♥ venom with love wrote Come Away With Me Tonight 1/2 for ohyellowbird
Title: Come Away With Me Tonight 1/2
Author: venom with love
Summary: Violet Harmon isn’t expecting too much out of her first year of college. She figures she’ll ace her classes, maybe get drunk once or twice, and mostly be a hermit. A certain blond boy throws a wrench in those plans.
Spoilers/Warning/Triggers: Lots of swearing, sex, underage drinking, and mentions of death.
Author Notes: Thank you jandjsalmon for your wonderful help and support. To the person I wrote this for, I hope I did your prompt a justice (I loved writing it). Enjoy reading!
Come Away With Me Tonight
Violet regrets not taking the later section of her English course.
It’s fucking 7:45 and she’s dragging ass in the cold, biting weather, sucking her coffee like a lifeline, to sit in a lecture hall for an hour talking about shit she already knows. Yeah, she’s also still bitter that she wasn’t allowed to register for a higher-level course her first semester at school.
She clears the doors to the classroom with five minutes to spare. Other students are sprinkled around the room, most looking like upright zombies with a few cheerful exceptions. Violet decides to definitely not sit next to someone from the latter group.
She sits in the middle on the side opposite the door, at least a couple of seats between her and any other living soul-just the way she likes it. Some more people trickle in before the professor takes his space at the board.
“Good morning. I’ll try to make this first class as painless as possible,” he pauses to smile out at his students, “we’ll all just have to try to function at least a little bit this early.”
Corny, Violet thinks, nice, but so fucking corny.
The minutes tick by as her coffee finally starts to kick in. Her professor-Dr. Johansson-passes out the syllabus while giving the same bullshit overview of the course that is given by every teacher since the beginning of higher education.
Critical thinking skills, analysis, turn off your cellphones…blah, blah, blah.
He calls out role after he finishes and Violet has to fight off her boredom enough to answer when he says her name.
The class is half-over, Dr. Johansson is introducing the first short story-fucking A & P again-when the door bangs open against the wall. The sounds startles her and half the other zombies, and she glares at the intruder like she could set him on fire with her mind.
The kid is attractive, all blond curls and grungy clothes adorning a lanky frame that he still manages to hold with confidence. That, and the fucker is obviously high and unashamed as he folds himself into a front row seat.
The professor sighs, glancing over to the blond douche. “Mr. Langdon, a pleasure to have you in this class. Again.”
The kid salutes him with a grin and Violet somehow manages not to roll her eyes all the way to the back of her head. She focuses back on the lecture and pushes thoughts away from the blond boy for the rest of class, letting him slip out of her mind.
***
Tate doesn’t let his thoughts stray from the blonde girl with the surly expression. He’s high as fuck, nursing a hangover to boot, and honestly gives no shits about anything, but there’s something about the sour look she gives him.
She’s pretty, not exceptionally gorgeous, and from what he can tell, not exactly a laid-back girl-going by her haughty and unamused appraisal of him before she returns her eyes to her notes.
A grin lifts the corners of his mouth as he leans back lazily. His thoughts are focused completely on the wisp of a girl intently focused on looking like she’s actually interested in the lecture. All too soon the class is over and people file out in a rush.
The girl stays behind, taking her time to pack up her things. Tate never unpacked so it’s as easy as slinging his bag over his shoulder and well, waiting for that girl to walk past him. He shifts on his feet as she finally walks toward the door.
He grins easily, the smile deepening as she looks over at him. “Hey, my name’s Tate,” he says with a flare of boyish charm that is a bit rusty, but comes easy to him just the same.
Her eyes flick coolly away from him as she keeps walking. She throws a half-hearted nice to meet you over her shoulder and the door shuts behind her, separating them. Shaking his head at the failed encounter, Tate makes his way after her, confused and a little turned on.
He wants to peel back those layers, crumble those walls to see her, who she really is. He wants to know what it’s like to bury his face between her legs while she reads Hemingway. Hear the way the words slow and became punctuated by sighs until they finally float away into silence.
He wants to know her name.
***
The rest of Violet’s first week is uneventful. Her classes are not challenging in the slightest, the people bore her, and her roommate is an overbearing asshole. Her mother calls and the thirty minute conversation devolves into tearful I miss yous from her. Ben, the fucker who donated the sperm that helped result in her, is too concerned with his twenty-two year-old girlfriend to pick up the phone.
Plus, during the other two class meetings with Dr. Johansson, Tate spends his time staring at her and afterward, attempting conversation. She gives him nothing more than lukewarm greetings both times and doesn’t bother to look at his face as she leaves.
All in all, she’s glad the weekend has come to offer reprieve. She devotes Friday night to homework-she gets bored and doesn’t finish until the next morning. When she returns from the library in the early afternoon, her roommate is awake scrolling through her phone.
The girl looks up when the door clicks shut behind Violet. She flashes a brief smile that makes her look constipated before speaking.
“Have a good study session?” She asks.
Violet nods affirmatively while she settles at her desk. Sarah nods disinterestedly before launching into a one-sided discussion of all the ways they can “spruce up” their room for the year. Most of her suggestions involve moving all of Violet’s shit around so that Sarah can have more room to spread out and decorate.
When she’s done discussing her plans for the space, she tells Violet, “I know we’re still getting used to each other and everything, but you were really loud this morning. You woke me up like twice when you were getting ready.”
Violet recalls the morning, not remembering an instance when she was overtly loud. Sarah looks at her with an expectant look, one that annoys the absolute fuck out of Violet. She leans down to move some of her books out of her bag, her curtain of shielding the eye roll from her roommate’s sight.
She swings her bag over her shoulder and stands up. Even though she had planned to stay in, lounge around on her bed and read, Violet knows she needs to leave before she lets out some really biting remarks that might prompt a move.
“Sorry about this morning,” she lies, not even bothering to sound convincing before grinding out, “I’m fine with where my stuff is now, so I won’t be moving it.”
She hears Sarah’s protests begin as she walks out of the room.
***
Violet buys the most edible food she can find, even though she’s not particularly hungry. After realizing that, no, she doesn’t want to sit in the crowded cafeteria, she heads outside to find an empty section of seating outside.
At least there’s a nice breeze out here, she thinks, picking at her sandwich. It’s nice, sitting in the shade, the only interruption coming from a person here or there.
Of course, everything in her life has to become a train wreck within five minutes.
Langdon comes shuffling down the path with a few of his friends-typical college dudes-looking a little worse for wear but still annoyingly cute. She tries to hide behind her hair, reaching down to pull a book out of her bag.
It doesn’t work.
He motions for his friends to go inside before he brings his grinning self over to her table. Violet sighs and prepares herself for another awkward interaction. She debates packing up and leaving but decides to just find out what exactly he wants and maybe be so sarcastic that he’ll write her off as a bitch like so many others before him.
“Hey Plath,” he says as he slumps down in the opposite chair. His eyes look glazed and she can smell the smoke clinging to his clothes. She surmises that he’s probably high again.
“Hi,” she grits out, ignoring the apparent new nickname.
He’s still grinning, either not noticing or not caring how terse she is with him. Instead, he stretches his arms above his head so nicely that he moans a little and his sweater rides up to reveal a sliver of his skin. She fails to not stare dumbly at the flash of hip bone she sees. He notices her lapse and the douche gives her a wink and drums his fingers on the table. Her breath whooshes out in a huff and she rolls her eyes, the motions punctuated by the slamming close of her book.
“Is there something you want?” She asks impatiently.
He blinks slowly, his lids coming back up only halfway as he regards her. She fights the urge to squirm as his eyes roam over her seated form before he says, “I want a lot of things. First off, to know why you seem to hate me so goddamn much.”
“I don’t hate you,” she responds, “I just have no interest in assholes who think the world revolves around them.” Violet hopes her message is conveyed as clearly as fucking possible and that he’ll be so offended that he leaves.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t and instead asks, “Did you come to this conclusion because I was late the first day?”
And the other two.
She doesn’t answer him directly. It would be a lie to say that didn’t play into it, aside from him being high every time she sees him.
And his infuriating smile she just knows he uses to get whatever the fuck he wants without any effort at all.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise and scoffs, “You are something else.”
She lets out a yeah, whatever and tries to keep her features settled into an apathetic expression. Her eyes follow his every movement as he stands up from the table. She thinks he’s done with the exchange, going to leave her and hopefully his quest for whatever behind.
Tate walks around to her side, stopping right next to her. It’s that moment when she realizes how much taller than her he is-he towers over her and she has to tilt her head back a little to see his face.
He reaches out and gently grabs a lock of her hair, spinning it between his fingers. “I’m going to enjoy proving you wrong.” He whispers before dropping her hair back into place and making his way to the entrance.
He pauses before reaching the door, turning to ask, “By the way, Plath, what’s your name?”
Violet smirks, saccharine and full of venom, and says, “Maybe if you got your lazy ass to class on time just once this week, you would know.”
Tate playfully clutches his chest and then grasps the handle, breaking eye contact with her. He turns back once last time as the door opens. Violet doesn’t disappoint, flipping him the bird, and the douche blows a kiss to her in response.
“There’s a party tonight,” he calls out, “11 at the Kappa house. You should come.”
And then he’s gone and she has to fucking laugh at the fact that he thinks she’ll be spending her Saturday night at a frat party while he gets high or otherwise obliterated.
Yeah, sounds like a real fucking treat.
If he thinks he’s off to a good start on the whole “proving her wrong” thing, then that pot has really killed more than a few brain cells.
***
Violet doesn’t get back to her dorm until well after dinner, wanting to avoid her roommate as much as possible. She knows they’ll have to hash shit out, but she figures she’ll wait for their mandatory roommate agreement when they have the RA as a mediator.
However, all thoughts of semi-peaceful discussions of ground rules fly out the window when she opens the door.
All of her furniture is moved, pushed together into a tight L-shape in one corner. Sarah seems to have materialized more shit into the room and is taking over the majority of the space with plastic bins, a fucking futon, and heinous decorations that look like a rainbow vomited.
Violet’s shoulders tighten and she might just scream at this entitled girl if she’s there when Sarah returns. She flops onto her bed, flicking on her television to settle on some cartoon for background noise as she reads. Even though her tense muscles relax after a good four chapters, she still feels like her blood is boiling and a need to get away from what should be her space too claws at her.
She checks her phone and sees that it’s nearly 9:30.
You should come.
The idea of a party doesn’t sound as repulsive as it did that afternoon.
“Fuck it,” she mumbles, laying her book on her bedside table.
She doesn’t harbor high hopes that the frat guys will supply quality booze. Then again, she doesn’t drink that much anyway so if she can score some semi-decent shit to give her a buzz that maybe carries her through the night, she’ll deal.
***
Following the afternoon encounter with his delightful Plath, Tate spends the rest of the day sleeping on and off and reading one of the many poetry books he has strewn throughout his room.
He might barely give a shit about school, but he still likes to read. That counts for something, right?
His mind slips into rhythm and drowning words and he doesn’t look up until he notices the outside world has gone dark. The dorm is nearly calm, the occasional thumping of someone walking too heavy on their heels as they pass or blurs of conversation break the silence.
He figures he might jerk off-thoughts of the spitfire would be enough to get him hard quick-partly on the off chance that the girl might show up and he might get some action (though who the fuck would he be kidding?). Mostly because he’s alone and bored and has like an hour to kill before he has to go meet his friends to help round up the booze and shitty snacks.
That idea goes out the window when his phone sounds. He takes one look at it, sees his mother’s smiling fucking face, and knows he’ll never be more flaccid and pissed off than when he’s reminded of her existence.
Before those awful, still completely raw memories come flooding in, he turns back to his poetry. He will not let that bitch ruin another day for him. Not when he finally has something to maybe look forward to in a couple of hours.
He shuts off his phone and reclines to read and hopefully calm down.
Except one of his friends decides to show up early and fuck with his peace.
“Dude, put that pussy shit away.” Gabe snorts as he swats the book out of his hands and sits his ass down at the foot of the bed.
Tate tells him to go fuck himself and smacks the back of his head, leaning down to right the book. He pushes Gabe with his foot until the little shit gets the message and jumps up. He looks around the room appreciatively, though not without some scorn as his eyes rake over the books.
“For someone who’s retaking like every single fucking class from last semester, you sure do read a lot.”
A known fact: Gabe is a complete moron 99% of the time.
The other 1% of the time he supplies Tate with some top notch pot, so he tries to hold his tongue around him.
Well, kind of.
“I failed because I didn’t show up and I didn’t do the work. I can still read, you asshole.” Tate snarks back, before adding with a put-on salacious grin, “Besides, girls love a well-read guy.”
He hopes that’s true with Plath. Maybe he can impress her with how well he can quote Byron, how awesome his thoughts are on Fitzgerald.
Or maybe she hates both of them, and him, and will give him nothing but biting words and scorn.
Either way, he still wants her to show up tonight.
Gabe looks at him expectantly, tilting his head toward the door. “Let’s go get some food and-” he pauses to pantomime taking a hit, “relax a little before the party.”
Tate nods, clapping Gabe on the back, and leads the two out of his room.
***
Violet arrives a little early by party standards, but the house is still crowded. People occupy space in clusters, the groups varying in levels of inebriation. No one seems to notice the slip of a girl who wanders past them, scowl set firmly in place. She likes it that way.
The music isn’t completely terrible. Though the songs she might be inclined to include on a playlist are few and far between, sandwiched between songs she’s never heard and never wants to hear again.
She weaves her way through her fellow students and lands herself in the kitchen. “Bingo,” she whispers as she spots an unopened Bacardi.
Just when she makes a move to grasp the neck, she feels someone behind her. A hand snakes down to grasp her hip, spinning her around as the other snatches the bottle. Violet groans when she registers the fact that she just lost her chance for a good buzz because of jackass number one.
“Now who is acting entitled, Plath? Only an asshole steals a bottle at a party.”
“Well, what do you call someone who steals a bottle from the asshole who stole it?” She asks with a raised brow.
Tate snorts at her sass and the hard set of her eyes. He didn’t take more than two hits from Gabe’s joint, wanting some clarity on the off chance she came. For once, it seems like he made the right call.
“Seeing as how I plan on sharing it with you, I don’t consider it theft. Plus, I bought it.” He replies lazily, squeezing her hip and then pulling away before she can punch him-which he knows she wants to do.
He whirls around, throwing a, “Well, aren’t you coming?” over his shoulder. His mouth curves up on one side when he hears her huff and the shuffling of her feet as she begrudgingly follows him out the sliding glass door onto the patio.
The pair finds themselves situated on some cheap plastic patio furniture, passing the bottle back and forth in silence. Tate decides to let her lead the conversation even if it means waiting fifteen minutes for her to say a single word.
Luckily, she only takes ten.
“Stop calling me Plath. I don’t even like her.”
“Bullshit.” He calls her out. “You totally read The Bell Jar in high school, fell in love, and tore into everything you could get your hands on.”
She stares at him impassively, answering, “Or maybe I have a shrine erected to Hawthorne or, fuck, Tolkien.”
Tate shakes his head, “Nah, you’re totally into Plath, I can feel it.”
His spitfire mutters whatever and snatches the bottle from his hand, knocking back a swig before shoving it back to him. She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth and slouches further into the chair. This is the most laid back she’s been, even while annoyed with him, and she is decidedly very alluring in the soft glow of the outside lights.
“So what made you change your mind?” He asks as he continues to watch her.
She sighs, “Roommate issues.”
“What? You already got into a fight with her?”
“Something like that.” She murmurs and scrubs a hand over her eyes in irritation as an image of her room flashes in her memory.
Sensing that it’s a bigger deal than she’s letting on, he decides to offer an olive branch. Or something.
It can’t really be considered a peace offering if he’s doing it for mostly personal gain, right?
“I’ll make you a deal, Plath.” He offers, drinking her in when she looks over and laughing when her eyes narrow at the nickname.
“Yes?”
He takes a swig, holding out on her to see her squirm.
But she doesn’t, which is awesome.
“I won’t call you Plath anymore if you tell me your name.”
Violet taps her fingers to her mouth, looking like she’s contemplating the deal. She’d love for him to stop calling her that-though if she is honest with herself, she’d also be disappointed-but she wants to prolong the state they’re in for a little longer.
She stands, startling him a little, but not as much as when she leans over him, mouth hovering beside his ear. “No.” She whispers, fingers curling around the bottle and then she’s gone, sliding through the door and disappearing into the crowd as she leaves the kitchen.
Fucking hell.
He’ll get her name by the end of the night or go mad.
Or just suck up his loss and get high until he can start all over again in his pursuit on Monday.
He might even show up on time.
***
Violet doesn’t polish off the bottle. She takes too more pulls before screwing the cap for the final time-she’ll stash the rest in one of her yet to be unpacked suitcases.
Maybe she’ll offer some to her roommate to calm her the fuck down, though she’s not sure Sarah wouldn’t rat her out in a heartbeat.
In any case, she spends the next hour hiding out in a bedroom upstairs. She locks the door to make sure there’ll be no embarrassing encounters with a fumbling couple, and commences being a nosy little shit by going through everything in the room.
This frat boy has a very extensive and eclectic porn collection. Hidden behind My Little Pony shit.
She doesn’t know whether to laugh or cringe. Both.
When she sufficiently satisfies her curiosity, she decides it’s time to leave. Scooping up her bag and toeing on her shoes, she pops the lock and slips into the hallway. There’s only a few other people up there, and they’re all paired off, minutes away from needing a condom or a morning after pill.
The party is still thriving and shows no signs of stopping anytime soon. Violet thinks there would be nothing worse than staying until the party turns pathetic with people passed out and smelling like piss. So she decides to make one more round, telling herself it is most certainly not to see Tate one last time.
It doesn’t take long to spot him, though. He’s in the living room, nursing something in a plastic cup while he leans back against a wall. A couple of his buddies flank him and seem to talk more to each other than to him. Or maybe he’s just not paying that much attention to them.
He looks about as sober as he did an hour ago and also kind of anxious. There might be some very small part of her that hopes he’s anxious to see her again, that he’s been looking for her since she left him outside. Then again, he seems pretty comfortable over there with his friends and his drink, so maybe he’s just anxious because he’s not as high as he could be.
She thinks maybe she’ll just slip outside, go home, and fall into a coma for the rest of her weekend. Then Tate looks away from his friends and notices her. He says something, and the other two guys nod in agreement but otherwise aren’t put out when he leaves them and makes his way toward her.
“I thought you were gone for good tonight, Plath.” He says as his way of greeting.
Violet doesn’t miss a beat, shrugging and calmly replying, “You would’ve found me in the oven, if that was the case.”
“Shit, that’s dark,” He laughs, “and you totally love her, admit it already.”
She just nods and he takes it as enough of an answer. He knows she’ll fight him on everything, that she will never give him anything without him having to tear it out of a wrapping of thorns.
“So where’ve you been?” He asks and gets another shrug in response.
Maybe he should’ve lit up another one after they parted ways.
It’s her turn to smirk when she sees the crack of annoyance mar his perfected wall of good nature. She decides not to hold out something so stupid, giving him an inch with, “Just perusing upstairs. It was a little boring down here.”
“Ouch.” He teases, even though she actually didn’t mean it that way, for once in her life. But she doesn’t tell him that.
“So I’m going to leave now.” She says slowly. His face falls a little but not enough to warrant any teasing. She’s pleased he wants her to stay, wants to continue whatever this is for however long he can. She does too, but not at the expense of overextending it into weirdness.
“Sure thing,” He agrees with a casual air, “I guess I’ll see you in class.”
She’s surprised he isn’t forward enough to ask for her number. She sure as shit isn’t giving it to him of her own free will, that’s for certain.
But she will give him one thing, for being a good sport and an interesting way to spend a Saturday night, even if they weren’t together for all that long.
“Hold on,” She demands, shuffling through her bag to retrieve a Sharpie. She places her hands on his chest and gives a shove. Tate stumbles back a little and she keeps going until he’s flush against a wall. The hand without the marker grasps his chin and tilts his head down.
He obliges further and leans down a bit more. She can’t ignore the heat from his body, or the puffs of breath he exerts that she can feel on her collarbone.
She wonders how that would feel in a different context.
He keeps his hands and comments to himself as she uncaps the marker with her mouth. Her work is done within seconds of her pressing the tip to his forehead and he doesn’t even make a face at what was probably pretty rough writing-Violet isn’t exactly known for being gentle.
“Alright, done,” she whispers, capping the marker and shoving it back in her bag. She steps away from Tate quickly, putting space between their bodies.
“I’m sure the brothers will be ready to initiate you if you drew a dick on my face.” Tate jokes and earns an expected eye roll from her.
“I’ll see you on Monday.” She replies, backing away and leaving a very pleased-looking blond boy behind.
***
Violet’s roommate doesn’t come back that night or Sunday, the coward. So, she plays her angry music and reads, falling asleep every so often and just like that, her weekend is gone. She also might have shifted some of Sarah’s shit on her desk and bedside table a little bit, enough to hopefully confuse or irritate her.
She deserves a little bit of that.
Monday comes knocking and as much as she wants to stay in her cocoon, she also wants to see Tate. She’s up before her alarm and is able to shower and actually get a proper breakfast before sitting down for another lecture.
Surprisingly, Tate shows up on time.
She has to try so hard to contain the bark of laugh that demands to be heard when she makes out the purple lettering, a little faded, but still very much residing on his face.
His eyes were on her the whole time. When she’s done admiring her work and meets his eyes, he’s got a satisfied smirk. He points to his forehead, mouthing Violet Harmon, and then gives her a wink for good measure.
They both wear smiles and pay absolutely no attention the whole class period.
***
The following weeks are rather uneventful but also mark the blooming of something between Violet and Tate. They don’t really make plans to hang out, fuck, they don’t even have each other’s phone number. Instead, they kind of just drift into spending time together-breakfast after class here, finding each other at a party there, with more random encounters sprinkled in between.
Violet doesn’t know the exact point it happens, but Tate becomes the closest thing to a friend she has at the school.
She’s not sure how she feels about that.
Also, she’s not sure she likes where her feelings are headed. Her initial judgments about him were rash, harsh, and little by little she starts seeing him a new light. Sure, he’s a cocky little shit, has a smoking problem, can be moody when he wants to be-more so than normal young man moodiness-and burns her with annoyance.
But, fuuuuck, that fire makes her feel alive. She doesn’t feel that boring contentment with daily life she was stuck with before. Every encounter with him is fresh and their bickering keeps her soul light and her upper lip curled-sometimes in a snarl, but mostly in some sort of smile.
Honesty, the only real complaints she has lie with the fact that sometimes he seems to disappear off the face of the planet. He’ll resurface a couple days later, always in a deep funk until she pulls him out, but until that happens, he’s silent and broods and has a general apathy for everything.
Most apparent is how little he cares about school. She thinks that’s weird because she found out fairly early on that on top of being some kind of track legend for the past two years, he was also on his way to being a surefire candidate for valedictorian.
Both of which he evaded heavily the few times she brought them up.
Or, really, brought up anything having to do with any part of the previous semester.
Violet tries to see past his brush offs, tries not to look too much into the fact that he doesn’t seem to trust her enough to divulge his secrets. She plans to let it go and let him come to her at a point in time in which he feels comfortable enough to do so.
Until they get their first papers back and the millisecond-long look of sheer disappointment he expresses before shoving it into his bag prompts her to meddle. He might give the air of not caring or whatever, but nobody enjoys seeing red marks littering the pages with flaws.
Fuck, for all she knows, he could be borderline for losing a scholarship if he has one.
Dr. Johansson shakes his at the class, visibly upset. “You guys seriously need to try harder for the next paper. See me; make a tutoring appointment, something, because I’m concerned with your progress. You still have time to turn things around.”
Violet sees Tate scoff and wants to throttle him. If the little fucker isn’t going to apply himself, or tell her why he had such a drastic slide in recent months, she’s just going to have to take matters into her own hands.
He waits for her to pack up after class is over, standing in front of her seat trying to look at ease. She hauls her bag over her shoulder and trudges along ahead of him. He falls into step by the time they’re outside of the room and she figures to just go for it.
“So I take it you didn’t do well?” She asks casually.
His face tightens, fists closing over the straps of his backpack. She knows he isn’t angry with her, but probably with her prying.
“Considering I only turned in an intro and half a body, I deserved it.” He bites back, wanting to close the discussion.
“Don’t be an asshole, Tate. “ She hisses and then takes a breath to calm herself before continuing, “You don’t have to tell me anything, not a single thing about why you’ve apparently given up altogether, but I’m not going to let you completely flunk out of school, okay?”
Tate is silent, soaking in her words but not making any move to respond. She thinks he might plan to simply ignore her-or worse, ditch her completely.
She pushes forward before he has the chance to do either. “How about I offer you a deal this time?”
“What would that be?” He asks a beat later, intrigue taking place of annoyance. Like it always does with her around.
“Get an A on the next paper-and don’t even pretend like you can’t fucking write a solid English paper in your sleep-and I’ll give you a present.”
Violet is somewhat bluffing. She’ll give him a gift, she doesn’t know what she’s willing or able to offer him at the moment.
They’re at the dining hall now, preparing to gorge themselves on watery eggs and burnt waffles. They pause right in front of the door and he regards her questioningly. After a moment or two, he nods at her, saying, “Alright, deal, but it better be a good gift,” before opening the door and letting her go ahead of him.
She’ll have to think up something, but she gathers that he’ll be cool if she gets him a pet rock, so anything else will be solid. For now, she’s just happy that he allowed her to help him a little bit, and hopes that this means they’re on the road to a closer relationship.
***
( Come Away With Me Tonight 2/2 )
Author: venom with love
Summary: Violet Harmon isn’t expecting too much out of her first year of college. She figures she’ll ace her classes, maybe get drunk once or twice, and mostly be a hermit. A certain blond boy throws a wrench in those plans.
Spoilers/Warning/Triggers: Lots of swearing, sex, underage drinking, and mentions of death.
Author Notes: Thank you jandjsalmon for your wonderful help and support. To the person I wrote this for, I hope I did your prompt a justice (I loved writing it). Enjoy reading!
Come Away With Me Tonight
Violet regrets not taking the later section of her English course.
It’s fucking 7:45 and she’s dragging ass in the cold, biting weather, sucking her coffee like a lifeline, to sit in a lecture hall for an hour talking about shit she already knows. Yeah, she’s also still bitter that she wasn’t allowed to register for a higher-level course her first semester at school.
She clears the doors to the classroom with five minutes to spare. Other students are sprinkled around the room, most looking like upright zombies with a few cheerful exceptions. Violet decides to definitely not sit next to someone from the latter group.
She sits in the middle on the side opposite the door, at least a couple of seats between her and any other living soul-just the way she likes it. Some more people trickle in before the professor takes his space at the board.
“Good morning. I’ll try to make this first class as painless as possible,” he pauses to smile out at his students, “we’ll all just have to try to function at least a little bit this early.”
Corny, Violet thinks, nice, but so fucking corny.
The minutes tick by as her coffee finally starts to kick in. Her professor-Dr. Johansson-passes out the syllabus while giving the same bullshit overview of the course that is given by every teacher since the beginning of higher education.
Critical thinking skills, analysis, turn off your cellphones…blah, blah, blah.
He calls out role after he finishes and Violet has to fight off her boredom enough to answer when he says her name.
The class is half-over, Dr. Johansson is introducing the first short story-fucking A & P again-when the door bangs open against the wall. The sounds startles her and half the other zombies, and she glares at the intruder like she could set him on fire with her mind.
The kid is attractive, all blond curls and grungy clothes adorning a lanky frame that he still manages to hold with confidence. That, and the fucker is obviously high and unashamed as he folds himself into a front row seat.
The professor sighs, glancing over to the blond douche. “Mr. Langdon, a pleasure to have you in this class. Again.”
The kid salutes him with a grin and Violet somehow manages not to roll her eyes all the way to the back of her head. She focuses back on the lecture and pushes thoughts away from the blond boy for the rest of class, letting him slip out of her mind.
***
Tate doesn’t let his thoughts stray from the blonde girl with the surly expression. He’s high as fuck, nursing a hangover to boot, and honestly gives no shits about anything, but there’s something about the sour look she gives him.
She’s pretty, not exceptionally gorgeous, and from what he can tell, not exactly a laid-back girl-going by her haughty and unamused appraisal of him before she returns her eyes to her notes.
A grin lifts the corners of his mouth as he leans back lazily. His thoughts are focused completely on the wisp of a girl intently focused on looking like she’s actually interested in the lecture. All too soon the class is over and people file out in a rush.
The girl stays behind, taking her time to pack up her things. Tate never unpacked so it’s as easy as slinging his bag over his shoulder and well, waiting for that girl to walk past him. He shifts on his feet as she finally walks toward the door.
He grins easily, the smile deepening as she looks over at him. “Hey, my name’s Tate,” he says with a flare of boyish charm that is a bit rusty, but comes easy to him just the same.
Her eyes flick coolly away from him as she keeps walking. She throws a half-hearted nice to meet you over her shoulder and the door shuts behind her, separating them. Shaking his head at the failed encounter, Tate makes his way after her, confused and a little turned on.
He wants to peel back those layers, crumble those walls to see her, who she really is. He wants to know what it’s like to bury his face between her legs while she reads Hemingway. Hear the way the words slow and became punctuated by sighs until they finally float away into silence.
He wants to know her name.
***
The rest of Violet’s first week is uneventful. Her classes are not challenging in the slightest, the people bore her, and her roommate is an overbearing asshole. Her mother calls and the thirty minute conversation devolves into tearful I miss yous from her. Ben, the fucker who donated the sperm that helped result in her, is too concerned with his twenty-two year-old girlfriend to pick up the phone.
Plus, during the other two class meetings with Dr. Johansson, Tate spends his time staring at her and afterward, attempting conversation. She gives him nothing more than lukewarm greetings both times and doesn’t bother to look at his face as she leaves.
All in all, she’s glad the weekend has come to offer reprieve. She devotes Friday night to homework-she gets bored and doesn’t finish until the next morning. When she returns from the library in the early afternoon, her roommate is awake scrolling through her phone.
The girl looks up when the door clicks shut behind Violet. She flashes a brief smile that makes her look constipated before speaking.
“Have a good study session?” She asks.
Violet nods affirmatively while she settles at her desk. Sarah nods disinterestedly before launching into a one-sided discussion of all the ways they can “spruce up” their room for the year. Most of her suggestions involve moving all of Violet’s shit around so that Sarah can have more room to spread out and decorate.
When she’s done discussing her plans for the space, she tells Violet, “I know we’re still getting used to each other and everything, but you were really loud this morning. You woke me up like twice when you were getting ready.”
Violet recalls the morning, not remembering an instance when she was overtly loud. Sarah looks at her with an expectant look, one that annoys the absolute fuck out of Violet. She leans down to move some of her books out of her bag, her curtain of shielding the eye roll from her roommate’s sight.
She swings her bag over her shoulder and stands up. Even though she had planned to stay in, lounge around on her bed and read, Violet knows she needs to leave before she lets out some really biting remarks that might prompt a move.
“Sorry about this morning,” she lies, not even bothering to sound convincing before grinding out, “I’m fine with where my stuff is now, so I won’t be moving it.”
She hears Sarah’s protests begin as she walks out of the room.
***
Violet buys the most edible food she can find, even though she’s not particularly hungry. After realizing that, no, she doesn’t want to sit in the crowded cafeteria, she heads outside to find an empty section of seating outside.
At least there’s a nice breeze out here, she thinks, picking at her sandwich. It’s nice, sitting in the shade, the only interruption coming from a person here or there.
Of course, everything in her life has to become a train wreck within five minutes.
Langdon comes shuffling down the path with a few of his friends-typical college dudes-looking a little worse for wear but still annoyingly cute. She tries to hide behind her hair, reaching down to pull a book out of her bag.
It doesn’t work.
He motions for his friends to go inside before he brings his grinning self over to her table. Violet sighs and prepares herself for another awkward interaction. She debates packing up and leaving but decides to just find out what exactly he wants and maybe be so sarcastic that he’ll write her off as a bitch like so many others before him.
“Hey Plath,” he says as he slumps down in the opposite chair. His eyes look glazed and she can smell the smoke clinging to his clothes. She surmises that he’s probably high again.
“Hi,” she grits out, ignoring the apparent new nickname.
He’s still grinning, either not noticing or not caring how terse she is with him. Instead, he stretches his arms above his head so nicely that he moans a little and his sweater rides up to reveal a sliver of his skin. She fails to not stare dumbly at the flash of hip bone she sees. He notices her lapse and the douche gives her a wink and drums his fingers on the table. Her breath whooshes out in a huff and she rolls her eyes, the motions punctuated by the slamming close of her book.
“Is there something you want?” She asks impatiently.
He blinks slowly, his lids coming back up only halfway as he regards her. She fights the urge to squirm as his eyes roam over her seated form before he says, “I want a lot of things. First off, to know why you seem to hate me so goddamn much.”
“I don’t hate you,” she responds, “I just have no interest in assholes who think the world revolves around them.” Violet hopes her message is conveyed as clearly as fucking possible and that he’ll be so offended that he leaves.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t and instead asks, “Did you come to this conclusion because I was late the first day?”
And the other two.
She doesn’t answer him directly. It would be a lie to say that didn’t play into it, aside from him being high every time she sees him.
And his infuriating smile she just knows he uses to get whatever the fuck he wants without any effort at all.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise and scoffs, “You are something else.”
She lets out a yeah, whatever and tries to keep her features settled into an apathetic expression. Her eyes follow his every movement as he stands up from the table. She thinks he’s done with the exchange, going to leave her and hopefully his quest for whatever behind.
Tate walks around to her side, stopping right next to her. It’s that moment when she realizes how much taller than her he is-he towers over her and she has to tilt her head back a little to see his face.
He reaches out and gently grabs a lock of her hair, spinning it between his fingers. “I’m going to enjoy proving you wrong.” He whispers before dropping her hair back into place and making his way to the entrance.
He pauses before reaching the door, turning to ask, “By the way, Plath, what’s your name?”
Violet smirks, saccharine and full of venom, and says, “Maybe if you got your lazy ass to class on time just once this week, you would know.”
Tate playfully clutches his chest and then grasps the handle, breaking eye contact with her. He turns back once last time as the door opens. Violet doesn’t disappoint, flipping him the bird, and the douche blows a kiss to her in response.
“There’s a party tonight,” he calls out, “11 at the Kappa house. You should come.”
And then he’s gone and she has to fucking laugh at the fact that he thinks she’ll be spending her Saturday night at a frat party while he gets high or otherwise obliterated.
Yeah, sounds like a real fucking treat.
If he thinks he’s off to a good start on the whole “proving her wrong” thing, then that pot has really killed more than a few brain cells.
***
Violet doesn’t get back to her dorm until well after dinner, wanting to avoid her roommate as much as possible. She knows they’ll have to hash shit out, but she figures she’ll wait for their mandatory roommate agreement when they have the RA as a mediator.
However, all thoughts of semi-peaceful discussions of ground rules fly out the window when she opens the door.
All of her furniture is moved, pushed together into a tight L-shape in one corner. Sarah seems to have materialized more shit into the room and is taking over the majority of the space with plastic bins, a fucking futon, and heinous decorations that look like a rainbow vomited.
Violet’s shoulders tighten and she might just scream at this entitled girl if she’s there when Sarah returns. She flops onto her bed, flicking on her television to settle on some cartoon for background noise as she reads. Even though her tense muscles relax after a good four chapters, she still feels like her blood is boiling and a need to get away from what should be her space too claws at her.
She checks her phone and sees that it’s nearly 9:30.
You should come.
The idea of a party doesn’t sound as repulsive as it did that afternoon.
“Fuck it,” she mumbles, laying her book on her bedside table.
She doesn’t harbor high hopes that the frat guys will supply quality booze. Then again, she doesn’t drink that much anyway so if she can score some semi-decent shit to give her a buzz that maybe carries her through the night, she’ll deal.
***
Following the afternoon encounter with his delightful Plath, Tate spends the rest of the day sleeping on and off and reading one of the many poetry books he has strewn throughout his room.
He might barely give a shit about school, but he still likes to read. That counts for something, right?
His mind slips into rhythm and drowning words and he doesn’t look up until he notices the outside world has gone dark. The dorm is nearly calm, the occasional thumping of someone walking too heavy on their heels as they pass or blurs of conversation break the silence.
He figures he might jerk off-thoughts of the spitfire would be enough to get him hard quick-partly on the off chance that the girl might show up and he might get some action (though who the fuck would he be kidding?). Mostly because he’s alone and bored and has like an hour to kill before he has to go meet his friends to help round up the booze and shitty snacks.
That idea goes out the window when his phone sounds. He takes one look at it, sees his mother’s smiling fucking face, and knows he’ll never be more flaccid and pissed off than when he’s reminded of her existence.
Before those awful, still completely raw memories come flooding in, he turns back to his poetry. He will not let that bitch ruin another day for him. Not when he finally has something to maybe look forward to in a couple of hours.
He shuts off his phone and reclines to read and hopefully calm down.
Except one of his friends decides to show up early and fuck with his peace.
“Dude, put that pussy shit away.” Gabe snorts as he swats the book out of his hands and sits his ass down at the foot of the bed.
Tate tells him to go fuck himself and smacks the back of his head, leaning down to right the book. He pushes Gabe with his foot until the little shit gets the message and jumps up. He looks around the room appreciatively, though not without some scorn as his eyes rake over the books.
“For someone who’s retaking like every single fucking class from last semester, you sure do read a lot.”
A known fact: Gabe is a complete moron 99% of the time.
The other 1% of the time he supplies Tate with some top notch pot, so he tries to hold his tongue around him.
Well, kind of.
“I failed because I didn’t show up and I didn’t do the work. I can still read, you asshole.” Tate snarks back, before adding with a put-on salacious grin, “Besides, girls love a well-read guy.”
He hopes that’s true with Plath. Maybe he can impress her with how well he can quote Byron, how awesome his thoughts are on Fitzgerald.
Or maybe she hates both of them, and him, and will give him nothing but biting words and scorn.
Either way, he still wants her to show up tonight.
Gabe looks at him expectantly, tilting his head toward the door. “Let’s go get some food and-” he pauses to pantomime taking a hit, “relax a little before the party.”
Tate nods, clapping Gabe on the back, and leads the two out of his room.
***
Violet arrives a little early by party standards, but the house is still crowded. People occupy space in clusters, the groups varying in levels of inebriation. No one seems to notice the slip of a girl who wanders past them, scowl set firmly in place. She likes it that way.
The music isn’t completely terrible. Though the songs she might be inclined to include on a playlist are few and far between, sandwiched between songs she’s never heard and never wants to hear again.
She weaves her way through her fellow students and lands herself in the kitchen. “Bingo,” she whispers as she spots an unopened Bacardi.
Just when she makes a move to grasp the neck, she feels someone behind her. A hand snakes down to grasp her hip, spinning her around as the other snatches the bottle. Violet groans when she registers the fact that she just lost her chance for a good buzz because of jackass number one.
“Now who is acting entitled, Plath? Only an asshole steals a bottle at a party.”
“Well, what do you call someone who steals a bottle from the asshole who stole it?” She asks with a raised brow.
Tate snorts at her sass and the hard set of her eyes. He didn’t take more than two hits from Gabe’s joint, wanting some clarity on the off chance she came. For once, it seems like he made the right call.
“Seeing as how I plan on sharing it with you, I don’t consider it theft. Plus, I bought it.” He replies lazily, squeezing her hip and then pulling away before she can punch him-which he knows she wants to do.
He whirls around, throwing a, “Well, aren’t you coming?” over his shoulder. His mouth curves up on one side when he hears her huff and the shuffling of her feet as she begrudgingly follows him out the sliding glass door onto the patio.
The pair finds themselves situated on some cheap plastic patio furniture, passing the bottle back and forth in silence. Tate decides to let her lead the conversation even if it means waiting fifteen minutes for her to say a single word.
Luckily, she only takes ten.
“Stop calling me Plath. I don’t even like her.”
“Bullshit.” He calls her out. “You totally read The Bell Jar in high school, fell in love, and tore into everything you could get your hands on.”
She stares at him impassively, answering, “Or maybe I have a shrine erected to Hawthorne or, fuck, Tolkien.”
Tate shakes his head, “Nah, you’re totally into Plath, I can feel it.”
His spitfire mutters whatever and snatches the bottle from his hand, knocking back a swig before shoving it back to him. She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth and slouches further into the chair. This is the most laid back she’s been, even while annoyed with him, and she is decidedly very alluring in the soft glow of the outside lights.
“So what made you change your mind?” He asks as he continues to watch her.
She sighs, “Roommate issues.”
“What? You already got into a fight with her?”
“Something like that.” She murmurs and scrubs a hand over her eyes in irritation as an image of her room flashes in her memory.
Sensing that it’s a bigger deal than she’s letting on, he decides to offer an olive branch. Or something.
It can’t really be considered a peace offering if he’s doing it for mostly personal gain, right?
“I’ll make you a deal, Plath.” He offers, drinking her in when she looks over and laughing when her eyes narrow at the nickname.
“Yes?”
He takes a swig, holding out on her to see her squirm.
But she doesn’t, which is awesome.
“I won’t call you Plath anymore if you tell me your name.”
Violet taps her fingers to her mouth, looking like she’s contemplating the deal. She’d love for him to stop calling her that-though if she is honest with herself, she’d also be disappointed-but she wants to prolong the state they’re in for a little longer.
She stands, startling him a little, but not as much as when she leans over him, mouth hovering beside his ear. “No.” She whispers, fingers curling around the bottle and then she’s gone, sliding through the door and disappearing into the crowd as she leaves the kitchen.
Fucking hell.
He’ll get her name by the end of the night or go mad.
Or just suck up his loss and get high until he can start all over again in his pursuit on Monday.
He might even show up on time.
***
Violet doesn’t polish off the bottle. She takes too more pulls before screwing the cap for the final time-she’ll stash the rest in one of her yet to be unpacked suitcases.
Maybe she’ll offer some to her roommate to calm her the fuck down, though she’s not sure Sarah wouldn’t rat her out in a heartbeat.
In any case, she spends the next hour hiding out in a bedroom upstairs. She locks the door to make sure there’ll be no embarrassing encounters with a fumbling couple, and commences being a nosy little shit by going through everything in the room.
This frat boy has a very extensive and eclectic porn collection. Hidden behind My Little Pony shit.
She doesn’t know whether to laugh or cringe. Both.
When she sufficiently satisfies her curiosity, she decides it’s time to leave. Scooping up her bag and toeing on her shoes, she pops the lock and slips into the hallway. There’s only a few other people up there, and they’re all paired off, minutes away from needing a condom or a morning after pill.
The party is still thriving and shows no signs of stopping anytime soon. Violet thinks there would be nothing worse than staying until the party turns pathetic with people passed out and smelling like piss. So she decides to make one more round, telling herself it is most certainly not to see Tate one last time.
It doesn’t take long to spot him, though. He’s in the living room, nursing something in a plastic cup while he leans back against a wall. A couple of his buddies flank him and seem to talk more to each other than to him. Or maybe he’s just not paying that much attention to them.
He looks about as sober as he did an hour ago and also kind of anxious. There might be some very small part of her that hopes he’s anxious to see her again, that he’s been looking for her since she left him outside. Then again, he seems pretty comfortable over there with his friends and his drink, so maybe he’s just anxious because he’s not as high as he could be.
She thinks maybe she’ll just slip outside, go home, and fall into a coma for the rest of her weekend. Then Tate looks away from his friends and notices her. He says something, and the other two guys nod in agreement but otherwise aren’t put out when he leaves them and makes his way toward her.
“I thought you were gone for good tonight, Plath.” He says as his way of greeting.
Violet doesn’t miss a beat, shrugging and calmly replying, “You would’ve found me in the oven, if that was the case.”
“Shit, that’s dark,” He laughs, “and you totally love her, admit it already.”
She just nods and he takes it as enough of an answer. He knows she’ll fight him on everything, that she will never give him anything without him having to tear it out of a wrapping of thorns.
“So where’ve you been?” He asks and gets another shrug in response.
Maybe he should’ve lit up another one after they parted ways.
It’s her turn to smirk when she sees the crack of annoyance mar his perfected wall of good nature. She decides not to hold out something so stupid, giving him an inch with, “Just perusing upstairs. It was a little boring down here.”
“Ouch.” He teases, even though she actually didn’t mean it that way, for once in her life. But she doesn’t tell him that.
“So I’m going to leave now.” She says slowly. His face falls a little but not enough to warrant any teasing. She’s pleased he wants her to stay, wants to continue whatever this is for however long he can. She does too, but not at the expense of overextending it into weirdness.
“Sure thing,” He agrees with a casual air, “I guess I’ll see you in class.”
She’s surprised he isn’t forward enough to ask for her number. She sure as shit isn’t giving it to him of her own free will, that’s for certain.
But she will give him one thing, for being a good sport and an interesting way to spend a Saturday night, even if they weren’t together for all that long.
“Hold on,” She demands, shuffling through her bag to retrieve a Sharpie. She places her hands on his chest and gives a shove. Tate stumbles back a little and she keeps going until he’s flush against a wall. The hand without the marker grasps his chin and tilts his head down.
He obliges further and leans down a bit more. She can’t ignore the heat from his body, or the puffs of breath he exerts that she can feel on her collarbone.
She wonders how that would feel in a different context.
He keeps his hands and comments to himself as she uncaps the marker with her mouth. Her work is done within seconds of her pressing the tip to his forehead and he doesn’t even make a face at what was probably pretty rough writing-Violet isn’t exactly known for being gentle.
“Alright, done,” she whispers, capping the marker and shoving it back in her bag. She steps away from Tate quickly, putting space between their bodies.
“I’m sure the brothers will be ready to initiate you if you drew a dick on my face.” Tate jokes and earns an expected eye roll from her.
“I’ll see you on Monday.” She replies, backing away and leaving a very pleased-looking blond boy behind.
***
Violet’s roommate doesn’t come back that night or Sunday, the coward. So, she plays her angry music and reads, falling asleep every so often and just like that, her weekend is gone. She also might have shifted some of Sarah’s shit on her desk and bedside table a little bit, enough to hopefully confuse or irritate her.
She deserves a little bit of that.
Monday comes knocking and as much as she wants to stay in her cocoon, she also wants to see Tate. She’s up before her alarm and is able to shower and actually get a proper breakfast before sitting down for another lecture.
Surprisingly, Tate shows up on time.
She has to try so hard to contain the bark of laugh that demands to be heard when she makes out the purple lettering, a little faded, but still very much residing on his face.
His eyes were on her the whole time. When she’s done admiring her work and meets his eyes, he’s got a satisfied smirk. He points to his forehead, mouthing Violet Harmon, and then gives her a wink for good measure.
They both wear smiles and pay absolutely no attention the whole class period.
***
The following weeks are rather uneventful but also mark the blooming of something between Violet and Tate. They don’t really make plans to hang out, fuck, they don’t even have each other’s phone number. Instead, they kind of just drift into spending time together-breakfast after class here, finding each other at a party there, with more random encounters sprinkled in between.
Violet doesn’t know the exact point it happens, but Tate becomes the closest thing to a friend she has at the school.
She’s not sure how she feels about that.
Also, she’s not sure she likes where her feelings are headed. Her initial judgments about him were rash, harsh, and little by little she starts seeing him a new light. Sure, he’s a cocky little shit, has a smoking problem, can be moody when he wants to be-more so than normal young man moodiness-and burns her with annoyance.
But, fuuuuck, that fire makes her feel alive. She doesn’t feel that boring contentment with daily life she was stuck with before. Every encounter with him is fresh and their bickering keeps her soul light and her upper lip curled-sometimes in a snarl, but mostly in some sort of smile.
Honesty, the only real complaints she has lie with the fact that sometimes he seems to disappear off the face of the planet. He’ll resurface a couple days later, always in a deep funk until she pulls him out, but until that happens, he’s silent and broods and has a general apathy for everything.
Most apparent is how little he cares about school. She thinks that’s weird because she found out fairly early on that on top of being some kind of track legend for the past two years, he was also on his way to being a surefire candidate for valedictorian.
Both of which he evaded heavily the few times she brought them up.
Or, really, brought up anything having to do with any part of the previous semester.
Violet tries to see past his brush offs, tries not to look too much into the fact that he doesn’t seem to trust her enough to divulge his secrets. She plans to let it go and let him come to her at a point in time in which he feels comfortable enough to do so.
Until they get their first papers back and the millisecond-long look of sheer disappointment he expresses before shoving it into his bag prompts her to meddle. He might give the air of not caring or whatever, but nobody enjoys seeing red marks littering the pages with flaws.
Fuck, for all she knows, he could be borderline for losing a scholarship if he has one.
Dr. Johansson shakes his at the class, visibly upset. “You guys seriously need to try harder for the next paper. See me; make a tutoring appointment, something, because I’m concerned with your progress. You still have time to turn things around.”
Violet sees Tate scoff and wants to throttle him. If the little fucker isn’t going to apply himself, or tell her why he had such a drastic slide in recent months, she’s just going to have to take matters into her own hands.
He waits for her to pack up after class is over, standing in front of her seat trying to look at ease. She hauls her bag over her shoulder and trudges along ahead of him. He falls into step by the time they’re outside of the room and she figures to just go for it.
“So I take it you didn’t do well?” She asks casually.
His face tightens, fists closing over the straps of his backpack. She knows he isn’t angry with her, but probably with her prying.
“Considering I only turned in an intro and half a body, I deserved it.” He bites back, wanting to close the discussion.
“Don’t be an asshole, Tate. “ She hisses and then takes a breath to calm herself before continuing, “You don’t have to tell me anything, not a single thing about why you’ve apparently given up altogether, but I’m not going to let you completely flunk out of school, okay?”
Tate is silent, soaking in her words but not making any move to respond. She thinks he might plan to simply ignore her-or worse, ditch her completely.
She pushes forward before he has the chance to do either. “How about I offer you a deal this time?”
“What would that be?” He asks a beat later, intrigue taking place of annoyance. Like it always does with her around.
“Get an A on the next paper-and don’t even pretend like you can’t fucking write a solid English paper in your sleep-and I’ll give you a present.”
Violet is somewhat bluffing. She’ll give him a gift, she doesn’t know what she’s willing or able to offer him at the moment.
They’re at the dining hall now, preparing to gorge themselves on watery eggs and burnt waffles. They pause right in front of the door and he regards her questioningly. After a moment or two, he nods at her, saying, “Alright, deal, but it better be a good gift,” before opening the door and letting her go ahead of him.
She’ll have to think up something, but she gathers that he’ll be cool if she gets him a pet rock, so anything else will be solid. For now, she’s just happy that he allowed her to help him a little bit, and hopes that this means they’re on the road to a closer relationship.
***
( Come Away With Me Tonight 2/2 )