Someone Else's Heart

by Persian Freak

A/N: Hey y'all! *waves* New year, new story.

The title of this story is based on the Regina Spekter song, On The Radio.

This is my third venture into the AU/AH/OOC universe and, I suspect, far from my last. Please, please let me know what you think, I always do need a bit more encouragement for the first chapter. I don't know how often I'll be able to update, what with school and whatnot, but I guess we'll see.

This story is unbeta'd, so any and all mistakes are mine. Bear with me.

Chapter 1

This is how it goes:

You're young until you're not,

You love until you don't,

You try until you can't.

You laugh until you cry,

You cry until you laugh,

And everyone must breathe,

Until their dying breath.

No, this is how it works,

You peer inside yourself,

You take the things you like,

And try to love the things you took.

And then you take that love you made,

And stick it into some,

Someone else's heart,

Pumping someone else's blood.

On The Radio, Regina Spekter

September 2010

It only takes a couple of hours for me to get completely settled in once my parents leave, having driven me to my dorm room and taken me out for dinner before they head back to our hometown of Bon Temps. The whole process took much longer last year but this is my second time around and I don't have to stop to worry about school or how I'm going to make friends, like I did the last time around. I smile to myself as I recall how anxious I had been for my freshman year in college. That anxiety has been replaced with excitement for my sophomore year and I find myself humming lightly as I put up a poster of the Backstreet Boys on my wall. I got lucky this year: my room is actually a double room, which means that I have two beds and two desks, the former of which I pushed together to create a king-sized bed and I grin as I tug the king-sized fitted sheets my parents bought me a couple of hours ago over the two mattresses.

The clock tells me that it's barely one o'clock when I finish and I grab my phone from the small ledge above my bed to send a quick text to my best friend Amelia. Her response arrives a minute later, telling me that she is on the eighth floor. I grin and we make plans to meet in the cafeteria in half an hour for a late lunch. I flop on my bed, taking a breather for the first time since that morning.

I'm excited about this year, there's no doubt about that. I love Psych and after the hell that was first year, what with all the pre-requisites I had to take, I can't wait to study what I actually want to study. But a part of me, the part that cares less about academics and more about my social life, is anxious to start the year sans boyfriend, as Quinn and I broke up in mid-May last year and had been together for just over a year.

Not that I miss him.

What we had was… good while it lasted. I cared about him, a lot, and I know he did too. I think the problem was that we kept waiting for more to happen, for us to feel more than we did, and it never came. We kept waiting for it because we'd known each other all our lives and because it would be so easy to fall in love and go to college together, someday get married and settle down. It never happened though, and it wasn't until we slept together – I held out for a full year, much to the shock of all my friends – that I decided there was no point, that we both deserved better. As upset as he had been when I first told him, Quinn couldn't argue with my logic and we still managed to be on okay terms; not very close but not awkward and avoid-y either. It's a good place to be, I like to think, because I don't regret being with him – he's a good guy, really – but he wasn't for me.

Though I can't help being disgruntled at myself for dumping him before I got to have actual good sex, as opposed to de-virginalizing sex. Thinking about the night I lost my virginity has me drumming my fingers on my stomach before I reach for my phone to check the time before hauling my ass downstairs. The door across the hall is open and I can see boy stuff in the open suitcase on the bed as I head to the elevator bank and punch the button. I see a few people I know moving in and I wave hello or stop briefly to exchange words on my way, which means that Amelia's waiting for me by the time I get to the cafeteria on the ground floor. We grab trays and soup-and-sandwich combos before heading to our usual table in the far corner of the large hall, by the massive windows looking out into a courtyard.

Amelia and I have been best friends since junior high, so it's not like we missed each other so much as we missed living so close to each other; her house is on the outer edges of Bon Temps, across the town from mine. As we eat, I share some of my thoughts about being single and she comforts me, telling me that this is a good thing, that maybe I'll find whoever I'm meant to be with, whatever that means. I roll my eyes at her because it's easy for her to say things like that, with Tray's promise ring sparkling on her finger. They've been together since they decided the opposite gender doesn't have cooties.

"But seriously Sook," she insists, spooning some type of rice-y soup into her mouth. "Didn't you break up with him because you didn't love him? Here's your chance to find someone you do love." Sighing, I incline my head and stir my own bowl of scalding hot soup; freaking Amelia and her ability to drink hot liquids without batting an eyelash. Oh, and give logical advice.

We have to go our separate ways after lunch, Amelia saying she has yet to finish unpacking and waving away my offers to help, which actually means that she plans on christening every surface of her room. I tell her to use Clorox wipes on everything afterwards and she laughs as I get off the elevator, leaving a grin on my face that still hasn't disappeared by the time I make it back to my room. The occupant of room 754, across from my own, has fully moved in by now, a few duffle bags and boxes strewn about the floor and I can see it's also a single room, though the door blocks me from seeing the occupant himself. I hesitate in my doorway, biting my lip as I decide to be the welcoming sophomore and go to meet my new neighbour. There's the sound of something falling and a muttered curse and I apologize instantly for having startled him, my words trailing off when he appears in front of me. My eyes go up, up, up, searching for his and settling on them a good foot above me. Bright blue, gorgeous eyes and blonde hair, just the perfect length. And the rest of him, whew. My neighbour is gorgeous. Goddamn.

"Hi," I offer with a smile and he grins right back.

"Hey."

"I just wanted to say 'hi'. I'm Sookie, this is me," I gesture at the half-open door behind me and his gaze briefly follows my hands before returning to me.

"Hey there, Sookie." He extends his hand, "I'm Eric."

"Nice to meet you, Eric." You're sexy. Too sexy.

"Come on in, you can watch me put my stuff away." He gestures me inside and I thank him, offering him help that he graciously refuses so I plop onto his bed with its navy sheets and comforter. There's a soccer ball on a shelf and a Macbook buried under a pile of cables and adaptors, an opened box housing a printer next to the whole mess. At the closet, Eric appears to briefly consider dumping all his clothes straight out of the duffel bag but then sighs and transfers the folded garments into the drawers and even goes so far as to hang some of the fancier items up. I notice a guitar case leaning against a wall and ask if he plays, because my own guitar, Chandler, is set in its stand in my room. He indicates that he does and we begin to talk. I soon discover that he's originally from Sweden, but now lives in Osoyoos, which I know to be a small town east of where we are in Vancouver. It explains his tan, because the town is hotter than hell in the summer and Osoyoos Lake often presents too great a temptation. With a nonchalant shrug, he explains that he lives with an aunt, his parents having passed away years before, and that he's here on a soccer scholarship, studying sociology before he applies to Business. When I offer him my condolences for his loss, he grins and thanks me, repeating that it was a long time ago and that he doesn't remember them before asking about me. I'm from Bon Temps, I explain, and witness his brows furrowing together so I offer more on my hometown but he nods and tells me he knows where it is. I quirk a brow, sensing more to the story, but he doesn't elaborate so I continue slowly, telling him about my parents and what I'm studying this year. He lines up his textbooks on a shelf, asking me a few more questions and I can't help feeling flattered that he has taken an interest in me.

He throws himself onto the bed next to me when I mention Amelia and asks, "What about a boyfriend?"

"Why would you assume I have one?" I laugh and he smiles back.

"I didn't, I just want to know if you're single."

"I am." My smile fades a little bit.

"Recent?" he asks, noticing my slight reaction.

Shaking my head, I respond, "Not really. Quinn and I broke up three, four months ago now."

"Does this Quinn go here?" I nod in response and he raises a brow.

"What about you, got a girlfriend?" That is apparently the wrong thing to ask because he shuts right down, with such severity that I actually recoil. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't." Lies, I say. He continues, "No, I don't have a girlfriend."

"Oh," I pause, sensing the conversation has come to a complete halt. "Well, I should probably go." I stand up, straightening my shirt and he mirrors my movements.

"It was nice meeting you, and I guess I'll be seeing a lot of you this year," I smile, trying to keep the flirting out of my voice because, damn, I can only hope to see a lot of him this year.

"You too, Sookie."

888

Classes start three days later, and I am more than willing to dive in headfirst. I have two psychology courses this term, Intro to Social Psychology and Personality & Cognition, both of which I am beyond excited for and it doesn't take long before I'm knee-deep in various assignments. My Intro to Philosophy elective proves to be the class to worry about, with its nightly reading assignments and monthly essays, but even this I tend to enjoy once I really begin to understand the material.

What it comes down to, however, is that I'm grateful for the distraction. Between the part-time job I have working at a restaurant on weekends and a full courseload, I rarely find myself with sufficient time to think about my gorgeous neighbour.

Several weeks pass as the new occupants of the floor really start to gel. I become friends with a girl named Tara whose sharp wit and biting humour matches my own, and we spend a considerable amount of time together along with Amelia, whom I introduce Tara to.

In other news, it doesn't take long for all the girls on the floor to recognize just how much of a fox Eric really is, and he doesn't seem to mind either, flirting with whoever pleases him but never crossing the line, not that some of the girls would mind it if he did. On more than one occasion, I witness a girl drunkenly banging on his door, vying for his attentions. Eric, ever the gentleman, always kindly helps them back to their own beds, returning a few minutes later to shoot me a sheepish grin if my door happens to be open. At some point, I stop opening my door every time a drunk girl shows up at his door, no longer curious as to what is causing the racket.

My Psychology textbooks call this 'habituation'.

I regard all this with amusement, finding it entertaining and a bit disheartening for girls of my generation that they're so willing to have sex with someone just because they're good-looking and work out often. It says a lot about college girls that we can be so desperate and lacking in self-respect, I think. For all they know, Eric could be a complete ass, a serial-rapist, any one of a thousand undesirable things. And yet his pretty blue eyes and cut abs are sufficient to make the panties drop.

At least Eric is dignified enough to not take advantage, and that makes me respect him, makes me regard him as something a bit more than just a very pretty face.

888

My Blackberry is passively flashing its LED at me by the time I step out of the lecture hall, following the crowd through the halls and out the door. I sigh as I move out of the constant stream of people and pull up my messages to see that, sure enough, Sam is texting me.

- How was the English midterm?

I met Sam last year, when he had lived a couple of doors down the hall from me. His friendly smiles and willingness to do me favours had given the impression that he had felt more for me than a friend, but being with Quinn, I had always kept him at arm's length. I had never been interested in flirting with other guys when I was in a relationship and even now, despite being single, I find I'm really not interested in him.

We barely spoke over the summer, since Sam lives on the other side of the country, working for his dad's restaurant in New Brunswick. With the start of the new year we soon discovered that we are in different blocks of the same English class.

And now – I sigh again as I contemplate a response – he won't stop texting me. It didn't help that I mentioned my relationship status, which elicited an almost instantaneous "Oh I'm so sorry about that, are you okay?", and that Sam seems to think with Quinn out of the way, there is nothing standing in the way of our epic and true love.

- I think it went well. How did yours go yesterday?

Pleased with myself for coming up with a polite response that doesn't convey my frustration with him, I begin heading to the on-campus food court, just off the quad.

- That's good :) mine was good too, want to grab lunch?

Fuuuuuuuck.

I scoff at my phone, frustrated with Sam pushing it when he's already wearing my patience thin. It's not that it's not flattering; it is, really. It's just exhausting to be polite and friendly to someone who wants more from me when, try as I might, I can't feel anything for him. It's a shame, really, because Sam is a good-looking guy, in a shaggy-haired, blue-eyed sort of way and he has this way of speaking that draws you in with the warmth of his voice and the smile that is always there, waiting to tug his lips up in a full grin. Too bad I can't bring myself to like him.

- Aw, I can't, I have to review my notes for my Psych quiz tomorrow. Rain check?

I feel bad that I'm lying to him but frankly, if I have to spend another lunch with Sam while he hit on me, I just might smack somebody. Buttoning up my jacket, I shove my hands in my pockets and instead begin heading back to the three towers that make up Mullins Hall, the on-campus residence provided to undergrad students. I stray from the usual paths, avoiding the quad in favour of the narrow path between the arts building and Rockford library. My annoyance dissipates as I listen to my iPod, my footsteps matching the rhythm of the songs as I head home. Soon, I'm stepping off the elevator on the seventh floor of the middle tower – literally, the Middle Tower – and heading to my own room. Letting my bag drop unceremoniously on the floor, I hang up my coat and pull off my boots, turning on the one foot I'm balanced on when I hear the knocking at my ajar door.

"Hey," Eric grins as I kick my boots into the corner. I love my boots, but the fact that their usefulness is limited to my least favourite season dictates how well I treat them.

"Hey," I smile back. "What's up?" Eric and I have struck up an unusual friendship; we're more comfortable around each other than we should be, or at least I am comfortable with him. He's absurdly easy to joke around with, and even though there are moments when he completely shuts down on me (i.e. that one time I mentioned his having a girlfriend) we have proven capable of staying up until 3 A.M. on a school night, just talking about nothing or having an impromptu jam session in the laundry room, waiting for our clothes to dry. Amelia likes him too, claiming that his attractiveness-to-personality ratio is adequate, meaning that he is not all good looks. They do seem to have a bit of a love-hate relationship though, based on the deadpan sense of humour they utilize when they're around each other, which is pretty often considering the amount of time Amelia spends in my room.

Point is, we have a connection. Or so Amelia and Tara tell me.

Point is, I refuse to date someone I practically live with.

That's not what he's here for now, though. Leaning against the doorframe, Eric asks me if I want to go down to the caf and grab some food to bring up. In my room, we sit on my bed and dig into the Cajun chicken we both like.

"That Sam guy dropped by," Eric comments, reaching for my soda and I glare at him, more so because of the news he just shared. I eye the water he insists on buying even though he steals gulps (not sips, big boy gulps) of whatever carbonated, sugary concoction I've picked for myself every time we get dinner.

"To see you?" I ask, arching a brow.

"Yup, we're together and nothing can stop our love," he deadpans and I roll my eyes. "And apparently, nothing can stop his love for you," he adds and I smack the back of his head. He chokes a bit on my Dr Pepper and I watch in satisfaction as he wipes the liquid from his chin.

"You deserved that."

"I don't see what he sees in you, you're so brash," Eric scoffs and I scowl right back.

"Smartass," I mutter into another forkful of chicken and my friend beams. "What did he want?"

"He was looking for you. I told him you had class, like most individuals, and he smacked his forehead and walked away."

"He literally smacked his forehead?"

"I shit you not."

Sighing, I run my hand through my hair and look up pathetically at Eric.

"I take it you're not interested."

"He's a nice guy and all! A little persistent, but nice. Cute." I sigh again. "Nope, not at all interested."

"It's okay. Most guys do tend to pale in comparison to yours truly." He flips his imaginary long locks over his shoulder and I can't help laughing at his goofy ass. Once we stop laughing and things take a more serious tone, he tells me that I should just talk to Sam, let him know that I am Not Interested.

In my head, his words are capitalized.

"It's easy for you to say," I grumble under my breath. Eric oozes confidence. If Confidence were a cologne, Eric would be the nude, drenched European model gazing sexily into the lens, not even bothering to sexily whisper 'Confidence' because he would be Confident that you, as his audience, will stare transfixed until the words flashed across the screen, forever burning themselves into your psyche.

"What, you think guys like being bullshitted? If you don't want him, tell him. Don't let him think he has a chance, especially if you actually think he's a decent guy."

"Okay," I grumble begrudgingly.

"Good girl," he pats the top of my head as he stands up, taking his garbage with him. "I have Econ, so I'll see you later."

888

"Sammy, we need to talk."

I narrow my eyes and tilt my head to the side. Do I look too condescending when I say that? Clearing my throat, I try again.

"Sam, I think we should talk." Too formal? Maybe. It's not like he's nobody, he's somebody. More importantly, he's somebody to me. Does it matter though? Rejection never bodes well for a friendship, but then again neither does being strung along. Groaning in frustration, I storm into Eric's room. He drops his textbook and yelps when I barge in on him, giving me an unimpressed look.

"Well hello," he greets, mock-casually.

"I need to practice my speech on you," I explain.

"Your thanks-but-no-thanks speech?" I nod, pouting at him. "Alright," he pushes his notebook away. "Give it to me."

"Sam, we need to talk."

"Why, did you kill his dog?"

"What?"

"You can't sound like you ran over his pet. He'll feel like you're pitying him."

"Urgh. Fine. What if I make it a question, like, Sammy, can I talk to you?"

"Okay, now you sound like he ran over your dog."

"Eric!"

"Hey, you wanted my help, this is my help!" Groaning, I flop onto his bed. It takes another twenty minutes but "Sammy, I think we should talk" is what I end up saying and Sam's brows draw together. Then I have to go through the painful process of telling someone I consider a friend that I realize he's interested in me, but that I'm not. That I'm sorry if I've hurt him, and I hope we can somehow continue to be friends again, all the while keenly aware of just how much of a bitch I sound like. Sam looks a tad upset but takes it like a champ and thanks me for my honesty, and I smile when he pulls me into a hug and walks away, out of my room and hopefully out of my life until we're both ready to be in the other's presence.

"Hey," Eric calls a while later, peering into my room. "Did you talk to him?"

"Yeah," I sigh.

"How'd it go?"

I shrug.

"Dinner?" He suggests sympathetically and I nod, walking into his hug and letting him hold me for a moment before following him out the door.