Written for the College AU/Coffee series.
Rating: T
Trigger Warnings: Minor language, Alcohol, minor threatening with a maple syrup tap
Genres: Comedy, AU
"So did I tell you that Rue threatened me again?"
They're in the kitchen again, but this time it's Mytho who is on the floor. He's sprawled on his back taking photos of the ceiling fan, which does nothing but push the warm May air around the room. Mytho continues to snap away at the spinning blades, sipping his piña colada from a straw that he had jerry-rigged from taping several bendy-straws together so he wouldn't have to move. Fakir watches him from his seat at the table with a deadpan expression.
"Did she now," Mytho hums.
"Mmm. This time it was exsanguination with a maple syrup tap. I'll give her credit, she's getting more creative."
"Apparently."
Fakir takes another sip of his wine, a rather floral white with entirely more sugar than an alcoholic beverage has any business having. A gift from Ahiru for having tutored her all semester. She had informed him proudly upon presenting him with it that it was her first legal purchase.
"I'm sorry if it's not any good; I don't really know anything about wine but the girl at the store said that this was a really popular one, especially for this time of year…"
Fakir feels his ears warm. She had looked so nervous trying to give the stupid thing to him that he didn't have the heart to tell her that he doesn't drink whites. He takes another sip and sneers at himself. He's getting soft.
"So I see Ahiru gave you a gift."
Fakir spits out his wine, coughing. Mytho sits up with a frown.
"You got wine on my lens." He pouts.
Fakir stares at him incredulously, wiping the side of his mouth with his sleeve. "How the hell—"
"You don't drink whites." Mytho states simply, reaching for his camera bag. He extracts a cleaning cloth and carefully wipes away the remnants of Fakir's spit take from the glass. "So it's either you've suddenly acquired a taste for Gewürztraminer or Ahiru gave it to you and you didn't have the heart to tell her you didn't like it."
Fakir scowls as Mytho fiddles with a few buttons on his camera. "You're really irritating, you know that?"
"It's only because I care, Fakir."
"If you truly cared, then you'd stop advocating so hard for me to ask her out." Fakir says. He perches his chin on his fist, narrowing his eyes at Mytho as he returns to his previous position on the floor.
"Like I said, it's because I care."
Fakir downs the rest of his glass of wine because screw sobriety, this semester was freaking stressful and he's earned it. "Whatever. At least I don't have to deal with having her in my lectures anymore," He says as he pours himself another glass, and while the thought should make him happy, all he can feel is a jab of disappointment. He pours a little more in.
"Is that a note of dismay I hear in your voice?" His best friend teases.
Fakir's eyebrow twitches. Mytho knows him too well and it's starting to become a problem. "Does it matter?"
Mytho sits up again and looks at him with a surprisingly serious face; he probably wasn't expecting Fakir to answer with any real honesty. "Of course it matters. You deserve to be happy, Fakir. And if Ahiru is who makes you happy, then I really can't see why you shouldn't at least try."
Fakir sighs, spinning the stem of the wine glass between his fingers. "Mytho, I've told you a hundred times why I can't try. She's a student and I'm a professor. That's all there is to it."
Mytho is oddly quiet, and after almost a minute of silence Fakir finally turns to him, and is very confused when he sees that he's smiling. "What?" He asks. "What is with that stupid grin?"
"You said 'can't'." Mytho's smile grows wider, and Fakir finds his own frown deepening.
"What?"
"You said why you 'can't' try."
Fakir scowls. "And?"
"You've always said you 'won't' try. This is the first time you've said you 'can't'."
Mytho's grin just grows bigger and bigger, and for a moment Fakir is so distracted by how stupidly thrilled his friend is over a tiny change in vocabulary that he almost doesn't realize the implication of his word choice. Face red with mortification, he immediately switches into damage-control mode.
"Mytho? Mytho. Don't you dare get the wrong idea—it's not—I don't— Mytho I'm serious, get that grin off your face before I slap it off."
But Mytho still looks absolutely elated. "I knew you liked her! Oh, this is wonderful, Fakir!"
"You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"You know," Fakir hisses, "That thing. The one where you put words in my mouth."
Mytho frowns. He grabs his drink and makes to sit down at the table. "Fakir, sitting here and ignoring your feelings won't just make them magically go away."
"I'm not ignoring anything," Fakir says. "I've already admitted that I find her attractive. What more do you want?"
"For you to admit that you have feelings for her." Mytho responds. "If you truly don't care about her in that way, then say so already so she can move on with that other boy."
Fakir snaps his head to Mytho so quickly that he pinches a nerve. "Whatother boy?" He asks through clenched teeth. Not that it matters, he tells himself. Not that he cares. Mytho takes a sip of his drink through his ridiculously long straw, and Fakir feels his sanity, not unlike his patience, rapidly slipping through his fingers like sand."What boy, Mytho?"
"The one I made up just now to see if you'd get jealous or not."
Fakir gapes at him, and the room suddenly feels much too hot for mid-May. "You—You—"
Mytho hums. "Like I was saying, bottling up your feelings like this won't do anything but hurt you in the long run. At least if they're out there then they can be properly dealt with."
Fakir takes in a sharp, flustered breath through his nose. "Alright," He says angrily, "You want the truth? Fine. The truth is, she pisses me off. She's always running around without looking where she's going and crashing into things, and she's always late. And I'm not talking five minutes, I'm talking forty-five minutes. It's like she's physically incapable of existing in a particular space at the designated time at which she's supposed to be in it. Do you know how irritating it is when she comes clattering in while I'm in the middle of a lecture?
And she texts me all the time about the stupidest things. Like what they're serving in the cafeteria that day or pictures of a bird or a cat she saw on her way home or something. It's distracting, and my phone never stops buzzing now. It's annoying."
Everything comes up in a sudden swell: Fakir has broken the dam, and now he can't stop himself. By this point, he's practically shouting.
"More so, Ahiru is one of the most infuriatingly brash people I've ever met. She goes headfirst into situations without even giving a shred of thought as to the consequences. She's incredibly nosy, too. It's like she can't keep herself out of other people's business; always prying with these stupid questions to see what's bothering people and wanting to know everyone's life story."
Fakir slams his hands on the table, jerking his chair back as he stands to give proper leverage to his self-fuled fury. The chair's legs screech across the tile floor and his face is burning and he feels the embarrassment from such a confession swelling in his gut, but still he cannot stop himself.
"And you want to know the worst part? None of it is ever for herself. Everything she does is for other people. It's like she gives no thought to her own well-being. Like, if someone was about to be hit by a truck and she so happened to be walking by, I think—you know what, no, I'm sure that she would not hesitate to throw herself in front of it to save them.
She is so ridiculously selfless and trusting that it's going to end up hurting her, and that thought terrifies me. It scares me because I care so much for this stupid girl that the thought of her getting hurt makes me physically ill. She's on my mind every second of the day, and everything she does makes me feel so content that it's sickening. So, yes. I'll admit it. I like Ahiru. I like Ahiru a lot. You know, I might even love her at this point. Who the hell even knows?"
He sits again, glaring at Mytho who watches him, speechless.
"There," Fakir grumbles, finally breaking eye contact because he can't handle any more. "Happy now?"
Mytho opens his mouth to respond, but suddenly the silence is broken by another, muffled voice.
"You have reached the maximum length for your voicemail. Please press one or hang up to send, or two to re-record."
Both freeze, and a look of horror crosses Fakir's face as they both look down towards Mytho's pocket.
"Mytho," He says weakly, "Please tell me you didn't."
Mytho pulls out his cellphone and sees that yes, yes he did:
The word "Princess" is written at the top of his phone's screen, and the call length beneath it ticks upwards of 20 minutes. The automated voicemail message crackles to life again from the speaker as they try to process the fact that oh dear god they had just left a message of Fakir confessing on Rue's phone.
"You have reached the maximum length for your voicemail. Please press one or hang up to send, or two to re-record."
"What are you doing?! Press two!" Fakir shouts.
Mytho snaps out of his shock and tries to unlock his phone, but he fumbles and drops it on the floor. It clatters against the tile and bounces a few feet away.
"You have reached the maximum length for your voicemail." The automated voice chirps. "Please press one or hang up to send, or two to re-record."
"Grab it!" Fakir howls. "Quick!"
Mytho rushes to get out of his chair but he kicks it across the floor with his foot in his mad dash to retrieve it. Fakir watches in slow motion as it slides beneath the stove, and practically dives to the floor to grab it. But he's not nearly fast enough, and the cellphone slides easily out of his reach.
"Dammit, Mytho!" Fakir hollers. He sticks his hand underneath has far as it can go, but there's only about an inch of space and Fakir's hands are big. He tries to fit it underneath as best as he can, pressing his face to the floor in a desperate attempt to see where the phone went.
"You have reached the maximum length for your voicemail. Please press one or hang up to send, or two to re-record."
"No, no, no, no, no," Fakir mutters. If that voicemail sends, his life is over. He is dead. Rue will murder him, if he doesn't end up burying himself alive first. But luck for once seems to be on his side, for the screen lights up and it's close enough to grab with the tip of his finger. He sighs with relief, pressing his finger down on it to drag it out, and that's when the line goes dead.
Mytho is hanging over his shoulder, watching anxiously. "Fakir? Fakir, what's wrong? You're pale as a sheet."
Fakir sits up, holding the phone in his hand. He stares at it blankly.
"I hung up." He says.
Mytho's eyes widen to the size of tea saucers. "Oh no. Fakir, hang on, I'll call her back—"
"No, it's okay." Fakir says, and his voice is surprisingly empty. He pushes the phone into Mytho's chest, walking back to the table. He sits down and Mytho is unsure of how to respond.
"It is?" He asks, shocked at his friend's unusually calm demeanor.
"Yeah. Because I've decided that if I die over this—" Fakir starts with nonchalance, and Mytho watches as Fakir bypasses his wine glass entirely to go straight for the bottle. He finishes it in a few chugs, wiping his mouth before slamming it down on the table and pointing at him. "I'm taking you with me."