double check for double meanings / grady&elaina

[tick 12a / calla]

"You're late."

You'd said two o'clock and it's only five minutes after, but, really, who's counting. You left the house an hour ago anyways because Christian's fiancée was over and she had decided to maker her visit everyone's problem. Delilah was fawning with her over wedding dress photos and your mother was plaiting her hair and you don't think anyone even noticed when you slipped out the backdoor.

Elaina agreed to meet at the fancy little cafe that sat a few streets over and you all but collapse in a window seat with some ridiculously expensive brew, overly sweet with about six extra shots and the barista had drawn a little smile on the foam that makes you cringe.

But it's better than having her over in the sitting room, because the thought of having someone from school in your house is horrifying. Having to deal with your parents, and your siblings and Elaina none space? no thank you.

With your luck, it'd be like Cleo all over again. Because your family seems to adore your faux girlfriend, and they aren't exactly subtle about it. Your parents like Cleo, maybe, you think bitterly, even more than they like you.

And so what if you've been avoiding her? You had a lot on your plate when she pulled her little stunt.

Cassius, the little shit, decided to skip town right before the biggest paper of the term was due and he left you scrambling, all alone in the back of the library trying not to tear the pages out of Storytelling in Panem: The Games Narrative.

Then Cleo came back, and everyone got sent home and it felt like everything was being imploded all at once. You'd gone home and knocked on the door and Owen had been the one to answer it, "They finally kick you out?" He had sneered, and then you pushed past him hard enough that he stumbled against the wall.

You sulked back downstairs later that night for dinner and your father didn't even look up from his paper.

But Cleo is Cleo, you know this, and the only thing she's ever wanted is attention. She had fucked off right when your societal status had started to crumble - didn't even have the courage to break things off face to face with you. She had probably just been on a rendezvous with Maverick and had scrambled for an excuse and that's the thought that gets your blood boiling.

So yes, you're pissed off at her, but what else is new? Everyone leaves you - first Maverick and then Naomi and now Cleo, you still don't know where Benji's head is at, and you'd think you'd have learnt your lesson but here you are, waiting for one of the clique's little wannabe so your plummeting GPA doesn't get you expelled.

Because Elaina's one of the little flies that buzzes around them at the lunch table. Her voice is screechy and her makeup is always cakey, but it's almost cute how hard she tries.

You push a mug towards her, probably cold by now, and your mother would kill you for serving an acquaintance something like that. But the past week has made you so frazzled that you can't bring yourself to care.

"Here." You try to be nice and smile but it comes out more like a grimace, "Drink it, or don't, whatever."

You patience is razor thin, and you hate that of all people, Elaina, is someone you have to rely on, but you're nothing if not creative. "Did you bring your notes?"

[✨ zozo.]

Grady always looks like he has a stick up his ass. You don't blame him, dating Cleo must be an absolute bore. But you're of the belief that if you're going to be cruel you might as well do it with a smile, like when you laughed at Scarlet as you grabbed Parker's camera out of her hands and pressed the shutter. At least when Cleo hits you over the head with a cafeteria tray she grins, enjoying herself. Grady always seems bored. Too good to be here, too good to be in your presence.

He's right, but you won't let yourself believe that.

So you tutt at him as you enter the cafe - your choice, of course, they made the best macarons that Ally had introduced you to. You pout and wag your finger, refusing to let his stank attitude get the best of you. "Fashionably late," you begin, sitting down in an always-dramatic huff, "is different."

Sure, not many people smiled when they were paired with Elaina Keyford - not genuinely, anyway. But he didn't have to make it so obvious.

Sip, frown, gag. A squeal wraps itself around your words, "This is lukewarm!"

Deep down you know he probably asked for them to make it that way, a sick little game the girls at school play with you. Usually you'd laugh it off, pretend that you're in on the joke, chug it all to see them laugh. They might be laughing at you, but at least you're in some sort of control. At least they're looking at you. At least they're talking about you.

Bad press is good press - better than no press at all.

But with Grady, there was nothing but an irritated twitch of an eyebrow or a roll of his eyes. Lipstick stained around the edge of the mug, did you bring your notes? What a stupid question. He might as well ask if she had memorised her lines.

Ugh, you cannot stand him. He and Cleo are perfect for each-other.

"Duh," your turn to roll your eyes as you pull out your perfectly-highlighted, colour coordinated, glitter-penned notes on the nervous system. You're an actress - you can play the part of irritated, bored, holier-than-thou Grady Sullivan.

"I'm thinking we combine arts and science to truly show off our skillsets and creativity. Like a life-sized diagram using one of the mannequins from the theatre department," you begin, enthusiasm picking up with each idea. Someone has to show a little interest between the two of you.

"Or a 3-versed song going through the nerves in each body part? I can write it, and record it, you'd just have to sanity check. Or - this one's good - we get one of the art kids to paint the nervous system on one of our bodies and the other photographs it?"

You wonder, hands flipping through the pages and pages of ideas scribbled down in your notebook, if Grady ever feels anything at all. A twisted little idea curls up in your mind to try out his own nervous system, to pinch his skin between your fingers in an attempt to make a theory fact. But now's not the time for dramatics, however curious you are. Now is the time to get an easy A, putting in all the work and pretending it wasn't hard at all.

What's a 4.0 GPA if you can't brag about it?

[tick 12a / calla]

It physically hurts for you not to roll your eyes at her. Maybe she'd get away with being fashionable late if she had any kind of fashion sense at all. Where is that blouse even from - last year's catalogue?

Sitting across from that much polyester makes your skin crawl.

And it only gets worse when she pulls out her notes because the gaudy colours sting your eyes and fucking hell, you can already feel a headache coming on because the universe apparently decided that yes your day can get worse, and it will.

You start to zone out when she doesn't stop talking, just kind of stare at her in a strange sort of disbelief because you don't think you've even seen her take a breath yet. You know that Cleo likes having her little minions flock around her, but you don't know how she can stand this one. It must be exhausting, to pretend to care about people like this, but it's not like your indifference is your problem. A king isn't friends with his subjects, you don't owe anyone anything.

You're also a filthy little hypocrite, but you squash that voice down before it says anything else.

Elaina leaves phantom smudges of the ugliest shade of pink wherever she touches and you subconsciously pull your hands away. There's a fleck of wine-coloured paint stuck under your nail and suddenly it's the most interesting thing at this table.

You almost splutter at her last suggestion, but you catch yourself at the last second, lip curling and scoffing into your drink, "We're not turning in your nudes."

One of you, at least, has standards.

Except maybe you're frustrated and pissed off at the way your life is slowly crumbling in front of you, and maybe it's just not fair that it's happening to you. You're a product of your environment, you tell yourself over and over again, you're not at fault. You thrive on pointing fingers and pushing blame and digging your fingers into the cracks in people's facades in order to strengthen yours.

"I mean, if you want to stoop that low, be my guest."

When you reach into Elaina's and find your hands coming back peony pink, you cringe a little. Her part in Scarlet's little... mishap isn't exactly a secret, but it still feels good to rip into. It's refreshing to step back into your old skin after a week of stunted isolation.

You lean back in your chair and meet her eyes and try not to crack. "We both know what a successful little photographer you are."