hebeimmortalized | (no subject)

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people: paul schafer

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Jillie fiddles with her phone, tempted to text Paul. She's been tempted to text Paul since all but ditching him in that little cafe. She'd panicked. She couldn't help it, at the time. He'd admitted to losing someone and all she could think was what she'd done to herself. The scars on her arms. The scar on her neck.

She's not good for him, not as a friend and not as anything more than that.

So she'd panicked. Distanced herself a little it, and had felt like it was the right move when he'd done it right back.

But she misses talking to him. And looking at him. And listening to his voice.

God, she's pathetic.

She stares down at her phone and types out half a message before deleting it. Then she starts a different message. She deletes that, too. Then she shakes her head and finally types, How'd the job hunt go? Tell me over coffee? and sends it before she can change her mind.

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"People used to be the same about me," he says, with a tight little smile. "So maybe it just takes one to know one."

"Maybe," she murmurs. She looks up at him, briefly, then back down at her fingers where they fiddle with her menu. "Anyway, um. I think I'll do something hazelnutty."

"Hazelnutty," he echoes, nodding as he looks over the menu. "I'm not used to all of these choices. Mostly, when I'm from, it's just "coffee"." He sighs. "How old did i just make myself sound?"

She grins. "Barely old," she assures. Then she amends, "A little old, but, maybe you're just from an old-fashioned town, where all coffee is one flavor and you can still get it at a gas station and it won't be burnt to shit."

"Sounds exactly like Toronto," he says, and he actually laughs. He's sure that he hasn't laughed this much in years.

Jillie grins, glad that they're not weird after the last time they'd hung out. She ends up deciding on a hazelnut latte and a bottled water on the side, so she's not mainlining caffeine.

"So, the job hunt," she says. "Yea or nay?"

"Part-time in the film archive at the museum and I'm applying to Barton to complete my senior year in the Fall," he says. "What about you? Still running?"

"Still running," she confirms. "And also considering the Barton thing, but I'll be just an infant freshman there." She shrugs. "I need to decide if I think it's something I can handle, on top of everything. My therapist is helping."

"What do you think you'd like to study?" He says, eyebrows raised. "Theoretically speaking?"

"Something to do with the arts," she says. "But I don't know if I want to take art classes, if that makes sense."

Paul nods.

"I feel like that might be a lot of pressure, even if you're someone with talent?" He says, sipping his coffee. "What about something like history of art?"

"Probably," she says. "I'd like to take only one or two classes, but I don't even know if that's possible." She's willing to try, anyway, and maybe even fight for it, if she needs to. She knows she can't load herself up with too much burden, but she does want to at least try to get back into schooling.

"There's always the community college," says Paul, idly reaching across the table to fiddle with her bottle of water, turning it against the tabletop as he sips his college. "If you just want to get back into the swing of things?"

"Maybe," she says. "I guess I worry that'll seem like . . . giving up. Like I'm better than that."

"I don't think there'd be any shame in starting slow," says Paul. "Right before I...went travelling, I'd dropped down to the bare minimum classes I could take, and nobody thought any less of me. Nobody that mattered, anyway."

"That's good," she says. "Maybe people won't be as harsh as I think, but . . . I guess we'll see."

"If anyone ever gives you trouble, Lady, I'm happy to step in," he says, glancing at get through her eyelashes.

That has her looking a little shyly down at her coffee. "I appreciate that," she murmurs, then clears her throat.

"It would definitely be my pleasure," he says, taking the opportunity to admire her, how pretty how profile is.

If she notices his gaze, she doesn't remark on it, but she does keep her eyes averted for a bit longer, like she's actively giving him time to really look.

After a few moments, she says, "Tell me something about you? Something . . . real. Something little."

"Something little," he murmurs, turning the idea over in his head, trying to think of something that qualifies. "I love dogs? I'm left handed? I've known my best friend since i was five years old. What about you? Same question."

"Not a cat dude," she recalls. "Neither am I, you may remember. Also not big on dogs?" She winces when she says it, like it'll upset him, but she smiles apologetically. "Sorry. I can barely take care of myself, never mind another living creature." She hesitates, then says, "I, let's see. I've never broken a bone?"

"That's okay. I won't hold it against you," he says, smiling against the rim of his cup. "No broken bones? Impressive, in a sportswoman." He holds up his left hand. "This finger, this finger and this finger," he says, bending them in turn. "All during basketball games. What's it like being a twin?"

She wants to reach out and fiddle with the previously broken fingers, like she could feel the healed bone through his skin. But she recalls the intensity of his reaction the last time she'd touched him without warning, and she instead twists her fingers into a napkin.

"It's . . . normal, for me, I guess?" she offers. "I know that's kind of a shitty answer. I don't have a basis for comparison, though. Jack is . . . the other half of me, probably literally. He knows me better than anyone. I have no secrets from him." She pauses, then bites her lip. "Too intense?"

"Not at all," says Paul, shaking his head. "If anything I'm jealous. I've never had that. And I'm an only child."