OH, Black Cats

115. Xavier Thorpe | Fake Dating HC IV

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Xavier knew he would be happy when he fell in love.

It wasn't the shallow belief that dating would provide validation—or that a relationship would fix everything that was wrong with him.

It was a memory, something from a dream, even when he was younger his dreams were violent, he got better with age—careful not to touch anything dark or ominous, but there was one dream he held onto with a vice grip.

It felt like something out of a fairytale, a long stretch of bridge—a dock— beside a murky brown lake. Water ripples over the surface. There's someone sitting at the end, back turned to him, a pile of flat stones on one side and tower of books on the other.

They turn, and he still can't make out their face, but their smile makes warmth bloom in his chest.

For the first time in years he woke up feeling warm, like someone had held him all night.

Like he was home.

Xavier always knew he'd be happy when he fell in love with someone.

But something about this doesn't feel right.

He looks at Bianca's crystal blue eyes and forces a smile on his mouth.

She's a perfectly nice girl, better than he deserves.

But sometimes it feels like two puzzle pieces on opposite sides of the pattern being forced together.

No one ever said love was easy right?

He's not sure why he broke up with her the way he did.

Maybe it was the dreams, never the one he was chasing, or maybe it was that he couldn't tell of these were his feelings or hers, or maybe it was the fact that once he heard Bianca's real voice he knew he'd spend his entire life wondering how much of this was his will and how much was hers.

Maybe he was just scared.

Still it could be worse.

He could be (Y/N) (L/N).

Everyone in school was talking about it, the public breakup, or the exposed love letters, the unrequited love, or the rejection from the Nightshades.

His gaze meets Bianca's from across the room and he immediately looks away.

They say peers should help each other in camaraderie during times like these.

...huh

There's a thought.

He doesn't think much about the dock when he approaches you at your usual spot, he doesn't even glance at the pile of books by your side. Reading is, like, your defining characteristic.

"You need a popular boyfriend, and I need someone for cover so Bianca backs off— so let's pretend to date, get what we want and break-up."

The words don't feel entirely his own, like they're whispered by someone else—by a god or a siren—each one heavy as it slides off his tongue.

He half expects you to decline, you seem like someone nice and decent, not the type to have a fake relationship.

Instead you nod.

"We'll need to make a contract."

He wonders if you'll be discouraged by his demands:

"I'll text you twice a day at least, and I expect the same communication back—you have to tell me if you're going to be busy." Or "Sometimes I want to be alone, and I need you to be okay with that." Or even "You can't have all of my clothes, but you can have a few of my sweatshirts."