Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Well, Karina, I must say, I am rather impressed with this vest design.” 

You look down and find a stray thread on the sleeve of your coat that suddenly requires absolutely all of your attention, leaving no room to look up at your professor.  Your hands are behind your back, the left thumb surreptitiously caressing the palm of your right in an effort to mimic an old gesture your mother had used to calm you down as a child. 

Thankfully, your professor doesn’t seem to notice.  He continues on in that self satisfied sort of voice that you have come to attribute solely to college professors who think themselves tantamount to the royalty of the educational hierarchy. 

“Yes, yes, you obviously took my advice on the seams by the middle here, I see how well this has been put together…” 

You manage a little jerk of the head that could possibly be interpreted as a nod, choosing not to mention to the professor that he had never once given you advice. 

The thread is dark green, like the rest of your coat.  You rather like the color green. 

 You also decide not to voice the fact that every single time you attempted to explain your idea, he had stubbornly insisted that “vests are for the weak”, and refused to even look at your sketches.  You’re not quite sure what that even means, but apparently you imagined that whole thing, because he’s now exclaiming loudly about how glad he is to have personally chosen a vest for you for this project, and how lucky you are to have a mentor this generous. 

Maybe if you just pulled the thread off? No, that would fray the edges of the coat, and there’s nothing you hate more than frayed clothing.  Well, nothing except- 

Oh, shit he’s still speaking. 

“…Yes, I can see it now, Stefan Donnaghue and his pupil, Camilla Mariposa, revolutionize the way the world sees fashion. “ 

His eyes lose their focus for a second, and you know he’s imagining his name in bold print, but then he suddenly seems to remember that you still exist.  How nice.  He turns to you and puts an earnest hand on your shoulder, which you do your best to pretend doesn’t bother you.  

It does. 

“Krista,” he begins, looking into your eyes in what he probably thinks is a fatherly manner, although it is hindered slightly by the fact that he hasn’t managed to remember your actual name for the entire semester.  

“We must put this design into the show this year.  We will, of course, have you make a speech.  And we’ll need a headshot for the pamphlet-“ 

“No.”

 Donnaghue looks up in surprise, as though he had forgotten you were even there.  Come to think of it, he probably had, again, considering this is your first time speaking this entire conversation. 

“No?” 

“Yes.  I mean no.  I mean…” You’re slowly losing your train of thought, something that always happens when you’re worried.  Your thumb is doing little to calm you down. 

“I just thought that..maybe..my work could be…er…anonymous?” 

He looks at you as though you’ve just sprouted a second head.  You may as well have.  In this industry, recognition is as necessary as air and about as rare as blue diamonds.  Every single student in this place would love to have their name in that pamphlet.  Suddenly you realize that you’re probably coming off as highly ungrateful and attempt to explain yourself. 

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate, this, really, I do,” you start.  You manage to find that green thread again.  You’re really going to have to do something about that.  “It is… just that I would prefer it if people did not know my name.  I would love for them to see my designs, but…” You shrug helplessly and trail off, not sure how to politely ask him to respect your wishes and leave you the hell alone. 

To your surprise, Professor Donnaghue gives you a kindly smile and a nod.  “I understand.”

 Gratefully, and with more than a little shock, you look up at him. “You do?” 

 Karkat is near apoplectic with laughter.  You roll your eyes at him and take a sip of your cappuccino, resigning yourself to staring idly around the Starbucks until he calms down. 

“Oh…oh man,” he finally chokes out after about five minutes, wiping away a tear.  At last, he calms down enough to focus.  He looks at you and raises an eyebrow.  “What a tool.” 

You shrug.  It’s always been hard for you to criticize others. 

Karkat, however, has never had that problem. 

“I mean, seriously.  You give him the best fucking design in class, and instead of listening to what you, the artist, wants, he decides that he’s gonna ignore you and do his own stupid shit.” 

It would seem as though your roommate is revving for a long rant.  You get a little more comfortable in your seat and prepare yourself. 

“Who does this guy think he is, anyway? I bet he’s one of those.  You know, one of those guys that thinks he’s the fucking messiah of his profession, but hasn’t even gotten his bachelor’s degree.  Wow what a superhero.  Where’s your cape, asshole?” 

Uncharacteristically, he pauses to take a breath, and his eyes suddenly widen as though he has just reached a life changing revelation.   “NO. WAIT. WHAT IF-“ 

He lowers his voice and leans in conspiratorially.  You give a little smile and humor him, leaning in as thought the two of you were about to share in some big secret. 

“Kanaya.” he says seriously, taking a deep breath.  “What if…he never even got a bachelor’s?  Oh man NO NO wait even better.”  

Apparently he’s done being quiet.  You are not surprised in the least.  

“What if he did, but got it out of the back of some guy’s van.  Like he was walking down 34^th or something and saw some dude with a sign, like “BJs for Bachelor’s” or something, got down on those skinny little knees of his, and that’s how he got his job!  Kanaya, this is the best kept secret at FIT oh my god we’ve gotta expose him, KANAYA, it’s our duty as upstanding citizens!” 

He gazes at you, wide eyed and ridiculously earnest, and you can’t help but giggle.  

Instantly, he leans back and smirks in a self satisfied way.  “There it is.  I knew I could get you to smile, Maryam, you can’t hide it from me!” 

You shoot him a grateful look.  What happened with your professor probably wouldn’t seem like a big deal to anyone, but Karkat could tell how much it bothered you.  He could read you better than anyone else ever could, and hates it when you’re upset because you “Mope around like an asshole and make me fucking depressed”.  

You’re in your room staring at the wall, wishing Karkat were here to watch some of his shitty movies with you and take your mind off of things.  But he’s out with his girlfriend and probably won’t be back for awhile.  You sigh.  You like Terezi, you just sometimes wish you could have your best friend around more often.  

You roll onto your stomach, simply because the change of position gives you something new to do.  You know what happened earlier shouldn’t be a big deal, and probably wouldn’t be to most people anyway.  But you just keep hearing his stupid voice in your head, insisting that you need to be in the spotlight, don’t worry, because “I understand.”  No, professor, you don’t understand.  You haven’t even tried. 

You scowl into your pillow, thinking that it is rather ironic that he insists the world know your name, when he still hasn’t managed to learn it himself after all this time. On the bright side, there’s an almost zero percent chance of the correct name being in the pamphlet. 

You bite your lip, a little ashamed in yourself for ruminating on something so stupid, and hoist yourself up into a sitting position.  Karkat left you with the warning that you should “keep yourself so fucking occupied your eyes will be bleeding from the strain of doing so much awesome shit”.  

In Karkat speak, that means “I’m worried that you’ll waste your night thinking too much.” 

He’s right.  You get into these moods sometimes, and it’s almost always something to do with other people, because they just…don’t seem to understand you. 

You know this isn’t entirely fair, really, because it’s not like you make an effort on your part either.  But sometimes you can’t help but wonder how everyone else just manages to somehow…get on in the world.  

Since you moved to New York, you’d taken to people watching, and it astounds you that you walk past thousands, maybe even millions of people, and all these people have their own billions of thoughts and fears and hopes and dreams and it’s just so overwhelming sometimes that you need to abscond to somewhere a little more private before you can breathe freely again and collect your own thoughts. 

So many people, and they all seem so determined to be the best, or the most noticed, or the brightest.  Sure, you should have expected something like this in New York City, of all places, but it’s been four years since you made the move and the sheer energy of it all still manages to surprise you. 

Four years since you shocked everyone in your small town of Woodhurst, Ohio, (population -17), with your decision to leave.  Nobody could understand why the shy, quiet Kanaya Maryam would ever want choose chaos and uncertainty over safety and comfort. 

Your parents supported you, of course.  They always did.  But you could tell that even they didn’t quite understand, and, though they tried to hide it, you knew they were worried about you.  

Which was completely understandable, considering the first time you stood in the middle of Times Square with the openmouthed gaze of an obvious tourist, the tides of people that flowed around you felt more like they were engulfing you, drowning you slowly in a deep pool of what ifs and what am I doings rather than parting around you as expected. 

You don’t know how to swim. 

But you are Kanaya Maryam, you are not a quitter, and you didn’t leave your entire life behind for nothing. 

So you took a deep breath and started paddling, deciding right then and there that if surviving means filling your lungs with water then goddamnit it’s time for you to adapt. 

And you have, for the most part.  But sometimes, even all these years later, you still feel like that drowning guppy in a sea of brilliant, well dressed, and pseudo likable sharks. 

You let out a frustrated groan with the realization that you’re doing exactly what Karkat warned you against.  You know that if this keeps up, he is going find you under your bed, mumbling about fishpeople and hissing at daylight. 

Yeah, you need to find something else to do. 

With enormous effort, you manage to drag yourself up off your bed and into the living room, searching aimlessly for a viable distraction.  DVDs? No, you’ve watched all of them, and you promised you’d save the good Netflix releases for a movie night with Karkat anyway.  You’re about to flop down onto the couch, content that you walked a whole ten steps.  That should be enough to at least tell Karkat that you tried without actually lying, but before you fully complete your faceplant, something catches your eye.  

You reach for it, realizing too late that it’s one of those shitty romance novels Karkat keeps trying to force on you.  At first he had tried to hide the fact that he liked those kinds of books, but you found one under his mattress during one of your rare forays into the world of cleaning, and that was apparently enough incentive for him to own up to his not so small obsession.  You weren’t surprised in the least. 

Once he had discerned that you weren’t going to make fun of him for the rest of his life, he began insisting that you read them too.  You vehemently disagreed.  Those things were simply not up your alley at all, and you had nearly reached your limit already with all those movies he made you sit through. 

That, unfortunately, didn’t stop him from trying to force them on you anyway, attempting to spring them on you when you least expected it.  You assume that’s why this one is lying on the table now, out in the open and very obviously positioned so that anyone in the room (see also: you) would see it.  

You stare at it for a moment in disgust, as though expecting it to start doing something indecent at any moment.  The cover sure doesn’t help to waylay your suspicions, taken up mostly by a man and woman so fiercely entangled you’re not sure where he ends and she begins.  

You feel an unwarranted spark of curiosity, and you gingerly pick up the book, holding it at arm’s length. 

You squint your eyes as though maybe that will somehow help you understand better, but to no avail.  You have so many questions.  How are they even supposed to breathe? Is that arm hers or his, because it seems to connect them through the stomach somehow and you didn’t know that was possible.  It isn’t possible, is it? Frowning, you narrow your eyes and bring the book a bit closer to your face. 

Is that position supposed to be comfortable? You must admit to yourself that you have almost no experience to go on, so you are quite possibly not the best judge of these things.  But still, you’re pretty sure they do not work that way. 

You open the book and flick through the first few pages, hoping to find some sort of explanation.  When you find none, you sit down in frustration and glare at the cover again.  You were already having a terrible night, and now you have to deal with this.  You decide that the scene from the cover must be later on in the book, and therefore you must read further in order to find it. 

For research purposes, of course. 

And that’s why Karkat finds you lying there, hours later, having fallen asleep with the book over your face.  

The look on his face is one of unbridled glee, and he absolutely refuses to stop smirking as you attempt to explain to him just why you had no choice but to read the book.   And the sequel.  And started on the third.  

It was research, of course.  Nothing more.  It’s not like you actually like this drivel or anything.  Of course not. 

But Karkat just smiles and shakes his head, announcing that he’s going to bed.  But not before accidentally showing you where the rest of the series is on his bookshelf. 

As you make your way back to your room, a little chagrined and with five more books under your arm, you think to yourself that this was a rather successful night. 

Not only did you actually manage to distract yourself, but you also finally discovered, in great detail, everything you had ever wanted to know about the couple on the cover.  And more.