#+identity

“What part of ‘leave me alone’ was unclear?” You ask.

“Y/n, you owe me.”

“Eliza, I am in the middle of an unparalleled run on Tomb Runner. Please fuck off,” You grit, inclining your head at the door. “I gave you a key for emergencies, you crazy woman.”

“Don’t call me a crazy woman!” Eliza exclaims, jumping up from where she’d been perched on an armchair. “Unbelievable that you are a Women’s Studies major.”

“Crazy is crazy, ‘Liza. You used to host political intrigue events for your stuffed animals,” You say, still focused entirely on your tiny blonde avatar vaulting over tree roots on your screen. You swipe a careful finger, moving him to the right-most path on the virtual stone and through a line of coins. 

“You will never understand the socio-political implications of Ani-Ville.” 

“You named it?” You laugh, risking a glance upwards to see Eliza towering over you. “And I think I have a pretty good understanding that you were just in lust with Olivia Pope, babe. We shared a room for eighteen years.”

“Y/n!” 

“Get out of my apartment!” You cry back. “We’re gonna see each other in like 45 minutes for family brunch! I need to shower!”

“Don’t pretend like you’re not just gonna put on some dry shampoo and call it a day,” Eliza cuts back. “Lying to family is bad form.”

“Killing family is worse form, ‘Liza, but it’s gonna happen if you don’t get the fuck out of my apartment in the next 30 seconds.”

When you and your sister had chosen to go to the same college a 15 minute drive from where you’d grown up, you had anticipated there was bound to be some tense interactions. You loved Eliza to death, but your twin drove you up the fucking wall. Over three years at Briar U, she had reliably cycled from your best friend to your worst enemy and back again.

You were in “worst enemy” territory now.

“I went to Sean’s tuba recital last week,” Eliza says suddenly, folding down criss-cross applesauce next to the couch you’re sprawled across. She stares at you, face now level with yours. “It wasted three hours of my life.”

“Ah, I’m sure Sean couldn’t have been that bad,” You brush off, attention still on your phone. “And that was payback for me taking your Chemistry exam for you.”

Being a twin had a lot of advantages. Oftentimes, even your parents couldn’t tell you and Eliza apart; you were vastly different people, but on the surface, you were truly identical. Growing up, this meant a lot of “switching” for convenient situations. You’ve probably tested under Eliza’s name as many times as your own, and Liza’s mastered your asshole-ish demeanor well enough to pass as you at any event you didn’t want to attend. 

“I’ll fill in for you for any five events you want,” Eliza tries. “Even Sean-related ones!”

You try not to let her see that she’s caught your attention. 

As much as you loved Allie, your best friend, your friendship came with a pretty nasty caveat. Allie demanded company at any of her boyfriend Sean’s super lame events, which were seemingly endless because of his super lame hobbies. While your switches with Eliza usually worked pretty well on a give and take system, she typically categorically refused to fill in at a Sean-event unless she was truly desperate. 

You felt a little guilty tricking Allie like that, but it wasn’t like she would ever know. You would take the out.

“Hm,” You say, purposefully casual. “What do you need again?”

“I need you to text someone for me. A guy. His name’s Tucker, and I think he’s perfect.”

“Why don’t you just do it?” You ask, cursing as you almost miss a turn. 

“I am so shit at texting, you know that. And, y’know… you get around enough that I figured you’d be good at it…” Eliza mutters.

“Are you calling me a slut? Who’s being misogynistic now?”

“No! I’m just saying I’m sure you’d be able to charm him!”

You glance up at her over the screen of your phone. “Ten events and you got yourself a deal.”

“Six,” Eliza returns immediately. 

“Eight.”

“Deal.”

“Great! Give me the phone.”

“Dean, please. I’m telling you, I think she could be the one!”

“Tucker, bud, I love you, but I’m gonna need us all to lower our voices.”

Tucker rolls his eyes and grabs a pair of discarded sunglasses from the counter, lobbing them at Dean. They smack against his cheek and clatter down into the plate of scrambled eggs Tucker had placed in front of him.

“Nice catch,” Tucker says dryly. 

Dean flips him off and fishes the glasses out of his breakfast, wiping them off with a paper towel before sliding them onto his face. 

“Fuck you.”

“You’re like a suburban mom with a wine addiction,” Tucker muses. “Really, Dean, I don’t think your liver can take anything more.”

“I barely had anything to drink last night,” Dean protests immediately. “Stop mother-henning me.”

“Whatever.” Tucker rolls his eyes and plops down next to Dean as he begins to eat. “I really need you to do me this favor.”

Dean glances at him. “What was it again? You want to, what, sit in the texting cuck chair?”

Tucker splutters. “No! No, of course not. It’s just… you know how I get with women. It’s really fucking awkward, and I… I really like this girl, Dean. Just… will you text her for a little while for me? Just to break the ground.”

Dean grins, mouth full of egg. Tucker shakes his head, disgusted.

“You don’t ‘break the ground’ with women, dude. I’m not gonna text a girl for you. That’s insane.”

“What, texting a girl?” Tucker prods. “When was the last time you even did that?”

Dean scowls. “What?”

“You heard me,” Tucker replies, flippant. He’s edging a line. “When was the last time you actually texted a girl, instead of just fucking and dumping her? I don’t think you still have it.”

Dean wags a finger at Tucker. “Ah-ah. You’re not gonna goad me into this.”

“If you don’t think you can, I’ll just ask Garret.”

“Garret?” Dean exclaims. “Are you insane? That guy’s idea of flirting is to bring ‘em to the rink and skate around like a peacock.”

Tucker shrugs. “He seems more qualified that you.”

“Give me that fucking phone!”

Embarrassingly, Dean’s still thinking about the girl an hour later. 

Tucker had been ecstatic, albeit nervous, about the dinner date. Dean was honestly surprised. Tucker usually went for soft, kind women, and the girl Dean had been texting was anything but.

She was funny. And fucking gorgeous, too, based on the picture Tucker had cursorily showed him off of Instagram. He’d caught the last half of the username: L/n. Her contact name on Tucker’s had just been a string of heart emojis, so that was all he had to go off of. L/n.

Of course, ultimately, Tucker liked her, so it didn’t matter what Dean thought. And he definitely shouldn’t still be thinking about her. 

Feeling guilty, he rolls over in his bed. He’d begged off breakfast shortly after the texting conversation had ended, citing a hangover headache. Tucker had let him go easily, thanking him profusely, and Dean had waved it off.

He hadn’t been entirely sure why he was fleeing. He just knew that he suddenly had to get away from Tucker, which was fucked up. He loves Tucker. He loves Tucker a hell of a lot more than a girl he’d texted for, like, five minutes tops. 

So why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?

Dean gropes for his phone on the bedside table. Maybe it was just residual curiosity. He’ll check out her Instagram, and that will be that. Besides, he’s sure dinner is going to be great tomorrow. Everyone loves Tucker. 

It feels wrong to swipe over to Instagram. He ignores the deluge of notification and hovers over the search bar. 

Dean glances at the door. It’s shut, unlike usual. 

Ah, fuck it. It wasn’t like he was going to do anything about it. 

He types “L/n” into the browser. About 20 profiles pop up. He flicks through them until he finds one with “Briar U” listed in the bio. It’s a public account, thank god, so he opens the first picture. 

Yeah, that’s her. Fuck, she’s gorgeous. 

Before he knows it, he’s scrolling. Her captions are stupid, the pictures cut-off and a little blurry, and yet…