ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍs.

      henri sucks in a sharp breath as the slam of the book echoes around them, lungs burning in her chest with breath she didn’t know she was holding. the heat of it blooms up into her neck, beneath her chin, a splotch of color that matches her cheeks.

      she blinks down at the volume, silence ringing in her ears.

      “right. sorry,” she says, stepping over the book and rushing out of the aisle back to their nearly empty carts. she grabs more books, slips into an empty aisle and gets back to work. the sooner she can leave here the better. 

      they get through the rest of the books silently, but henri’s face stays warm the entire time. why, she doesn’t know. or doesn’t want to think about. or something. whatever. she just wants to finish her task and get home to her bed and the soggy arugula salad that waits for her. will spend the hour before she falls asleep tapping through instagram stories of the party she’s missing and feel annoyed by all of this all over again.

      she slips her final book onto a shelf with a relieved huff, weight lifting off of her shoulders and her steps a little lighter as she returns her cart back to the center of the library where sinclair is already finished. she is secretly grateful that he waited, and secretly ashamed to admit that she hadn’t expected him to. she places her cart next to his, bites into her lower lip.

      “that’s all of them,” she says, settling back onto her heels. “team work makes the dream work, i guess.”

     tthe night goes by faster than he expected, and though he would’ve still rather have spent it alone in his room, he can admit it wasn’t awful. boring and awkward, maybe, but not awful. once it was made clear henrietta is neither machiavellian nor arrogant unlike her dickhead of a boyfriend, there was no point in sinclair tormenting her any further. likewise, he believes her contempt for him was left somewhere between the shelves on science and language. 

    “thank fuck,” he says, turning his head as a yawn rips through him. up on the wall, the clock shows a little after ten. he stares at the door for a second, breathing in deeply to convince himself to do the right thing.

     he reaches for his jacket on the back of a chair, the chill of a late october night already making him regret not taking out his winter coats from the luggage under his bed. by the time he makes it home, the temperature will have dropped by another two degrees

    keys in hand, he heads towards the front door, leaning into it until the warmth of the room evaporates, and his breath comes out as fog in front of his eyes. outside, it is darker and quiet than behind any of the bookshelves they hid behind.

     he turns halfway, glancing at henrietta.

      she doesn’t realize it until she’s shrinking away from him, but the warmth of their proximity is comforting. he smells faintly of tobacco and cologne, and it is much preferred to that of the dust of hundred year old books gone dry and brittle in their hands. 

      “um,” she blinks, retracting her book so he can shelve his first and holding her answer tightly between her teeth. the books scattered and dogeared all across her dorm are all one off romances and raunchy narratives that are mindless and addictive and henri’s quiet, open secret. embarrassing and unimpressive on their best days. 

     she hides the flush of her cheeks by reaching up to shelve the volume in her hands. 

    “sometimes,” she tells him, pressing onto her toes towards a shelf she can’t quite reach. “when i, uh, have the time, i guess.”

     he doesn’t think before moving. he doesn’t think he needs to. in the still shadows, with only their quiet words to keep each other company, the tightness of his shoulders unfurls until he’s almost... relaxed. 

     enough so that when he moves behind henrietta, his hand grasping hers to put away the volume in a shelf his taller frame easily reaches, he doesn’t think it’s awkward. 

     “you can just say you don’t read, it’s not unpopular,” he ribs, half smirking, his gaze still on the books. and then he glances down at her, shocked that the amount of physical space between them is once again non-existent. and for a millisecond, staring at her features closer than they should be to his, sinclair thinks it’s really quite a shame she is theodore kim’s girlfriend. because in the glow of the low ceiling lights, she is awfully pretty. 

      the book slips from his fingers, falling with a heavy thud on the ground and whatever the hell that was ends, with sinclair stepping away as far back as he can, his eyes fixed on the fallen volume on the floor, silently cursing himself for his small-minded brain.

      the table clears much faster with sinclair’s help, and the first part of their task is finished must faster that she thought it would be. it is an awfully boring task, which she’s sure is the exact point, and a glance at the clock and another at the books that are organized but still far from where they belong, she thinks that finishing faster still isn’t fast enough. 

      she helps sinclair load the books into the empty carts, quietly grateful she won’t have to wander the darkened corners of this library by herself. it’s fine out here, in this central area of study tables and reading chairs beneath the florescent lights, but as the room spreads and the shelves of books stretch on, the more ominous the unfamiliar emptiness seems. 

      the silence between her and sinclair continues as they navigate to the correct sections, guided by the carefully organized labels on the books spines, and while it isn’t and uncomfortable one, the gradual dimness offers a sense of eeriness that spreads cold across the back of henri’s shoulders. 

      she is terribly afraid of the dark. 

      wanting to finish as soon as possible, she loads her arms with books and begins to scour for their homes on the shelves. it’s made easy by their organized order, and henri’s arms are empty again in no time at all. she returns to the cart for more books, finds sinclair in the same aisle she needs to be. 

      “have you ever read any of these?” she asks, trying to fill the silence that suddenly has her looking over her shoulder. 

     the silence, coupled with large shadows in the corner of his aisle envelop him a social cocoon. he has no thought beyond the alphabetical order of titles and the space between books which they belong in. he prefers it a lot more to the raucous party his friends are in the middle of, then wonders for a single second if something is wrong with him. if he should love company more, and should seek it out instead of running from it. but if the question is if sinclair is wrong and strange, the answer is an obvious yes. always. 

     his blanket of peace doesn’t last very long, as henrietta breaks the quiet and drags him back in full to planet earth. 

     “some,” he answers, quietly. “mostly if a professor mentions a really obscure topic that i can’t find a reference for online, but that’s really rare. i consider this place more of a napping room than a library, actually.”

     when he is finished with his pile, he grabs another one, heavier in his arms and closer to where she is. the gap between them is shrunk to nearly nothing, and though sinclair has the mind to know it might feel threatening to her as they’re the only two people in a darkened corner of a library late at night, he hopes his past mocking is enough to remind her of his complete disinterest in her. if they hope to finish soon, he can’t wait for her to give him space. it’s what he thinks, even when their arms brush as they both aim for a higher shelf. 

     he clears his throat. 

      the sincerity of his words soften a smile into henri’s lips that she hardly notices. it’s a color she finds herself surprised to see, and her mind hurtles back to the night in the wine cellar, the familiarity between sinclair, calvin and luna. so different from how he has regarded henri. it’s silly, the unexpectedness of it, but it’s there nonetheless. 

      she’s not much interested in her own show and tell, though. her motions slow, glancing further up at him as he comes to help her at her table. she purses her lips, considers his request. how personal? is he asking if she too would die for her friends? she wouldn’t. or maybe she would, depending on the situation. depending on how things would be revealed in the aftermath. it starts to calculate automatically in her head. she wouldn’t, if no one knew that she made the choice. she would, if after the fact everyone was aware of the selfishness of her survival. because then, she might as well be dead, anyways. and then she starts to wonder who would do the same for her. if her demise would also rely on the opinions of others.

      she would like it if they didn’t die for her, she thinks. would rather be sympathized in death rather than ostracized for the sacrifice of another. 

      when she snaps from her thoughts she realizes she has stopped working entirely, hand paused halfway around a book, it’s spine still resting against the table. she clears her throat and places it gingerly where it belongs. 

      “um,” she starts, deeming the train wreck currently smoking in her brain a bit too personal. “i would die for my sister,” she decides to offer, glancing up at sinclair again. it takes more effort with him right beside her, and she’s more aware of herself doing it. “i don’t get to see her often, just a few times a year, but we’re really close. she lives in hong kong, her name is charlotte.”

      and then, after a brief pause that henri thinks might only feel awkward to her, she says, “your bruises look better. do they hurt a lot?”

     he wasn’t interested in her answer as much as he wanted to feel less awkward for having overshared. still, he listens, and thinks to himself that she has never once given the impression that she wasn’t an only child. then, he wonders at which point he started to store details of her behavior that he could remember them later on. he has no answer for that. 

     self-consciously, his fingertips skim the skin of his cheekbones and undereye. the previously purple bruise has turned a dark yellow, tender at the edges still. he hasn’t returned to the pit since, despite his victory. to show them his scars is proving he can be hurt, after all. he much prefers when his fair skin is spotless, glowing; when they look upon him and see a prince they can easily drag to the ground, instead of a vicious dog. a few more days and he’ll go back. a few more days and he’ll have another skateboarding accident. he makes a mental note to come up with a better excuse. 

     “only if you poke them,” he says, returning his focus to their punishment.

      they work in silence for a while, the sound of an old, giant ticking clock on the wall their only companion. sinclair’s methodical, scanning titles and finding their place in the piles without stopping for a breath. henrietta, he remarks, sneezes a lot. but she does what is asked without error, and soon enough (half an hour, but who’s counting), all of the volumes are sorted and ready to be shelved. he glances at the rows of endless shelves, then back to their working station. 

     “we should start at the back and work towards the front,” he decides, grabbing the handle of one of the now empty carts. his wrist sings a thankful hymn, as he drops the heavy stacks onto the cart. “i’ll do geography and history, and you can---” grab the other cart and do literature, is what he’s supposed to say. but he pauses, studying the dim lights on the other side of the large room, thinking of her casual speed, the height of the shelves and those creaky ladders. if something happens, it'll be his fault somehow.

      an unexpected giggle bubbles from her throat. 

      “sure. it’s okay, i guess,” she says, returning her attention back to her stacks of books. peace and quiet. henri has a love-hate relationship with peace and quiet. a fleeting craving for it that she often regrets, when the quiet is a little too quiet, and not entirely peaceful. when her thoughts start to swirl and swarm and any peace is lost to the hurtling, intangible nerves that make her crave something else entirely. 

      “simon definitely doesn’t seem like the type to care for peace or quiet,” she notes. henri isn’t close to any of them. sinclair, simon, luna and calvin. she knows them in passing, of course, but not much beyond mindless small talk or generic, impersonal conversation. simon she knows more than the others, mostly because of their mutual friendship with stephanie and his transactional relationship with valentina, who likes her party favors a little stronger than the standard cocktail. “have you and him been friends for a long time? you don’t really seem like a likely pair… no offense.”

     first, sinclair notes that it’s the first time she’s laughed in his presence. then, that she looks a lot prettier when she isn’t scowling at him as if he’s killed her childhood pet. but those thoughts exist in a moment, one that swiftly ends with a shake of his head until he can’t remember thinking them at all.

     “it’s been about a decade now,” he answers, familiar with strangers questioning their friendship. if he were to take himself out of it, to look into their crooked family picture as an outsider, he might be able to understand the confusion. but they’ve been a part of him for so long, so deeply intrenched into his identity, that all their differences and quirks mean nothing next to the companionship they’ve offered each other. “he’s sort of like my little brother---my actual little brother. i didn’t ask for him specifically, he just came into my life and that was it. most of the time i want to beat him up until he stops talking, but all of the time i would die for him.” he pauses, a little surprised at his honesty, before adding, “and then proceed to haunt him for the rest of his days.”

     as they talk, the stacks of books in front of him slowly take a better shape, sorted and ready for shelving. he throws a glance at henrietta’s table, not quite there yet, and crosses the distance between them to stand by her side. his fingers reach for a battered volume, a shadow of a cobweb hanging from the pages and dust so thick he can barely read its title. sinclair gently hits the spine against the corner of the table, dust falling onto the dark carpet without a sound. that’ll be the janitor’s problem. 

      henri scoffs, pauses her sorting to push her fringe behind her ears.

      “elitism, alcoholism?” she repeats, leaning over her table against her palms. they aren’t desirable traits. they aren’t attractive traits, either, quite the contrary. but henri would be a liar if she tried to say they didn’t come with the territory. that the press and the gossip blogs and the followers don’t watch them like hawks. but it’s not just the girls. it’s all of them. it’s not just st. agathe’s, either. it’s their families, their peers that are scattered across other elite institutions, the circles they all run in that keep them tied to each other with invincible red threads. inescapable, insufferable. 

      they aren’t like this because they want to be, they just are. they were raised to be. encouraged, even. 

      “it’s called having fun,” she notes. because she would also be a liar if she said she didn’t want to be piss drunk more than anything right now. it’s been a long week. being here is just the icing on top of the cake. “which seems more and more like something you don’t have often.”

      she leans further forward on her palms, elbows locked as she watches him with the sort of open curiosity only left by questions unanswered. “if you weren’t going to chapel then what were you going to do? skateboard?”

     sinclair has fun. he has fun with his friends, on quiet weekends spent binge-watching through netflix or being guinea pigs for calvin’s baking hobby. he has fun in the ring, when his opponent is either too slow or too stupid and he gets to toy with them to victory. he has fun with girls who don’t look for more than a late night fuck, and girls who think he’ll change just for them, too. he has fun. just not the kind she does. but he doesn’t bother arguing that, when this is nothing but bored, mindless conversation. 

     “i don’t get your tone,” he says, barely glancing at the title in his hands before putting it down, his eyes fleeting between henrietta and his work. “skateboarding is an olympic sport, method of transportation and art form. if i had ditched to go skate, i would be more than justified.” 

     instead, he had no plans. with his friends leaving him the house for chapel, he had foreseen eating takeout, locking himself in his room, putting on a vinyl of an old arctic monkeys album (because sometimes popular things aren’t that awful), and waited until either he fell asleep or his brain emptied itself out of any coherent thought. if either failed, he would’ve ended up stalking a certain diabolical brunette on all her social media accounts to feel something powerful, like burning hatred. maybe, he should be thankful his night turned out this way. detention is less pathetic than his social life depending on a total of three people. 

     she ignores his jab at theo, no longer interested in their feud. or at least not currently interested. she’s too busy calculating how many hours this is going to take, and if she’s petty enough to make a formal complaint about it. she won’t, but it will feel good to imagine it. the punishment at st. agathe’s is lax enough, the leash that the school has tied to its students clipped to an unbuckled collar. there’s only so much they can really do, in the face of rebellion, but if word gets out, it’s not a good look. 

      henri is already praying that her mother won’t catch wind of this. her punctuality (or lack thereof) is a lesson henri has grown tired of being lectured on. she is meticulous about it outside of these walls, when she is in the proximity of her mother, so it feels almost like an unconscious change, the way time becomes more of an afterthought on school grounds. 

      her face pinches quizzically at sinclair’s question, but she doesn’t pause her sorting.

      “chapel,” she says, like it’s obvious. it’s likely where everyone is tonight. except for her. and sinclair, she comforts herself. she imagines mina’s disappointment, knows that her friend has been eager for her next chance to catch sinclair’s attention all week, and thinks to text her a heads up. but then she thinks that mina would show up here, and decides against it. 

      “don’t tell me you weren’t invited to the first chapel of the year,” she teases, breathing over another sneeze as she drops a particularly heavy volume into its specified pile. “or did you have… other plans?”

     “oh, is that tonight?” he asks, passively.

     it’s not for a lack of invitation that sinclair doesn’t attend most social functions. being who he is, or rather, having his name, means that regardless of how unpleasant his behavior is, there will always be a text or a card begging him to show up. rather, the issue is his deeply contrarian nature. he doesn’t remember when it started, or why, but as long as he’s been old enough to have tastes and opinions, he has always made sure they divert from the general public. in this case, if there is a party everyone is going to, he will stay at home. if it’s at his own home, he will hang out on the porch. if he is dragged to one despite his own protests, he will start trouble and ruin the night. which is why both simon and calvin work hard at deciding which social events they will encourage him to go to. a shitty, last-minute party where he can get into a vicious brawl after flirting with someone’s girlfriend? fine. the first chapel of the year, revered by students as a timeless tradition? not so fine. luckily for them, sinclair neither wanted nor could go this time.

     “i’m not really into the whole pretentious fanfare just to end up piss drunk,” he continues, books falling from his grasp onto piles with a thud. “i enjoy simpler things.” 

     he studies her expression for a moment, before attacking a new pile. 

      “not really, no,” she admits, approaching the tables and beginning to sift through the titles. dust flies off of some, their hard covers worn with age and use but still somehow looking like they haven’t been touched in years. it’s one of henri’s favorite parts of st. agathe’s. the history that lives between the cracks and beneath the shiny renovations, tiny pieces of a puzzle mostly forgotten. the parts of the story that have been rendered useless by those that have written it. how many hands have passed across these books? she pushes one open and lets the the pages flit in a flurry beneath her thumb. they flash with underlined passages and scribbles, words scrawled sloppily into margins. 

      she sneezes. 

      once, twice, three times in quick succession. her hand covers her nose and mouth, eyes blinking owlishly in the aftermath of the sudden sinus induced violence. 

      “sorry,” she says into her palm, turning away from sinclair. she delicately touches her face to make sure she hasn’t sprayed snot all over herself (for christ’s sake) and moves along to the next table as warmth begins to blossom beneath her chin. she’s more wary of the dust as she surveys this pile of books.

      “we should sort them first,” she says, sniffling. “probably best to divide and conquer.”

     he nods in agreement, glancing at her from the corner of his eye, his lips quirking upwards. and because he can’t quite help himself, he says:

     “that’s a sensitive nose. it’s a wonder you survive as the president’s girlfriend with all that stink.” 

     his fingers wipe away at the residue of dust on top of the book covers on his pile, clouds of days long past and words from people long gone floating in the air around him. they tickle at his nostrils, but he’s quick to wipe at his nose and focus on the task. he might not have a booming social life the way simon and calvin do, but he’s not that much of a bibliophile to want to waste his night in an eerily quiet academic library. the sooner they’re out of here, the better. 

     titles and prefaces mix and match in his brain, his piles slowly organizing themselves into various themes from french poetry to chemistry, bypassing specific topics such as ancient greece’s farming practices and a hundred years account on opium dens. it’s monotonous work. twistedly, sinclair thinks he would’ve preferred running endless laps in the mid-autumn cold, or maybe putting his palms out to be hit with a ruler fifty or eighty times. he would not be tempted then, by the prospect of his warm, comfortable bed. 

     he glances at henrietta, for a second, then back to his own work. 

      henri stares down at the carefully crafted plate of green in front of her. it sounded good on good the menu, like most overpriced salads do. richly colored arugula and thinly sliced pears doused in a zesty vinaigrette and sprinkled with pine nuts and artisan cheese. recommended to pair well with the premium cut and compliment the house riesling. which henri ordered as well. not the steak, but the wine. it looks delicious, piled up on the handcrafted ceramic plate, but now that it’s here in front of her she’s lost her appetite. 

      “what?” sam asks, glancing up from his own plate, the prime cut, that he slices into expertly. “what’s wrong with it?”

      “nothing,” henri says easily, picking at her salad with her fork. they’ve never been here before. it’s a nice restaurant, with its clean, modern industrial interior and warm lighting. probably better suited for a night meal, rather than an after school snack, but it’s a nice place. new, which is why sam was so adamant about here in particular. he prides himself on his restaurant knowledge and recommendations, knows the perfect place for any time or occasion. he’s almost obsessive about new places to eat, always one of the first to walk into any newly opened door. he’s been like this since he was a teenager, and henri has often been his dining partner. it’s their thing. comforting and familiar. 

      “if it’s not the salad, then what?” he asks again. “what could possibly be going wrong three months into the semester? and don’t say ‘nothing’. i know you.”

      henri looks at him, the corners of her mouth curling up against her will. he does know her. and sometimes that’s a problem, but most of the time it’s a relief. she likes having someone she doesn’t have to pretend in front of, and sam is one of the only people she has that fits the criteria. most of the time.

      she gives up on her salad with sigh, falling back against her chair. she’ll have it boxed up for later, will eat the soggy arugula when she’s too drunk to notice the texture and text sam her review before passing out. 

      “are you going to chapel tonight?” she counters.

      “yeah,” sam says, like it’s obvious. and then because he likes to entertain her ploys, he makes a dramatic face and asks, “are you?”

      “no. i have detention.”

      sam looks at her, and then bursts into laughter.

      “detention for what? on a friday evening?”

      “stop it, i’m serious! i have tardy write-ups. i have to clean the study stacks or something, i don’t know.”

      sam shakes his head and returns his attention back to his steak. henri looks around for their waiter and waves him down for another glass of wine. her stomach protests. she ignores it. 

      “what else is wrong?” sam asks eventually, when the silence is well settled. 

      henri doesn’t even know where to begin. she shrugs, head shaking. really, it’s been fine. other than her habitual tardiness and belated adjustment to her new schedule, the semester has been fine. but fine isn’t good enough. fine isn’t going to cut it in a few weeks when she’s rehashing her progress to her parents over dinner. to theo’s parents, to his brothers and their wives, all their eyes on her expectantly, waiting. 

      “i just have a lot to do,” she says. “and we’re already three months into the semester and i don’t have any idea where to start.”

      “….you know i could kick theo’s ass, right? like, i’m well capable.”

      henri looks at sam pointedly across the table and he pointedly stares back, unfazed.

      “this is not a theo problem,” she says. 

      “isn’t, though?” sam returns. isn’t it always?

      “no,” henri says, even though it is. their waiter returns to fill henri’s glass. she waits until he leaves to continue. “i don’t know. i’m starting a campus organization completely from scratch and i hardly even know what goes first. it would be so much easier if i had some social club to inherit like valentina and theo did, but i need something i can be the… founder of.”

      “why?”

      “because it will look good on my résumé.”

      “what do you need a résumé for?” 

      “sam-.. i don’t know. because it sounds good when i say it. because i can’t keep going home empty handed.”

      “why?”

      “sam.”

      “i’m just asking,” sam says, knowing that he has cornered her. “look. i get it, okay? but you can’t take on impossible tasks that you don’t even want to do to begin with. it’s not going to work. if you want my advice, don’t fucking do it. but because i know you will anyway, you need a partner. like a co-founder or something. someone you can bounce ideas off of. start small, make a solid plan. the rest will fall together.”

      start small, make a solid plan. he always makes it sound so easy. henri gives him a wide-eyed, hopeful look. he tuts and places a slice of meat on top of her salad. 

      “not a chance.”

—–

      it’s ironic, actually. funny, even. how even on her way to being punished for being late, henri is late. 

      her first mistake was stopping at the dorm. not necessarily a problem from the start, because she had the time and she wanted to shower and put her boxed salad away for later, but she came home to a cloud of mingling perfumes and loud music and her friends all in the common area with bottles of don julio and dom perignon open between them as they sipped on their mexican 75′s and stared at henri like she’d lost her head when she walked through the door. 

      “you’re seriously not going to chapel, i thought you were joking,” mina said after valentina had looked her up and down and asked is that what you’re wearing? to which henri replied, no. because she wasn’t even going. 

      “but it’s the first chapel of the year,” emily supplied uselessly. henri knew that.

      the first chapel is always the most exciting. for a handful of weekends every semester, the chapel—which isn’t actually in the chapel, but under it—is hosted by different groups of students with different themes and dress codes and, sometimes, invitation lists. the goal is to be the most notorious, the one that everyone talks about even years later, like some st. agathe’s underground hall of fame, and the only way to host is to have the baton passed along to you. last year, stephanie had inherited the baton from her then girlfriend, and the theme had been glow in the dark. she was the only one from their freshman class to get the chance, but now the keys are in their circle.

      henri hopes she never gets them. 

      it was hard to watch her friends pre-game knowing she wouldn’t be able to join them. the first chapel of the year and henri can’t go. 

      the shower is the second mistake. she gets so caught up over the twisting knot of fucking fomo in her belly that she loses track of time. she stands under the spray for too long trying to drown out the laughter in the other room and nearly forgets why she’s the odd woman out in the first place. needless to say, she’s struck with deja vu as she scrambles into a pair of jeans and ties her hair back into a patterned silk scarf. 

      her goodbyes to the girls are quick and half hearted. there is a small, shameful part of her that hopes none of them have any fun tonight. shameful mostly because it’s not actually a small part at all. and then she’s off to the library in a rush, apologies already on her tongue when she arrives. 

      “sorry, sorry,” she half pleads as she slips through the front doors, the october chill rushing in behind her. the deans secretary fixes her with an unamused look. 

      “miss huang.”

      “sorry, i know i’m late. my roommate had a crisis. she…” she lies, words dying out when she looks from the dean to the student beside him. sinclair park-morozov. of fucking course. 

      “yes, well,” the dean’s secretary starts warily, checking his watch. “the two of you should get started as soon as possible. when you finish, the keys are in the third draw of the second desk behind the main counter. i expect them returned to me in my office no later than 7:45 on monday morning. do remember to actually lock the doors behind you. any damages that may fall onto the library this weekend will be your responsibility. enjoy your evening. miss huang. mister morozov.”

      he nods at them both and offers nothing else, turning on his heel to no doubt spend his friday night doing something much more entertaining than…. this. henri observes the piles of books, posture deflating as she realizes this is going to be worse than she thought. 

      she looks at sinclair.

      “we really do have to stop meeting like this.”

     sinclair breathes out a cross between a laugh and sigh, shoulders sinking in resignation. of course, there is still the ever-constant urge to react in anger and cruelty, simmering just beneath his skin. it is not something that he could get rid of, even if he tried. but he breathes back in his irritation, and he remembers it is his own carelessness that got him here. not the dean’s secretary, no matter how unpleasant and sadistic. and not henrietta huang, though he doesn’t quite jump from joy at the sight of her, either. no, in the end, it’s all himself. 

     “you should try being on time at least once, then,” he says, without any heat behind his words. he eyes the piles in front of them, scanning the titles from top the bottom. he notes dejectedly they’re all out of order, be it alphabetical or thematical. almost as if they’ve been scrambled for the sole purpose of making whoever’s in detention die of utter boredom. “we should get started. i don’t want to be here all night.” 

     he pulls at the sleeves of his dark green hoodie, the fabric bunching at his elbows. he glances back towards henrietta. 

     “...but yeah, i’m not texting her back, i don’t care if she sends my dick to the pope,” his friend says, concluding a hook-up story gone wrong sinclair was only half-listening to. “what about you? you’ve probably had better luck than me.” 

     sinclair grunts noncommittaly in response, his breathing loud in his ears. 

     “c’mon, i saw you with mina at the party. she’s fuckin’ hot, like properly.”

     “she’s fuckin’ clingy,” sinclair spits out, falling a little too hard against the mat before pulling himself back up. “she texted at 3 am to, ah, ask if i have feelings for anyone at the moment.” 

     calvin lets out a single, high-pitched laugh. he stops his reps without stuttering, turning his body towards sinclair with mirth in his large, brown eyes. 

     “and you, of course, told her you’d rather get your dick cut off than fall in love?” he doesn’t say again out loud, but sinclair hears it anyway. they both ignore it.

     sinclair frowns. “not in that many words. uh. what else was i supposed to say?” 

     "lie,” calvin answers, leaning his weight backwards into his palms. “tell her you could see yourself falling. that somewhere down the road, maybe, you’ll be ready to open up your heart and that you’d really, really like for her to be the one to enter it. and then you’re set for three months of rawdogging.” 

     sinclair finishes his reps with choked laughter bubbling up his throat. the ease with which calvin describes manipulating women for his own pleasure is nothing new, nor is it below sinclair’s own morals. together, they both learned early on to use their handsome faces and abysmal lack of care for others to their own benefit. but whereas calvin is outspoken about the lack of a heart inside his chest, sinclair still attempts to hide it. perhaps because while the explanation for his friend’s condition can be boiled to him being his father’s son, sinclair’s reasoning is a bit more humiliating than that.

     “how many abortions is the royal family paying for annually, again?” sinclair mocks, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his armband, his legs painfully stretching as he stands up. “thirty-thousand?” 

     calvin roll his eyes, following his suit. “whatever, bro. if you don’t want mina, just say it. i’ll take my go at her. it’s time someone showed her how a real man fucks.” 

     “wouldn’t be the first time you had my sloppy seconds.” 

     it’s a small moment, but it’s there nonetheless. the shift in the air, the hardening of calvin’s stare as it meets sinclair. the knowledge that somewhere, deep down, something is still broken between them. and no amount of glossing over can heal it. but it’s gone before either can name that specific pain, and calvin’s throwing his sweaty towel on sinclair’s face as the latter gags and chases his childhood best friend through their house, their laughter just a little too loud

---

     by the next day, sinclair’s forgotten it all. it’s hard to stay hung up on it, when he’s being led (see: dragged) to detention only six weeks into the new semester. admittedly, he expected his recurring lateness to have consequences. but he thought maybe he’d have to write an essay, or donate some extra money to a bullshit charity st. agathe’s pretends to sponsor but is really just an account in the caymans. he certainly didn’t foresee spending his friday evening at the main library, sorting through dusty books and equally as dusty shelves. in the back of his mind, he wonders if theodore had anything to do with it. 

     st. agathe’s library is usually a thing to behold. with the full moon peaking across its shiny glass dome roof, and its rows upon rows of academic treasures that seem to reach as high as the white marble balustrades on the second floor, one might feel as if they’ve travelled in time. usually, the exceptionally large room offers sinclair some comfort. the scent of literature and the peaceful quiet that cannot even be found under his own roof offer him a home, away from home. except for tonight. tonight, he stares at three tables worth of titles, plus two carts of additional materials. he turns to the dean’s secretary, a short middle-age man with a persistent smirk-scowl combination, that likely shouldn’t have gone into the education system. 

     “i’m supposed to do all this by myself?” he says, slightly incredulous. “i’ll be here ‘til morning, you know that.”

     the man bats at an insivible fly, as if it is sinclair’s many concerns. 

      his hand is warm. she didn’t expect that. she wasn’t expecting anything, actually, but. now that she’s noticing it, now that she can’t not notice it, she knows that she wasn’t expecting his hand to be so… warm. she sucks in a breath, like she’s just been shocked, and stares down at it. 

     “my phone’s dead,” she murmurs, distracted. confused, suddenly, because what the fuck? what kind of skateboarding accident leaves anyone looking like that? a tumble down ten flights of stairs maybe, or if he’d rolled right over the edge of a cliff. it’s a bad lie. it’s a really silly lie. and she’s far too hungover and late to unpack it right now. 

    her hand and her dead phone stay in his warm grasp. 

    “i thought you said you were an honest person, sinclair.”

     he stares at their hands together, holding onto to her dead phone in their grasp, and suddenly feels a little... silly. he drops his hold, then, hoping the bruises atop his cheekbones will hide the slight red flush of his skin. he’s a better liar than this, usually. a better manipulator, too. the tiredness he feels this morning is bone-deep, and he never thought he would have to try hard with henrietta huang, of all people. but the more they crash into each other, the less he's eager to undermine her. 

      and henri thought she looked bad.

      whatever rush she was in is forgotten at the sight of sinclair. the very startling sight. she blinks rapidly, alarmed by the dark splotches littering his skin and the swell of his split lip. raised how henri was raised, she’s never seen anyone so beat up this close before, never seen such signs of violence firsthand. belatedly, she gasps. 

      “oh my god, sinclair… are you okay? what happened to you, were you attacked?” she questions. she starts to reach into her bag for her phone. “were you attacked on campus? have you called the police, do i need to call the police?”

     she looks around, pulls her phone out and remembers its dead, turns her worried gaze back to sinclair. somehow, despite the bruises and the swelling, he is still perturbingly handsome. and seemingly unbothered. 

      “you don’t have a concussion do you? i can take you to the infirmary.”

      he stares at her for a second, perplexed at what seems like genuine worry. he’s used to fear. he’s used to the hushed rumors that name him thug, or gangster. to the eyes like saucers when sinclair catches them looking at him, their throats bobbing as he grins darkly enough to silence anyone who would dare to wonder why he looks like that. they’re not hard to handle, those who fear him too much to question him. but this girl in front of him, whom he’s treated with nothing but contempt for the past month and yet is still concerned about his pitiful state? he has no idea what to do with her. 

     “i’m fine, really,” he says, her tirade of questions drawing a painful sigh out of him. “i just... took a bad fall. skateboarding.” he winces internally at his terrible lie, but sticks to it anyway. “it looks a lot worse than it feels, so there’s no need to tell anyone.” 

     he glances at her phone, weighing the odds that she would actually warn the cops, or worse, the dean, all because of misguided worry. slowly, he reaches out with his good hand, gently wrapping his fingers around her hand, that still holds her phone in it’s grip. 

      the decision to finally let go of summer and sleep comes with a gasp full of hair, henri spluttering awake to the distant echo of her snoozed alarm. and a foul twist of her stomach. she sits up in her bed, and looks down at her body confused. she’s clad in nothing but an uncomfortably wired bra and her panties, her skin warm and supple beneath her blankets and smelling like-

      she looks around her room, a mess on her best days and an absolute disaster this morning. she finds the only clue she needs in a discarded pile in the middle of the floor: a bright red crumple of fabric, the same color as her underwear. the dress she wore last night. it’s a monday morning. scrambling around her sheets, henri’s fingers fumble to locate her phone, squinting in the morning light and trying to ignore the threatening gurgle of her belly. 

      she didn’t miss her alarm, she realizes, thumb clicking and clicking the side button of her phone. her phone died. she has no idea what time it is. she barely knows what day it is. 

      she jumps out of bed, stepping over discarded clothes and shoes and the wire of her phone charger that she had clearly been too drunk to deal with last night. she pulls open the door to her side of the suite and crosses the small common area to mina’s, following the trail of clothes that matches henri’s own. mina’s door is cracked. henri pokes her head in cautiously, not sure what, or who, is on the other side. 

      mina lays sprawled across her bed, on top of her covers and dressed in actual pajamas unlike henri. she’s passed out cold. henri lets herself all the way in, cross the room to shake mina’s shoulder. 

      “min,” she says. “mina! wake up, what time is it?”

      mina only groans, face twisting. henri looks around for mina’s phone and finds it on the floor beside her bed. she reaches down to pick it up, the screen lighting up with a time she doesn’t pay attention to. there’s a text alert. henri stares at it. 

imessage - sinclair park-morozov

 2:17AM sinclair: no

      that’s it. just no. henri’s fingers twitch, tempted to swipe up and see what mina had asked. she won’t. no. she’s not going to snoop through mina’s phone. she looks back down at the time and gasps. 

      “mina, get up, we’re so late,” she urges, shaking mina again. 

      “mmnt’goin…” mina mumbles. “’m so hungov’r mmnt goin.”

      henri gives up with a sigh.

—-

      she has to get her shit together. that’s all she tells herself as stumbles across campus, head pounding. this is the last time, she’s really going to get her shit together. who gets wasted on a sunday? 

      she hadn’t planned on it, but valentina knew a friend who knew a friend who was opening a lounge in bruntsfield and wanted to host a soft opening. it was supposed to be appetizers and jazz and espresso martinis, but the night quickly dissolved into much more than that. it was fun. but it was a sunday and henri doesn’t even remember how they got home or how long they were out or if she, too, had obscure, unread messages on her phone. 

      i didn’t do anything weird, right? she’s been paranoid as fuck ever since. did she tell theo where she was last night? did she call him, is that how she got back? if she did, he won’t be expecting her to be bright and early and ready for class. she can’t skip again, her absences are already piling up, and she can’t be late again, this is the fifth time already. she has to her shit togeth-

      she slams into someone’s chest. or maybe it’s a brick wall. either way it knocks her back a step.

      “christ,” she hisses, her feet coming to such a sudden stop it rattles her brain in her head. pain throbs behind her eyes. “sorry, sorry. i’m so sorry….. oh.”

     on monday morning, he sits at the edge of his bathtub, eyes squeezed shut as simon unceremoniously dabs ointment on the multiple wounds across his face, chest and hands. no one expects sunday nights at the pit to be eventful, but it’s precisely when the hour is at its most boring, that boys and men like him come out of the woods with a hunger for entertainment. and sinclair was wildly entertaining, taking on fighter after fighter, leaving enough of his own dna in that basement to frame him for the next fifty years of local crime. now, he suffers the consequences. with his purple cheeks, band-aided brow, split lip and raw knuckles, he looks as if he’s survived a car accident. if the dean sees him, his father will hear of it. 

     “you’re gonna get us in so much trouble,” simon grumbled, wrapping the last of luna’s aid kit gauze around sinclair’s hand. “you look like the prettier version of frankenstein.

    “actually, frankestein was the sc---”

    “---the scientist, and the monster was just the monster, i know. do you want to finish this shit yourself? we’re already late.” 

     sinclair doesn’t reply, because even knows when to be thankful and not difficult. 

     “seriously, someone is gonna’ ask what happened. what are you even going to say?” simon continues, securing the gauze tightly near sinclair’s thumb. it’s thin enough that he can still flex his fingers. 

     sinclair shrugs. “probably to mind their own fucking business.”

     simon only sighs.  

---

     he doesn’t bother hurrying to class, not when he is this late. he plans on drawing as little attention to himself as possible, and right now that means waiting for second period to start when he can quietly sneak in with the crowd and hide behind his books at the very far back. he doesn’t need the questions, suspicions or warnings. only for people to forget he is anyone of consequence. 

     but life’s twisted fate once again throws a rock in his road, when a small body rounds the corner unexpectedly and slams into him, knocking his breath out of his chest and setting all of his bruised ribs on fire. he bites down on his tongue to keep the painful yell in, turning around as he leans heavily on the wall with a grimace. 

     it takes him a minute to get air into his lungs again, to stand straight without feeling like he’ll break apart. when he does, a stunned, humorless laugh departs his lips at the sight of henrietta. of course. 

      funny. she feels exactly the same way. and a little lighter now, a little more at ease, knowing he hasn’t been holding some thing she doesn’t even remember against her. that is the worst part. the small pockets of nothing that fill out her memories of those two nights, on the porch and in the wine cellar. 

      but it only lasts like, two seconds. 

      “polarizing?” she asks, like it’s the worst thing she’s ever heard in her life. it very well may be. she stares at him, an incredulous look tugging at her face. what the hell does that even mean, a polarizing personality? she clears her throat, nods.

      “right, well,” she starts. “i’ll accept your apology as well, then.”

      even though he didn’t apologize. she can put this behind her now, forget it ever happened and go back to only knowing him in passing. she turns back towards the door and wraps her hand around the handle. but before she twists, she stops and turns once more. 

      “wait. sorry, wait,” she says, taking a few brisk steps in his direction. she just has to be sure. “um. i didn’t… say anything, right? like. i didn’t say or do anything weird that i don’t remember?”

     he sighs, fighting back the urge to roll his eyes. screw his sad attempt at lifting the white flag. outside, the curtains of rain begin to fade, clearing the way for him to leave and do something better with his sudden free time. most likely, sleep off this headache in one of the study rooms at the library. he can already hear the comfortable, velvet green sofas calling to him. 

     “that’s a question with a lot of possible answers to it,” he says, eyeing the wet shoe traces between them. “what you think is weird is probably not my definition of weird. and i don’t have the time for us to get our definitions right with each other.” 

     he points to the door, index and thumb shaped like a gun. 

     “again, it’s locked. you would know that if you stopped focusing on what you have to say, and listened for once.” 

      she blinks, stalling. 

      “i…-” she starts, body immediately betraying her. she’d thought about it—like she has thought about every path she’s crossed of his—she thought for an intense, extended amount of time about why she reacts like this to every one of his quips. with a clenched jaw and a warm face.

      and it’s because it bothers her. the hot and the cold, the teasing. the judgement in his eyes. she keeps acting like this because she can’t get a read on him, because what mina tells her about him doesn’t match with what she’s experienced and what she knows about him otherwise is so sparse and detail ridden that there’s nothing for her to base anything off of. she started off on the wrong foot, sure, but every time she tries to make up for it he only eggs her on. she doesn’t know how to act around him, so she relies half on instinct and half on practice, inconsistent and embarrassingly unlike herself. or maybe too much like herself.

      but she won’t keep making that mistake. she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin.

      “i’m sorry, have i done something to offend you?” she asks, back to practice rather than instinct. 

     for only half a second, her question throws him off. it’s in the slight widening of his eyes, in the dip of his brow towards his nose. he didn’t expect her to confront him on his bad attitude. no one ever really does. they take this poisonous words and either die with it, or fail to wound him in return. in henrietta’s case, her confrontation only serves to further annoy him out. 

     “other than your general existence, i suppose not,” he says, pushing himself off of the door. “but i’ll accept your apology.” he only makes it five steps down the corridor before his own feet stop him, his teeth biting into the inside of his lower lip. 

     sinclair knows what others think of him, even plays into it. but his hatred, though obsessive and persistent, has never been unjust. what has henrietta done to offend him? she’s theodore’s girlfriend. she’s prissy and prim. she’s the exact opposite of him. he sighs, eyelids shutting before he half-turns around. 

      henri curses as she finally enters the building, shoulder damp, hair half tied up for the sake of keeping it tamed in the rain. she hates this weather, wet and dark and inconvenient. she’s not late because of the rain, sure, but she blames it anyways. it’s not like it helped her case any. she’s late because she couldn’t sleep, and since she couldn’t sleep she couldn’t wake up, snoozing her alarm until it gave up trying to help her out. she blames it, too.

      she half jogs down the grand hallway, head reeling and mind flipping through a book of excuses. she won’t get away with it again. she really has to get her shit together, you can’t keep acting like a child, henrietta, there are consequences for behavior like this. theo’s anger had been quiet, kept at a low simmer. he had a lot on his plate, that’s what he told her. when my brother’s campaign starts next summer, i don’t expect to need to answer for something as jejune as my girlfriend’s punctuality.  

      the thought makes henri want to slam her head into a wall and scream at the top of her lungs. pull at her hair and throw a tantrum. maybe that would be childish enough for them to understand-

      she comes to a halt, ten feet from the lecture hall door. it’s blocked by a wide pair of shoulders. henri glances at the ceiling, questioning god’s sense of humor. reluctantly, she takes the final steps to the door.

      “are you going to go in or not?” 

     her voice is like a knife scraping against metal on his brain. he can almost feel his headache worsening as his brain registers her presence, like an allergic reaction.

      he’s starting to believe he’s been too friendly. somewhere in their limited interactions, he treated her with enough kindness and patience that it led her to believe she could talk down to him. maybe it was not leaving her trapped inside that wine cellar she clearly wanted to be in. or keeping his mouth shut about her and her boyfriend’s little academic bonnie and clyde act. whichever the reason, sinclair accepts his part of the blame. then, turns his stormy eyes on her. 

      it’s all for show. henri hasn’t been to the dean’s office for her tardiness once, she knows she’s been let off the hook more than she should have. she could pout, emphasize how unwell she feels, how feverish she’s been all morning, how hard she tried to make it to class anyways, and theo would roll his eyes and tell her to pick one or the other. this is the last time henrietta, he’d say, but it wouldn’t be. and it wouldn’t be favoritism, either. theo wouldn’t look the other way because he can’t bear to discipline henri. he would do it because he hates doing this. but there are lines and limits and faces to keep, so here they are.

     “how kind and courteous of you,” she whispers back, leaning away from his nudge. pop a button or two. henri roll her eyes and huffs. how multi-faceted sinclair has proven to be. she thinks she might hate him. “fine,” she continues. “but how would that help you?”

      she looks up at him and smiles, small and polite, before sauntering ahead to theo’s side. her hand wraps around his arm and she leans into his side. 

      “i really don’t feel well,” she pouts. “is that a crime? to be such a diligent student that i would come even under the weather?”

      “if you have a fever, you can go back,” theo says with his flat tone and his eyes that only look forward. it’s good enough for henri, she can get herself out of this. for now. sinclair, however. 

      henri looks back over her shoulder and pokes her tongue out at him.

     sinclair decides that he’s no longer apathetic to henrietta huang. rather, he just plainly dislikes her. for a split second, he’d been lead to believe she was different than the man whose arm she holds on to, a foolish girl who’d fallen for that princely facade of his. but that might’ve been all the alcohol in her blood. now, in his eyes, they look fairly alike to him. he smiles unkindly, not bothering to watch as she heads off without the two of them. 

     while they continue to the dean’s office, and sinclair gets written up by one of the several secretaries with a grudge against him and the extra work he gives them, neither boys exchange a single word. theodore enjoys gloating silently. hovering over victim like a dementor ready to suck his soul out at any minute. sinclair thinks if he speaks he will lose all self-control. so it is a quiet and tedious affair, and truthfully, nothing more than theodore’s way to assert authority over sinclair.

     finally, he feels as if the school year’s truly begun. 

--- 

    two days later, on a grey thursday, he's striding through the empty corridors with a clenched jaw and a backpack that drips rainwater like a trail behind him.

     it’s not that he didn’t care to get up on time, this time around. he’s not stupid to believe he can get away with two notices in one week without the dean himself looking into it. but he’d been pent up the day before. calvin had begged him to play goalie for his training session, only to scold sinclair for letting his skills decline. the latter had walked out biting his tongue, practicing the breathing skills he’d read about online, just to be met with an email from his mother about harvard’s alumni dinner. if we are to have any hope of your transfer next semester, you have to attend with me. and because he didn’t know how to tell her that he would probably end his own life if he had to move back closer to his parents, he ignored that, too. only to end up at the pit, sweaty and bruised as another of st. agathe’s gutter citizens bled at his feet. 

     he hadn’t realized how tired he’d been until his alarm clock kept ringing for over forty minutes, signaling his lateness until he was stumbling around for his uniform, cursing the massive headache clinging to his skull. he still feels the claws of it now, clinging to the edges of his head, throbbing behind his eye socket, stained red and purple. he focuses on that pain, ignoring the cuts on his jaw and fists, or how his ribs ache with every step he takes. he just has to get to class without any incident. 

     but of course, it is much easier said than done. 

     his palms wrap around the wooden knob, refusing to give way no matter how hard he twists or pulls at it. he remembers luna’s words from the first week of freshman year. this particular building is so old, it was built in celebration of king george the third’s birthday. they’re trying to turn it into a museum wing, so you can’t even enter a lecture hall without a professor. apparently, they lock all the doors as soon as they go through it. 

     he lets out a full body sigh, resting his forehead on the rough wood, splintered at the edges.