#what are they gonna do? lay me off? send me somewhere im doing actual electrical work?

[ialpiriel]

apparently im on my phone too much at work. this is relevant because we're *checks notes* ahead of schedule on our part of the job

[professor-maka]

#14 pls! :D “I come to the library every day to ‘study’ but really I’m just watching Netflix over your shoulder and I’m really invested in this series and the day we’re supposed to be watching the season finale you’re not there and I??? Feel personally betrayed??”

Ask and you shall receive. ❤️ I hope you like!

Thanks to @sahdah and @macabremermaid for the eyes.

—

“HBO and Chill”

She can’t afford HBO, not making her own way through school, so Maka had never really worried what shows it airs. Why pine for what you can’t afford?

But then, he’d changed all that, the white haired kid who goes to the library to study every Sunday night, like clockwork. Sometimes he comes at 6, and sometimes he rolls in at 8,but he’s always there, just like her. But unlike her, he always takes a break to stream on his laptop.

The first night, Maka had been pissed—sure it isn’t a quiet study floor, but who streams in thelibrary without headphones? She’d been fuming but also curious. Game of Thrones? She’d read the books—had wished she could watch the series—but alas!

Fuming gave way to interest, and instead of confronting him like she thought about during the first 15 minutes, Maka had found herself watching over his shoulder as hequeued up two more episodes that night, and, reading abandoned for the evening, she found herself wondering when the hell she was going to get to watch more.

Maka had been damn near lowering herself to ask her shithead papa for the gift of HBO, sulking in the library as she did her reading and itched for more in the saga of Starks andLannisters, when her thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of someone moving in to occupy the table in front of hers, the same table she claims every Sunday. She nearly gasped when she realized it was him again, the white hairedboy from the previous Sunday, the one with HBO, the same one she’d seen around campus and in the back of a few of her classes, silent as as stone.

Maybe he’d watch again, she thought. She hoped. Although, Maka reminded herself, he’d surely be ahead by now and she has always hated skipping episodes. Disappointment hadflooded her as she poked her nose back into her book and there was nothing but yawning quiet, the scratch of her pen, the click of his keys. And then, she heard it. The theme song! And it was… the next episode!

She barely pretended to read that time as he watched three more episodes straight.

That had been months ago, early in the semester, and now, the semester is nearly at an end and so is the series and she can’t wait! Because by some miracle, he clearly only watches at the library on Sunday nights, right when she’s there to see it, and Maka has become invested.

The finale is tonightand she isn’t even pretending to study, she’s so wound. She needs to know what happens. The show has far outpaced the books and waiting is torture,but Maka knows he’ll be here by 9 to livestream like he has been for weeks.Well, maybe she should at least make a stab at studying. Sure she’s got As sofar in her classes, but finals still matter.

Nine o’clock hits and he’s not there. He’s never not there, not all semester, so where is he?

Ten PM hits and she’s inthe first stage of grief, mourning the loss of her livestream. But surely he’llshow and stream, even if it’s a little late. Eleven hits and with it comes the anger. Why now? Why tonight? How dare he string her along through 8 seasons only to deny her the finale!

Fists clenched, Maka makes a decision. Maybe not the most rational decision, but she’s more than a little desperate. Apparently, laptop boy is friends with Blake—she knows because she’d seen them playing one on one together as she passed the courts afew times—so she can find out where he lives or his number or something and—and—

Well, she doesn’t know, but desperate times, desperate, desperate times.

Clicking Blake’s speed dial on her cell, Maka rolls her eyes at his answers of, “Yo, this is your godspeaking, whatcha want?” That being a god brother makes him her actual god ishis personal joke; only he finds it funny.

“I need—a favor.” She sounds more sheepish than she means to, feels silly, almost hangs up, but—

“Sure, shoot, anything for my favorite minion.”

“Uh, so, eh—“ she stammers through his guffaw at her inability to spit it the fuck outalready. But she’s Maka Albarn and if she’s anything, she’s brave, so she pushes on. “That, uh, weird kid with the white hair you play basketball with—“

“Who, Eater? What, you got a thing for him or—“

“Nooo, he just—wait, his name is Eater?”

The guffaw is louder this time. “Nah, not his name name, it’s just what I like to call my newest minion, keep up.”

“And I thought BlackStar was bad,” she mutters, face flaming. Eater. Knowing Blake, she tells herself she doesn’t want to know.  

“Yeah, whatever, anyway, Maks, what do you want with my boy Soul? Never pegged you for being into the emo type but, like, no judgement.”

Well, Soul isn’t so bad a name. She finds she likes it. Much better than Eater, anyway.

“I’m not into anyone.” She manages not to snap even if she’s seething in mortification. “He—uh—forgot something at the library and I wanted to try to get ahold of him to—“

“Yeah, yeah, alright,I’ll text you his contact, gotta go, they set up the beer pong table, laterloser.”

Black Star will be BlackStar. At least he texts her the contact, and of course it’s under Eater. Figures, but whatever, she just needs to find out why the hell he ditched her.

She’s already pressed to call and let it ring several times when she realizes all at once she has absolutely zero business bothering him. Because, sure, he’d strung her along like a kitten with a string, laying out all 8 seasons before her like a buffet of medieval shenanigans, but it’s not like he’d done it on purpose.

The end call button gets pushed so fast it might have been the key to stopping the apocalypse. Really, it sort of is. Maka drops her phone on the table like a hot potato and lets the shame wash over her—how could she let sensationalized, bawdy medieval television get such a grip on her?

Her phone vibrates and she scoops it up, craving a distraction from her own silliness.

uh do i no u —the text reads.

No, he certainly doesn’t. Maka has no idea what to do but she can’t not answer, it would be rude, so she types back:

Not really. Blake gaveme your number.

ummm okay why — he responds after a pause.

Why? She can’t exactly tell the truth but she doesn’t like lying, either.

I was worried when you didn’t show up at the library. You’re always there on Sundays at the table infront of mine. Sorry.

It’s the truth, just not all of it. Because she does feel like they’ve bonded over Game ofThrones watching it together every week, and she’s overheard phone calls with his parents and his brother and she’s gotten to know quite a lot about him. Gods, she feels like a stalker, but— but—! He’d invaded her library time, not the other way around! And he’s the one who breaks rules to talk on his cell—he’s lucky she hasn’t reported him! And—

The vibration startles her out of her spiral.

maka shit im sorry im sick running 104 was gonna go set my alarm but slept thru its the finale im sorry gimme a sec ill b there

What. The hell.

He knows her name? And that she’s been watching? And—he’s sick—and—

Don’t you move! 104 is dangerous where do you live? I’ll be right there.

Even as she thoughtlessly hits send she regrets it because what is she doing? He’s going to block her or ignore her or tell her to fuck off, or what if he’s theone who’s actually a stalker—

Vibration. It’s an address, for an apartment complex next to campus.

Be right there. Her fingers send it out before she can even think—he knows her name, he sent her his address, maybe he’s a stalker serial killer?

But she’d called him. Also like a stalker. So it makes no sense and what even is she doing with her life?

For about half a second, Maka considers blocking his number and going home, never to enter the library on a Sunday night again. But he’s running a 104 fever; he might need help!And—she’s not a coward and she’s fully capable of kicking ass if she must. AND—the Game of Thrones finale is at his beck and call.

That’s the clincher, so she packs her things and makes her way across campus. It’s nearly midnight, so Maka keeps to well lit walks, and it isn’t long before she’s at his door. She knocks and hears coughing and shuffling and then he’s opening the door, looking bedraggled in plaid pajama pants and a ratty band tee, dark smudges under his eyes, his pale hair sticking up every which way. Well, the last part isn’t sofar off from his normal, anyway, but he looks sort of pathetic with his fuzzy blue blanket over his shoulders. Endearingly so.

“Uh, so,” she says, fidgeting with the strap of her bag on her shoulder and looking at his mouth to avoid his eyes.

“You can—uh—come in.” He sounds nervous even past the unusual scratchiness of his voice, but steps back, so she steps in. He closes the door behind her and she notices he’s got a nest of blankets on his big leather couch. She’s pretty sure she can hear an episode of Chopped somewhere in the background.

“Lay down.” Maka finally takes charge, tired of them both standing so awkwardly. “You have tea?”.

He just blinks at her for a minute, shakes his head, then looks between the couch and the kitchen. “Uh, sure, I can make—“

“Nooo!” she cuts himoff. “For you. I’ll make it.”

“Maka, you don’t have to—“ it’s the first time she’s ever heard him say her name and it startles her, especially because she sort of likes it.

“I know, but I want to.Help, I mean. So lay down.” She doesn’t give him the chance to protest, just walks into his kitchen and begins opening cabinets.

“Furthest cabinet on the left,” she hears his voice call out from the living room. “Cups in the dishwasher.”

She finds the tea (loose leaf! She doesn’t expect that!) and cups and sets the electric kettle on the counter below the tea cabinet to boil.

Several minutes later,she’s got two steaming cups of green tea with an herbal blend, and she walks them out to the living room. Soul has neatened the couch and is sitting up, leaving room on the other side. His eyes are closed and he’s snoring softly. Poor boy looks pathetic, flushed and droopy. Maka sets down a tea cup on the coffee table in front of him, sets the second on the other side, and sits across from him on the couch. She means to let him rest but it’s so awkwardsitting with a sleeping not quite stranger that she clears her throat nervously.

Startling awake, he looks at her, blinks, then seems to recall the situation,

“Uh. So. Wanna watch the finale?”

It’s at least half of why she’s here, so she nods, still feeling awkward and out of place, yet absolutely determined.

They end up commenting to each other through the episode and it’s nice. Why haven’t they ever watched it together like this? Not just Maka spying and pretending not to, but actually just—together? She could have asked and sat with him but she’s been silly.

It’s a regret, but as the episode ends, they’re both too full of feelings and ideas for it to last, and they talk about the finale and the series for a good hour before she stifles a yawn and he lets out a huge sneeze and she remembers who he is and where they are.

“So um—thanks for letting me come watch.”  She’s fidgeting again, this time with the hem of her hoodie.

“‘’Course. Thanks for giving a shit and taking care of me.” His smile is wide and genuine and she could maybe melt which is—silly for a lot of reasons, really—but she also remembers—

“How do you know my name?” she blurts.

“Uh.” A nervous hand musses his hair further. “We’ve had like four classes together and you—sort of stand out.”

He’s already pink with fever but his skin goes red and—is he blushing? She blushes back at the thought.

“Oh, yeah, okay, I just—uh—didn’t realize you noticed me or anything, especially at the library.”

Gods this is embarrassing.

“You weren’t exactly subtle,” his voice is gruff as he looks at his hands.

“But—“ she stammers. “Then why didn’t you just ask me to watch with you if you knew?”

“Thought you’d say no.” His eyes are still down though they flick her way for an instant.

Would she have?

Maybe. In the wrong mood. She can be stubborn, she knows. But still.

“Well, since I’m here, you were wrong.”

“Yeah, I caught that. Guess it’s too late now, anyway. Show’s done.”

It is, isn’t it.

The thought of giving up her Sunday study tv night makes her inexplicably sad. Especially since she’s here during summer and knows he is, too, from one of his calls with his brother.

“You have Hulu?” Inspiration strikes.

“Er—Uh—yeah?” He looks confused.

“Because I don’t, and I’ve been dying to watch Hamdmaid’s Tale.”

“Oh! Yeah, that’d be—cool. We could start tonight—I mean—“

“Yeah, sounds good. You clearly shouldn’t be alone with that fever and I don’t have a final until Tuesday!”

“Cool,” he repeats, calling up the Hulu menu on the television.

For her part, Maka can’thelp a slight satisfaction at having made a new friend who can afford to stream.