#please give me feedback i crave academic validation

[stellibelli]

The Van Gogh Room

Hi! I'm a grad student in a writing program and i write mostly sad stories about sad girls in their twenties, but here's a happier story that i'm thinking of turning into a novel for my thesis. i hope you enjoy :) pls share your thoughts. (i also made a playlist for it <3)

Van Gogh. That’s what the signature in the bottom right corner of the painting was promising me, as well as the didactic placard on the wall. But it couldn’t have been. It was all clean lines and too much red. You could hardly see any brush strokes on it at all. I stood in front of this large canvas for quite a while. When I looked around to see if anyone else was as confused as I was, I noticed there wasn’t a single person in the room apart from me and the security guard standing in the doorway connecting this room and the Monet Room. It was a cold and rainy Thursday evening, so the museum was quite empty. No one was ogling at the Sunflowers or drooling over Starry Night. There was no grad student trying to impress his date with incorrect facts about the one-eared painter, no old woman scoffing about how her five-year-old grandson could do that. The room felt too still and muffled, as if some giant hand was forcing a chloroform-soaked rag over its mouth.

“Excuse me,” I said to the guard. She turned around with a bit of a jump as if she didn’t realize anyone was in the room with her. “Sorry, but are you sure this painting is really Van Gogh?”

She reflexively plastered on a well-practiced customer service grin. “Why of course, dear. This is the Van Gogh Room after all.”

“Yes, I know, but it just doesn’t seem like him. Something about it feels off.”

“Didn’t you see his signature in the bottom right corner?”

“I did. That was my other question. He always signed his name ‘Vincent,’ not ‘Van Gogh.’”

“No, he didn’t,” she told me, with that smile and all the certainty in the world as though I was an insolent child making things up to seem smart.

“What? Of course, he did. Look at this—” I stopped short in front of the Sunflowers. ‘Van Gogh 88,’ it read, right there in the bottom right corner, clear as can be. “No that can’t be right.” I went to Starry Night. ‘Van Gogh 89.’ “That’s impossible.” I rushed to his self-portrait, ‘Van Gogh 89,’ The Potato Eaters, ‘Van Gogh 85.’ Café Terrace at Night, Almond Blossoms, Irises, ‘Van Gogh,’ ‘Van Gogh,’ ‘Van Gogh.’ 

“That’s impossible,” I repeated, feeling short of breath. 

“Why is that impossible, dear? This is the Van Gogh room, after all.” She smiled at me a beat longer and then turned back to face the Monet Room just as she was before.

I stood there speechless. Could I just have been mistaken? I would have bet my life that he never signed his name ‘Van Gogh,’ but I couldn’t very well argue with the paintings themselves. I went back to staring at the red painting. It was a kitchen scene with deep maroon cabinets, a blood red table with two matching chairs. Everything about it had a slight red glow to it, like there was a red sun hidden out of frame lighting everything up. Van Gogh’s other paintings were all so blue or yellow, sometimes brown or orange, but never red. Never to this extent, this warning sign of a painting. 

I couldn’t look away from it, examining every detail. There was a plate covered in crumbs and a knife on the table. A glass with just a sip left was sitting on the counter. The brush strokes were so minimal, so unlike his other work, they were barely even visible. If only I could have gotten closer, examined it closer. 

I felt a hand on my shoulder as I had started to take a step toward the canvas, shocked out of whatever trance I had been in. 

“The museum is closing, dear,” the security guard told me. I looked my watch and saw that it was three past eight. I had been here for hours somehow. I looked down at the blank art history assignment in my hand. I hadn’t gotten any of it filled out. I’d just have to come back tomorrow, I told myself. With one more glance at the red painting, I walked out of the Van Gogh room.

*********

The next morning, I went back to the museum just as it opened. I must have been the first patron there that day. I paid the step entry fee and headed for the Post-Impressionists. I walked past the Medieval Room, the Renaissance Room, the Enlightenment Room, only having eyes for Van Gogh and his strange red painting. I nearly ran through the museum to get to it, half worried that it wouldn’t be there and that I had dreamt it all. But then I rounded the corner through the Monet Room and there it was, almost glowing out of the frame.

“Welcome back,” the security guard from last night said, this time standing in the doorway leading to the European sculpture wing. I grinned at her, not knowing what else to say, feeling a bit embarrassed she had caught me coming back to it, and turned to face the painting again. It was still there, still very real, and still signed as Van Gogh in the bottom right corner, undated. I looked over it again, scrutinizing every inch, trying to find a clue as to how it was possible that it existed when it was so vastly different from its sister paintings surrounding it in that room. I looked over the red tabletop and over to the matching chairs and down to the red tinted wood floors. Then my eyes snapped back to the table. Where was the plate and knife? The table was cleared. I searched the painting frantically and landed on the counter. Where once there was just the cup with a sip of water left, now sat the same cup but empty and a stack of three plates and the knife.

“That’s impossible,” I mumbled to myself. Everything about this painting was impossible. Van Gogh couldn’t have painted this. It didn’t match his style. Paintings couldn’t change this way. It shouldn’t have been so red. Before, I had thought I’d made everything I knew about Van Gogh up. I’d fawned over his work since a kid but maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe I thought I had paid better attention in my art history course than I truly had. But I knew I wasn’t making this up. This painting had a life to it, a wildness. It was almost as if I could feel the warmth of the red light and smell the bread that had been eaten there and it seemed I could actually feel the crumbs if I just reached out and touched.

“Please don’t get so close to the art, dear,” the security guard gently scolded, snapping me back into the cool reality of the pristine museum and its incandescent lights. “Stand behind the red line on the floor.”

“I looked down and both my feet were firmly on the wrong side of the tape. I didn’t remember deciding to step up to it, nor did I remember actually taking that step. Everything about this painting screamed at those that passed to avert their eyes and continue on, none were welcome here. Yet when I dared to disobey its blatant warnings, it was like it whispered to me. Come, it said. Breathe me in, let me burn your eyes with my glow. Touch me to see that I’m real. Closer, closer, closer.

I checked my watch after stepping behind the tape again and already four hours had passed. I didn’t understand how it could pull me in so thoroughly and so seamlessly, but it frightened me some and intrigued me even more so. With my still blank assignment folded in my pocket, I sped out of the museum and away from that painting.

*********

All through the night I could hardly sleep, and when I did, I was surrounded by nothing but blinding red. I thought by leaving it behind it would sever whatever grasp it had on me, but I was wrong. That painting felt like it belonged to me or I to it and the museum was cruelly keeping us apart.

Once more, I promised myself. I would go back to the Van Gogh Room once more, and then I would have to forget that painting no matter what I would see. Besides, I reasoned, I still had to finish my assignment.

I stayed up until opening time, seeing as I wasn’t going to sleep much anyway, and got dressed in a pair of light wash jeans and a green sweater. Walking to the museum, I debated silently what level of crazy I had gone. It certainly had to be high since I thought a 130-year-old painting had changed overnight. I continued this debate all the way through the cold building until I reached the painting. I stopped in the middle of the room.

“Back again?” the security guard questioned, but I couldn’t acknowledge her. This time the painting had a single glass filled to the brim with milk directly in the center of the floor. I ran up to the painting after a moment of stunned gawking. The security guard seemed cautious of me, her hand on the walkie attached to her belt, surely afraid I was going to try to ruin or steal the work. 

There was no way I could have made this up. That cup of milk was nowhere in the painting before. With the other things, the name, the plates, the cup of water, the style, I was able to nearly convince myself I was just losing it. That was much more logical than anything else. There was no possible way things could move in a painting this way. I must have just been misremembering. But not this. 

As I stepped up to the tape on the floor, I could see the cup had little droplets of condensation on it. That glass of milk was still cold. It had to have been poured recently. I watched the condensation glisten in the red light and could have sworn it was slowly sliding to the floor.

Touch it, it whispered in my ear. Aren’t you thirsty? I poured it just for you.

“I can’t,” I whispered back, “she’s watching.” I could see the guard’s eyes locked on me in my peripheral. She seemed wary of me, of the freak obsessed with the ugliest Van Gogh painting in the room. Then she whipped around to the sculpture room as if she sensed mischief and mishandling of her precious collection. 

“Sir, please don’t touch the art.” Laughter from what sounded like a gaggle of teenage boys answered her. “Stop that, you can’t do that,” she shouted and ran after them.

Now, it told me. Grab it now, you know you can. I reached out for the glass and as soon as my hand reached the cool wet cup, I felt a sensation like I was being yanked by every nerve ending through the densest spiderweb. Then suddenly I was drenched in red. In front of me were the red cabinets, the red table with the matching red chairs, and I was holding the glass of cold milk. I looked to my left and saw a window made of red frosted glass. I couldn’t see out of it but I felt the bright hot sun shining directly into it. 

Everything was almost real. It was there, sure, I could even touch it and it felt like the wood or like the glass it was pretending to be made of, but it all had an ethereal aura to it. It was like stepping into a photorealistic painting, one that you know isn’t the real thing but you can’t quite pinpoint what is off about it.

“Impossible,” I mumbled to myself.

“You say that a lot.” I could have given myself whiplash with how fast I turned around, sloshing milk everywhere. On the wall that was behind me was a large, framed painting of a museum interior. To the left of it, in the corner, sat a small man at an easel. “Yet here you stand.”

He had a Dutch lilt in his voice, but just a hint of one. It seemed like all the air left my body at once and I found it hard to get any of it back. He had on simple clothes; a wrinkled blue button down and tan trousers, both made of linen or a light cotton. His cheek bones were pronounced, his nose a stark line, his brow bone strong. His beard and hair were as orange as the paintings of him, though both were longer and shaggier, his hair covering his ear.

“You’re him,” I gasped. “You’re Van Gogh.”

“It would seem so.”

“How?”

“Well, you see, I was born of Anna and Theodous Van Gogh—”

“No, I mean how are you here? How am I here? You died over 130 years ago.”

“Well, that can’t be.” He looked around aimlessly, visibly confused and concerned.

“How did you get here?”

“This is my home. I live here.” As he said this I suddenly noticed all the little signs of a life here. On the floor against the wall to my left was a down feather bed topped with a thin blanket and pillow. There were a couple pairs of pants and shirts scattered around it. The place was warm and cozy but not in the way a home is, in the way a pillow fort is. The way in which it only feels safe because it is within something bigger, a place to hide away from the big scary outside world lingering just on the other side of the thin sheet. “Where else would I be?”

“In France. In a grave.”

He looked at me with his brows beginning to fold inwards. “Why do you keep speaking that way? Clearly, I’m not dead.” He gestured to his person and tried to hide his fear behind a chuckle.

“But you shot yourself. In 1890, in France, you shot yourself in the stomach,” I insisted. He looked at me, alarmed. “Do you not remember?”

Suddenly his face slackened from the anger that was beginning to grow there. The confusion was still present but he looked more sad than angry now. Slowly, he began, “I remember hearing a gunshot.” His body was still and stiff but his eyes roamed all over the floor. “Yes, I remember hearing the gun,” he repeated. “There was blood, I believe. No, I know there was blood. I had to throw out my favorite shirt.” It was clear his mind was racing faster than his shock could keep up with. “but it couldn’t have been my own blood. I didn’t die. I’m here, I’m breathing. And look, there’s no scar—” He lifted his shirt and froze. In his torso towards the bottom left nearing his hip bone was the faintest dimpling of skin. After all those years there was no trace of discoloration, but it was there nonetheless without a doubt.

As we were both looking at it on his bare midsection, his chest began to heave. I looked up to his face and it was riddled with panic and confusion. I didn’t know what to do if he were to start to come undone. I was already internally unraveling enough for the both of us.

“What are you painting?” I asked to try to distract him.

“What?” He dropped his shirt and looked up at me with his brows furrowed deeply.

“What are you painting?” I repeated. I hoped it would work. Artists always seemed very eager to discuss themselves. He looked back at the canvas in front of his seat and instantly began to calm himself.

“Sunflowers,” he said and turned the easel my way. “They always seem to like those best.”

“They?” I asked, curious what he was talking about or if he was just as mad as everyone said.

“Whoever takes my paintings each night. And I suppose those people out there.” He pointed to the museum scene on the wall. “They’re always standing in front of them the longest, or that landscape I did.”

“Starry Night,” I said distractedly, now looking at the canvas on the wall. When I looked closer, I could see all the paintings that were in the Van Gogh room back in the museum. Starry Night, the Sunflowers, The Potato Eaters. All there, just the way they looked in the museum. 

“Is that what they call it? Bit unoriginal,” he scoffed.

“Wait, someone takes your paintings each night?” I asked, looking away from the painting and back at him. “Who does?”

“I’m not sure. Every day I paint something and when I wake the next day it’s gone. Sometimes I would try to stay up all night so I could catch them, but I’d blink or look away for a moment and then it’d be gone. I even tried hiding them once, but that didn’t work either. They return some of them. Those I just paint over again because otherwise they won’t bring me any new canvases until they like the ones they’ve given me. They never return the sunflowers, though.”

That must be why there were so many, I thought. It always seemed as though every major museum in the world had one of his sunflower paintings. Someone must have known he was here. They came with food and supplies and in exchange took his paintings to sell and display and made their fortune.

“And you sign them all?” I asked, hearing an edge of irritation in my voice.

“Of course,” he said.

“But not as Vincent, as Van Gogh.”

“Yes.” There was a sadness in his answer that he was trying to hide by looking away from me.

“But you used to,” I prodded. “Sign them as Vincent, that is.”

“Yes,” he said again, the sadness becoming more apparent. I could tell he wouldn’t go on without my coaxing, but that he wanted to.

“Why’d you change?”

“None of them call me Vincent,” he said, gesturing towards the museum painting again. “Though I suppose not many ever did. Only close friends, and I didn’t have many of those and they never write or visit anymore. And Theo.”

“Your brother.” He looked up at me shocked that I knew of him. I continued, “We read some of your letters to him in class.”

What I had hoped would be an explanation to help calm his concern turned out to only make things worse. He looked at me utterly scandalized. “You have read my letters? How did you get ahold of them? Those were private, for Theo, not you.”

“They’ve been published in books,” I defended. “You’re famous. People tend to try to profit off of others’ fame in every way they can.”

He went still and looked at me warily, the fury transitioning into confusion again but still ever present. “Famous? I’m not famous.” He sounded almost insulted, guarded, like I was the playground bully mocking him and his dreams of being an artist. Quickly, I began to try to convince him, afraid he would throw me back through the painting and into the cold museum. I couldn’t give him up yet. Even if this was all some strange dream that I’d have to wake up from eventually, I wasn’t done yet.

“You’re one of the most famous painters ever. Up there with DaVinci and Vermeer.”

“You’re lying,” he said through clenched teeth. “No one likes my paintings. Maybe some of the people find the sunflowers to be mildly interesting, the night scene as well, but no one else. No one but you, perhaps.”

“Me?”

“I’ve seen you out there. Always alone. You linger more than the others.”

I was stunned that he saw me, that he’d noticed me. I hadn’t frequented this museum often, unwilling to pay the steep admittance fee. When I had come before, it was always for an assignment. I would come on Thursday evenings when it was pay-what-you-want for the last two hours of the day, so I never had time to explore. I always longed to stand in the 19th century Europe wing for hours uninterrupted. It was always like I could feel it trying to pull me in. Was it him? Was he what I was feeling this whole time? Nearly four years I had come here and never suspected he was in here, alone, trapped in a world of his passions and pains.

“Did you leave that glass of milk for me?”

He inhaled deeply and after a pause, quietly said “Yes,” not quite a whisper but not a full register either. He looked away as if he were suddenly shy.

“Why?’

He paused again and I waited for an answer, refusing to break first or to look away from him.

“You came back.”

I was confused. I didn’t understand him and didn’t know how to respond. In my silence, he finally looked up at me. His green eyes were shining and they were heartbreakingly beautiful. Peering into them was like seeing every tear he had ever shed, every sleepless night he ever had, every beautiful scenery he had painted. I wondered how many of those tears we shed in the same night, how many sleepless hours we were unknowingly spending together. Looking into those green eyes of his I felt as though perhaps neither of us were as alone as everyone thought.

“No one ever comes back,” he went on. “Well, no one but that guard lady, but she never looks. You came back. Twice. And you came back to look for hours at a time and you actually saw.” His voice started to get thick and his hands were trembling slightly. “That first time you stood there for so long. You looked like you were going to reach out for me until the guard stopped you and you left. I haven’t known heartbreak like that in so long. I was devastated because I just knew that would be the last time I would see you. I couldn’t afford to lose my other ear as well.” We both gave a short, wet laugh at this, tears now streaming down both our cheeks. “But then you were there again, just after sunrise the next day. I tried to tell you to reach out again but I didn’t think you heard me, or worse, that you didn’t want to hear me. So, I resolved to try harder should you come again, just once more. If you didn’t hear me then I’d leave you be. But it worked. You’re hear, though I am not sure why you’d want to be.”

I looked down at this man, his head hung, his bright orange hair curtaining his face. If he stood, I don’t think he’d be any taller than I was. His frame was thin, his cheeks sallow, the bags of his eyes dark. We’d learned in class that he had a rough life, riddled with insanity and tragedy and some of it spent in an asylum, but I don’t think I fully believed it until this moment, or at least didn’t fully understand it. I thought, my life has been filled with tragedy and insanity too but I didn’t cut my ear off or become a master painter. They must have been exaggerating. But he looked so breakable. This man whose paintings sold for millions and was known across the world and loved by so many had no clue of his importance.

“Vincent,” I said gently, still sniffling some and holding my hand out to him. “Come with me.”

He looked up at my hand and then at me. “What? Where? I can’t leave.”

I gestured my hand to him again and said, “Trust me.” After a moment, he cautiously took my hand and I led him through the painting. There was that same pull and spiderweb feeling as before and then we were standing in the Van Gogh room. It was midday by this point and the museum had filled with other patrons and school children. No one seemed to notice us step out of the red painting.

I looked back at Vincent. He was staring at the scene with a slack jaw and busy eyes. Groups of people of all ages, races, genders were making their rounds, exclaiming their joy of seeing the Dutch painter’s work in the flesh and pointing out their favorites. His grip on my hand tightened.

“This is impossible,” he said, his tears beginning again, still not dry from before.

“I’m starting to believe anything is possible. But I know your talent is a certainty.” I squeezed his hand back and watched as he took it all in.

“Thank you,” he whispered. Then, with one more glance, he began to walk back towards the red painting. I tugged on his hand to stop him.

“Stay,” I sad quickly.

“What?”

“I said stay. Stay out here with me. Don’t go back in there. Don’t let them keep exploiting you like that. Stay here and see the world, I’ll show it to you.”

He gave me a wan but genuine smile. “This is real?” he asked, gesturing to the room around us. “This is what my work does? They appreciate it? It makes them happy?”

I looked around the room and nodded. Of course, it did, how could it not?

“Then I cannot stop. I must go back home.” He squeezed my hand once more so I’d look back in his eyes and believe him.

“Won’t you be lonely in there, by yourself again?” He looked back to the painting for a moment.

“Promise me you’ll come back. If you come back, if I know you are seeing my work, I will have no reason to feel alone in there.”

I grabbed him swiftly and hugged him as tight as I could. He hugged me back just as fiercely immediately. 

“I promise. Of course, I’ll be back, Vincent.” He squeezed once more and then let go. Smiling at me through his scruffy beard, he turned and walked right back into the red painting. Suddenly I looked away, as though I wasn’t allowed to watch. My eyes landed on the security guard and she winked at me before strolling into the sculpture wing.

*********

I came back two weeks later. I’d wanted to come back sooner but I’d spent most of my remaining paycheck on my last visits and had to wait until I had a free Thursday evening. I went straight to the Van Gogh Room, not even sparing a glance or a thought for the masterpieces I was speeding by. When I reached it, there was a new addition. Right beside the red painting was a small portrait of a young woman. The placard titled it The Friend. I looked back over to the painting again and it was like looking into a mirror. Then I saw, there at the bottom, it was signed ‘Vincent.’

[cryinginmyroomsposts]

Be My Valentine | Ch- 3  Turbulent Traditions

pairing: Vernon x fem!reader

genre: fluff, angst, slight crack, friends to lovers, non-idol!au, college au

summary: College was hard enough and the thought of spending Valentine’s Day alone and sad was not your style. And the best solution was to go on a platonic date with your best friend Vernon. It goes so well that it becomes a tradition until it gets messy… nothing ever goes wrong by pretend-dating your best friend right?

prev chapter | masterlist | next chapter

status: ongoing

a/n: This is almost entirely angst and I tried my best to write it. Let me know your feedback and thoughts.

warning: time jump (almost a year), swearing

pictures from Pinterest!

"Another one bites the dust huh."

You groan from your spot on the floor in the middle of the living room in the apartment you share with your friend, Olivia. Now that you were in your senior year and both of you had part-time jobs, you decided to move out of the crusty dorm room. It is barely enough for both of you but it works as it is close to your university and your respective internships.

Life has been filled with the highest of highs and lowest of lows in the last year. You managed to stay on top of almost all your courses, your internship was going great albeit strenuous, but it gave you the freedom to live where you want and achieve all your dreams. Well, all but one that is.

While it has only been highs in the academic, career and friendship aspects of your life; it has been nothing but an exponential downfall in your love life. From jocks to nerds, online dating to blind date setup from friends- you'd tried it all, but luck was not on your side. It was either a disappointment, heartbreak, or a combination of it all. You had sworn off men since freshman year but the platonic Valentine's Day date with Vernon had left you craving romantic validation and you started putting yourself out there.

You heavily regret that decision now as you stare at the ceiling trying your best to not puke as you remember the most recent... mess up.

"Can't believe he, of all people, had you wrapped around his finger ." You hear Olivia's voice come from the sofa again.

You get up from the floor slowly and glare at her. "I am not proud of it either Liv. But," You put your hands in your hair and tug at it in frustration, "he sweet-talked the shit out of me in that New Year's party. What a fucking idiot I was... UGH!"

She sighs and you feel her move from the couch, sit down next to you and wrap an arm around you.

"Hey... babe look at me." You turn to face her as she wears the pained and sympathetic expression that you knew all too well by now.

"I'm sorry this keeps happening to you but please know none of it was your fault. Okay, maybe choosing idiots is your fault but it's still not a big deal. Don't beat yourself up over douchebags okay?" She sounds soft and empathising and you just nod as you hug her. Both of you stay in the embrace for a moment or two before she pulls away to face you.

"What's Vernon's opinion on this?"

Another groan leaves you. "I haven't told him."

"You haven't told him about the breakup or about even the relationship," both of you pretend-gag, " Sorry I meant the 2-week situationship or whatever," she says with her hands vaguely flailing around to depict just how vague and annoying the whole ordeal had been.

"I haven't told him abt the whole thing." She raises her eyebrow as you give a guilty smile. "Y/n come on. That's not..."She shakes her head unable to finish the sentence, which both of you know would sound hurtful and true.

"I know... I know Liv. I messed up. But I just couldn't say it. It never goes well when I bring up my dating life. And if I tell him how it ended now, he'd flip out." She rolls her eyes and you brace yourself for the harsh truth that you know is coming- because that is what you and Liv do for each other, although you have been at the receiving end of harsh truths a lot more recently.

"Y/n are you-" she breaks off in the middle and sighs. "You know what, never mind. No matter how many times I say, you're gonna be in your own denial. So yeah do what you want to."

Without waiting for your response she gets up and goes to the kitchen. You sigh and follow her there. "Liv come on, you know that's not what this is. Will you please stop trying to convince me that Vernon likes me." She turns from the stove and looks pointedly at you.

"Yeah sure keep believing it."

You sigh knowing this is a losing battle so you leave her to be with a frustrated sigh. Sure things had been slightly different between Vernon and you since last year's platonic date and he keeps snapping at you every time you tried to talk to him about any of the guys you liked or were dating. And without fail, every single time, he would tell you that he warned you about not making bad choices. All that you got from this was he was being needy and also a good sensible friend. Olivia has convinced herself is proof that Vernon loves you. She's technically been on this agenda since sophomore year when she claims to have seen the "look of love" on Vernon's face during a party night.

Cute story, but not real. Hopefully not.

When overthinking starts clouding your mind, you do the only thing you can right now- avoid thinking by sleeping.

--------

"Hey, y/n wake up."

You open your eyes to see a very concerned Liv staring at you. "What happened?" you ask groggily.

"Vernon is here."

"WHAT?" She just nods in response and you immediately jump from the bed and straighten your hair before heading to the living room.

He is sitting on the couch in his signature black hoodie staring at his feet with his back to you. You consider running back into your room and jumping out the window for a minute. But you don't.

"Hey," You see him turn around and give a tight-lipped smile.

"Hey, y/n. Can we talk in your room?" he says as he gets up from the sofa and you nod as you look at Liv, who is smiling at you with sympathy and confusion.

Once you're both in your room, he settles down on your chair near the desk and you sit on the edge of the bed.

"You haven't changed anything in the room since you moved in and that was months ago." He notes assessing your room and turning to face you.

"I was busy."

"Dating douchebags." He says it silently as if hoping you'd not hear but unfortunately for both, you did hear it.

"What?" He looks up at your sharp tone and slightly winces when he sees your glare.

Sighing he says, "I heard." You roll your eyes. "And I suppose you are here to give another lecture on my 'horrendous decision-making skills'."

He looks at you for a minute, air-quotes and all, gets up and sits next to you on the bed as he takes your hand in his. "I'm sorry." You turn your head in surprise. "For what?"

"For being an asshole of a friend and driving you away. It didn't feel good hearing about you getting hurt from a third person and I know it's my fault."

You sigh and give him a small smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. "I am too. Wasn't entirely your fault. And... I agree."

"Huh?" You look up at his confused face turned toward where your head is on his shoulder.

"I agree that I do date douchebags." He laughs and you follow suit.

It was always easy with Vernon. Sure you both fight a lot, especially since your dating drama has been on a high. Both of you are loose-lipped and say things you don't mean but you always did go back to each other at the end. You don't think you could ever go without talking to Vernon for more than two or three days no matter how angry or scared you are. And neither can he.

"You've been busy." You tell him, now playing with the band he's wearing on his wrist. "Kind of, I guess. I just had a hard time balancing all the assignments, coding tournaments and of course, my internship."

You hum in acknowledgement. "You work too hard Vernon."

"Hmmm maybe. But if I don't. then who's gonna buy you the things you want?" You scoff at his words, "As if!"

He raises his left eyebrow with a smirk playing on his face.

"Alright, then I won't give you this." You eye him for a minute weighing the possibility of it being a mere prank but then curiosity gets the best of you.

"Give me what?" His smirk grows bigger and reaches into his pocket, takes out a small piece of paper and hands it to you.

No way.

"Vernon, did you just get me passes to the club I've been trying to get into for monthsssss!" You exclaim as your jaw dropped to the floor and his smile now lights up his whole face.

"I got us both in. I figured it would be a good gift plus our annual date is in two more weeks anyway." He explains shrugging.

"Oh My God! This is going to be amazing! I can almost forget that it will be Valentine's Day!" You scream as you hug him and get up to excitedly jump around the room.

"Why are you always a Valentine's Grinch," he says with a small laugh and you stick your tongue at him, too happy to bicker.

---------------

The two weeks since Vernon gifted the club tickets passed by in a blink. Everything went smoothly at uni, at work and at home. Once again you find yourself swearing off love during the month of love (the pattern is not good, is it!), but it feels less annoying with the knowledge of having tickets to the hottest club in town.

The same knowledge plagues you currently as you throw away the tenth outfit from your cupboard onto the bed as you deem it "too gaudy" for the night. Vernon told you it was okay to show up in whatever you feel good but what does he know about fashion. Plus, he looked annoyingly good in almost everything. For someone who is extremely quiet and a nerd who is slightly insane, he has a surprising number of fans. Most of them get harshly rejected when voicing out their interest to him, he really is insane.

"Still didn't find an outfit?" Liv pokes her head through your room door and takes in the state of your room's avalanche-level mess. You shake your head negatively with a pout which makes her sigh. She enters the room and brings in two hangers of clothes with her. Your eyes grow wider in shock as you see two of your favourite dresses from Liv's closet.

Before she can begin to explain, you run to meet her in the middle and grab the black satin dress she has in her left hand.

"Hey! I didn't even say you can take it!" She says with mock anger which only makes you sheepishly laugh.

"Well, what are friends for if not sharing Livieee..." You coo in what is hopefully a cute tone.

"Yeah yeah, whatever. But don't you dare ruin it." She warns and you nod your head. "Got it. Thank you, Liv."

"Buy me food later. Now go and enjoy your date." This earns a glare from you and she corrects herself with an eye roll. "Oh right, your 'platonic' Valentine's Day date at the hottest club with your 'best friend'." The air quotes are way too exaggerated and you push her out of the room before you question everything again.

Why didn't you question things more, you think as you try your best to not freeze in the short satin dress and jean jacket on your way to the club. Vernon had insisted on picking you up but you refused stating that the club was only a couple blocks away. Now you understand that being the passenger princess is always the right option, especially when dressed in the shortest possible clothes in the middle of a cold February.

You see Vernon standing in front of the club, a few steps away and wave at him. He doesn't wave back. He looks like he has frozen on the spot, even though he is covered from top to bottom in winter-appropriate clothes- a stunning jacket with a plain black t-shirt and his favourite pair of ripped jeans. You eventually reach him and he seems to finally come back to life.

"Did you get a frostbite or something right now?" You question as you punch him in the arm slightly. "Uh, no no. Just lost in thought. But you look like you are gonna freeze if we don't go in right now."

"Yes, please. I need warmth." You say as you both rush into the club.

The club is all you expected it to be in terms of ambience but it was definitely far too crowded for your liking and before you could start feeling claustrophobic you felt Vernon's voice near your ears.

"I got us VIP passes, let's go up." You gawk at him with wide eyes knowing that would've cost a lot and let him guide you to the far less crowded area upstairs with more space and fewer people. He leads you both to a table with a semi-covered booth where you both settle down next to each other. Even without your jacket on you feel a lot warmer and better now.

Both of you get started with a set of cocktails to get the night started. Time goes on as you switch between drinking, dancing on the floor and convincing Vernon to join you. Eventually, you give up on making Vernon dance and head off to the dance floor to enjoy some alone time dancing.

But the thought immediately gets squashed as you see a tall, dark-haired man on the dance floor near you. He's built like a literal Greek god but something about how his hair falls in soft curls on the side of his face and he smiles at you to make you feel like he's a good man. But then again you are inebriated so let's not be hasty about your questionable decision-making skills. The very same skills that lead you to move toward him and extend your hand for a dance. He looks between your hand, and your face and gives you a bedazzling smile before accepting your offer.

As you both start swaying to the beat, you feel his hands roam over your waist and you hold onto his shoulders. You feel light, not thinking much- just enjoying dancing with this hot piece of a man on a good day in a hot outfit. It feels good and so you let him hold you like this and keep dancing. You were slightly out of focus and don't notice that his hands are slowly moving to spots you would feel uncomfortable had you been a little more conscious. You were a little too caught up in the vibe that you break out of it when you feel a harsh pull and stumble into another pair of arms before you can fall flat on your ass.

"What the-" Your words die in your throat as you see one man throwing a solid punch at the one in front of you. You blink twice to get rid of the haze and realise that Vernon had punched the stranger while holding onto you with his other hand.

A very drunk, red-faced and unstable-looking Vernon.

Your senses take over before the much taller and definitely stronger man can punch Vernon and you step in. "Hey, I- I'm so sorry. I don't know why my friend did that. I am sorry. Just let him go, he must've drank a lot. Sorry."

The bigger guy retreats at your words with a glare toward Vernon and the people around go back to their business. You drag Vernon by his arm to the nearest door which led to a balcony.

"Y/n I-" You slap him before he says another word and it silences him as he put his head down.

Even though you are confused and pissed off, you still love Vernon- because he is your best friend, so you move to caress the cheek you slapped. When he eventually looks up you can see that he is still slightly drunk but not too far gone.

"What the hell was that Vernon?"

He blinks at you for a second. "I'm sorry."

"You should be. But why the fuck did you do that?" He sighs in frustration and runs his fingers through his hair as he steps back. You stand there searching his face for some kind of answer.

"I- It's so annoying how easily I lose control when it comes to you. Ugh!" He punches the wall in frustration as he says this and you are too scared to move. You have never seen Vernon lose his patience in all three-plus years of knowing him and this was him in pure rage.

Even though you are scared you still try to calm him down by turning him to face you. "Vernon, please don't hurt yourself. Tell me what happened." Your voice comes in a broken plea and it makes him look at you and your wet eyes.

"What happened?" He grunts again. "Are you kidding me Y/N! How can you be so reckless all the time? Do you not realise how messed up it could get!"

"What are you even saying?" You hear yourself begin to shout, completely sober and confused now.

He gives a dry chuckle. "That guy was feeling you up the whole time. Did you not even realise that?"

All you can do is blink at him. He stares at your confused expression and you see his rage turn into something sullen- you're not sure if it's worse or better. When he speaks again his voice is an octave deeper and strained.

"Why do you keep putting yourself in danger's way all the damn time? Don't trust every guy you see Y/N. It fucking pisses me off to see you go off with every loser on the planet. You have no clue how much it sucks to see you get hurt by every idiot and keep putting yourself down. You're such a smart, amazing and gorgeous woman and you let all those bozos make you question your worth. As much as I just hate the idea of you with someone else I at least wish it were with guys who know to treat you right. The way I-" he throws his head and takes a shaky breath," You know what, never mind."

"Oh my god Vernon. It was just a dance in a club. Of course, his hands were on me, and so was mine. Why are you so worked over this like you are in love with me or something."

You are ready to laugh at the ridiculous suggestion you made but the sound gets caught in your throat when you see him freeze and his eyes widen like a deer caught in headlights.

Oh?

Oh...

Shit.