#gold rush

The harsh glare of your phone screen confirms it’s only 6:15 AM, but the exhaustion bone-deep. At least you have time to shower. To try and create a version of yourself that isn’t entirely embarrassing. Dragging yourself out of bed, your first port of call is coffee. Treading lightly, so as not to wake Allie and Hannah, you drink enough caffeine to power a city.

The hot water does little to wash away the dread settling deep in your gut, and when you finally risk a glance in the bathroom mirror, it is exactly the disaster you expected.

Maybe you should just drop out now.

Save yourself the embarrassment.

It’s only after multiple outfit changes, a full face of foundation, and your most expensive mascara that you even begin to feel remotely human, all while scolding yourself for being like this in the first place.

You’re being ridiculous.

He’s just a person.

Sure, he’s like the most popular guy on campus. One of the stars of the hockey team, with no fewer than ten girls trailing after him at any given moment.

But he’s just a guy, and you just have to be normal this semester. It’ll be fine. Letting out a heavy sigh, you grab your bag, and begin the walk to the decrepit Arts building across campus. After hockey, and engineering, and business, the arts are left with whatever is left - usually nothing.

The University’s museum is the only saving grace of the entire Arts quadrant. Inside, the air is always cool, still, and completely free of the sticky campus heat.

It's your favourite place.

A voice calls your name, and as you turn you find yourself colliding with a solid figure. Stumbling slightly from the impact, a hand wraps around your waist to keep you upright. Already mumbling apologies, every word dies on your lips when you glance up to find Dean Di Laurentis standing over you.

“Shit, sorry,” He curses, making sure you’re fully back on your feet. “Didn’t mean to scare you - you’re my Classics partner, right?”

Your brain completely stalls at the feeling of his hand on your waist.

Oh no.

In all your worrying over how to respond to his message, you’d completely forgotten to reply. You think back to two nights ago, staring at a notification on your phone until your eyes watered, drafting and deleting ten different versions of a reply. You had been so utterly terrified of sounding too eager, too boring, or too weird that you had closed the app to "think about it" - and then completely forgot to actually send the message. You’ve left the university's star hockey player on read for forty-eight hours.

“Oh my god,” You blurt out, coffee and adrenaline combining into an unpleasant, panic-fuelled spiel. “I am so sorry. I saw your text when I was coming out of work, and then just totally crashed as soon as I got home, and forgot-”

“Hey,” He interrupts. “No harm, no foul. Stuff happens, I get it.”

"Right, yeah," You reply slowly, trying desperately to process his words. "Sorry again."

He shoots you an easy grin, and you can feel your brain start to short-circuit in real time. "You apologise a lot, huh?"

Finally, you're prepared, and instead of apologising again, you laugh. "I guess."

“So - you know Wellsy?”

“We live together,” You shrug.

“Oh - I didn't know that. Thought I would've seen you around by now, given that she and Garrett are going strong.”

“It's uh, not really my scene.”

Understatement of the century. The closest you venture into Briar U’s social scene is when you play in the orchestra for the show’s musicals. Cello for the classical shows, and bass for the modern ones. Most recently, Hair, where Allie had fought valiantly to keep the nudity at the end of Act One.

Unsurprisingly, she had failed.

“You ever go to the hockey games? I don’t remember seeing you before.”

You’re positive that you could’ve been at every single game, and Dean wouldn’t have ever glanced twice at you. Shaking your head, you shift your bag higher onto your shoulder.

“Never?” His expression is shocked.

“Never.”

“Well, we’ve gotta change that. You should come,” He nods, and falls into step beside you.

*****

The walk to class is blissfully short, with just a little bit of small talk, mostly centred around Hannah and Garrett. You hadn’t realised just how instrumental Dean was in their getting together. It’s almost sweet, the way he describes it.

Then, there’s the issue of the seating.

It’s a small class - twenty at most, but the room the Professor booked could easily hold double that. You fully expect Dean to wave goodbye and seek out a spot in the back corner to stay under the radar.

Instead, you are completely caught off guard when he pulls out the chair right next to yours. He drops his athletic duffel bag onto the floor and settles into the desk, his broad frame encroaching onto your own space.

With anybody else, you’d be annoyed.

With Dean Di Laurentis, you’re hoping he can’t hear the sound of your heart thumping erratically in your ears.

"Is this for your major? Or just an elective?"

You hadn't realised he was quite so talkative. In your brief previous experiences with him, he's been more concerned with sticking his tongue down a random girl's throat, while you and Hannah chatted quietly in a corner.

"Uh, yeah - I'm majoring in Art History, but anything Classics, Literature, Art... it's all fair game. They're pretty lax. You?" You clear your throat. "No offence, but you don't strike me as an Arts department regular."

"Definitely not. I'm business. Standard hockey player territory, I guess." He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck, and his tone drops to something a bit more private. "But lately, I've been thinking about law school after this. Still trying to decide if I want to commit to it. Guess it depends on how the hockey thing pans out."

"Law school? That's a lot of work."

"Yeah, well," Dean says, flashing a quick smile that makes your stomach do a flip. "I like to keep people guessing."

Before you can reply, the heavy front door clicks open. The professor walks in, dropping a stack of syllabus papers onto the podium. The chatter in the room instantly dies down, and Dean gives you one last, lingering look before turning his attention to the front.

*****

The heavy gym bag slung over Dean’s shoulder is pure camouflage.

Garrett and Tucker hadn’t surfaced yet when he’d been down for breakfast this morning, but Logan was already up, trying to fit a run in before his Econ class at 8:30. Thankfully, Dean had already prepared for that.

An easy, believable lie.

I’m going to the gym.

Logan barely glances up, just nodding an affirmative and a ‘See you later, man’ before setting off.

Dean can already hear the absolute, relentless chirping he’d get in the locker room if the team found out he’s spending his Thursday mornings analysing Greek myths and Roman paintings. None of them could ever find out that the bag actually contains a crisp new notebook and a syllabus for Art, Power, and Subversion in the Ancient Mediterranean.

But the reality is, his GPA took a hit last semester after a brutal away-game schedule, and Coach made it clear: Dean needs some solid As this semester, so that he’s locked in for the playoffs.

The catalogue for what he needed this year had been downright depressing.

History of Jazz Music on Thursdays at the crack of dawn? No thanks.

Intro to Biochemical Engineering late on Mondays? Overlaps with practice. And definitely too much science for an easy A.

He’d been considering an International Relations class, but the syllabus had looked hellish.

Finally, he’d settled on Classics. Specifically Art History.

Thanks to his parents - who dragged him through every major museum in Europe and North America - he actually knows this stuff. And what’s more - he likes it. A lot. More than he’d ever admit to anybody.

Art makes sense to him. Way more than some of the business crap he has to sit through for his major. He finds analysis therapeutic, considering the contexts which lead each artist to create. Given he’s never going to use it in his adult life, he figures it might be quite nice to hone those skills one last time.

Coach did say to go for an easy A, after all.

It doesn’t hurt that you’re very easy on the eyes. You’re a little skittish, probably slightly scared of him, but he’s used to it. Wellsy couldn’t even look him in the eyes for a month.

You’ll come round.

Eventually.

"Let's start with a foundational concept," Professor Jacobson says, turning to face the semi-circle of the class. "When we look at the monumental architecture of Imperial Rome - the triumphal arches, the columns - who is the intended audience? And more importantly, how does a state use physical art to enforce absolute power?"

The room goes dead silent. A few of the student at the back shift in their chairs, suddenly very interested in their shoes as they avoid the professor’s gaze. Dean knows the answer - it’s mass media, state-sanctioned propaganda to keep the common man in check - but he keeps his mouth shut. The last thing he needs is to look like a try-hard in front of a room full of strangers. Or worse. That this somehow makes it back to the Fifth Line, and Dean is exposed.

Next to him, your hand creeps up.

Professor Jacobson checks his list, and confirms your name, while you nod.

You swallow hard, clearing your throat, and then the floodgates open. "Right, um, well, I think if we're talking about audience, it’s not just about the people living in Rome, but it’s actually a dual-purpose psychological tool. Like, if you're a conquered prisoner being marched under a triumphal arch during a military parade, the architecture is literally a physical manifestation of your subjugation, right? It’s meant to make you feel tiny and utterly powerless against the state.”

Dean blinks, turning his head to look at you.

"But then," you continue, your voice gaining speed as your words begin to tumble over one another, your pen tapping a frantic rhythm against your notebook. "If you’re a Roman citizen, it operates entirely differently. It’s mass media before mass media existed. It’s like an ancient billboard reinforcing that your taxes and your loyalty are funding this massive, glorious empire, so it creates this manufactured consent through visual awe. It’s basically how modern political campaigns use massive rallies and specific stage design to project authority, because humans are inherently visual creatures, and we naturally equate scale with legitimacy. So when you see a massive marble relief of a emperor sacrificing to the gods, your brain automatically connects his political power with the divine. Which I guess makes rebelling against him feel completely impossible?”

“Excellent. Somebody clearly did the pre-assigned reading.”

Dean blanches. He certainly did not do the assigned reading. He hadn’t even realised there was pre-reading for this class.

Shit.

He needs to get his act together.

Thankfully, the class is almost entirely introductory, and Dean can follow it pretty well. You’re eventually split into small groups for discussion, and Dean is relieved when you’re in his.

He makes a conscious effort to talk, even if he’s not entirely sure what points he’s going for. You nod softly after each time he speaks, an agreement that makes him feel a whole lot better about his place in the class.

As soon as Jacobson calls time, Dean is turning towards you. “You’re like a walking fucking Wikipedia, you know that?”

“Um, thank you?”

It’s like you can’t tell if he’s being sincere, or making fun of you. His stomach twists uncomfortably. He’s not known you for very long, but he doesn’t like the idea of making you feel small.

“No, I mean it,” Dean insists. “Very cool. I think you know more than Jacobson does, if I’m being honest.” He hands you his phone, open at a new contact, Wiki already typed under name. A week ago, a nickname from Dean Di Laurentis would have had you jumping for you. Now, you can’t decide how you feel about it. “Here. Put your number in, and we can work out a time to get started on this thing.”

You hesitate for half a second before taking the phone. Dean watches your face the entire time, suddenly worried he’s misread something. Maybe the nickname was stupid. Maybe you hate nicknames. Maybe-

“Wiki?” You ask, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

“Yeah.”

“Because I know things?”

A laugh escapes him. “Because you know everything.”

You duck your head slightly, and he catches the corner of a smile before you hide it. “That isn't true.”

“It absolutely is.”

Dean takes the phone back when you're done, immediately sending himself a text from your contact. Your phone buzzes, but you don’t reach for it. You sling your bag over your shoulder. "So," You say. "When did you want to start working on the project?"

"Uh." He clears his throat. "I'm free Thursday?”

You make a face. “I work until eight. Could you do after?”

“That should be fine, yeah. I’m normally finished at the rink by seven-thirty.”

You check your watch, and let out a small curse. “Shit. I have to go, I’m running late - see you Thursday?”

“See you then, Wiki.”

Three days later.

You should've known this was going to happen. That there was no way that Dean would prioritise anything over hockey, or even his social life.

If you want this project done well, you're going to have to bear the brunt of it yourself.

The next morning, you're half-expecting another excuse, a reason why he suddenly can't make it. But when you don't hear anything, you can only assume that he's coming.

You make your way to the café you'd agreed on earlier, and find a booth in the corner. With ten minutes to go, you're not expecting him to be early. You're barely expecting him to be here at all. To distract, you set up your laptop, and try to start brainstorming some ideas.

The bell above the café door chimes. You look up, expecting to see a flash of broad shoulders and blond hair, but your breath catches in your throat instead.

It's your ex-boyfriend. Arthur. Fellow Humanities major, and total dick. He looks exactly like what he is - someone who just spent the entire summer lounging around Oxford, absorbing culture on his family's dime.

Before you can even shut your laptop, he is sliding into the booth. He sits right across from you, taking up the exact space Dean is supposed to occupy. Panic flares hot in your chest. The last thing you want - the absolute last thing - is for Dean to walk in and see you with him. "What do you want?"

He chuckles, a soft, patronising sound. "Well, hello to you too. I saw you outside, thought I'd step in before my first class. I got back to the States on Tuesday. Honestly, Oxford was insane. The history over there makes this place look like a total joke."

You feel a familiar wave of resentment. Never once has Arthur had to worry about part-time jobs, or where his tuition money is going to come from. He treats the Arts like a hobby, because he can. He can just exist, protected by his trust fund, while you have to fight for every single crumb of experience.

But right now, you don't have time to be angry. You glance anxiously at the café door. Dean is due any minute.

"I'm meeting someone. You have to go."

"A date?" His eyebrow is arched, and you want to scream.

"Work. None of your business."

Arthur sighs, leaning back into the cushions instead of moving. "Look, I know things got... pretty messy before summer break. I just wanted to say I'm sorry for what I did. I was totally out of line, okay? Let's just drop it."

"Jesus Christ," You sigh. "I don't want to hear it-"

“Is there a problem here?”

Dean's voice cuts through the café, and you fall silent. Shit. Just your luck. The disdain on Arthur's face says more than enough as he glances between you both. You know his thoughts on the jocks of Briar U.

You immediately get to your feet. “N-No, Arthur was just leaving.”

Arthur offers a thin smile. "Arthur Dalrymple."

Dean shifts his attention to him. "Dean Di Laurentis."

Neither of them reaches for a handshake. "I'm familiar," Arthur replies, dryly. "Didn't peg you for the Humanities type. Thought you were too busy getting your brains knocked out."

A silence falls, and Dean searches out your gaze. You focus instead on a hangnail on your thumb, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

"Well," Dean says, easy as anything, "I don't want to keep you. We have lots of work to do."

Arthur's smile falters slightly. "I'm not being kept."

"No?" Dean nods toward the coffee in Arthur's hand. "Have a good day, Alex."

"Arthur."

"Right." He doesn't apologise, and you can practically see Arthur bristle. It makes you happier than it should. He's so good at getting under your skin, you like it when the roles are reversed.

Only when Arthur turns on his heel, can you let out a small sigh of relief. Letting your head rest forward on your hands, you groan, "Sorry."

Dean sets his bag down beside the booth. "What are you apologizing for?"

You shoot him a look. "Uh. That?"

He slides into the seat Arthur just vacated. "You didn't do anything."

You drop back onto your side of the booth. "It was awkward."

"I've survived worse. Who the hell is that guy?”

Now you really can't meet his gaze. "My ex."

“Your ex? You could do so much better.” Dean sounds borderline incredulous.

"Try telling him that," You grumble. One of the defining features of your mostly-off, sometimes-on relationship had been Arthur's deep-rooted belief that he was the absolute best you could do.

You try not to let it rub off on you, but you're not sure how successful you've been. "I just... I don't want to talk about it. Is that okay?"

Dean concedes immediately, hands up in surrender. "You're the boss, Wiki."

A small laugh escapes, but it's far from genuine, and he studies the menu for another second before setting it down. "You're okay though?"

"Yeah," You say, after a moment. "Just annoyed."

He nods. "Good."

You narrow your eyes. "Good?"

"Yeah. Annoyed is easier to deal with than upset. I can beat the guy up for you, make his life hell, but I'm not so good with the tears and feelings."

For some reason, that makes your chest feel strangely warm. You're not sure you like it. Shaking your head, you turn to your laptop. "Should we get started?"

Robin Buckley — your girl, the light of your life, the very sun that warmed your skin.

The two of you met in college. It started out with shy "hellos" as new roommates and had blossomed into so much more, faster than you ever expected. There were movie marathons and sleepovers, nights where you painted each other's nails, meals enjoyed together. They were innocent to anyone else, but they meant more under the surface. You'd eventually decided to move off-campus into an apartment together. It was a huge step, but you never felt uncertain. You even adopted the most adorable orange kitten who Robin insisted be named "Garfield," like the one from the comics.

Moving off-campus cost a pretty penny, though, and both of you worked hard to secure your cozy space together. You got a job with a small paper writing "How To" articles; Robin was hired on at the local radio station. It was Robin's job that changed your lives in a big way. Even though her radio show was slated for the late-night spot, she quickly gained popularity; living in a big city with so many night-shift workers did wonders for her career. She still called herself "Rockin' Robin" after the name she coined back in her hometown when she took over as DJ, and people loved both the name and her witty personality.

As her popularity grew, she landed interviews with local newspapers and television and got invited to parties and important dinners. You were there to support her the whole way, the steadiest presence in her life.

Robin had become the "it girl" of the Boston radio circuit. Everyone wanted to be close to her. They wanted her friendship, her advice…and her heart, of course. How could they not, with a personality as magnetic as she had? She was beautiful, charming, and whip smart — a lethal combination and everyone knew it…including you.

Still, somehow, Robin only had eyes for you.

A year into living in your little apartment together, she finally confessed her real feelings for you. You'd just come back from a dinner like the one you'd attended the night before…

Robin gazed at you from across the kitchen bar with those beautiful blue eyes. She was wearing red lipstick — a bold choice and unusual for her at the time. You'd talked her into dressing up like Poison Ivy and Starfire for a Halloween party in New York. Robin was the only one officially invited, but she picked you to come along with her, RSVPs be damned. The party itself made you nervous. You wanted to drink the nerves away, but you were determined to stay sober so you could soak up every moment of her beauty.

When you made it back to the hotel room, Robin was staring at you.

"What?" you finally asked, your nervousness shining through in your voice. You wondered if you'd done something to upset her.

"I'm in love with you," she rasped without hesitation. It was the surest you'd ever seen her.

"Wh-what?"

"You drive me crazy. I'm so in love with you; I always have been but I've been too scared to say it until now. Something about you in this crazy orange body paint and red hairspray, you're still the most gorgeous person I've ever met and I…"

You laughed and shook your head. "Robin…you are not in love with me. How much have you had to drink tonight?" You couldn't believe her. She was just so out of your league, in your mind.

"Not a single drop," she replied. Your heart pounded hard in your chest when reality sank in and you realized she was telling the truth.

"Come back to bed," a sleepy Robin called from your shared room, breaking you out of your reverie.

You padded across the wooden floor, picking up your T-shirt that had somehow landed in front of the door in your haste to discard them last night. You tossed it onto the futon and crawled between the sheets. "This glitter is everywhere. I think it's, like, embedded into my skin at this point."

Robin laughed softly, her hands finding your waist as she pulled you close. "I like it."

"Yeah?" you asked with a love-drunk giggle. You turned to face her and she was just so damn gorgeous you couldn't help but kiss her. She melted into it, her hands braced against your chest.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I know." You giggled again as you ran a hand down her back and pressed her closer. Robin kissed your forehead and you snuggled into her warmth.

"Did you have fun last night?" She always asked you this, like she was afraid you'd ever say no. Like the busy nature of her life and the way she shone like a star would somehow become too much for you. It simply wasn't true — it never could be. As long as you had Robin, you knew you could handle whatever life threw at you.

"Baby, I love seeing you in your element, are you kidding me? You're always the star of the show…my Rockin' Robin. You were born for the spotlight, and I wouldn't dream of getting in the way of that."

Robin shook her head. "That's so weird to me. No one would've ever said that about me when I was a teenager. I was awkward and weird and rambly and the thought of being the center of attention would've had me breaking out in hives."

You couldn't help but chuckle. "Now you're the main attraction, the object of all their desires. What a shame for them, huh?"

"Oh?" Robin said, biting her lip.

"Well, duh. You're mine…all mine, and I'm not giving you up. Guess they'll just have to pine from a distance forever." You sighed dramatically and both of you snickered at your theatrics.

Suddenly, you were being showered with kisses. Your cheeks, your lips, your nose — everywhere she could reach. You gripped her shirt and halfheartedly tried to push her away, but she was relentless. When she finally let up, she leaned back to admire you. "I love you. You're so goddamn beautiful."

Your cheeks tinged pink as you reached out a hand, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Happy birthday, my love."

"I'm glad we decided to spend the day with just us," she said, smiling.

"Me too. I don't mind your friends or the parties, but…I won't lie. I enjoy having you alll to myself sometimes." You lapsed into comfortable silence for a moment, but Robin broke it with a tone that promised mischief.

"You know, there's something I've definitely been thinking about wanting for my birthday," she said.

"Oh yeah? Like what, Buckley?"

"Well, for starters…" she trailed off, rolling on top of you. She adjusted her hips to pin you down. You tilted your head sideways and stared up at her, giving her your full attention. Robin's long hair cascaded down, framing her face and tickling your cheeks. "I want you. This. Us."

"Well, who am I to deny the birthday girl her wishes?" you teased, feeling heat rise in your cheeks once again.

Robin leaned down, kissing a slow trail across your collarbone. You noticed when she looked back up at you that the glitter you'd seen on yourself in the mirror last night was on her lips. Flecks of gold caught the morning sunlight streaming through the window. You cupped her cheek and murmured, "Robin Buckley, you are so fucking stunning." You grinned and pulled her down to kiss the glitter off.

She smiled against your lips as she melted into you again. "I love you."