The Gap

spockjasperlokizukowriting

Ten- Rivalry

"NO!" I screamed, pacing around my room, digging underneath everything I could topple, dumping out my backpack for the third time in the morning. "No, no, no, no, this can't be happening! This is a nightmare! I'M GOING TO DIE!"

Andrew stood in my doorway, leaning against the lintel with a bemused expression. "Wow, Acorn, don't start slitting your wrists immediately," he chuckled darkly. "It's just a stupid book."

"No, no, no, it's MORE than that!" I cried, sobbing as tears started to stream down my cheeks, trembling as I worked myself into a state. "It's- it's all my work! Everything! My LIFE! It's all in there and I can't lose it!" I clenched handfuls of my sleeping shirt, clutching myself and sobbing like there was no tomorrow.

"What's the ruckus about?" my father asked, peering into my room around around the corner, a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other, still in his bathrobes. His blue eyes softened when he saw the state I was in, the belongings strewn everywhere on my floor while I stood shaking and bawling in the middle.

"Acorn lost her sketchbook," Andrew explained, blue eyes flickering while my father nodded, brow knitting.

"Ah."

"Ah?" I wailed, my hands dropping while I gave him a disbelieving, accusing look. "Ah? My life is over and all you can say is AH?"

"Acorn, your life isn't over," Father reprimanded with a raised eyebrow.

"How could you say that, you soulless people?" I cried, tears falling onto my shirt as I hugged my stomach. "It's like you losing your work, dad, or getting your book accidentally erased, Andrew! I've lost my work and my effort! It's ALL OVER if I can't find it!"

I sank to my knees, blubbering to myself, unable to keep control as I buried my face behind my quivering hands, devastated. How could I have lost my sketchbook? I remembered putting it straight into my bag, no questions asked! We had gone out to see a movie last night, but I hadn't moved my backpack from my room since I had arrived home, only to wake up in the morning, itching with a craving to draw, to find it missing as if it had never been there in the first place.

I felt my heart drop as reassuring hands kneaded my shoulders. "Oh darling, you'll be okay," my mother whispered, kneeling down by my side to give me a hug, squeezing me and rubbing my back. I opened my burning, wet eyes, my father standing there impassively while my brother sealed in laughter behind a large hand, eyes twinkling. "We'll buy you a new one, and you can start over!"

"It's not like they were any good anyway," Andrew quipped, prompting a glare from my father as I sobbed harder. Andrew lifted up his hands. "What?"

"You're not helping," my mother chided with a scowl, tugging me closer.

I tried to calm down, hiccuping as my mother pulled me to my feet. "There, there," she consoled. "You're a fabulous artist and you'll do great, no matter where your sketchbook is. It's only practice. If we don't find it within the next couple of days, then I'll buy you a really fancy one! With colored pencils! Or...or maybe we could get you a gigantic canvas set so that you can work on painting? For Art? Ms. Keaton will understand, and surely your partner, Ethan, shall too!"

I knitted my brow and staggered from my room, stumbling into the bathroom to wash my face. Nothing bought could ever replace my sketchbook. It was what I did to calm down. It was what I did during my calm. It was a personal friend, a relic of my past. How else could I make sense of my emotions, of my memories, my life?

Andrew snickered as he passed the bathroom, walking downstairs and declaring that he was going to eat breakfast. My mother tapped after him, her light, silken bathrobe draping after her while my father rubbed his eye, yawning as he resigned to stand in the doorway. "Come down to breakfast, sweetheart," he insisted, his voice kind as I looked up, staring at my red, blotchy face in the mirror. "You'll have to piece up your attitude somehow before we go over to eat with the Asgards."

I blinked, realizing how horrible I looked, angry raw skin fuming in the cool water as I remembered the evening's engagement. "Right. Crap. Tom."

"I'm sure they'll understand, and if you left it on the bus, maybe they've seen it," he pointed out, sipping his steaming coffee, the blue ceramic matching the color of his eyes. "Besides, if you ever feel down, just keep yourself moving. Distract yourself. Work with computer paper for now, or produce an actual project you can showcase or sell for once. This needs to become something you shouldn't be so attached to."

I nodded, wiping my eyes furiously. "I know, I know! It's just... It can't be replaced. If it's gone, it's gone forever." The thought of never seeing those drawings again terrified me, and I fought to hold back more tears, my lip quivering and eyes shining once more.

"Well, you look dreadful," he commented, sighing and heading towards the stairs. "Clean up before you come down, alright?"

"Fine!" I snapped back, washing my face until the redness and ache wasn't from the crying. My throat tight and lashes wet, I slathered my face with a towel and trudged down the stairs, my sweatpants and overgrown shirt waving like parachutes on my thin frame, the fabric that went past my ankles almost tripping me as I plodded towards the dining room. I caught a glance of myself in the mirror- hair wild, shoulders slouched, gray circles inked underneath my violent blue eyes, bloodshot and pink from my tantrum. Andrew was outside on the porch, his lips moving as he spoke on the phone, free hand waving about, like he was having a debate of some sorts.

My mother was foraging about the kitchen, lathering a plate high and wide with eggs, bacon, and pancakes, topping it off with syrup and whipped cream, sprinkling on a few diced strawberries before presenting it to me. I took it in hand and sat at the table, curving my shoulders inwards. My father sat next to me, buried in a newspaper while his coffee sat half empty by his side. I picked through my food, chewing slowly, the eggs tasteless in my mouth while my father peered over the edge of paper. "Better?" he asked.

I forced a nod, feeling numb, my fingers trembling though I wasn't about to cry, nor was I particularly hungry. "Yeah, I'm okay," I managed.

"Isla," he continued.

"Yes?"

He smirked. "You aren't going to die," he assured.

I held my cheek in my spare hand and sighed, wishing that I didn't have to eat if it wasn't part of the act. "You're so helpful, you know," I mumbled.

The doorbell rung, trilling throughout the house in a two note sequence. My mother dusted her hands on her bathrobe and reached up to straighten her hair briefly, pursing her lips. "I wonder who that could be..." she pondered aloud, striding towards the front door. I wrinkled my nose, slicing through the double layer of pancakes with the side of my fork.

My father folded up his newspaper and cupped both hands around his coffee, cradling it between his hands like a piece of delicate gold. "You don't have to eat if you don't want to," he chuckled, eyeing the bacon. "The only one you'll be offending is the food."

I shook my head, stubborn and resolute. "No. I shall eat. I'll keep moving, like you said, remember?... It's just a stupid sketchbook." My stomach clenched, because I knew that wasn't true. I put down my fork and rubbed my temple, my chest feeling hollow, thoroughly in denial. But I knew it was hopeless. If I had left it on the bus, maybe, but if it had fallen out on the street? Perhaps on my way home? It would be ruined by water or picked up by a stranger and tossed to the trashcan. The more I thought about how hopeless the situation was, the more I felt like bursting into tears once more.

"Isla?" my mother called from down the hallway. "Isla, a friend from school's here to see you! You ride the bus with him?"

My throat felt clogged and the fork dropped from my fingers. The name Arren automatically came to mind, Henry's words echoing in my ears, about how Arren had wanted to make me his girlfriend. His name was all I could think of when I shakily stood, calling back, "Coming!" I tried to comb through my hair with my fingers, dreading meeting again with a boy Tom had coined thoroughly the schoolyard bully, my gut clenching in anxiety. I could make out a tall figure from behind the door, one that matched his almost exactly, as my mother stood with the door parted, a smile on her face.

"He's very handsome," she grinned down at me. "All these suitors!"

"Yeah, suitors," I grumbled back, painting a forced smile on my face as I took the handle from her and swung the door open. My smile fell in shock and my heart skipped a beat, my gaze setting on not Arren, someone completely different- the black-haired boy. He stood, long with mahogany hair gleaming in the gray morning light, leather shoes wet from the snow, his hands buried in his pockets and eyes wide, almost...hopeful. He straightened minutely after I had opened the door, green eyes shining as he swallowed, shifting his shoulders as the strap to his brown satchel cut in the crook of his neck.

I bit my lip, my mother watching from behind with twinkling eyes, my silence rude as I struggled to think of something to say when he obviously wasn't. "I, well... This is unexpected," I stammered, my smile collapsing once more.

He quickly looked away and to the ground, hunching his shoulders. "Yes, well, I, um..." He was at a loss for words, his gaze averting from mine.

I felt my mother's presence disappear from behind me, and I sighed, relaxing with the relief of her pressure. I opened the door a little further and stood to the side, my breath hitching. "Would-"

"I-"

We both quickly fell silent, myself blushing that we had interrupted each other. He shifted where he stood and creased his brow, nervous. "You go first," he gave anxiously.

"Oh, I... Would...would you like to come in?..." I leaned against the door, my hands behind my back and my brow continually raised.

"Oh, no, that... it's fine," he sprang, stumbling over his words quickly before he heaved a breath. "You... I... Isla, I mean." His strained grin faltered. "I have some things of yours...that... That I've come to give back..."

My brow rose in surprise. "Oh."

He slowly reached down to his satchel, my attention following his hands while his gaze remained planted on me. He pushed aside the covering flap and drew out the first thing, red, knitted fabric loose and wavering in his hands, catching on the passing wind as he reached out to me. "You left this behind," he murmured, and I reacted, stretching out a hand to take my red scarf from him, wincing as our bare fingers brushed.

His hands retreated and I folded the cotton and polyester between my fingers, offering a smile. "Thank you," I beamed, taken back by the strange but warm kindness.

He squirmed, leaning forward a bit as he watched my hands. "I, um, that's not everything," he corrected, reaching back to draw out a final product from his satchel. The black fabric glowed in the sunlight, dull as his hands clutched it nervously. "I... I thought you would want this back."

My face lit up, my smile and joy to large to contain as I burst, jumping up in excitement and trembling with happiness. "My sketchbook!" I exclaimed, stepping forward to take it from his hands, the agony of the morning forgotten in light of its return. The pages were untouched as I ran my hands over the canvas, raising an eyebrow as I quickly grew suspicious. "Wait... I knew you had my scarf, but my sketchbook?..."

He went rigid, rocking on his heels anxiously as he stared at the ground. "You dropped it on the bus yesterday," he explained sheepishly, glancing up to look at me sadly. "I thought... I thought you would be missing it."

I smiled at him, forgiving, elated that he had bothered to give these back to me and grateful that events had turned in my favor for once in the week. "I...wow, thank you. I don't know what else to say but thank you."

He nodded, heaving a breath as he leveled our gazes. "You're welcome," he murmured, pursing his lips and looking away.

I knitted my brow. "How did you find me?" I asked curiously, blinking.

He shrugged. "Arren said that he lived next door to you," he said simply, biting his lip.

"Turns out that much is true."

I giggled nervously. "He wouldn't have cause to lie, would he?"

I regretted my words instantly as his sparkling eyes darkened, his emotionless expression hardening. His fingers unconsciously balled by his side, and I cleared my throat, suddenly wishing to go inside and hide again.

"Well, thanks again!" I said weakly. "You made my day."

He nodded, eyes still dark while his expression relaxed. "Oh, okay, well, I...erm, good." He glanced away, back up the street.

"See you at school?" I continued, slightly hopeful.

He nodded again, avoiding my gaze, fascinated with the ground, his lips tight. "Sure," he dismissed and then turned to leave, shoving his hands into his pocket and lowering his shoulders, green scarf waving behind his back as he strode lithely away, a dancer's cadence and he left our yard and began back up the hill.

I watched after him, hugging my scarf and book to my chest, wondering what that was about until I felt my mother standing beside me once more, my feel and fingers numb from the cold, my heart pounding in my ears.

I pulled my gaze away to meet my mother's intense, amused grin. "What?" I asked innocently.

"You never told me you had two complete hotties on your bus!" she piped. "Tom, and now this black-haired boy! You've hit the jackpot."

I blushed and walked inside, slamming the door behind me as she laughed. "Mom, you're ridiculous!" I snapped, but couldn't fight the smile in my face.

"What? Don't tell me that he isn't handsome!" she protested, sprinting to my side. "And did you see the way he stared at you, blushing the entire time? He's seems like a nice boy- I wouldn't mind it if you dated this boy, or Tom, for that matter."

"Mom, really?" I groaned, slumping at the table while she sat across from me. "You can't be serious. He could hardly look at me and his cheeks were paler than tile. Stop making things up."

"Oh, but it's true!" she giggled, every ounce the teenager she was not while my father just rolled his eyes. "And he gave you your sketchbook back, how nice!"

The back door slammed and Andrew trudged towards the kitchen, dejected, his eyes shining as he threw an accusing, stifled glare at us, particularly at my father. "You happy now, dad?" he snapped, on the verge of angry tears. "Because now you've done it! My life is officially over! She's broken up with me!"

"Who has?" my father returned, not bothering to turn to look at his fuming son.

Andrew staggered, hurt, rolled fists trembling. "Georgie, STUPID! My girlfriend broke up with me! She left me, dad! For Clyde! My Georgie, because I moved away and she could barely last the week! Clyde was there to comfort her and...damnit, this is all your FAULT! I HATE CONNECTICUT! I'm going to go hide in a hole and self combust you stupid, arrogant, selfish JERK!"

"Andren Pietari!" my mother snapped, glowering as she bristled, while my father simply shrugged.

"You'll get over it, son," he assured, returning to his newspaper.

Andrew went bright red, his lips tightening as he trembled. "That's exactly what you said to Isla and look at what a mess she is!" he screamed.

I smiled at my brother and held up my sketchbook, blinking my remarkably clear eyes. "The black-haired boy from the bus-stop gave it back," I explained. "I couldn't be more happy."

Andrew appeared exasperated, inclined forward, hands relaxing while he panted heavily. His mouth was agape as he breathed, "...wha...?"

"It's true," I said, wrinkling my nose when I added, "I don't know what you're so distressed about, Andrew. She's just a girl."

He narrowed his eyes, snarling, "Ha. Ha. Very funny."

"My relationship with my textbook has lasted longer than yours did with Georgie," I furthered, holding my chin a little higher. He wiped his eyes furiously, and my heart squeezed. I couldn't stay mad at my brother for long, no matter how much he deserved it. "But Andrew, it'll be okay! There are always more fish in the sea."

"Well, BP took care of that," my father chuckled underneath his breath.

Andrew threw his hands in the air and groaned. "Ugh! I hate my LIFE!" he shouted, storming off and up the stairs with heavy footsteps, topping it off as he slammed his door.

My mother flinched, clutching her cup of steaming tea as she blinked. "Well... This has been eventful."

My father sighed and glanced at his watch. "And it's not even 10 yet."

The doorbell rang later that day, while I sat barefoot on the floor of my room. I had tidied up my room from earlier, my curly hair pulled back into a clip. I inclined pliably over the image of the black-haired boy at my doorstep while etching his face onto the paper. There hadn't been any damage to the pages, no stray watermarks while I turned through the scenes. The signature notes of the doorbell cut through my reverie, and I pulled back when my mother called from down the stairs.

"Coming!" I answered in a hurry, dropping my pencil while I sprinted from my room's door. Andrew's own door was shut and had remained closed for the extent of the morning, while I had changed and spruced myself up, a loose, old shirt on with baggy black sweatpants rolled up at my calves. I bounded down the stairs, skidding to a halt as my smile wavered.

"Oh, hi, Arren," I greeted, tucking a stray curl behind my ear shyly while my neighbor stood outside, flanked by two of his friends, one with messy messy, walnut spikes and the other with a frock of wavy black hair, one pale and the other tanned from hours in the sun. All three were pretty boys, Arren in particular, pink from exercise as they smiled warmly at me.

"Hey," he greeted with a warm smile, no hint of hostility or guarded emotion. The cut along his cheek had faded in bruising and redness, reduced to a thin scratch that almost made him look even more handsome. "This is Evan Hendricks-" he gestured to the boy on his right, with dark brown eyes, tan skin, and spiky hair- "and Ben Laufeyson."

He motioned to the last boy, pale and unnaturally, with sable hair and fierce, cold gray eyes. He was bigger than both Arren and Evan, with a slight hunch, both hands buried in his pocket as he flashed glistening white teeth in a dark smile.

Goosebumps pricked along my arms and I shivered, smiling and nodding politely. I remembered their faces from the hallways during passing period, even thinking that I shared a class with each one- Physics with Evan, Trig and Economy with Ben. Both nodded, Evan muttering a tepid, "hi," beneath his breath. Ben remained largely silent, but his gaze never left.

I grinned, but swallowed, something eating at me inside while my nose went pink from the cold. "What's the occasion?"

Arren smiled snidely and huffed. "Just a small impulse for a walk. I thought I'd take my own turn of showing you about the neighborhood," he explained, eyes flashing. "There's a small park area down the hill, and it's perfect weather for a snow man."

I nodded. "Sure. One second- let me get ready." I let them inside and quickly shut the door, bolting back up the stairs to pull on proper pants and a shirt, folding my hair into a pony tail as I slipped into a beanie. Dressed in warmer clothing, I pulled on my snowboots and gloves, fitting my returned red scarf around my neck before appearing back at the base of stairs in the nick of time, cell phone slipped into my front pocket. Ben and Evan appeared impassive as Arren smiled, my mother clearly ending a small conversation with him as they all stood expectantly.

I smiled and spread my palms. "So? Do I look ready to go on a walk?" I grinned.

Arren met my smile with one of his own. "You look priceless."

I blushed at the compliment, following him as Evan opened the door for us. Venturing out into the cold, I still felt slightly unprepared, shivering in the contact as we crunched through the snow. Arren assured me with a presence at my side, Ben and Evan walking ahead of us and down the hill, opposite the direction the black-haired boy had left. I fingered the cell phone in my pocket, prepared to use it if need be, but allowed myself to trust as Arren began speaking.

"Enjoying your weekend?" he started, auburn hair curled to his pale cheeks and along his chiseled jaw-line.

"Thoroughly," I exaggerated, but he didn't catch my tone. "What about you? What have been your weekend adventures?"

He laughed, hazel eyes sparkling. "Nothing out of the ordinary. My father left to go to some project they're working on in Canada, and my mom is at home sick with the flu."

"Oh, dear," I quipped, sstartled, eyes widening in concern. "Shouldn't you be at home with her?"

He shook his head with a grin. "Nah. She'll be fine. I think she kind of wanted me out of the house, actually. It's not a good thing for her to look out for her son while she's nursing a sore throat."

I nodded. "Ah, okay. Well, I guess that makes sense..."

"What has made you 'thoroughly' enjoy today?" he then remarked, attempting at renewing the conversation's interest in me.

"My brother has been trying to resolve a broken heart all morning. His girlfriend back in New Mexico dumped him," I explained. "I'm kind of sad for him, but he deserved it."

"How did he deserve it?"

"He was bullying me this morning over the loss of my sketchbook," I continued, shivering in the biting air. "But, at least my woe turned out for good. A boy from the bus gave it back to me this morning. He was...kind, about it." I tried not to make my voice sound distant as Arren cleared his throat.

"Does this 'boy from the bus' have a name?" he pressed, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"I...well..." I blushed in embarrassment- he had never had a name in the week I had known him. Always the 'black-haired boy' or the 'boy from the bus.' He felt better nameless- the mystery, the distance.

"I can pretty much figure out who it was, you don't have to tell me," Arren then replied, a little cold in his tone.

"You can?" I asked, unsure.

"Yes, I can. I'm not as stupid as I apparently look, Isla. And I can take a lot more than you realize," he defended, self consciously shying from me.

I frowned in confusion. "Wait, what?"

"You don't have to hide that it was Tom, you know," he continued, his words bitter, like venom as he said the Asgardian's name. "I'm not going to blow up in anger at the gesture."

I flinched, confused and slightly hurt. "Wait, what? No, it wasn't Tom!"

"Don't defend him, Isla," Arren reprimanded, raising both eyebrows and callously shoving his hands into his pockets. "It's not becoming."

The silence then sank in, and no words were spoken until we rounded a corner and reached a small park area. The oak trees stood resolutely, silently, sagging underneath the weight of the melting snow. The air was maleficent in its nature, tendrils of icy numbness scraping down my back. I shuddered and sat down on a small boulder, houses placed on either side of the garden. Arren quickly distanced himself from me and occupied his mind otherwise, teaming up with Evan to push together bushels of left over snow. His gloved hands worked with practiced movements, and the snowman began to take shape.

Like I, Ben had decided to stay behind. Giving me a wary glance, he strode to my side, elegant and tall, blue eyes turbulent while his black hair swung over his forehead in a bent curve.

"May I sit?" he asked cautiously. I only swallowed and nodded, scooting over to allow the massive teen the room I could provide.

He sat down, unmoved by the dropping temperature, and glanced down at me. I tried to avoid eye contact, upset that I had offended the quizzical Arren.

Ben followed my gaze and then smiled, huffing lightly. "Arren will get over it, Isla," he reassured.

"Over what?" I asked, straightening and knitting my brow.

"I have better hearing than you may credit," he grinned. "Besides, one can read Arren like a book. You said something about Tom, didn't you?"

I swallowed and clenched my jaw, the cold insatiable as it teethed on my sensitive skin. "Well, not exactly. A boy from the bus dropped off my sketchbook this morning. I legitimately don't know his name, and the silence on the topic mislead Arren to believing I was trying to protect Tom... But, I wasn't! I promise!"

Ben chuckled darkly and upturned his palms in surrender. "I believe you."

I pursed my lips in frustration and held my cheek, leaning both elbows forward on my knees. "Why do Tom and Arren hate each other, anyway?"

Ben gave me an understanding look as I pleaded for an answer, eyes dark and thoughtful as he replied hesitantly, "Isla... Some hatreds are not so easily explained. Not even I, Arren's closest friend, know the full extent of it."

"Well, what do you know of it?" I pried, straightening to pay closer attention to the story, curiosity pricked.

Ben's smile was absent, eyes hard and sour. "You know what Arren's father does for a living, correct?"

I shook my head.

Ben was undeterred and patient. "His father works for a governmental agency known as SHIELD."

"SHIELD?"

"The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistic Division," he explained with a small smile. "They're largely responsible for foreign affairs and military experiments of the like. His father is high in the ranking, but his primary job is to deal with the affairs that Tom's father, Owen Asgard, also deals with. As a military general, they tend to...clash, a lot."

I nodded to convey my comprehension, lips pursed and brow furrowed in thought. Arren and Evan were oblivious, lost in the snow as Ben adjusted to face me properly.

"Now, you have to understand that some of their work can be dangerous, and frequently involve risking their own lives and each other's," he warned. "This has always unsettled both children, but on one mission, Tom's father was particularly put in danger, and Arren's father was involved in a decision that nearly took Owen's life. The danger dissipated quickly, but the fear for his father's life didn't, and Tom soon began to associate Arren with the fear of never seeing his father again. The damper was only steadily fueled when Arren's own father was placed in a hazardous situation, with the blame primarily of Tom's father. The animosity grew, each other's fathers risking their lives for a greater good, but the stress became too much. Tom decided to confront Arren.

"It was during lunch, as I remember, back in the second grade. Tom had tried to reason with Arren, to ask for a distance between them and to try and create an understanding. Arren didn't see the point in this, and instead decided to bully Tom, afraid of him, worried that Tom's lineage may the reason Arren came close every week to becoming a half orphan. Tom fought back, and three days later, attacked Arren. He punched and kicked, and Arren fought back. They were taken away and Tom switched schools. They never talked for five years after that.

"Since then, it became time for middle school to begin. Unwittingly, both were placed in the same academic program. Arren decided to give Tom another chance, but the favor was only returned with silence. Tom and his cousins avoided Arren and his friends all together, until one decided to stop and listen. Sofie, or as you may know her by her nickname, Sif, shared a class with Arren and steadily grew to like him. Arren returned those affection, and took her as his girlfriend. Tom found out quickly and was enraged, but learned to tolerate it because it made his cousin happy."

"Sif?" I repeated in wonder, thinking of the reserved, snarky girl I had become fond of. "Dating Arren? Impossible!"

"Dated," Ben corrected, nose wrinkling. "The relationship lasted for two years, and Tom had learned to trust Arren to the point where all was practically forgiven between their father's line of work and their earlier fight. Until a new student came."

"Who?" I begged, rapt by the story.

Ben smiled sadistically. "Do you know who Maria Hill is?"

I frowned and shook my head, but the name sounded familiar. It then hit me- Henry had mentioned to the black-haired boy during Photography that Arren had gotten over his most recent heartbreak, Maria Hill.

"She moved into the neighborhood and shared nearly all her classes with Arren," he continued, a haze in his eyes. "He was automatically smitten with her, unable to help his feelings. He felt it was wrong to continue a relationship with Sif, so he dumped her, getting the point across thoroughly, but broke her heart in the process. Tom was maddened to an insane point at his beloved cousin's disappointment, and fought Arren once and for all. Tom was winning, quite easily, as it has been rumored, but the fight was held in private, so no details are as exact in this point of the story. The way Arren explained it to me, he stopped and talked with Tom, winning him over, somehow, with a promise to leave him alone. Since then, Arren has risen in popularity, and the two hardly speak."

I frowned, heaving breaths, horrified at the dismaying, grim retelling of their past. "But... Maria Hill..."

"Ah," Ben remarked with a cruel smile. "She dumped him a few weeks ago, a little before you arrived, actually."

"Word has it that Arren likes me now," I mumbled dejectedly.

"And you don't return those feelings?" he asked in surprise, interest intense despite his suave voice.

"Well, I... No, not at all. I mean, I don't mind Arren. He's nice enough," I stumbled over my words feebly.

"...Then you like Tom?" Ben assumed slowly, eyes expectant.

"No, not that either. Tom's just a friend," I reassured. "I don't like anyone in that way! I'm not ready for a relationship."

"In some ways, that's a relief to hear," Ben confessed, turning his gaze to a distracted Arren. "I don't think Arren needs another girlfriend so soon after Maria."

"Arren doesn't really like me, does he?" I begged, my forehead wrinkling out of desperation. My voice couldn't help but crack and sound a few notes higher.

Ben pursed his lips in consideration, not looking at me. "I wouldn't count on it," he finally shrugged through the silence. "Arren never tells me these things, but you shouldn't worry."

"But Arren doesn't dislike me for hanging out with Tom, does he?"

"I'm sure he resents it, but it's your life," he granted.

"Thanks," I breathed, sighing and looking away. "You seem to be the only one who understands that."

Ben shifted. "Not entirely... Listen, Isla, just be aware of the Asgards. Be aware of the history, beware of Tom." His voice was slick, almost like a sneer as he turned to face me with a malevolent grin. "Someone could get hurt."

A/N: I'll be impressed by the person who can name Ben Laufeyson's Norse equivalent. I'll try and update around every two or three days. At least that's what it's coming out to be.