"omg this is sammy seabury from creative writing w/ mrs adams right? i sit right behind you! i'm charles lee and i love you so muchhhhhhhhh! your hair is a delicious shade of caramel, and your body, though willowy, is superbly voluptuous! i would love to tap that! talk to me next monday, we can arrange something ;)))) xoxoxoxo 3333
~ Charlie lee."
Charles blinked.
His fingers raked the unruly mess of dark locks sitting atop his head, a tic he'd adopted whenever he was attempting to make his brain progress something quicker. He was having an especially hard time registering this.
He punched the home button. Is this even my phone? The app minimized in size, displaying his homescreen - a landscape of the campus at night, his freshman year. It was his phone alright, the picture was authentic and he never posted it on any social media outlets.
He swiped. The applications were located in a single screen, so instead of advancing to the next screen, it just bounced back. Charles had compiled his applications into four separate folders, which all fit into that one screen. The Chrome icon sat by its lonesome, hovering above the home button.
Charles blinked again. Twice. He opened the messaging application again, and read over the text he sent, still having a hard time to accept it. He didn't remember drinking last night, so there was no way he'd drafted this ungodly message in an intoxicated state. He flopped down on the solitary sofa in his mediocre apartment, and tried to recall. Remember. Recount.
Last night. What had he done? He met up with John Laurens to work on a partnered essay for Criminal Justice, and they were halfway done despite their considerably aggresive relationship with eachother - considering they had a very unfriendly brawl their sophomore year. He had ordered some coffee... what was it? The regular joe? No, he hated that cup. He was sure he'd ordered a latte, something he regularly requested in the complex cafe.
John had ordered cinnamon latte. Why he remembered his sworn rival's drink instead of his own, was beyond Charles. They'd bickered about the opening paragraph, the hook, and then they somehow mostly agreed on the proceeding paragraphs. Charles remembered that they agreed to focus on Psychology.
It was seven p.m. Charles had planned to have dinner at home, there was no way he'd have supper with John. He excused himself to the bathroom - he never left anywhere without going to the toilet first. He'd brought his wallet, his motorcycle keys, his apartment keys...
His phone.
Charles' eyes flew open from when they had closed, face twisted into a pensive expression. His neck snapped down to read over the text again. He scanned the exact date, written in a pastel periwinkle bubble floating above the green message bubble.
Feb. 14 2017.
What date is it today? Charles summoned the notification bar.
February fifteenth, of 2017.
His left arm shot up unconsciously, and he rubbed his temple, mind extremely apprehensive as he inched closer to the perpetrator. Gradually, his pupils strayed to the time the text was sent, displayed in a tiny font below the green bubble.
7:05.
Oh my God.
Charles rose faster than he did during last year's finals week, when he felt like he had been glued to the bed, clapped under iron chains - which was actually his duvet. His angry footfalls echoed to his bedroom, and then it was drowned out by the sound of one of his drawer slots being thrown open. He rummaged through the contents—a measly amount of clothes—and withdrew what he could find. He wasn't about to go marching down the block in a white undershirt with checkered boxers.
He threw his last minute outfit on: a navy blue jacket he had yet to grow into, exterioring his white tee, along with a hastily chosen pair of dark jeans. He pocketed his phone, and then proceeded to barge out his bedroom and apartment. He made a point to pull his keys out of its hole - one of John's shady friends could've been lurking in a nearby janitor closet, just waiting to wreak havoc in Lee's apartment in the latter's absence.
The corridors were empty that day, so Lee weaved his way through the hallways with ease. He was restless during the trip down in the elevator, tapping his foot to no tangible rhythm as he continously checked his phone. This 'Samuel Seabury', whoever that was, probably forgot his phone in his housing, because he had yet to read the message Lee had sent—no, Laurens had sent—the night before.
Finally, the elevators' doors parted, and like a flash of light, Lee darted for the apartment's main entrance and exit - a revolving door, right there as Lee traversed down the short hallway from where he emerged, across the gaping vestibule of the building. Where Lee lived wasn't necessarily shabby - his parents funded him with just enough money to purchase a nice-enough room in a nice apartment. Besides, Lee'd rather his scholarship be put into his studies rather than housing.
Nobody paid mind as Lee rushed out the building, exuding irritation. Many students from Lee's university had chosen this apartment to settle down for their semesters, so it wasn't unusual for a young adult to cause noise or stir up anything that would've disrupted the community in other apartments. Some newcomers shot Lee a weird look, but it wasn't as if he cared.
The moment Lee set foot outside the apartment, he was subjected to the sun's equally angry glare, the pleasure of summer in New York. He veered to the left and tried to avoid crashing into the myriad of people clumping together in the city's disastrous crowds. As he walked down the pavement, crossing streets, he could see the building where the banes of his existence lived. It was another common option for students, but more expensive. This option was typically considered by students wanting to bunk with other people, which meant that Lee might have to deal with Laurens' overbearing roommates and associates.
He could name one off of the top of his head. Some hothead named Alexander Hamilton - Charles occasionally bumped into him before, but not too much, since Alexander took a different course. It was only when Charles dared to open his mouth to criticize George Washington, the head of the Law Department, that Alexander began making a point to approach Charles every lunchtime to land a couple of punches. Charles avoided him as much as he could, up until John abruptly challenged him into a fight, that was.
He'd have plenty of time to scream at them once he reached their room. Right then, as he thought about the satisfaction of yelling at them, he'd just asked the receptionist regarding the whereabouts of 'Mr. John Laurens, son of my father's new fiancée'. He received a guest keycard, and went on his way.
Sixth floor, room number 1-11.
The location had been engraved into his brain as he turned a sharp corner, and then travelling down a narrow hallway. He followed the signs, until he reached 1-12. One step forward. And then he faced their door.
Not wasting another beat, his fist rammed onto the door rapidly.
Then he waited.
A minute passed and he banged on the door again.
Two minutes. He was about to pound again, but then he heard subtle shuffling from inside, followed by quiet muttering and grumbling. Charles put his arm down and waited, three more seconds.
Then the door was opened, just a crack. Charles peeked there, and his charcoal eyes met that of dark hazelnut. The person who answered the door had rich chocolate skin, and corkscrew curls fell down and obscured the left side of his face. The rest of his hair had been pulled back into a ponytail.
And his chest was bare.
Charles fought against the urge to admire this stranger's particularly toned abs, and with a forced expression of animosity, Charles managed to spit:
"Who the fuck are you?"
The man looked at Charles as if he were retarded.
"Who the fuck am I?" the stranger retorted, a French accent tinting their words, "who the fuck are you?"
It was only then that realization dawned on Charles, that he was the unwelcome guest - of course the stranger could parry the question and send it back running to Charles, Charles wasn't even past the damn threshold of the room.
But then, who was this guy? Why did Laurens have a bare-chested Frenchman in his room?
"I'm not important," Charles tried to rectify his mistake quickly. Before the stranger could say anything, Charles added:
"I'm here to see John Laurens. This is... John Laurens' room, right?"
"Oui," the stranger replied with a drawl, and Charles understood it as a 'yes'. "But John isn't here right now. Alexander Hamilton is, though - he lives with Laurens. He can pass on whatever message you have to John."
Goddamnit. Hamilton lives with Laurens, of course. An idiot could've realized that sooner.
"Fine then," Charles sighed. Looks like he couldn't exact revenge upon the freckled man just yet. "I'll just... come back later."
The stranger quirked a suspiciously perfect-shaped eyebrow. "Do you want John's number or something? You sure you're just gonna leave? Hamilton's right here. I can call-"
"No!" Charles interjected, his volume a tad too loud. He didn't want to deal with a second party - his beef was only with John, and if Alexander got dragged into this, it'd just get messy. "No," Charles repeated, more quietly this time, as the stranger had initially been startled by Charles' volume. "I just... can you take the message instead?"
"Sure, I guess," the stranger shrugged. "I'm Lafayette, art student. And you are...?"
"Um, John's CJ partner," Charles said hesitantly. He didn't know anything regarding Lafayette's involvement with John or Alexander, but if he was there, hanging out in their apartment, wearing no upper garment, then he should be close enough to them to recognize a 'Charles Lee'.
"I just need to remind John that we'll be, uh, meeting to work on our, um, essay tonight. He has my number."
"Uh-huh," Lafayette eyed Charles, disinterest starting to cloud his tired brown eyes. "Anything else?"
And tell your friends that they're nothing but self-serving bastards and they've stooped low enough to strike revenge over something that happened last year.
Charles gulped. "Nope."
"'Kay. Au-bye bye."
The door slammed shut in Lee's face.
Charles arms once again shot up, and he found himself pulling at his own hair as he power-walked down the hall, not desiring for Hamilton to catch him waltzing down the corridor from his door. That would've caused an utter shitstorm.
Charles entered the elevator, and suddenly willed for it to move more gradually. He buried his face in his palms, suddenly panicking about what this message can do to his reputation.
He never even noticed that anyone was sitting in front of him!
And then, the person that he'd never realized existed, was victim to a dirty prank played by Charles' greatest rival - he almost felt bad. But this was going to be easy. With hope, Samuel Seabury would just be a geeky nerd with a round belly and equally round and large spectacles, who totes around an inhaler and breathes heavily through the mouth. That would be easy to turn down on the spot, or through text message.
Charles opened his phone again. His fingers tapped the messenger application, and then he tapped on Charles' profile picture. His eyes widened at the sight before him.
Oh no, he's cute.
Then came denial - maybe it wasn't Samuel in the picture. Maybe it was a picture of a model, stolen from Google and used to catfish people? Maybe it was just a friend who knew Samuel's passcode, and took a selfie whilst Samuel was away? Maybe it was-
His phone vibrating ripped Charles away from his thoughts. A notification bar popped up.
Samuel Seabury has replied to your message.