Disclaimer: I do not own Austin and Ally
Note: I wanted so badly to write this story in third-person, but my friend insisted I step out of that comfort zone… so here's a really awkward second-person narrative. Unedited.
Trivial Matters
All you wanted was a quiet place to study for your History exam. It is not supposed to be that difficult a feat.
In all fairness you have already studied a lot, but this is the first exam of the year. This history teacher is extra well-known for being absolutely ruthless regarding the essay questions, and you are definitely not going to fall victim to it just because you happened to glaze over a few details in the textbook the past few dozen times you had studied.
Now usually you prefer to sit alone to help fuel your on point task orientation skills, but it seems like all your fellow peers have the same idea. Faces. So many faces; bodies in chairs, books sprawled about.
Undoubtedly everyone is motivated by the start of a new school year. By the way the human capacity for motivation usually goes; you would have the cramped library back to yourself in no time. Still, this doesn't help the need of a surface to study on at the moment. Most of the tables were currently taken by generic college cliques and large groups of friends.
Flashcards, highlighters, enough pens to last a lifetime, this would seem like a masterpiece to you if you weren't so desperate for a seat.
Some of the faces are beginning to look a bit familiar. Scanning the room, you weigh your options.
Join Hannah, a pretty kinesiology major who's spoken to you only a handful of times, and her posse. Hannah seemed friendly enough, and no doubt would allow you to sit. The table seems a little crowded though, and you would all be forced into polite conversation and introductions that will sway you from your books. You do not need distractions.
After doing a round, you realize the least occupied table is taken by a stranger with unkempt hair and a nose buried in a Zalien comic book. The nerve of this guy coming in to a library during study hours to read some dumb comic. Why couldn't he just check the book out to read at home?
Muttering under your breath. You do a quick scan around the room once again. Yep. Two options. The latter appears slightly more appealing of an option, though not by much.
Having no choice—well, very limited—you carry your textbooks over to the blond jerk and carefully lay out your belongings in the seat across from him.
Ten minutes into taking notes on the cold war you feel the stranger's foot scrape against your flats as he's shifting his posture. It was most likely just an accident, but you immediately still at the contact. If he noticed your physical contact, he certainly made no inclination as he flips the page casually.
Inconspicuously, you prop the textbook up, effectively stealing another discreet glance at the blond, before vowing to stop getting distracted with trivial matters.
Trying to get back to work, you straighten out your chair and pick your pencil back up.
Two sentences. You get two sentences down before that slight tinge of pain that's becoming more familiar greets you again.
Looking up again, you see the male, nonchalantly bobbing his head to some lyrics he's probably remembering while reading. No apologetic glance this direction, no sorry, not even an acknowledgement!
No matter. Maybe you imagined it. On with the details of crises
This time you definitely felt it. His foot definitely hit yours, and it wasn't a light scrape either.
You look under the table to see him swinging his legs back and forth, as if this was a coffee shop and he was a four year old who is retaliating because he wanted waffles instead of a latte. You almost scoff.
No, no. You have way too much class for that. Taking a deep breath, you place your feet behind the legs of the chair, seeking protection from this very rude stranger's attacks. It works for almost a full four minutes.
Yet somehow, somehow, those sneakers still come in contact with your bare legs (bad day to wear a skirt you think to yourself).
And that is the limit to your kindness. Finally, in an act of retaliation you reciprocate the feet kicking action, not even taking your eyes off the book.
You can feel his breath hitch in surprise.
You've deluded yourself into thinking he's going to apologize when he kicks back twice as hard. You blink slowly before your eyes narrow into slits. Unbelievable.
The kick was supposed to be revenge, a polite, 'Hey, you're bothering me. Would you mind stopping that?' It was certainly not an initiation for war.
Before you've even rationalized your actions, your leg is mid-swing. The blow is even harder than last time. The satisfying contact with the fabric of his jeans was almost addicting.
Finally, he lowers his comic book enough to give you a mysterious glower. You're met with dark eyes and a raised eyebrow. You stare him down. At least you can no longer say he didn't acknowledge your presence. Though you are intimidated, you are nothing if not a fighter.
The fight continues, your bottom limbs attacking each other ruthlessly while keeping a solemn expression above the waist. This is all very subtle of course. Defending your honor is one thing—getting kicked out of the library is something entirely out of the question. You still are in need of dire studying after all, no matter how preoccupied you currently are.
While contemplating your life choices, your foot accidentally ends up injuring a particularly important male anatomy. The painful grunt he emitted in shock and agony was enough to sustain your concern and instead drive you over the edge in laughter.
You try. You try so hard to keep the giggles to yourself, instead covering it up only make the chortles more noticeable. Still, it's too difficult to stop. Coughing and a little embarrassed by your outburst—some people are now looking in your direction curiously—you try again to regain your composure and oh, maybe finish your history notes.
You're completely positive he's livid and glaring at you so you wait a couple of minutes, actually getting some work done as you hide behind your book, before slowly looking up at him.
Instead of anger, he lowers his comic book enough to smile at you. And it's a strange instant. Even though you two still haven't formally exchanged a single word, fondness creeps in. Maybe it's because you've just damaged this vital organ that is his future chance to have kids, and here he looking at you with this kind of goofy grin across his face like he genuinely enjoys your company.
You manage a small, cautious smile of your own, and his boyish grin widens.
And it's just like you're back in High School where the cute boys run the school, how you'll forget what dicks they are that one second when they smile and you feel yourself crashing into them like the high tides take over the sand. A moment of bad judgement, a romanticized event. That's just exactly what it is.
Attempting to fix your chair—which may or may not have been disrupted in stance due to your tom foolery—you give him one last smile before opening your book again.
But then he hooks your leg together securely with his own and you see him shyly pretending to read his comic, even though you feel his gaze on you.
Well, now that's something entirely different.
A/N: Possible sequel, I have one semi-mapped out. Yes, they will actually talk. Thoughts?