selfish [levi ackerman]

2

You shoved yourself to a balcony for fresh air.

You couldn't take it anymore. The heat. The viscous scent of raspberry liquor splattered on your skirt. The endless pool of men's shirts adorned in white deodorant stains characteristic to people who took part in Wine Wednesday events. You needed to get out of there.

You huffed as you supported yourself on the balcony railing, taking time to shut your eyes and begin counting to one hundred. This was the method you had been using to nurse yourself back to health since the tenth grade: if you were ever feeling nauseous, you would resort to counting in order to mitigate the feeling. The worse the nausea was, the longer you would count. It had pretty much worked every time.

This was a count-to-one hundred feeling: not fantastic, but not mind-numbingly terrible. You had just made it to thirty seven when you heard a long breath come from your left. You paused the mental counting as you turned your head to the opposite end of the balcony.

You almost felt like lurching then and there upon making eye contact with someone.

You had partially recognized him as the guy that scribbled away in the corner of the library some nights. You couldn't be sure, but the way his eyes met yours sent a familiar sensation through your spine. That's why, watching the ash fall gingerly from the cigarette in his hand, you felt the numbers flee from your head in rapid succession.

He was not the type of person you would ever expect to see at this type of party, or any event with even the mere scent of a fraternity attached to it. He was a quiet, independent type as far as you knew, although you really didn't know much.

His expression was unusually stern as he eyed you. He maintained focus on the wobbly alien headband that was surely working its way off the top of your head. Maybe he was judging your composure, probably even the outfit you chose to wear. His dark, casual attire looked sophisticated next to your holographic jumble of a costume; maybe you should've gone with the cowgirl outfit. At least then you could have maintained some sort of southern charm.

"You okay?" the guy questioned.

His eyes were on your face now, likely taking notice of the scattered eye gems that had migrated south to your cheeks.

You shook your head yes, although you felt like you needed to count again. This time to three hundred.

He took a short drag of his cigarette, maintaining eye contact with you. You felt somewhat exposed beneath his stare, as if you were the single most out-of-place thing on the entire campus. You swallowed, silently reaching the number twenty four.

"Well I'm not gonna bite you," he voiced, slightly shifting in his seat, "unless that's your thing, you know."

Your face burned bright red and the number thirty six snapped out of your head. Who did this guy think he was, making you lose count over and over again?

"I'm not- I don't know what you're talking about," you managed to retort. His expression remained stern, though his eyes were soft. 

"I'm kidding alien. Seriously though, you okay?" he asked, turning to face you. 

"Yeah I'm good, just taking some time to myself outside," you responded in half-honesty, "It was getting to be too much in there."

He nodded slowly, turning to look through the open window that peered into the building. 

"Yeah, It can be that way. I remember my first college party, it was like another world. Oddly fitting for an alien," he stated. You let out a small breath, imitating some kind of giggle.

"I'm sure it's confusing and sort of helpless being a freshman, right?" he asked.

You scoffed slightly and his head shot back to you. You threw a hand over your mouth in shocked embarrassment.