A/N: woo first ever jeanmarco! Seeing as there weren't any fem!jeanmarco fics, I decided to change that. This was origionally going to be a oneshot, but that would've been too long. Anyway, please let me know what you think!
Check out my tumblr: gillybean0
I wish I could say that our first meeting, our first exchange of words was a circumstance of heavy importance that had any significant impact on our future. Y'know, for poetic reasons. All the hype on 'that first sight' bullshit seems to matter to people when they ask me how we first met.
But really, it was just an average Tuesday afternoon in May at the College of the Arts department at Trost University. Average, as in me making a fool of myself.
Being in the Southern Hemisphere on Earth means it's Autumn going on Winter, and as I scurry out of the drawing studio, I can't help but feel jealous towards my family who are on the other side of the world, enjoying the French Spring.
Well, I guess I like Autumn. It's nice, tranquil. The sound of crunching leaves beneath my Doc Martins is real satisfying. With the scenery painted in oranges, browns and yellows, of people dressed in cosy sweaters and scarves that embrace you 'til you're warm, of the smell of coffee and bakeries wafting and curling around the streets. Yes, I like Autumn.
Except the tail end.
Winter and I aren't exactly on good terms. The cold really fucking bites me. Guess it doesn't help that I have no body fat or muscle whatsoever to help fend off the chilly season. I have to wear at least five layers of clothing to feel as though I am not freezing inside some icy prison.
So the weather is starting to get colder now, and so is my attitude. I really need a coffee. Running out of the Arts building and making a beeline to heaven I mean the café. The little bell dingles as I shove my body against the door and shove my way in.
This right here is the meaning of happiness. The seductive aroma of coffee and hot chocolate mixed with the warmth of the heater makes me want to fucking cry with pleasure. Who needs sex when you can just experience this, my god.
"Jeanne! Over here!" I jump at the sound of my name, and look to see the weirdo who I call a friend wave spastically from where she stands in line.
"Y'know," Sasha said while jabbing me in the ribs when I shuffle over to her, "You got a whole lot of charcoal on your face." She's waiting in line with me at Spill the Beans café, though her mind is less intrigued by coffee and more on the baked potatoes. Stomach bigger than her brain, or however the hell the saying goes.
"Oh fuck. When don't I?" I quip back at her, tugging on her ponytail. She just laughed and poked her tongue out while I scrub furiously at my face. I swear most of the charcoal ends up on me instead of my drawings.
Sasha, being a drama student, rarely gets dirty during her classes. Though she does work up quite a sweat during her weird acting exercises, so really I think being covered in charcoal is so much more favourable than being gross and stinky, jeez.
The girl in question suddenly reaches up and yanks down on my shoulder. I yelp and try to push away, but she holds me in an iron grip to keep me down to her height.
"Ooooooh, Jeanne! Check out the hottie who just walked in!" she whispers loudly in my ear. "Oh my, check out those muscles! He's like a blond version of the Rock." I follow her gaze toward the front of the small café shop, to see a hulk of a man walk in with two others. Too buff for my taste.
I turn back to glare down at Sash.
"What the fuck are you lookin' at? You have a boyfriend, who I'm sure would definitely not appreciate you checking out others."
She rolls her terracotta eyes at me.
"I'm looking out for you, Kirschstein." I scoff and shuffle along the line, because she knows that help in that department is unwanted thank you very much.
She mimics my scoff and bumps my shoulder, and I can't help but smirk down at her. Whatever. I can play it cool. Jeanne Kirschstein, the queen of keeping her awesome cool appearance. Hah.
I feel anything but. Both Sash and her boyfriend Connie are great, and I love them to bits, but recently they've been freakishly invested in finding me a guy. They think that coz I'm apparently cranky all the time, I need to get laid or some shit.
Just coz they're banging all the time, jeez.
Normally I would just let all their crap about finding me a man roll off my back, but recently I have- I feel… that maybe they are searching for the wrong-
No, it's just a phase. Ignore it, and it will go away. This not real, not real. Just focus on why you are here. Art, you want to get good, be known for your drawings. Everything else is irrelevant. Love is for the weak.
The line has shifted again, so now I am next to order. Forcing myself to relax, I turn to Sash with a smirk.
"Hey you bitch, you want to go halves on a-"
The girl beside me who was peering down at the cakes and slices shelf blinks back at me. She has big puppy dog eyes, and messy hair lazily tied up out of her face, but she is not Sasha.
Sasha is not tall, not dark, not covered in millions of constellations of freckles along her exposed skin, not her.
And I just accidentally called her a bitch.
"Holy fuck I am so sorry I thought you were someone else, merde! Sorry!" I squeak. Where the hell did Sash go?
Not-Sasha stares at me wide-eyed for a second, then she throws her head back and fucking laughs.
"T-that's quite okay!" She giggles, her voice slightly accented. I feel myself getting hot in the face, so I just nod and turn to order my flat white coffee in shame.
I discovered that Sasha had run off to greet Connie, who was lounging on the couch in the corner of the shop.
I gave Sash a thorough chewing out after I told them what happened. They both snicker at me.
I didn't tell them that later that day I panicked so much thinking about it I threw up what little contents I had in my stomach.
It's the second year in my Fine Arts degree, and through my extensive experience (overhearing conversations) and investigation (stalking people on social media) I have reached the reasonable and totally legit conclusion that there are three types of creative people: tortured artist, happy-go-lucky idiots who happen to have talent, and upper-class rich snobs. Usually the former. I am definitely mostly the former and a tiny bit of the latter.
Also, each creative practice seems to have their own brand of weird. Drama students are a loud, erratic weird, usually spontaneous and energetic. Sash once invited nearly half her classmates to my apartment, to have a study session, and being around them exhausted me so much I ended up sleep the entire day after. Not that they were no fun, by God were they entertaining to watch them talk, it's just interacting with their energetic personalities requires more social endurance than I possess.
Film and T.V students are nerdy weird. The amount of movie content in their discussions are crazy. Like, yeah I know it's normal to talk about your favourite show and whatnot, but holy crap. Everything is a movie reference or random facts about different productions or gossiping about actors. Its borderline obsessive. Connie is a film student, and for a guy who lives and breathes for memes, he has a concerning fascination with old French movies, particularly La Jetée.
(He makes me watch them with him, so I can translate. He hates subtitles as they 'ruin the visual effect' and his dyslexia makes it hard for him to concentrate. But hey, I'm not a total bitch, of course I would gladly help him out.)
I'm friends with a few others, a dancer, a few more dramas, and a lot of visual artists like me.
I am more comfortable with the visuals, obviously. I knew we had our own weird, but I could never really describe it. It's hard to explain something unique when really it's just the norm for you. But I brought up the whole 'different brands of weird' theory with the Springles during one of our late night study sessions a couple of weeks ago. They totally lapped that shit up, agreeing with my words and enthusiastically commenting on my observations. They said that my people are an 'edgy' weird. That we either have no interest in something or extremely passionate about it, usually about controversial topics and over-analysing social issues.
Well then.
It has been little over a year since I moved to this country from my family home in France. To be honest, it was one of the best decisions I've made, even if I was – am – scared shitless. I miss my family dearly, and they miss me too, if the late night calls of my mother crying into the phone are anything to go by. But even so, they know my choice to move away was a good one. My dad tells me he's proud, and cannot wait to see my art hanging from gallery walls. My mother sobs when I tell her I have friends who make me happy, and my grandparents absolutely lap up all the stories I share about this new country.
You probably still can't take a guess as to why I left my home as soon as I finished school, but obviously it wasn't my family that was the problem that drove me away.
But that's a story for another time.
Maybe.
I now live in a cheap apartment on a dodgy street full of strip clubs and bars. Oh, and a McDonalds. Cannot forget that, it's been there for me during my darkest morning of need (i.e. hangover). The rent is reasonable, the hot water shitty, and the internet shittier. My flat is on the fifth floor, and incredibly small, but it's a fifteen minute bike ride to the campus. At night, I can hear the drunken sounds of men and women, the never-ending traffic, and the constant noises of a particularly loud couple one floor above me.
And despite the general unpleasantness of this setup, I absolutely love it. In love with the edgy, in love with the crappy, in love with the roughness. How strange, to go from the lush life provided by my rich parents into the total rock bottom student accommodation. Guess it also means I can only go back up from here.
My family is unhappy about my living condition, but I tried to explain to them that I want this, to work and struggle and understand that things do not always come on a silver platter. I was spoiled in that way during my childhood. I never once had to worry about the things I needed, wanted.
But now, I gotta prepare myself for reality. But, that doesn't matter.
Let me tell you about my first ever friends.
If it weren't for moving here to this terrible place, I would never have met Sasha and Connie until much later, if at all. The second morning I had woken up in this new city, I had opened my door to find the Springles passed out in their own vomit. It was clear that they had been hitting the bars, and gotten lost on the way home. They didn't look dangerous, so I dragged them inside my flat and dumped them on the couch. Luckily they came to shortly after that. I offered them my shitty shower and fresh clothes (Connie was glad to find that I had stolen a few of my brother's clothes for him to wear, even if they were five sizes too big) and gave them the rest of my orange juice.
See? I am capable of not being a bitch.
As they became more functional, they started worshipping the ground I walked on. Especially when I offered to buy them a proper breakfast.
They promised to one day return the favour, and I didn't have the heart to tell them that I was planning on getting smashed never. (Obviously that didn't work out)
Like stay cats, once you feed them, they keep coming back. So during the week before the first year of University, I would receive a visit nearly every day. They brought bunches of flowers as well as groceries with them for thanks, and I really enjoyed their company when they weren't still half drunk.
It was a happy surprise to discover that we would be in the same building department at the same University, though they are one year ahead of me. But I took comfort in that I would know some people in a new environment.
Sasha and Connie were the first of the greatest things to happen to me. They helped with my colloquial English (I'd been learning this language since I first started school), took me out and just showed me the life I was missing out on. Friends are a wonderful thing, I have discovered.
Except for right now.
"Connie, I swear to god, stop fucking jumping around like that! You are going to break my floor."
"But…it's…part…of…the…game!" he pants.
"I cannot believe you are out of breath already." I mutter "Poor Sasha, I feel sorry for her if you tire out that quickly."
"Hey hey, fuck you. We are doing realwell in that regard, I assure you. No problems there, in fact-"
"OH FOR FUCK'S SAKE SORRY FOR BRINGING UP, MERDE." I grouch from where I have curled up on my small couch, throwing one of the pillows at him. He squawks as it hits him square on the ribs, and bats it away with as much grace as my 70+ grandfather riding a bike.
(It's not graceful at all, in case you were wondering)
Because we are poor and cannot afford to go out drinking, we spend Friday afternoons (I only have class in the morning, and the Springles have the day off) at mine to study on things class had given us that week. I say studying, but only a little bit of that actually gets done. What actually happens is that we just mess around. Which happens to be what Connie is do9mg right now. He's playing this weird game on the Wii, where you have this weird flying gear and straps on (that looks to be slightly BDSM, courtesy to Connie for pointing that out) and you have to run up buildings and walls to get away from the creepy giant things. But instead of using the controller to play, you gotta fling your body around. No idea who came up with that idea. Whoever it was, they obviously neglected to consider that some of us have very thin floors and idiotic friends, and that is always a recipe for trouble.
For the 104th time, Connie gets killed on the 8th level. Don't ask me why I was keeping count.
"Argh I almost had it, fuck!" he fumes before turning to me. "You wanna have a crack?"
"I do not do drugs, sorry." I feel proud that I know the English street name for whatever drug he was referring to, though I don't quite understand why he would ask.
"Wha…. No I mean you wanna have a shot, a go at this. The game. Oh my god, I can't believe you thought I meant… oh god, Jeanne…" he collapses onto the carpet and cackles hysterically. The proud feeling evaporates. Ugh, this damn language, what the hell!
"Allez vous faire foutre, Connie." I hiss at him. The stupid buzz-cut just laughs even harder despite my swearing, damn him.
I continue to swear at him, first in English, then in French. Just as I am about to move onto German profanities, a mess of limbs and Chinese takeaway tumbles through my front door. Wow, not even a knock, rude.
Sasha rights herself and strolls toward me.
"Hey," She greets as she plonks herself next to me, leaning forward to pull me into a hug. "What's he laughing at?"
"My lack of understanding in your native language." I rest my chin on her shoulder, and I feel her body shake as she barks out a laugh.
"Aw sweetie. Here, I got you some honey soy chicken and rice. That'll make you feel better."
Connie seems to just notice his girlfriend's company, as his stupid laughing abruptly stops and he leaps up.
"Babe! You're home!" He squeaks while lifting her up and spinning her around. Which is quite impressive, considering his scrawny height and lack of muscle.
"My home, idiot." I mutter to no-one. Sasha is too busy giggling at love struck Baldy.
Ah, third wheeling at its finest. Though this is definitely nowhere near as bad as accidentally walking in on Sash… uh… going down on Connie last month. In my defence, they had told me to just walk right into their dorms at any time. So now that I will be haunted by that experience for the rest of my life, nothing can really seem that bad now.
Rolling my eyes, I dig into the food that Sash brought for me while they continue to act sickly romantic. I let them carry on for a little while, because my god this chicken is so good, but it's when they are tangled up on the floor and Sasha's tongue darts into his mouth that I throw another pillow and snap at them to knock it off.
"You need to get laid," Sash taunts as Connie restarts his stupid game. "Con, we need to get Jeanne a man. We need to hit town sometime soon, our operation is becoming dangerous the longer we wait."
"Sash babe, we don't need to hit town for that. But I agree." He turns and wiggles his eyebrows at me. "You really do need a good time, if you know what I mean."
I kick them both in the legs while positively burning up. My face feels as though I just stuck it in a microwave.
I-it's not only… a man that I would consider messing around with...
No, no I am a straight hetero who likes dudes while is just going through the lesbian phase little later than normal. Yeah that's right.
You've been in this phase your whole life, you piece of shit.
Nope nopity nope nope. No.
Crap.
"While I most definitely totally appreciate your much wanted help, I have no interest in bedding some random guy, thank you very much." I seethe.
"Aw, you're no fun, Kirschstein. Loosen up a bit!" Sash pats my knee. "We won't do that to you though. It's okay."
"Thank you." I grab her hand and smile, grateful for her reassurance and relieved that she is being serious.
"Maybe it's not a man that we need to be looking for, Sash." Connie pipes up. "Maybe she is feeling curious."
I choke and fucking launch myself at the stupid buzz cut, with murder on my mind.
Oh shit, was it really that obvious?
Connie cries out as I sit heavily on his stomach, and I reach over to snatch the pillow I'd thrown at him earlier.
"Connie you shouldn't say stuff like that! Jeanne obviously isn't into that!" Sash cries as I raise the pillow over my head, and fucking slam it into his dumb face, causing his loud protesting to be muffled. Asshole.
"I told you, I have no interest, mon Dieu." I growl. I smack him over the head once more for good measure, but it's the sound of my phone chiming from the couch with a new message that makes me scramble off the scrawny monkey and dive to where Sash steals my phone. Luckily she still hasn't figured out the passcode.
"It's a message request on Facebook." She tells me as I curl up beside her and take the phone. "If it's some creep asking for nudes, just send them a pic of Connie's ferret face."
"Better yet," He sits up and crawls over to us. "I'll message them myself and tell 'em to fuck off. One time this random guy messaged my step sister, and let's just say it's real easy to get hold of someone's address. I got your back Jeanne-boo."
"Relax guys, it's just some girl." I say, clicking on the message. "Go play that weird game of Connie's."
"Oh yeah! Here, Sash, this is how you play, it's so cool…"
Ignoring their shenanigans, I click on the message request.
MARCELINE BODT:
Hello Jeanne! I got your name from Hanji, I hope that is okay =) Did you draw this picture? Just want to make sure I have the right person
MARCELINE BODT:
*image*
The photo is of the charcoal piece of the nude model we had last week in Hanji's life drawing class. Hanji usually makes us hang our best works of the week in the hallway, which would explain how this Marceline chick managed to find it.
Who is this Marceline though?
Why would she want to know if the drawing is mine, and why would Hanji give away my name?
Guess there is one way to find out.
I click 'accept' and type out a message.
JEANNE KIRSCHSTEIN:
hey there. that is my drawing, can I ask why you want to know?
MARCELINE BODT:
Absolutely! I am a third year visual arts student at Trost as well, and as part of my project I will be organising an exhibition. So currently I am looking for people who may be interested in submitting their work and gain some exposure =) I really like your work, and was wondering if you would be interested?
MARCELINE BODT:
Also, if you say yes now, you can always back out! This is just an expression of interest
Wait hold up.
The longer I stare at the words, the more surreal they seem. This can't be real, can it? Aren't artists meant to struggle through the blood sweat and tears to get what they want? Can it really be that easy? Especially when I haven't even graduated yet?
Someone noticed my work. Someone noticed my work and liked it. Liked it enough to want to put it in an exhibition. Oh my god.
JEANNE KIRSCHSTEIN:
are you serious rn?
JEANNE KIRSCHSTEIN:
you want to exhibti my work?
JEANNE KIRSCHSTEIN:
*exhibit
MARCELINE BODT:
Of course =) is that a yes?
JEANNE KIRSCHSTEIN:
UM YYES
JEANNE KIRSCHSTEIN:
thank you so much dude
MARCELINE BODT:
Hahaha you are welcome Jeanne! I will add you to the group chat and FB group page where there will be more information. Thank you for being interested! =)
"Ce que le baiser est juste arrive?" I whisper as I get two notifications, and I decide to investigate the group chat first. There aren't any messages yet, but I check to see who has been added.
Exhibition Project! =D
Marceline Bodt created 'Exhibition Project! =D'
Marceline Bodt added Historia Reiss, Annie Leonhardt, Armin Arlert, Jeanne Kirschstein and Petra Ral to the conversation.
There is six of us. Well, five that have been chosen for Marceline's project. Five. Out of hundreds of people in the Arts department.
Holy mother of fuck.
Wheezing, I go check out the group page. It's got the same name as the chat, and the profile pic is just a photo of the Arts building. So far, no one has posted anything. Looks like this project of hers has only just been organised.
"Jeanne? Hey is everything okay? You look really red." Sash peeks over my phone to stare at me with her big puppy eyes, clear pale skin and messy hair. I've always envied her beauty.
Connie twists around from his game, which results in him dying again.
"Here, Sash, read this." I croak, tapping back into my messages with Marceline and passing it over for her to read. She snatches at my phone greedily, I guess because it's not every day I willingly sacrifice it to the hands of her. I roll my eyes. It's not like I am hiding anything on there, jeez.
I watch her face as she reads through the conversation, and I am slightly worried that I may have overreacted. Maybe it's not such a big deal after all. It seems like it is. Ugh I don't know.
'Slightly' worried turns to sweaty panic as she scrolls back up and rereads it all. I watch her face change from innocent curiosity to open shock. When she looks back up at me, we stare wide eyed at each other in a heavy silence.
Then Sasha breaks out in the cheesiest smile and launches her body at me.
"Jeanne! Oh wow, that's so great!" She squeals into my shoulder as we tangle on the couch. I laugh nervously, trying to ignore her hot breath on my neck, her legs rubbing on mine…
"I-I can't believe t-that she would want me of a-all people." I murmur while trying to shift away from her warmth.
"Wait what happened?" Connie stares at us dumbly, then notices my phone lying on the ground where Sash had dropped it. As he bends down, Sash pulls away to stare down at me.
"Of course Marcy would want your stuff! Like what Con and I keep telling you, your drawings are fucking amazing."
"Marcy?" I raise an eyebrow at her. An easy evasion of compliments that I don't know how to respond to.
"Oh yeah, I know her, sort of. Friendliest person you will ever meet. She works at the candle store next door to the café I work at. She is always popping around for a hot chocolate and a chat. Oh, she was the one who you called a bitch the other day, when you mistook her for me at the Uni café."
…
"WHAT?" I roar, shoving her off me and toppling off to grab my phone from Connie.
Jeanne Kirschstein:
okay so my friend just pointed out that you were the girl I accidently called bitch last week and ive been hoping to run into you I am so fucking sorry :(
I groan and bury my head in my hands. I am the worst person to ever exist. Oh fuck, what if she decides to not want me in her exhibition?
Oh boy I fucked up.
"Jeanne-boo, you honestly need to chill. It was an honest mistake, and Marcy isn't the type to be upset by that kind of shit. Relax." Sash buffs my shoulders and stares at me until I release a shaky breath.
"Sorry. It's just that it has been on my mind recently. I feel very bad."
"You're hopeless." Connie sighs.
My phone chimes, and I jump a fucking mile out of my skin.
MARCELINE BODT:
Oh gosh that was you? I had completely forgotten about that XD its okay, you didn't upset me at all =)
MARCELINE BODT:
Who is your friend btw?
JEANNE KIRSCHSTEIN:
sasha, she said that you work next to her in the café?
MARCELINE BODT:
Oh, I know her! Huh, small world =P
I don't really know how to reply to that, but I feel as though I should say something. Just as I start typing out an awkward reply, she sends another. Talk about doubling up messages.
MARCELINE BODT:
Ah, I think you must be the French girl she talks about often! Ha it really is a small world! I've heard a lot about you hehehe
Well shit. My chance at building a nice persona is becoming slimmer and slimmer jeez.
"Sash what the hell have you been saying to people about me?" I growl at her. She widens her eyes in a cheap effort to look innocent.
"S-she ratted me out?!"
"What does a rodent have to do with this?"
"Oh my god, Jeanne."
JEANNE KIRSCHSTEIN:
whtvr she said it was all lies im actually really cool I swear
MARCELINE BODT:
Haha no no! All good things I swear!
MARCELINE BODT:
She showed me a video of you performing at Karaoke night down at The Rose and Unicorn. You have a lovely singing voice, if that's not weird of me to say =}
"SASHA!" I screech and launch myself at her sorry being. I would really appreciate the ground swallowing me up right now.
After I attempted murder, we decided to order pizza and start our study session. I have an essay on Caravaggio due next week that's not going to write itself. But it was hard to concentrate with Sash's loud chewing, Connie's crappy music, and Marcy's messages, the latter being much more preferable.
Marcy has been messaging both the exhibition group chat and me privately. I like her, and I like how she has organised her project. The fb page she has set up is for important shit like questions and suggestions we might have, information and news, and dates for meetings, stuff like that. This page is being monitored and assessed as part of Marcy's grade. However, the chat isn't. This is where we can discuss crap and throw ideas around. Though at the moment, Marcy wanted us to first state our mediums and subject matter we usually work with in our personal practice.
PETRA RAL:
I am majoring in printmaking, and usually make large lino prints of buildings and landmarks as I love architecture and travel :) though I do branch out to different subject matters every so often.
ARMIN ARLERT:
Photography! I am pretty versatile in terms of themes and whatnot, but I do love cyanotypes!
JEANNE KIRSCHSTEIN:
for me, I draw portraiture/human figure using charcoal and conte
HISTORIA REISS:
I work in watercolour, and study insects and foreign plants :) I know that sounds strange, but its super fascinating!
JEANNE KIRSCHSTEIN:
no way that sounds really interesting
HISTORIA REISS:
Thank you!
ANNIE LEONHARDT:
I make sculpture pieces, usually of characters from tales n such. Just finished a red rding hood set
MARCELINE BODT:
Thank you all! I will keep all this in mind for when we decide on the setup of the exhibition. Just please make sure if you have questions, post it on our group page! This chat is just for rambles and for us to get to know each other =]
HISTORI REISS:
Really this is a plot for you to hook up from what Ymir told me ;3
MARCELINE BODT:
Yes that is exactly my plan all along, always believe what Ymir tells you -_-
Well that perks my interest. I wonder what that's all about.
"Hey Jeanne, can I have your last slice please?"
"Yes, go ahead."
"You aren't doing a lot of work there, boo."
"SHUT UP CONNIE."
"Shutting."
Marcy replies to the conversation between just us.
MARCELINE BODT:
Yes I have the same problem with English! My housemates constantly laugh at my silly mistakes, but at the end of the day, we are smart enough to be able to speak 2 languages, so don't be discouraged!
Jeez she is a dork.
Sash and Connie left my place around 9:30 pm to head back to their dorms on campus, but not before reassuring me about my worries about this exhibition. They both hug me tenderly, with sweet words and warm promises of their support, and I am once again floored by how much I love these two. They understand my bitterness, have being manifested by my insecurities.
After they leave, I clean off my small kitchen table, throwing out pizza boxes and coke cans while debating on having a shower now or in the morning. I really cannot be fucked, but at the same time… I could really use some time to think.
Flicking the main lights off, I stumble down my short hallway and feel around the dark for my door handle. I manage to stub my toe and ram my knee against my bedframe, but eventually (with a lot of cursing) I find the poorly placed light switch near the window. Seriously, who the fuck designed this place? My bedroom light is crappy as well, it barely illuminates my room, which had meant that I had to quit my habit of sketching at night, until I brought a lamp that is.
I throw my phone onto my small, narrow bed and go to gather my towel and pyjamas, but the screen to my phone lights up with the message notification. I had put it on silent, because the constant buzzing had bugged Connie.
Marcy and I had non-stopped talked in between contributing to the group exhibition chat. I learned that the Ymir who was mentioned by Historia was actually Marcy's older sister who still lives in Belgium, but had come to visit earlier on in the year, and had been swept away by Historia. Marcy had told me that Ymir and Historia have been sending letters to each other, that Ymir was completely head over heels for her, but they weren't together… Ymir was scared because she doesn't know if Historia could be capable of loving her back… Marcy had gleefully told me that Historia is incredibly insecure about the very same thing.
When I suggested to just put them out of her misery, she just replied; "They gotta figure this out on their own, I can't interfere."
We talked about other things as well, like our home countries, how we miss home, but how nice it is here. Marcy has been in Australia longer than me, about five years. She can speak French too. When I asked about her family, she briefly said that they stayed in Belgium. Odd. I wanted to ask more, but she changed the subject.
Unlocking my phone, I see that the message is for the exhibition chat, from Marcy.
MARCELINE BODT:
Is everyone available at Uni Tuesday lunch for everyone to have a meeting to discuss this further?
ARMIN ARLERT:
yep!
JEANNE KIRSCHSTEIN:
that's my day off but I can come in anyway so np
ANNIE LEONHARDT:
Fine with me too
Suddenly feeling tired, I yawn hugely and quickly send a message to Marcy privately.
JEANNE KIRSCHSTEIN:
hey I gotta go have shower and head off to bed, but it was really sweet talking to you, and thank you again for the exhibition offer
MARCELINE BODT:
Okay, I suppose I should let you go haha. But it was super great talking to you as well! And thank you for accepting my offer, I am very excited we have a great bunch of people taking part in this project =) sweet dreams, goodnight!
JEANNE KIRSCHSTEIN:
Heh yeah same, goodnight :)
I am terrible at responding to those kind of messages, fuck. The nerd better feel privileged, I hardly ever send smiley faces.
So with that out of the way, I suppose I should go have that shower. Ugh, why am I suddenly so tired? Probably from eating so much pizza, I guess.
Making a long arm for my towel sprawled out on the floor. I definitely need a shower now. There are too many thoughts echoing in my head for me to try and sleep. Might as well try and address them now.
To say my bathroom is small and awkward would be the biggest fucking understatement, I'll have you know. Two people in here feels like a crowd (I was with Sash while she puked into the toilet after some drinking). The shower is squished into the far right corner, the toilet in the other, and the tiny sink plus cabinet on the far wall. Oh, buts make a half-assed attempt at making this shitty space look bigger, and make the entire left wall a mirror, because who doesn't want to see themselves shower? Oh yeah, when I say shower, what I actually mean is a shower head sprouting out the wall with a small random circle of a drain close by. No cubicle or bars to hang curtains on. All exposed. Right in front of that big assed mirror.
Can you see why my rent is cheap?
At least the bathroom isn't facing towards the street, coz none of my windows have curtains either.
It doesn't matter, I have grown used to living like this, and why would I need a big bathroom anyway?
I strip out of my sweats and hoodie and turn on the hot water full blast, and throw off the rest of my clothes onto the tiled ground. That wall length mirror makes it impossible to avoid seeing my reflection, even after countless attempts. There I am, I can see my skinny self. Pale and bony. Tattoo of a sparrow on my hip, belly button piercing, shaved undercut and thin ashy ponytail. Yeah I look like an art student.
Ugh.
I turn away and step under the stream of hot water, and start thinking approximately eight minutes until the hot water runs, that doesn't leave me a lot of tie to chew things over.
Of course, I always start with the same thought.
I am so gay, and I really hate it. Obviously I don't have a problem with other people being homo, but it just means it's another side of me that doesn't quite fit in, another reason to be insecure, another thing for those people back home to hurt me with-
Yeah, I was bullied at school. A lot. So much, that my parents moved me to a different school. But the same thing happened, except these girls got violent. It was so much worse, and then that is when it happened, when they-
I don't know why I was treated the way I was. Later, my psychologist had said it was because I was an easy target, I was weak to them. She said that I wasn't, but because never fought back, I never told them to stop, it gave them power. They needed someone else to take out their insecurities on. That just happened to be me.
My heart beats a little heavier, and the panic starts to leak cold in me.
Deep breaths deep breaths. It's okay. I am not there, they are not here. They don't have power over me, they don't know…
…That I like girls.
Shit.
I really need to get this shit sorted. I know Sash and Connie won't care (pretty sure I've seen Connie kiss a dude before) and I know that at least half the students and teachers in the arts department are queer, so it's not like I am in an unsafe environment.
I don't know what my family would say. I think that's what scares me the most.
They don't need to know. Not yet at least, it's not like I have a g-girlfriend or anything, so I guess I can put off coming out to them for now-
It's funny. I think this same thing every single fucking night. I never make any progress. Just wait. Come morning, I'll go back to convincing myself I am straight.
I growl loudly and sink to the floor. It makes me so sick, stressing and worrying about all these thorns in my mind, and getting nowhere. I need to think of something else.
Like the exhibition.
H-holy crap that is a thing.
I am gonna be in an exhibition. My work will be out in the open. Things can happen, more opportunities, commissions, exposure…
This right here is an artist's wet dream. I almost feel giddy with nervous excitement, and I wanna get drunk with this feeling. It's stimulating, new.
I am kinda scared too, but I think I am smart enough to know that this is a healthy scared. Scared of people seeing my stuff, scared I won't draw something in time for the deadline, scared I will make a fool of myself. But who doesn't feel like that?
And besides, Marcy sounds like she is really gonna support and work with us throughout this project. She doesn't seem like the person to just leave people to find their own way by themselves, Marcy has really established a tight knot around everyone so no one gets left behind.
I really like this Marcy girl. The one I embarrassed myself in front of that time in the café last week… now what did she look like again? Her hair was long and messy and tied back I think, she was deeply tanned, and freckles. That was her most obvious trait. Her spotted skin. I wonder if-
A loud squeal rips out of me as the hot water cuts out, cascading me in fucking ice what the shit it is so cold.
Still yelping, I scramble out of the way and turn off the faucet. A shiver tickles through me as freezing droplets track along my naked skin. Well that eight minutes didn't last long at all. Grabbing my towel and wrapping it around my shaking body, I stand and scamper my way to bed. I don't bother changing into my pyjamas, just too tired. So I grab my phone as a source of light, kill the switch, throw my towel off me, and hastily crawl under my soft blankets. With a deep, satisfied sigh, I snuggle in closer to my pillow. With one more thing to while I am still conscious, I open up Facebook, type her name in the search bar, and click on her profile. Normally I would do a bit of a stalk, but with my eyelids struggling to bear the weight of fatigue, I plan it for tomorrow.
So instead, I send her e friend request. I turn off my phone, roll over, and within seconds, I am out cold.