Write Until You're Wrong

"Wanna go somewhere else, y'know, other than your apartment?"

 Krista, sitting on the couch, puts her pointer finger to her chin as she places her elbow on her leg. She hums, almost too cheerily for your taste, and replies.

 "Were you thinking of any place in particular?" You don't really have one in mind. You're tired of watching movies once a week though. Plus it's been an entire month and half and it's expensive to take the bus so much. Your wallet is weeping as you speak. You ought to think of something quick if you want to convince her.

 "Dunno. My place? It's shitty and there's nothin' to do, but we can music jam or somethin'."

 "That sounds fun, actually," Krista says with a smile. "When would you like to?"

 "End of this week, if you're down."

 "Alright. Sounds good."

 The day Krista is supposed to come you try to clean your monstrous mess of a room. Hurricane Ymir came and went, and now that it's time to do some disaster management, all you can do is pick up some of the papers up and off the dark walnut floor. You place them in a giant pile on top of your stand and place your laptop onto your unmade bed, covered with royal blue sheets, as the laptop usually resides on the aforementioned stand when not in use. The papers are surprisingly white compared to the walls – you presume they were white for a time, but with the lack of light and how old the room is they're more the color of ancient linen. You would try to organize the papers but the time constraint is all consuming and you have no idea where else to put them; clothes on the hardwood beneath you and on your bed go into a pile in an unoccupied corner of the room. Making this room actually clean is an impossible task for sure.

 Textbooks – beaten, used, and about to break at the spine as they are, are easier to move, manage, and organize; how did they all wind up strewn about on the floor, anyway? Putting them in the worn desk's drawers one by one, careful not to crush your drum sticks, you let out a breath of relief . Now the both of you can sit somewhere, at least; two chairs don't fit at your desk, after all. Shit, what's with all this dust everywhere? Do you even have a broom? Seems like it's time to invade the janitor's closet. It's always open in this hallway anyway.  You open the window shades so that light can come in the room – the room only has this one dingy lamp that doesn't like to work. At least it's nice outside.

 Leaving hurriedly, then stepping back into the room with broom in hand, the wooden floor below makes a jarring noise. One of these days these floorboards are going to break on you – they won't, really, but it sounds like it; the creaking, somewhat comparable to the ones in horror movies, never irked you. No time to care when you have to study and work all day. After you're done cleaning, you look to each side of the door to the dull room – seriously, couldn't you have put a poster up or something? – and choose between a small closet with barely anything in it to its left, and farther to its right, a very ill-lit bathroom to place the broom. Deciding the bathroom is the best, you put it in the corner nearest the surprisingly not-as-shitty-as-it-could've-been shower and the slightly rusty sink; nice of the school to give you one decent thing. You turn toward the mirror and the tiled, tinted sickly green ledge right above the sink that holds your –

 Shit, your medicines.

 You stuff them into a small black, zippered bag in your closet as soon as you can, and when you're done scrambling to accomplish that, there's a knock on your door.  You open it a little too swiftly for your taste. Krista walks in, her shoes small heels clacking on the floor. Did she dress up for this? She doesn't wear heels often – you don't think – you don't really pay attention to shoes. The sound is odd to hear up close. Her outfit is simple, but accessorized well. A simple white button down blouse, a black skirt just above her knee, and black heels with dark gray stockings; she's adorned with small silver hoop earrings, and a silver chain with a heart at its center. Krista steps away from the door as you stand awkwardly by it, forgetting to shut it until a minute later. Krista looks around the somewhat dark, drab room and fiddles with her messenger bag on her shoulder. You feel the heat beneath your skin, your hands twitching. You're not jumpy – no – is she?

 "This place is...quaint," Krista says, her tone unsure, as she turns to you.

 "It's the cheapest single they had," you reply, second guessing if her coming over was a good idea.

 "Are you comfy here, at least?" she asks. You give a tiny grunt before you respond.

 "I mean, no one bothers me. It's small but it works."

 "As long as you like it then I think it's a good place to be." A smile sneaks onto your face. Her words are comforting, in a way; moving away from the door, you sit on the bed, which is against the wall nearest the bathroom. Krista keeps standing. You tilt your head a little bit.

 "Gonna stand there all day, shortie?" She shuffles her feet as she speaks.

 "Is it okay to sit on your bed?"

 "Uh, yes? If you wanna."

 To be fair, you expected her to want to sit at the desk. You really don't mind her sitting by you though. It's not that big of a deal; it's just a little closer than a couch, right? Krista still seems iffy on it, but she takes off her heels and sits on your bed, adjusting to put her back against the wall. You place your computer, conveniently already on, onto your lap. You open it and start typing in songs right away. The reason you feel so antsy is unknown and it bothers the hell out of you. It's like bugs crawling all over you or some shit, inside and out –  oh fuck is there really – oh no, it's just a weird itch on your palm. After you scratch it, you put it on the bed. Typing with one hand takes some concentration and it kind of distracts you from what's happening. Krista, on the other hand, is calmly taking her computer out of her bag. You see the Windows start up screen and hear the noise that comes with it. Her hand is at her side, mindlessly drumming her fingers against the bed. Your hand is pretty close to hers –

 Okay, big difference between the couch and now: you've never been this close in proximity to her. Being this close to her was a far-flung thought – admittedly it has been there before. Why's your heartbeat quickening? You go back to concentrating on your computer but it still won't stop. Just find a couple songs already, Ymir. You pick a couple out of the numerous ones downloaded to your computer and, after a while, it seems like Krista has some songs ready too. You figure you'll go first.

 "Ready to be amazed by the fantastic music guru?" you say, grinning. Krista rolls her eyes.

 "I'm assuming that's you."

 "Correct."

 "In that case, please take me away, oh wise guru," she replies, attempting sarcasm and failing because of the somewhat eager tone in her voice. You try to hold back a chuckle.

 "You suck at sarcasm hardcore."

 "Shut it," Krista says, lifting her hand and pushing you playfully. It's the first time she's ever physically touched you  – in fact, you haven't been by anyone in a very long time. There's a huge personal bubble in the way, usually. It's an unfamiliar feeling. You laugh but it's higher in pitch than usual. She takes her hand off you, leaving it in the air, and gives a concerned look. You try to smile a bit; it's fake and you think she knows it. Your shoulder tingles – you wish she would put her hand back on. You firmly shoo the thought out of your head, telling her that you're ready to get the show on the road. You show her the songs and she listens intently, occasionally bobbing her head to the beat. Looking for one more song, per the agreement  of three at a time, you scroll down you let out a small "Aw yeah, this." Krista, clearly puzzled, asks her question silently.

 "It's one of my favorite songs," you say, "Wanna hear?"

 "Of course," she replies. You press the play button. You want her to like this one; even if she isn't exactly overjoyed with the rest you showed her already. You watch her from the corner of your eyes, wiggling at the same time in order to adjust to a comfier position. The song's guitar heavy, and has an echo of screaming at certain parts, all the while staying on the side of upper mid-tempo; it's high energy throughout. It's one of those songs that has a super long name that you don't care for, and to be honest the instrumental of the song is kind of generic for the rock genre. It's the lyrics you like. After the song ends it seems like she's searching for a proper response.

 "It's rather loud, but I like the lyrics. Very inspiring."

 "Yeah," you say with a hint of pride. She liked it if only for the lyrics; that counts for something, right? "Show me some of yours?" you ask, honestly wondering about what she might listen to. Maybe it's because you don't really listen to any genres besides rock, with the exception of classical, that you're curious. It's probably way different than what you're used to. You're right, in the end. It's certainly a lot softer than stuff you listen to. This is nice – entertaining, at least. It's a miraculous feat to amuse you at all, so. You hear a couple of them before she turns her head toward you.

 "Can I play you one my favorite songs?" she asks; you nod heartily. She clicks the play button and you have to admit it; it's a nice melody – the instrumental, mainly guitar and percussion, flows well with the voice of the singer; whose voice is somewhere between upper alto and lower soprano. When a certain verse comes on, Krista begins to mouth the words. It's nostalgic to hear, strangely. Then it hits you.

 "Isn't this from the second Chipmunks movie?" you ask, shock clear in your voice.

 "No – well, yes, but I knew it before that."

 "So you're a hipster, then."

 "Ugh, Ymiiiir," she whines. You stick your tongue out.

 "Doesn't that mean you've actually watched that movie, though?"

 ...Shit.

 "Uh. Why don't you show me some other stuff. I'm interested," you say, blending the truth slightly.

 "Really?" Krista says, laughing quietly.

 "What? Don't believe me?" you say as a small grin forms on your face.

 "Not for a second."

 "For shame! Me tellin' you such a lie – I would never," you say, tone obnoxiously sarcastic. "Nah, but seriously. Show me some more."

 She grins back, starting to play with the ends of her hair when she's not typing or clicking, and shows you so many more that you lose count. You can feel her watching your reactions. The music fits her; low, indie – some more upbeat than others. Pop? Probably. You notice something about the lyrics to each song, though. Most of them were about feeling better about bad situations or self-esteem. Others were sad; even if they were upbeat. Music says so many things about a person – and in all reality, what do you know about Krista? You think back, long and hard, and by the end of it not a single thing comes to mind. It's not like you want to divulge too much about yourself either, but you want to know her more and more – the reason inexplicable to you. Looking to the window, you notice it's just about sunset, the light growing dimmer and dimmer. She should go before it becomes dark. But you want to talk to her. The more you think about it, wanting to talk beats out sending her home.

 "Hey, shortie."

 "Hmm?"

 "Wanna talk?"

 "About what?"

Krista escorts you to her apartment from campus a couple weeks later; it took a bit to arrange between a job, a variety of homework, and classes, but. Anyway, after a half an hour bus ride accompanied by interspersed comments about the scenery , you arrive from uptown and then there's quite a bit of a walk.  Eventually she buzzes into an apartment complex of some sort. The elevator in the building is definitely new.

  She has to be rich to be able to afford an apartment in general, let alone one with such an ornate, polished door. And you're proven right, in a way. It's just around what people consider downtown; you're guessing that based on the scent of sketchiness outside, but inside it's classy as hell. Krista's place is covered in fancy wall paper, off-white with silver pink undertones. Your nose is filled with the smell of lavender and various flowers, which is a welcome change. It doesn't seem like there's a thing out of place – everything's coordinated color wise; hell, even the art on the wall – abstract? – seems to match everything surrounding you. It's pretty tidy, roomy and there's tasteful antique white carpeting everywhere, in the hallways too, besides the tiny foyer and holy shit – is that a kitchenette?

  "Damn. Place's swanky," adding a loud whistle for extra effect. Krista  starts to take her shoes off immediately. You decide to follow suit, if only to be somewhat polite – the plush floor reaches up to touch your feet – a blessing compared to the rickety floorboards in your dormitory. She has trouble taking one shoe off and, as such, her rump is in full view. You avoid looking at it as much as possible. As soon as she's done, she puts her keys back in her pocket as if she's in a hurry, turns around to face you, and looks at you expectantly.

  "Can you show me how to do that?"

  "Uh, do what?" you say, blinking a few times.

  "Whistle."

  To be honest it annoys you at first. What is this, all of a sudden? Why not go straight to watching a movie? It's what you came here for, not to teach someone  how to whistle tunes, though you know many choice ones. It'd be fun to trick her into whistling some songs that, if anyone recognized them, people would laugh their ass off thinking she knew them, though.  After playing around with such a devious idea, teaching her sounds amusing. Yet, you can't let her have it that easily.

  "You can't be serious," you roll your eyes, but there's a smile threatening to emerge. Krista pouts; it's straight up adorable.

  "Come on! Please?"

  "You'll hafta do better than that. Gimme some sugar on top and maybe I'll do it." Her eyebrows knit together. Worried, maybe? Confused?

  "Sugar?"

  "You know. The phrase? 'Pretty please with some sugar on top'?"

  "Oh! That one," she says, clearing her throat and looking downward briefly. You're not sure what she's on about, but you tell her that if she wants to know she better pay attention. She grins at you, her eagerness somewhat infectious. You make a small 'o' with your mouth, gesture to it, and tell her to copy it; then blow air steadily. Her attempts, in all cases, are failures. It kind of reminds you of when others were being taught how to do it around you as a kid; she simply lets out a stream of air, multiple times, with no noise beside that. Guess it's not an innate ability for her like it was for you. You put your hands on your hips, laughing.

  "Aren't you just precious."

  "I am not! Well, wait I –"

  "Whatever, shortie. Let's get to the movie, eh?" you say with an additional snicker, patting her on the head as you move past her toward the beige colored leather couch, almost in the center of the room, in front of her extraordinarily thin flat screen. The two of you sit, each taking a side of the couch. It's awkward until she opens her mouth again.

  "Hey, Ymir?"

  "Mm?"

  "Want to, um, talk for a bit first?" You wonder if she has ulterior motives or anything, yet it doesn't seem like it from the tone of her voice. Wary, your guard raises its shield, ready to protect at a moment's notice. However, up until now, no harm has come from talking with her.

  "Uh, sure." Krista's eyes dart around a bit; perhaps she's trying to think of a decent question.

  "So, what are you majoring in?"

  "Nothin' yet. You?" you say bluntly. You've no idea yet, and you would prefer to wait before deciding – if you ever will.

  "Actually, I'm the same as of the moment," she responds. You look up at the ceiling – it's somewhat slanted and it catches your attention, though soon after your attention turns to your nails, lifting your hand and curling your fingers to look at them.

  "Seems like you could be a performing arts major," you say – you've no reason to actually think so. It seems appropriate though, for one reason or another. Krista blinks a few times; you notice how long her eyelashes are when you sneak some glances from the corner of your eye. Doesn't the length bother her?

  "What makes you say that?" she asks earnestly.

  "Dunno. Just seems like it."

  She smiles. Cute.  She mentions that some of her other friends said she should be one as well. You nod and "mhm," at all the appropriate times. It's not that you're not listening, it's that this conversation is going somewhere you don't like. Somehow, it's delved into Krista talking about doing favors for her friends at this point. It doesn't seem like she's trying to brag – but there's some kind of attention she wants out of it – there has to be. Out of curiosity you ask if any of her friends are doing anything for her. Her answer is something akin to a "It's fine, it's my pleasure." That answer churns your stomach a little. Altruism has its limits. If it were most people, they'd ask for a little something in return.  How could she deal with not receiving anything back at all?

  With time you become impatient, so you ask to begin the movie. Krista may have noticed your change in mood because she stiffens and apologizes under her breath as she goes to start it; as long as it stops her from going on about doing stuff for others, it's fine to leave her as she is. When you think about it you haven't seen a good movie in a long time. Not that you're particularly excited about watching one. Before it starts you mutter things at the TV, things like "better be good," not expecting to become so engrossed in the movie. You start talking to it – then yelling at it about an hour and some minutes in.

  "What're you doing? Turn left ya little –! Aw, shit; they're not gonna make it –"

  You feel Krista staring at you; she may have been doing so this whole time – you're not sure – and it's, point blank, embarrassing. You don't watch many movies and this is why. Or you wouldn't if you had friends. When you hear her laughing, you turn to her.

  "What's so funny?" you ask. This part of the movie's not funny. Not funny at all.

  "I didn't expect you to get worked up over movies."

  "Yeah, well."

  "You're really odd," she adds on.

  "Hey, I thought you said I was handsome," you say, hand across your chest and mouth agape. It's times like these where you wonder how you still have a sense of humor; considering you hate people, you have to admit that you can be funny. Krista giggles softy, shutting her eyes for a moment, her hand moving in front of her mouth. When she opens them once again, she's smiling with her eyes like the other day and to you, there's something so captivating about it that you kind of leave your mouth open a bit instead of shutting it – like planned; you have to close it purposely by pivoting your body toward her, digging your elbow into your leg forcefully, and putting your hand under chin.

  She mentions some parts of the movie you were really into – and that she enjoyed seeing you like that. As she speaks more and more her voice becomes easier to listen to. It's a moment before you surmise that she's done talking and there's a comfortable kind of quiet after that; the both of you kind of half-smiling. It seems like ages passed sitting and talking like that; once again you're not quite sure, as being aware of time for anything besides classes, transport, and work isn't something you care about. You try to turn back to the movie when Krista speaks again.

  "Oh, and Ymir?"

  "Hm?"

  "The movie's over."

  Shit, you tuned the movie out. You look at the TV only to find out that she's right. There are the credits – rolling away. Shoulders slumping, you groan.

  "Aw, shit. How the fuck does it end?" you pose the question more to yourself than anyone. Krista still answers.

  "Maybe you could come over again and find out." You stand up slowly, stretching your arms and yawning, your bones creaking and cracking. This wasn't too bad. You thought it might be awkward as fuck, but it was entertaining, at the very least. You look at your watch real fast before you say anything. The bus will be here soon. You hum loudly, pretending to think about it. You promptly pack up, picking up the brown coat you unceremoniously placed next to you on the couch, and slipping on your shoes as you reach the foyer. You give her a quick glance as you step toward the door.

People watching is a thing you tend to do and you noticed her a week or so into the school year. You see her while walking to class, on the way to your dorm room, and in the dining hall – where you happen to work. She's like that spot of rain on a windshield that your wipers can't reach; you always have your eye on it. She looked like your typical pale, blonde, blue eyed girl. Maybe a little more fashionable than the rest, as her outfits are clearly detailed and coordinated, but for the most part she wasn't any different than anyone else.

  Until you saw her grin.

  It was half-assed, but there seemed like there could be something so genuine behind it – you did a double take; and that was the first mistake you made, Ymir. She caught your gaze when you did it – you didn't want to seem creepy, so you averted your eyes to the concrete below and kept walking as fast as your busted shoes would take you. You could feel her stare burning through your raggedy sweatshirt as you passed her. The girl with dark auburn hair that was with her – the one that always seemed to have various snacks on her – asked her what she was looking at. You didn't hear her response.

  From that day on you watched her from a distance – the second mistake. You would catch her looking at you whenever you passed – no longer a burning stare, but a light glance, like a passing bird in the air; and you would give the curtest of nods after a while. By the end of the month you could remember on the top of your head when and where you would see her, especially in regards to when she would be in the dining hall.

  The dining hall is a sordid, terrible place to be. The booths, their seats covered in an ugly shade of maroon, are few and far between, and so are the tables. There's so much space left to put more of them, but management never does. When it's a weekend and all but one of the other dining halls are closed, it's a stampede in the morning and the first one to claim a seat survives, while other students prowl in waiting, surveying like vultures for a table to become available. It's always understaffed and no one wants to cooperate – including you. Your supervisor reminds you at all times, like a cuckoo clock set to thirty minutes rather than an hour, what your job is and how to do it when you already know. Annoying fucker. You'd rather just do your job and leave. Work is work when you're poor as shit, though.

When she comes, it's a bit more bearable.

  And that's fucking annoying too. No one's ever invaded your mind like this. It tempts you into wanting to take action; something you haven't done since middle school. What if you did start a conversation with her, Ymir? A simple "hi" would suffice, wouldn't it?

  ......

  Nah, that's not your style. This isn't some TV show where things like that work out. No one wants to talk to you anyway – and that's the way you like it, honestly. You don't have to deal with anyone besides those who make the messes at the dining hall; those little shits. Besides, you don't even have a roommate – living in a single and all. It's super expensive, but... it's quiet. The perfect college experience. Everyone keeps an arm's and leg's length away from you if it's possible, too. It's probably because of the constant glower on your face; it doesn't matter. You would prefer to keep people away. People in your life makes for a thousand times more meaningless drama, and the less of that the better. It's more time to concentrate on what's important, more time to focus on living your life and your studies. Both of which are the most important things to you and yet, in ways, are the biggest jokes.  Similar to the way you want to talk to this girl – though you wouldn't call it important; no. It's just something that's on your brain lately.

  What would her face look like when speaking to you directly, though? Would it be the scared, caught-like-a-rabbit look that everyone always gives you, even when all you do is send a small glance in their direction? You're not sure, since talking upfront is different than passing by each other. Granted, the glower on your face is your relaxed face; that's enough to keep many at bay in general. But whenever you dare take a peek at her when she's eating with her friends, she keeps her eyes on yours for a moment before looking to the ground. No one holds your glance for as long as she does. She doesn't just brush you off, or start whispering to her friends about you like the other students; at least, you don't think. She seems different in that sense – Jesus, Ymir, you don't have time for this. You have work to do. You're supposed to be cleaning tables.

  Maybe for a second – just a second – you can imagine you did talk to her. After all, she is alone for lunch today. What would you even talk about? Being a recluse isn't exactly helpful in these situations. You can't think of anything you're interested in, let alone what you might have in common. Why is this constantly bothering you lately? You stare intensely at the old, obviously tattered cleaning cloth you're leaning over instead of scrubbing the table with like you're supposed to – just clutching it for dear life. This is irritating as fuck. You would rather be scrubbing with all you've got and leave quickly than deal with these thoughts corralling together like hens, pecking and scratching at you whether you feed them or not.

   It would be easier to just walk over, say something, and let it be after that, wouldn't it? That's exactly what you want to do, so why not? March over there and talk to her. Say "hi," chit chat a bit, if you even have the ability to do that, and then be on your way. No need to ever talk again. Nodding your head, you steel yourself for the interaction. You lift your body from your hunched position hurriedly and turn, ready to walk over and –

                "Hey there."

  You're startled for a second. You almost bump into her. Almost. You never noticed how short she really is – you practically tower over her; she barely reaches your collarbone. She's looking up at you and wow, you didn't notice how clear her eyes are until now, or how blonde her hair is from the distance. She's not smiling with her teeth but she's certainly smiling with her eyes and to be frank, it's something you can't bear to look at. It's pretty. A little too pretty for her own good. Her voice isn't exactly melodic; a higher pitch – just below the point where it'd be grating. You turn your head to the left and mutter a "Hello," trying to keep your cool. It's quiet for a few seconds – slightly awkward – before she speaks again.

                                                                                        "My name is Krista. Krista Lenz. What's yours?" Your gaze meets hers and fuck this is difficult. Why? You were so prepared not even a minute ago. Normal. Act normal.

  "Depends. Why do you want to know?" you say, trying to keep a neutral tone. Krista's eyebrows knit a bit, as if searching for a reason.

  "Curiosity, I suppose." Curiosity? You're the same in a way. Might as well drag as much information as you can out of her, though. You smirk – it may have resembled a smile if you hadn't stopped it in time.

  "No better reason?"

  "Do I need one?" Krista says, confusion in her voice. You think for a moment. She has a point.

  "I guess not. Name's Ymir." She smiles broadly at you. She needs to stop that. A silence falls upon you two once again; it's not as awkward as before.

  "So, do you have some place to go after work?" Krista asks, her voice becoming higher toward the end and her lips twitch upward ever so slightly; her fingers reach for a piece of her hair, rubbing the very tip with her index finger and thumb.

  "Not in particular," you say, tone steady and as nonchalant as possible.

  "If that's the case, would you like to join me for dinner later? I usually eat alone today."

  "I know." Shit – you let it slip. Her eyes widen a bit, yet in the end she winds up laughing softly, lifting her hand and covering her mouth slightly.

  "Well then, can I count on your company?" You ponder her invitation for a little bit. It means you can talk to her and you can't be too fussy, since it was what you wanted. There's no real reason to refuse.

  "Sure. What time?"

  "Is 6 o'clock fine?"

  "Sounds good," you say, your lips moving of their own accord.

  "Great. See you soon, then, Ymir," Krista says, a hint of pride in her voice as she turns and walks off. Huh. That went better than expected. After tonight you never have to talk to her again; your curiosity will be satisfied. When she's finally up the stairs, you go back to work – your mind's fog is lifted just a bit. You go about your work diligently, scrubbing tables here and there, cleaning the drink machines and putting more sugary content in them for the generally irritating masses, and refilling the necessities such as salt, pepper, and napkins at every table. Your shift ends and you're rushing to your room to change out of your uniform into something decent and not reeking of burnt, disgusting, fried things that are called food at Sina University of the Arts – sometimes you wonder why it's specifically called an arts school when it has a decent base of majors other than artsy stuff, but that's beside the point.

  It's not long before you're in front of the dining hall once more. There're a couple whispers behind you. You glare, intimidating those who are whispering as you walk past and they hush themselves on the spot. They're just a bunch of mice and you're top game compared to them. They're probably talking about you because you're not working at the moment. It's not often that you're in this area when you're not doing your job. It was cheaper and more affordable to buy a meal plan that didn't involve constantly going here; you wish Krista had picked a different place, sort of. There's a new, uneasy feeling inside you far beyond your usual comprehension.

                                                                                                                      When you enter, the familiar smells, nasty as they are, calm your overwrought mind. You immediately see her from the entrance and she sees you too; she gives a small wave that you acknowledge with a nod. You grab food – or at least something of food-like consistency – and head over to Krista's table. She greets you with a polite smile; her teeth are incredibly white. Did she change her outfit? Looks relatively good on her – okay, more than relatively, but; it makes you a bit self conscious for the shortest of seconds. It's not that you look like shit, it's just that your sweatshirt is ratty and your jeans have faded patches on them. Your clothes aren't important, though. What's important is to figure out what Krista's goal is. She obviously has one. People are selfish, especially you, and don't do anything without having anything to gain from it.

  You try to sit down, the chair screeching in protest when you pull it back. You receive a couple looks, but who cares? Krista's still smiling at you. You scratch your cheek and look away quickly as your bottom hits the chair. Attempting to initiate conversation is not a strong suit of yours. In fact, it's your weakest suit – the club; whenever you're playing cards it never comes when you need it – a club would be useful now, since you kind of want to bash your head in. Damn, can't these assholes stop talking about you when you're right there? Whatever; doesn't matter. You and Krista sit there, quiet for a while. You awkwardly stuff your face, because you're hungry  as fuck, and she cuts her chicken daintily. The silence is almost too heavy. Someone has to talk. Her face is kind of red – it's drafty in here – Huh. Someone needs to start talking already. Guess it's has to be you.

  "So," you say, your tone even. Krista seems startled at first. She regains the demeanor she had before after a moment, though.

  "So."

  "What's your goal here?" you say, going straight to the point.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Well?" you prod; Krista's mouth quirks downward, not responding .

  "Do I have to have one?"

  "Everyone has a motive. What's your deal?" She frowns fully now.

  "I only want to get to know you. You're always alone and you're always scowling. But not when you look at me."

  "Huh," you mumble, the answer shockingly satisfying. Krista continues on.

  "And besides, you're extremely handsome and –"

  "Handsome?" you say, smirking a bit. Krista, gulping the tiniest bit, glances away. "Isn't that usually for dudes?" you add.

  "Girls can be handsome, too," Krista mutters, her voice barely audible.

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah." Quiet settles between you two once more. This time you're a little thankful for it. Krista's cute when she looks embarrassed like this. Really cute. Maybe you can make that happen more often; Wait. More often? Ymir, this is a onetime deal. Talk to her, get it over with, and be on your way. Besides, what's there to get to know?

  "Maybe we can meet up again sometime? Talk some more?" Krista asks. You ponder her invitation for a moment.

  "Depends. What would you wanna do?" Krista hums a bit, putting her hand on her face; she taps her pointer finger against her cheek, putting her thumb under her chin.

  "How about a movie?"

  "Hate to break it to ya, shortie, but I can't afford that."

  "You can't?"

  "I loathe to admit it," you say, rolling your eyes, "But I'm broke."

  "Then what about my place?" Krista says, her voice small.

  "I guess?" What sort of place does she live in? Surely, by her clothes, not the sort of semi-squalor you do.

  "Have you ever seen Titan A.E?" Krista asks with a hint of something in her tone – excitement, maybe?

  "Nope."

  "Then we can watch that," she says with what appears to be a smug grin.

  "A'ight," you say; you haven't seen a good movie in a while. Why not? Krista seems happy, too. Like she accomplished something. Who knows? Maybe this will be beneficial, somehow.

  "I'll see you soon, then," she says  as she motions to stand up. She stops before she fully lifts herself up. "Also, can you please not call me shawty?" You notice the difference in her pronunciation.

  "'Shawty' and 'shortie' are different. At least to me. Consider it a term of endearment."

  "Maybe I will. Oh, also, it might be easier if you give me your number." You smile at her.

  "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Get going, won't ya?" She grins back and you exchange cell phone numbers – you have a shitty tracfone but you don't use it so texting with her a bit shouldn't be a problem. Then, she gets up out of her chair. It squeaks, despite her attempts to thwart the noise; Krista cringes like it hurt her ears. Watching as she leaves the dining hall, she puts her plates on the conveyer belt. You notice something as she walks out; her hips swing a lot. Well, at least it's an enjoyable sight. You stay at the table for a while longer, thinking.

"I'm PB. I spy on everybody; no big d," you say. That's right. It's just the usual with you. You offer a simple one sided smile and a shrug. Flame Princess stands, facing you as she does so.

  "You're cold, PB," Flame Princess replies.

  "Eh." You shrug again. It's nothing you haven't been told before. Nothing new. However, you didn't expect her to go on.

  "And it's not because you're a scientist or a leader. It's because you are a bad person. Something inside you is messed up, girl. And whatever it is– ugh, whatever. Whatever, PB," she says. A frown manages to make it to your face – hey, no, bad; Bonnibel Bubblegum, you keep those emotions in check and you do it this instant. That phrase – the utterance –  you're a bad person – reminds you so much of that day. The day when she left your side.

  It was morning in the candy kingdom – early enough in the winter's day that it was still dark.

  "Marceline," you managed to chuckle out, despite the grogginess in your tone. She was kissing you everywhere she could get her lips from her position behind you on her side; simple, chaste pecks from cool lips on a brisk morning in your freezing room.

  "Mornin', Bonnie," the Vampire Queen whispered lovingly; it was in that throaty voice she always had when she first woke up. She plops her chin in the juncture between your neck and shoulder.

  "Marcy, your chin is so pointed; that hurts." There's some merit to the complaint; you truly didn't care, though, especially when she  clumsily placed her arm around your bare midriff. She brought you closer to her body, ghosts of warmth and definite jolts of energy waking you a bit. She maneuvered to kiss your cheek.

  "I can always move my chin lower. And my mouth." Marceline snickered to herself then, as if it was an innuendo only she understood. Her long eyelashes flutter against your neck as she goes to land another kiss on the back of it.

  "Marceline, that's too distasteful for the time of day," you said, despite relaxing into her touch.

  She laughed at that – almost like a cackle – but in the end she nuzzled back into you with a muttered "maybe" and fell back to sleep. As did you. It wasn't until later, at a reasonable hour, where you woke up to dress for the day. Marceline lazed around for a while longer in the bed before picking her clothes off the floor to dress herself in. You're used to her forgetting to bring an extra outfit though, at this point. No matter; it's time for reading documents and treaties with the other kingdoms, per the morning routine, so you head over to your desk and prepare a quill.

   Marceline knew how it went already, so she floated around you, "bothering" you with this or that thing. Some days it was more about grabbing your attention; other days she would treat you with a rare glimpse into the world she came from. Marceline claimed to barely remember anything, but sometimes things would slip out – you enjoyed listening to her talk, despite the sad parts of it occasionally. She was always so afraid to be alone because of what happened. You didn't want to leave her alone. At least, not often. You needed your time to take care of the kingdom, and thus alone time is something you had to take. You wished your people weren't scared of her, though. It would have made life so much easier. You knew she was going to catch on soon; that you were making her do things while you do your routine so that she was out of the kingdom. But what else could you have done?

  "Marcy, could you do an errand for me while I go out?"

  "...Sure? But I haven't been in the candy kingdom without sneaking in since we started, well, y'know –"

  You sighed. Maybe you should have told her sooner. She was going to find out eventually if she hadn't known already that the candy people didn't like her. However, it was best to assume she did know, as she never has liked to be treated like she doesn't know something in the first place. Marceline has always been rather stubborn on that point.

  "Marceline, my people are scared of you. You know this. I can't let them see –" you begin to say before she interrupted.

  "Wait, so you're not gonna tell them? Like you're ashamed of me or something?" Her eyes grew wide at first, her eyebrows raising, but then narrowing into a semi-glared; yet her dark eyes betrayed the hurt in them. She was always easy to read, even when she tried to show a different emotion.

  "That's not it. You know my people scare easily and what happens when they're scared. They're fragile and you are the Vampire Que –"

  "Oh, so I'm not sweet enough for them? Is that it?" she replied bitterly.

  "Marceline, don't be so dramatic."

  "'Dramatic?' That's what you're gonna call it? Don't you like me enough to not care about them for one moment?"

There's silence then. Your people need you, yet so does Marceline. It's as much a fact as you are pink. You tried to think logically about it, like usual, but you figured out your emotions were running rampage for once. Logic always wins with you, though. A kingdom demands responsibility; responsibility demands sacrifice. You have to figure a way to make her leave. What can you say, though? What can will make her storm – ah, yes. Those words will do nicely.

  "Maybe I just don't like you the way you think I do."

  Marceline's face, if it wasn't flushed enough before, colored itself completely to her ears, defiance clear in her eyes, along with tears as she tightly balled her fists.

  "You know what I think, Bonnibel?  You're using me; you're using me for whatever you want and leaving me alone like everyone else. You made me think you – you – you're a bad person, only thinking about yourself and junk!" she yelled, her teeth clenched so hard that you can tell she was grinding them behind her lips. "Ugh, I'm so  not down for this – I'm leaving – later, Princess." She spat out that last word with so much venom that even you felt the sting within seconds of the exchange. But you refused to call out to her before she flew out the open window. Some things weren't meant to be.

  No matter how much you want them to.

  You're pretty sure that's when you started spying on everyone obsessively rather than once in a while – she vanished and you couldn't find her, which of course made you try harder to do so. Yet, for a while, no matter where you placed a camera you could never find Marceline; it was years, actually, before you found her again. Then one day, she just appeared – it was like she knew you were trying to follow her that whole time. You don't know how she managed to evade you, but you figured it was best to keep a distance. Then, she started hanging out with Finn and soon the Door Lord came and you had every single clue of what she was singing about and all you want is to fix what happened, fix the two of you, but  in the end it can't work, it can't work no matter what and –

  You try to snap your head out of the past after that.

  "Okay, keep one last fire giant. I'm not a bad person; I want you to see that," you say, keeping your tone of voice in check as much as possible; you hope it sounds sincere enough to Flame Princess. The churning feeling in your gut is gross and you might actually puke. Your mind is screaming "don't do this; you need to dismantle these fire giants – for the good of your kingdom!" For once though, you can't bring yourself to do the logical thing. You don't want to spy anymore. Besides, maybe gaining Flame Princess's trust is a better route. Maybe. But mainly?

  You really don't want to be a bad person anymore.

Curiosity has been eating at her as much as the hormones have, and, to be frank, she had to go through a lot to make sure that this girl was as queer as her. Not much is known about Marceline besides that – well, besides that she is supposedly 'a vampire queen'. To be fair, people do call Bonnibel something like Princess Bubblegum. She doesn't care much about the label, though.

  Finally Bonnibel caught Marceline looking at her first, around the fifth time, and she decides that it is time to try to go over and try speak to her. She tries to swing her hips slightly as she walks over to the punch bowl near the counter where Marceline is. Hopefully it worked a little bit. Walking over to where Marceline is, Bonnibel leans against the counter, attempting to be nonchalant and show just the right amount of cleavage at the same time. Marceline looks at her, but never takes a moment to look down at her chest. Bonnibel smiles.

  "So, you're the Vampire Queen."

  "By the hair, I'm assumin' you're Princess Bubblegum."

  Bonnibel giggles at this. Small, subtly. Just like the books said. Marceline smiles, rather sharp canines showing a bit.

  "Are those the reasons you received that nickname?" Bonnibel asks.

  "These?" says Marceline, pointing at her teeth. "Could be."

  There is something about Marceline that makes Bonnibel want to know more. Or maybe it her natural need to know everything. Right now, however, sex is top priority. Bonnibel inches a little closer.

  "I had heard it was because you were the queen of night time activities," Bonnibel says with a hopefully enticing wink. Marceline gives her a funny look at first, but smiles.

  "Could be."

  There is a silence after that. It isn't awkward, exactly. However, movies and books say banter needs to flow – this is slightly worrying to Bonnibel as she no longer wants to talk. Marceline has deep, dark eyes and it is hard to look away.

  "So, other than the pink hair, any reason for 'Princess Bubblegum'?" Marceline asks.

  Bonnibel tries to think of something to say on the fly, since that is the only and exact reason for the nickname.

  "People say I taste sweet."

  "...Huh," Marceline replies.

  Too soon? Bonnibel curses internally; there's quiet again. She takes the moment to follow the long strands of Marceline's course, dark hair down to her hips. Frustration is no longer the word for Bonnibel. Marceline is actually interesting and even hotter up close like this; Bonnibel wants her. Wants her now and she may have just ruined it and for the –

  "...Love of – what does it take to get laid around here?"

  Marceline blinks.

  "...That's what you want?"

  Bonnibel freezes. That was definitely not the right thing to say.  How could that have slipped out? What should she do? Oh man, now it is ruined, now it's over, now it's –

  "Should'a just asked," Marceline says with a laugh. You pause, heat rising to your face.

  "That's not how I read it works though –"

  "Hold up, hold up. You read up on how to get yourself laid?"

  Tensing up more, Bonnibel nods. Marceline smirks at her, chuckling.

  "What a nerd. Alright, smart stuff. Find the bedroom. You've seduced me."

  Bonnibel's eyes widen. This is not how she planned it; she is sure this is not how it is supposed to happen.

  "Well, Princess?"

"Please, call me Bonnie," Bonnibel says with a nervous smile. She offers her hand to Marceline.

  "I'll show you the real reason I'm called the 'vampire queen'," Marceline says with a wink as she takes Bonnibel's hand.