would have stopped eventually.”
“Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “I’m pretty sure he was trying to get in your pants.”
“So? What do you want, a medal? ‘Oh Ryland,’” you fawn, overexaggerated and utterly fake, “‘thank you for saving me from someone who wanted to have sex with me! Whatever would I have done without my white knight!’ Something like that?”
He looks down at you over the rims of his glasses and leans against the wall. “I think that’s the first time you’ve actually said my name.”
“Oh, my God. Do you have to try to be this self-centered, or does it just come naturally to you?”
This, apparently, does not warrant a response in his mind, because he simply brings his beer to his lips and takes a swig before speaking again. “I did actually have a question. Do I get my do-over yet?”
You hope that the look you’re giving him right now is effectively communicating how ridiculous you think all of this is. “Are you seriously still stuck on that? That was, what, a month ago?”
“Three weeks, actually.”
A huffed laugh comes out through your nose at that. “And you called me pedantic.”
Ryland smiles, wide and brilliant, and you are choosing to define the weird flip in your chest as annoyance. “So you do remember our conversation.”
“Why are you, like, obsessed with me? Is annoying me just that much fun for you?”
“Nah.” He steps a little closer to you, then, and you have to tilt your head up to maintain eye contact. “I just like the challenge. I’ve never met a problem I couldn’t solve.”
You decide, in that moment, to be the biggest, most frustrating, and, most importantly, most unsolvable problem ever.
--
The library is packed and deadly silent, save for the periodic page-turn and the clacking of laptop keys. There’s a tinge of seriousness to the air as the undergraduates bear down for midterms: no quiet laughter, no running around, no music blasting way too loud out of someone’s ear buds.
Josh is over at the apartment, again, which is annoying, firstly because it means the relationship is lasting longer than you thought it would, and second because you cannot get any work done when they hang out. (For obvious reasons.) There’s no exam you’re prepping for like many of the students around you, but you are trying to work on one of your seminar papers. Last year you had put most of them off until the end of the semester, and that had been a disaster, so you’re trying to get into the habit of starting them early.
You can sense him before you see him. He has a knack for finding you around campus. At first, you thought he might be stalking you, but you have come to learn that he is simply not organized enough for something like that.
“Is this seat taken?” Ryland asks. He sits down, because he never bothers to wait for your response. “What are you up to?”
“Writing a paper. Hush. We’re in a library.”
“Right.” He doesn’t take anything out to work on, instead just sitting there and tapping his fingers on the table, then grabbing one of your books and flipping through it.
He’s fidgeting. “You’re fidgeting,” you whisper. “It’s annoying. Stop.”
He sighs and puts the book down. “Did you like the thing I sent you?” Someone at the next table shoots him a death glare, and he puts his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry.”
Then he pulls his phone out and types something before setting it down on the table. The screen of your own phone lights up. Ryland looks between it and you expectantly. You close your eyes, sighing, and grab it. You don’t even know who originally gave him your number. Probably Marissa.
Hey
Hi
What’s the paper about?
applying psychoanalysis to Wuthering Heights
Sounds boring.
What are you doing this weekend?
…applying psychoanalysis to Wuthering Heights
I see
Well what if
And hear me out on this
You did something else?
Something that is actually fun and interesting
like what.
also, I want you to know that I am actively choosing to ignore that you are insulting my field.
Noted.
And, coming to the observatory
Marissa is giving that public-facing presentation
And they’re doing a cool show after
You should come!
It will heal your inner child
You fight the urge to roll your eyes, because you’re worried you’re going to strain them with how much you’ve been doing it recently. You had accidentally let it slip to him a week or so ago that your dream job as a child was being an astronaut, and he simply would not let it go, no matter how many times you pointed out that most people’s dream job when they were a kindergartener was to be an astronaut.
if I say yes, will you stop talking about my ‘inner child’?
it’s especially rich coming from someone who thinks psychoanalysis is ‘a load of BS’
…I can try?
You put your phone back down and try to return to your paper. It lights up several more times, and Ryland grows more fidgety each time you ignore it. He looks about ready to explode when you finally give up and look at the little screen again.
So is that a yes?
I’m assuming that’s a yes.
Hellooooo
I know that you know that I’m still texting you
Your eyes do this thing. I don’t know if you’re aware
But it makes it obvious
And I am very perceptive. Some would say the most perceptive person ever
I want to go get a coffee. Do you want a coffee?
You should come get a coffee. You look tired
you really need to get tested for ADHD
Probably, but that sounds like a lot of effort
it’s really not. I got tested last year
Wait really?
You have ADHD?
I didn’t know that
I’m well-medicated
you should try it.
Meh.
Sooooooo
Coffee?
You are pretty tired, and it is becoming very clear that you will not be getting any work done as long as he’s sitting there, so you sigh (again) and start packing your things up. Ryland stands immediately and waits for you, impatiently tapping his foot and messing with the pockets of his jeans. You put your things in your backpack even more slowly, just to mess with him.
He exhales loudly when you finally make it outside. He had gotten stopped by an undergrad, one of his students, probably, since you’re pretty sure you heard something about office hours. The student had looked at Ryland like he hung the stars in the sky; it is actually quite annoying how good he seems to be at teaching. He even has a RateMyProfessor page, which TAs don’t often get, and it is full of glowing reviews. Not that you’ve looked at it, or anything.
“Finally. I don’t know how you get any work done in there. Way too quiet.”
“Again. ADHD. Testing. Go do it.”
“Nah. I mean, everything’s worked out for me pretty well so far without being treated for it. I am a—”
“A presidential fellow, yes, I think you’ve mentioned that before.” He falls into step beside you, shortening his strides so you don’t have to quicken your pace to keep up. “And a published scholar, and you already have a research assistantship lined up for the summer. It’s incredible, really, how much you manage to talk about yourself.”
The conversation has, evidently, grown boring for him, because he immediately changes the subject. “You never answered my question. About if you liked the thing that I sent you.”
You snort. “What, the picture of Mr. Darcy with the caption ‘literally me’? As if. You wish you were Mr. Darcy.”
“Hey. I could be. I think I could pull of the tall, dark, stoic persona.” You look at him sideways and quirk an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe not the stoic part.”
“Or the dark hair. You’ve got the insufferable pride down, though.” The whole point is that Mr. Darcy isn’t actually all that insufferably proud, not really, but whatever.
Ryland ignores the second comment. “Yeah, I don’t think I could do the dark hair. To be honest, I’ve never even seen that movie. Or read the book, but that’s probably obvious.”
You stop in your tracks. He keeps walking for a few seconds until he notices that you’re no longer beside him, and then he also stops and turns around. “You’ve. Never seen. Pride and Prejudice.”
“Uh, no?”
“Not even the BBC series?”
“Well, seeing as I didn’t even know there was one until just now, nope.”
This is. Unacceptable. You’re about to tell him as much, but then you realize that you shouldn’t care whether he’s seen the movie or not, and that, actually, it gives you something to hold over his head, so you resume walking.
He matches your pace again. “Why, should I?”
An image pops into your mind, then, unbidden: the two of you sitting together, watching Pride and Prejudice, drinking wine. That gets mentally waved away. “No. Whatever. Do what you want, I don’t care.”
Ryland is silent for a moment, which is pretty unusual for him. “Yeah. I probably wouldn’t like it, anyway.”
He’s goading you, and you know it, and you know that he knows it, so you purposefully choose to stay silent. It does not take him long to start talking again, all the way to the coffee shop, the entire time you sit there and drink your shitty cappuccino that he ordered for you without asking what you wanted. (It would have been the cappuccino.)
--
“Thank you for coming, everyone, and enjoy the observatory!”
Marissa steps away from the podium and walks toward you, Ryland, and Josh. She immediately wraps her arms around Josh’s neck and kisses him. You fight the urge to grimace.
“That was amazing,” you say, once she’s done with that revolting display.
Ryland nods next to you. “Even she managed to follow along,” and he nudges you with his elbow. You jab him back, much harder.
“Thanks, guys. I really appreciate you all coming. Now, go, go, Josh and I are going to—enjoy the observatory.” She grins and does an exaggerated wink before walking away with Josh.
You and Ryland stand next to each other, silent, watching them leave. “I think they’re going through a rough patch,” he finally remarks.
That makes you whip your head towards him. “Really?” Marissa hadn’t mentioned this to you, although you both had been so busy recently that you hadn’t had much time to hang out together, just the two of you.
“Yeah. Can I be honest?” Once again, he does not wait for an answer. “Josh is kind of a dick, and Marissa is way out of his league.”
“Oh my God, thank you!” You burst out. He looks at you with a slightly shocked smile. “Sorry. I really don’t like him. I thought they would have broken up already.”
He simply laughs and then looks away, gesturing vaguely toward the rest of the observatory. “Well. Do you want to look around?”
“Sure. As long as there is no mansplaining along the way.”
You follow him toward the first exhibition area on the way to the domed screen room. “Is it mansplaining if I know what I’m talking about and you don’t?”
“Tonight? Yeah. It is.”
The next hour or so is spent moving leisurely through the observatory. Unfortunately, you have to admit—begrudgingly—that he is quite knowledgeable about all of this, and you end up listening attentively as he comments on the various displays. It’s—he’s just a tad less insufferable like this, when he’s explaining the solar system or the speed of light, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that makes you understand why people are otherwise so drawn to him.
At one point, he stops in front of a didactic discussing the possibility of life beyond Earth. “People are so hung up on water,” he murmurs, “and they swear that it’s necessary for life.”
“I mean, isn’t it?”
Ryland looks at you then and smiles. It’s almost wistful. “That’s what the prevailing opinion has been, yeah. I’m going to prove them wrong.”
You should think that this is incredibly cocky, just like everything else about him, but he sounds so convinced, so sure of himself, that you find yourself almost believing him. Almost.
--
The ‘rough patch’ that Ryland referred to becomes apparent on the day of your birthday, when Marissa tells you that Josh isn’t coming to the party, because apparently he doesn’t want to hang out with your ‘humanities friends,’ as he called them, and her mouth twists when she says it.
“Ryland’s coming, though,” she adds, her face buried into your shoulder as you hug her. “Said he wouldn’t miss it.”
“That’s—I mean. He could if he wanted to.”
She chuckles, a little wetly, and pulls away. “I still don’t understand why you hate him so much.”
“I don’t…hate him.” The admission is probably more surprising to you than it is to Marissa. “I just think he’s insufferable, and arrogant, and incredibly self-centered.”
“I cannot wait until the two of you hate fuck. It’s going to be awesome, and I am going to tell you ‘I told you so’ every day.” There she is. Fuck Josh. It’s your birthday, and you want her to be happy.
You scoff and continue setting out the alcohol the two of you had purchased earlier that day onto the kitchen island. “As if. The universe will experience heat death before—that happens.”
“See?” Marissa smiles. “You’re even using science metaphors. He’s in there.” She presses a finger to your temple.
“Sure. If by ‘in there’ you mean it like termites in your walls. Or bed bugs.”
About thirty minutes later, people start to filter in, mostly other grad students in your department, some from Marissa’s that you can actually tolerate. Ryland is right on time, and he gives you a hug and whispers ‘happy birthday,’ but you otherwise don’t see much of him; you’re too busy flitting around and saying hello, engaging in a debate about Charles Dickens and trying to avoid the guy in the year above you—Ben—who you hooked up with for a while last year.
It’s fun. You’re having fun, you tell yourself, even though all anyone can talk about is English literature, and you are so tired of talking about it, because it’s all you think about most of the time, and Ben had cornered you at one point and given you a hug that lasted way too long.
You’re standing out on your dinky little balcony off of the living room, trying to take a breath and enjoy the cold night air, when the glass door slides open and Ryland walks out. “Having fun?”
“Yeah. Loads.” You adjust the party hat on your head that Marissa had wrestled you into.
He comes up beside you and drapes his arms on the railing. “Who was that guy you were talking to, earlier?”
“Ben, probably.”
He hums. “He seemed. Eager.”
You turn around to rest your back against the wood. “Something like that. We used to—well.”
“But not anymore?” You can tell that he’s trying to say this lightly and failing, because the words come out a little strained.
“No. It was—it was fine, for what it was. Why do you care?”
Ryland doesn’t answer the question, instead shifting so he’s facing you. “Fine? Not good?”
“I guess. He wasn’t. I don’t know.”
“Not good at giving you what you wanted?” His voice has dropped, coming out low and raspy, and he moves forward an inch. “He doesn’t seem like the type.”
Your body tilts, reflexively, and you look up at him, watching his eyes search your face, his glasses sliding down his nose a little. “What type would that be?” You whisper.
His hand reaches forward, then, and his fingers graze your upper arm, just above your elbow. “The type to know what you need and be able to give it to you.”
The streetlamp in the distance illuminates the side of his face, just barely, enough to show you the look in his eyes, the hunger there as he steps a little closer, as his hand curls around your bicep. “And you think you know what that is, I take it?” Your voice almost catches in your throat.
“I don’t think,” he murmurs. “I know.”
And then he closes the distance, his nose brushing against yours, and he’s kissing you, and it is not soft or reverent or gentle. It is desperate, and wet, and fierce, and you moan as his other arm wraps around the small of your back. He licks into your mouth, then, and you press your body against him. You are aching, aching for the friction and the taking and the wanting, and—
And then someone is fiddling with the glass door, and the two of you jump apart as Marissa finally manages to slide it open. “Cake time! Oh—sorry. Am I…was I interrupting something?”
“No,” you say, at the exact moment Ryland says, “Yeah, kind of,” and then the two of you are looking at each other, and you remember how annoying he is, how he had assumed everything about you, what you wanted and needed, and that he could give it to you; so you push past him back into your apartment.
When you blow the candles out, you can’t think of a wish.
--
Marissa and Josh break up by the end of the semester.
You spend a week comforting her, promising her that it wasn’t her fault, that Josh was a dick who didn’t deserve her—which is true, by the way—and the whole time you try not to think about how this means you would likely be seeing a lot less of Ryland.
He hadn’t texted you, not since your birthday, and he had stopped popping up randomly around campus. This is good. It means that you finish your paper, and then Marissa decides to go home a little early to spend time with her family, and then you are alone in your apartment, ignoring a text from Ben and finishing up the last of your grading for the semester.
Then you get an email from your professor, the one you had submitted the Wuthering Heights paper to, and—it wasn’t great. The feedback was mostly negative, calling it pessimistic and overdone, warning you that your dissertation would need to be better.
So now you’re bundled up on the couch, attempting to get drunk off of a bottle of White Zinfandel, while Erik Satie plays in the background. You really wish Marissa was here, so you could commiserate together, but she’s not, so you simply down the last little bit of wine in your glass, and you find that you don’t have the energy to get up and pour yourself another, even though you’re barely buzzed at this point.
There’s a knock on the door.
You have no idea who it could be, so you decide to ignore it, but then they keep knocking. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” you call out, shuffling over to the door because the blanket is still wrapped around you.
Ryland is on the other side when you open it, holding a cardboard box. “Hi.”
“Hey.”
A few beats pass, and then he holds the box up. “Some of Marissa’s stuff. Josh was—well. You know how he is.”
“Yeah. She’s not here. You can—just set it down on the counter.” You step aside so he can walk in and place it on the kitchen island.
He looks at the TV, then the empty glass on the coffee table, the wine bottle sitting out by the fridge, and finally the way that you’re currently waddling around in your cocoon. “Rough night?”
“Something like that.” You’re too exhausted to bicker, so you simply make your way back to the couch and sit down. “Bad feedback on a paper. Really bad.”
“The psychoanalysis one?” He’s still in your apartment. Whatever. You can’t find it in you to care. You nod. “Hm. I told you it was boring.”
“Ryland.” This makes him freeze, because you’ve made it a point not to call him by his name. “I can’t. Not tonight.”
“Alright.”
Then he does something you do not expect: he walks forward instead of just leaving, sitting down on the couch next to you, grabbing the remote off the table and navigating through a bunch of different menus. “What are you doing.”
“Putting on a movie.”
He has to pull his credit card out, because Pride and Prejudice isn’t on any streaming services. You have it on DVD. You do not tell him this.
The movie starts playing, and you close your eyes as the opening piano number starts playing, and he shifts a little closer and puts his arm around you. You let him.
He laughs when he should, and makes stupid little comments, about how it doesn’t make sense that they’re calling Lizzie plain because Keira Knightly is beautiful, and that Mrs. Bennett is kind of an overbearing bitch, and at one point you giggle at something he says, and his arm tightens around you.
Then he watches, raptly, as Mr. Darcy helps Lizzie into the carriage, at the shot of his hand flexing afterward. “Oh. I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“The appeal. The—he loves her. So much that the touch is enough and also not. He knows that she might not feel the same, and that it doesn’t make sense for them to be together, and he still hopes that she loves him back. And if she doesn’t, he’ll live off of that touch for the rest of his life.”
It’s—you’re not a film scholar, but he’s reading the scene quite well, and he’s looking at you in a way that you can’t place. The two of you just keep staring at each other for a while, until you finally whisper, “You’re not watching the movie.”
“Right. Sorry.”
The rest of the movie plays, and you cry a little when Mr. Darcy walks through the field at sunrise, when he calls Lizzie ‘Mrs. Darcy’ and kisses her at Pemberley, wishing that you could be seen and loved so thoroughly. “Well, what did you think?” You ask, wiping at your face and clearing your throat.
“It—I liked it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You keep staring at the TV for a little while, because you’re scared to look at him, scared to break the fragile silence that has fallen around you both, scared to admit that you have been a little bit unfair in your judgement of him.
He squeezes your shoulder. “Hey. Look at me.”
You turn to face him, and you let the blanket wrapped around you fall as you do. Ryland’s eyes dip down, just for a moment, to look at the straps of your tank top, the way that the blanket pools around your waist. When he meets your gaze again, his eyes are wide and pleading, and his eyebrows are raised, pinching at the center. “Ryland,” you breathe.
“Yes?”
“I—I’m sorry. About my birthday.”
“Uh, what?” For a moment, the irrational part of your brain thinks he doesn’t remember, and he must catch the way that your face falls minutely. “No, I’m not—I just wasn’t expecting. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But I did.”
“But you didn’t,” he insists. “I was—what was that word you used—incorrigible, that’s it.” You smile, just a little, and it makes him that much bolder, bringing his hand back up to grasp your nearly bare shoulder. You shudder at the touch. “What did Mr. Darcy say? About pride?”
His fingers shift to play with the strap of your top. You turn toward him more fully so you can place a hand on his knee. “That—it’s hard to forgive someone’s offenses against him. That once his good opinion is lost, it’s lost forever.”
Ryland hums. “Have I lost your good opinion, then?”
“No,” you whisper. Because—as much as he has been utterly insufferable over the past few months, he has also been kind, and caring, and devoted, and you don’t think anyone else has been so utterly captivated by you before. “No, you haven’t.”
You lean forward, then, and this kiss is soft, and gentle, so gentle that you have to be the one to deepen it, squeezing his leg and running your tongue over his bottom lip, and the way he groans into your mouth goes straight between your thighs. “Ryland,” you mumble into his mouth, “please,” and you don’t even know what you’re asking for.
But he does—of course he does—and he leans forward until your back is resting against the couch, and he’s unraveling the blanket around you, pressing his mouth against your neck as he drags your shorts down. You think you know where he’s going, then, but he keeps surprising you; his hands slide up underneath your shirt and lift the fabric up until he’s licking at your breasts, and at the shocked gasp you let out, he smiles. “I told you I knew what you needed.”
You don’t get a chance to respond. His lips close around one of your nipples, sucking and licking, and you clutch at his shoulders and buck your hips up. “Oh,” you sigh, “that’s—just like that, you—you—”
His hips rut against the couch, but he keeps taking his time, laving his tongue against you, grasping your thigh with one of his hands and pressing the palm of the other into your cunt. You whine, and then you can feel him grinning against your breast, and that old fire flickers inside of you, the one that urges you to put him in his place. You decide to wait. For now.
Finally, he nudges your underwear aside and feels the heat, the wetness of you, just for a moment, before one of his fingers slowly slides inside of you. Your back arches, just a little, at the feeling, and he looks up at you from your chest. His glasses are crooked, and you fix them before sliding your hand into his hair. “You sound—it’s just like I imagined,” he groans around the bud of your nipple, “so needy. Just let me, I can make you feel so good, I know I can, I know I’m the only one who can do it, just the way you need.”
Your hips jerk against his hand, and he dips another finger inside of you, and the sound of it is utterly obscene. “You—you’re so fucking cocky,” you manage to get out, “always so sure that you’re right.”
His hand shifts, then, so that he can press his thumb against your clit, and it sends your head pressing against the cushion underneath you. “But I am. That’s the thing, isn’t it—I’m right, and you know that I’m right.” You simply turn your cheek into the couch instead of responding, because you think you can come like this, with his fingers inside of you and his thumb rubbing at your clit. “No,” Ryland mutters, the hand that was holding your thigh coming up to grasp your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “This isn’t—I’m not done.”
You want to ask him what he’s not done with, but then he’s shifting down the couch, pulling your underwear down and staring at your glistening cunt, pushing his glasses up to make sure he can see it. Part of you wants to feel a little embarrassed, but mostly you just want him to make you come, so you jut your hips up towards his face.
His eyes flick up to yours, just for a moment, full of amusement, and then his mouth comes up against you, and you realize in that moment that it’s not just good for talking. It’s—he actively learns your movements, gaging the way you grind against his tongue, adjusting how his tongue laps at you to drag out your pleasure, quickening when you need it and slowing when you want him to go faster. “You—you motherfucker, please,” you whimper.
“No,” he says, simply, into the slick of you.
“I—What? What do you mean, no?”
His head tilts up, then, resting against your thigh. His fingers are still dragging inside of you. “I said I know what you need, not just what you want. This is me giving it to you,” and he curls against your walls, “Don’t you want that?”
You can only gasp and clutch at his hair. “Fuck. You.”
“That’s the plan.”
Time is meaningless, then, as he licks and sucks and teeths at your clit, adding another finger inside of you, always stopping right when you’re on the edge, until you’re trembling against the couch, until the only thought on your mind is coming against his mouth. Finally, finally, he doesn’t still when he normally would, moaning into your cunt as you ride your orgasm out against his face.
When he pulls his shirt off over his head and shimmies out of his jeans, you’re able to gather yourself enough to push at his shoulders, until he’s sitting on the couch while you straddle him, and you try to commit the surprised and wanting look on his face to memory. “You think you’ve got everything figured out,” you laugh breathlessly. “But maybe I know what you need, too.”
He clutches your hips as you hover over him. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“Someone to put you in your place.”
You sink down onto him, then, and relish the way his eyes flutter shut, the way his lips part and let out a moan, how his fingers dig into your skin. The pace you set is slow and exacting. You want to watch every look that crosses his face, feel every twitch of his cock inside of you, hear the way he whimpers and whines, just like you knew that he would.
“So good.” Your hand moves up to rest on his throat, and his eyes snap open, and you find that you can’t look away from the deep blue of them, even if you wanted to. “So good, just for me.”
Ryland nods feverishly as his hands draw up your back. “Wanted this—for so long. So fucking long.”
You smile and quicken your pace, clutching at the back of the couch behind him with your other hand. “I know. I know you did.”
His head lolls back as you grind down onto him, and after a few moments the hand at his throat moves up so you can grab his jaw and make him look at you. There aren’t any more words, now, save for the way he gasps your name, over and over and over again, and you know that you’ll never get tired of it, the way your name sounds when it’s cried out from his mouth.
You can tell when he’s close, even before he tells you, when he’s babbling into your throat as you press your chest against his. “I—I’m—don’t want to, not until you come again.”
“Then do something about it, if you want it so bad.”
He lifts you up, then, briefly, before laying you back against the couch again, never taking his eyes off of you, leveraging the access the position gives him to circle at your clit again with his fingers. You fight the urge to close your eyes. You want to watch him, watch as he looks at you with this expression that you cannot name; you want to be able to look down to see his hips snapping into yours, his fingers moving in frantic circles because he cannot stand the thought of not giving you what you need, just like he promised.
“Ryland,” you moan again, grasping his shoulders. His name on your lips is like some kind of command to attention for him. “Just. Just like that. It’s so—you—”
He dips his head down to bite gently at your throat. “I know, I know, I—I told you, I told you I could do it, that I knew how, just let me do it, please, please, I need you so badly,” and that makes your body draw taut and then release, the thought that he doesn’t just want you to satisfy some childish urge, but that he needs you, he needs you to feel good, needs to feel you come around him.
Somewhere in the middle of all of that you can feel him still against you, his teeth grazing against your neck and your name vibrating against the flutter of your pulse, and then he just stays there, resting inside of you, skin pressed against yours.
You let your breaths fall into pace with his for a while. Every so often, you clench around him, just so you can hear his strangled moan. Finally, you speak, your fingers brushing up the length of his spine. “Marissa is going to be so insufferable when I tell her about this.”
“Probably,” Ryland mumbles into your neck. You shudder against him at the feeling. “She was the one who told me to go up to you at the party.”
“Wait, really?” Your hand stills. “She never told me that.”
He huffs a little. “Yeah. She said that I was your type.”
You—this is worth the next month of groceries, you think, but you don’t say it out loud, instead reveling in the feeling of his skin against yours, in the way that she was, ultimately, exactly right about what you wanted.