❝And it's not fair
I keep on writing a sequel to stories
I know that are not there
I don't wanna die but I don't wanna live like this❞
I wanted to eat the air.
Aiden had managed to cook up a delectable storm that could compete at the Flavor Olympics, boasting Indian spices arm-wrestling with a mouth-watering Italian sauce and seasoned ground beef.
Resisting the joke I'd been perpetuating since our subway ride back to the apartment, he'd instead decided to make lasagne. My offer to help had been dismissed with a firm "No, thanks," which had more to do with—what I was starting to place as—obsessive control issues than any genuine desire to save me from the horrors of cooking.
After changing into my cozy loungewear, I joined him back in the open kitchen and settled down on the other side of the island, my eyes glued to Aiden's culinary theatrics. His cooking style mirrored what little I'd discovered of his personality. He cooked with a ferocity like he'd been sent straight from Hell's Kitchen to make my life more, well, hellish.
Aiden moved around the kitchen like a man possessed, handling lasagne sheets with the grace of a seasoned dancer. Each pasta layer was an exquisite canvas, and he was the artist applying strokes of spicy tomato sauce with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Garam masala rained down like confetti, and the cumin and coriander turned the air into an irresistible aromatic maze.
After what felt like a century of preparation, Aiden turned his back to me and put the lasagne safely in the oven. He stepped back and let out a sigh of contentment.
"It should be done in 40 minutes."
Just as I was contemplating whether to give up and (silently) declare him the culinary overlord of the apartment, he glanced in my direction, his face a strange mix of surprise and faux indignation.
"Harper, you creep. Will you quit stalking me? I'm trying to cook here."
I smirked, realizing the callback to our first meeting.
"I apologize but it's rare for an asshat like yourself to display such raw talent, I can't help but watch."
He smiled, a rare display of his dimples that made my heart do a little somersault. I chose to ignore it, instead focusing on the tension that still lingered in the air, but beneath it all, there was a strange sort of camaraderie. It was as if, for this brief moment, we had set aside our rivalry and shared a glimpse of our true selves.
"Well, in that case, I might consider sharing some cooking tips with you in exchange for you not playing Taylor Swift again for a month."
I raised an eyebrow, feigning contemplation.
"You drive a hard bargain, chef. Taylor is legendary, you know."
He moved over to my side of the kitchen island and extended a hand. I looked down at it and back at him then shrugged.
"Fine. No Taylor for two weeks."
"Deal."
We shook on it. As I was about to let go, Aiden tugged at my hand and gestured back to the living room.
"Have you checked out the TV here? It's glorious."
Was he inviting me to Netflix and chill? He didn't let go of my hand, tugging me off my stool and into the living room with him. It wasn't until I was sat, center-seat in front of the expansive cinematic set up that he let go, plopping himself down on another sofa seat to my right.
"What's your poison?" he asked as the TV blared to life, nearly blinding me with how bright and animated the colors on the huge-ass screen were.
"Uh."
He flicked through the options on Netflix, waiting for me to tell him what to pause on.
"That."
Zodiac.
Aiden turned to look at me over his shoulder with just his forehead and eyes visible from how low he was on his sofa.
"Seriously?" He seemed to hesitate before adding, "Don't you want to watch something more...uplifting?"
"I actually love watching horror and true crime when I have a bad day. This one's a classic. Come on, play it."
He continued to stare at me with an indecipherable look in his eyes, his uneven eyebrows questioning my sanity on behalf of the words he didn't say before he turned back to face the screen, muttering a little something to himself that I couldn't catch.
I made myself comfortable in my seat, letting the day's worries float away as I watched the impeccable performances of the star-studded trio of Jake, Mark, and RDJ transport me to a world of crime and terror.
Maybe Aiden was right. After all, finding comfort in serial killers as entertainment? Perhaps I should consider therapy or a new Netflix genre.
We were more than halfway through the movie after that skin-crawling, terrifying scene with Jake Gyllenhaal when we remembered the lasagne. We'd totally been absorbed by the movie playing out to process the ding of the oven.
It was only after another embarrassing one of my stomach's large rumbles that Aiden fell off his sofa seat—whether in concern for the lack of food in my system or the lack of leads by the detectives, I couldn't figure.
"Dinner?" he'd asked, hopping back to his feet with a little bit of pink in his cheeks and too much bravado, like he hadn't just fallen on his ass a second time in front of me.
"Yes please."
Without further ado, he fastened his pace to the kitchen. I started to uncurl from under my comforter and get up but Aiden's "keep your ass put" wasn't one I wanted to argue with.
Before I knew it, I was served an aromatic, and very generous, portion of lasagne with some herbs sprinkled on top and a side of garlic bread I hadn't even known he was making.
I blinked at the plate, accepting it quietly from Aiden who didn't mind my silence, sitting back on his sofa with a plate (and a much smaller portion) of his own.
I eyed the baking tray.
"You cooked for both of us right?"
"Mainly for you," he said through a mouthful of his own food already. "I had an early dinner with EJ."
I stared back and forth between the lasagne I was holding and him. He'd spent over an hour in the kitchen whipping this up...for me?
"T-thank you," I stuttered, slowly carving out a small bite for myself. Aiden waited until I took a bite and let out a sinful moan of gratitude before grinning. A full-dimpled, ear-to-ear smile.
It was terrifying in a nice way. Like the movie.
"You're welcome."
His bashful smiles were a chink in his armor that I was starting to enjoy. Call it a new guilty pleasure.
"So, about today..." he started through another bite of food, "Um...how was it?"
His question was wrapped in the gentlest hint of caution. My eyes flickered to the TV screen behind him, having honestly assumed we'd continue watching the remainder of the film while eating. I hadn't prepared myself for small-talk with my mortal enemy.
Nevertheless, I couldn't resist the urge to play along with our ongoing game of verbal fencing.
"Oh, just splendid," I replied with an exaggerated sigh after scooping up another generous portion of the lasagne into my mouth. "I fought off two perverted dragons on my way home in tin-foil transportation and single-handedly saved the city. You know, the usual."
Aiden chuckled again, and for a moment, we shared a rare, unguarded laugh. When it simmered, I could tell he was waiting for me to give him a genuine answer. I surprised myself, and him, by delivering.
"It was kinda shit," I admitted, putting down my fork. "I had a job interview."
Aiden raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued but cautious.
"Didn't go well, I assume?"
I sighed, recalling the grueling rounds of interviews that had stretched on endlessly.
"It went just as well as a squirrel trying to navigate a maze of traffic cones." I paused and added, "I don't even know what that means. But in short: it blew. I couldn't even eat lunch because I didn't know when they'd call my name for the next round. Or to announce my failure."
Aiden's expression remained neutral as he nodded, setting down his now finished plate of food on the coffee table.
"Tough break."
He paused for a moment, his eyes still on me with some form of a conflicted consideration in them.
"What?" I asked gently.
"If you like writing so much, why are you an accountant?"
My mouth fell open a little at his bluntness...and the fact he knew that much.
Catching my shock, Aiden coughed and muttered, "EJ, I mean, Evan mentioned it. That you two worked together and you're in Finance."
Not giving me a chance to process the fact that the two of them had talked about me, he steamrolled on.
"So why 'Ms. InksALot'? And why keep that persona hidden from everyone? Does anyone else apart from me know about it?"
I was a little taken aback with the number of questions he had. The curiosity in his eyes told me he'd been waiting to ask these things for a while now. The zodiac killer would have to wait.
I hesitated, fully aware that I was venturing into unfamiliar territory with my sworn enemy. But perhaps there was something strangely liberating about sharing a hidden part of myself with the last person I would have expected to be interested.
"First off," I started with a faux stern smile, "It's ErosInk. Not Ms. InksALot."
"I can't remember all that. I'm going to stick to calling you Inks."
I rolled my eyes.
"Well then I'll call you Pixels."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Why Pixels?"
"Evan, I mean EJ," I said, mirroring him and making him smirk again, "mentioned you're a graphic designer the day I moved in, remember?"
"Oh. Right."
"So you work with pixels? On the screen? Get it?"
I was much too proud of my joke, a sentiment that Aiden clearly didn't share as he continued to stare at me with an unimpressed face.
"Tough crowd," I muttered. "Anyways, Pixels—"
"Tch."
"I write romance one-shots. And novellas."
I saw his lips twitch at that and it made my guard go straight up.
"What?" I snapped reflexively, setting my almost-finished plate of food to the side. "What's with the face?"
"Romance shorts is one way to call it," Aiden said, fighting his grin and failing. "You write por—"
"Call it porn one more time and I'll stab you with a feathered pen, I swear."
"What would you prefer I call it then?"
"Literature!" I huffed, slamming my palms down on the sofa. He jumped at that and moved back a little, all signs of humor gone. "I write literature! I explore sexuality and sensuality through my writing. I help my readers escape from the real world and discover themselves in a safe space where no one judges them for what they like."
I thought my noble little speech would have garnered a round of applause. I wasn't ashamed of what I did and I needed Aiden to know that so he'd stop throwing porn writer at me like it was an an insult.
Instead, he raised the fork he'd been fiddling with in the air like a student with a question.
"Hold it. What exactly is your process here? Do you write your own ideas or do you take requests from your audience?"
"Both, I guess," I said, feeling slightly calmer that he was actually taking this seriously. "But lately I've been doing more of the latter. Writing for commission and requests pays, and it's...more satisfying in ways."
I remembered the picture I'd woken up to in the morning of the lovely elder couple cosplaying as Lady Alice and Charlotte, a smile touching my lips.
"Because of the big fat check coming your way? I bet."
My smile vanished. There was a hint of derision in his words that I didn't like one bit.
"What's your point, Aiden?" I asked, leaning in and half-resisting the urge to grab him from his sofa and strangle him.
"Nothing at all," he said, fixing me with a placid, infuriating smile. "Anyways, do you want some more?"
He gestured at my plate and I didn't bother to respond, fixing him with a laser-focused glower I wished would melt his face right off so I could see the brain behind it and know his thoughts.
"What do you mean?" I pressed.
His smile faltered and tension knitted his brows together.
"Let's just finish the movie, Inks," he responded, gruffly now.
I rose abruptly from my seat and practically flung myself onto Aiden's small loveseat, squeezing us both uncomfortably close. "Spill it," I snapped, my voice oozing impatience. "I'm not budging until you do."
Aiden's eyes narrowed, and he shifted, pushing back against my intrusion. He sat up straighter, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
"Fine," he bit out, his tone sharper than a blade. "Here it is: I don't think there's anything particularly admirable about being a sell-out."
My brows shot up in surprise, and I leaned in even closer, our faces almost touching.
"A sell-out? Please, do enlighten me," I replied with a hint of mockery. "In what universe am I a sell-out?"
Aiden's gaze remained locked onto mine, his irritation palpable.
"You write to pander to the masses," he retorted, his words laced with frustration. "There's no real artistry if you're just stringing words together in a way that caters to the audience, rather than expressing something genuine."
My nostrils flared, and I glared back at him, the tension between us sparking like a live wire.
"My writing offers an escape," I argued, my voice laced with anger. "It's a break from the mundane, a glimpse into worlds beyond our everyday lives. That's what my work represents."
Aiden shook his head, his jaw clenched tight.
"Art should mirror reality," he asserted, his voice cool and calculated. "Not shield us from it."
The room seemed to shrink around us as our confrontation escalated.
"It should empower us by creating a world that blends reality with a more palatable version, a 'realist' approach that allows us to meet reality head-on. Not run from it. Otherwise, what's the point?"
"Oh please, stop deluding yourself Aiden."
Before he could argue, I pressed on, the words pouring out with barely restrained fury.
"You're telling me you've never created fantasy worlds through your paint brush? Or taken on graphic design gigs you despised? Made art to appease others?"
Aiden leaned closer, his eyes boring into mine with unwavering intensity.
"No," he confessed, his voice seething with resentment. "Not if I can help it. It goes against my principles. Unlike you, I won't compromise my artistic integrity like that."
Our heated argument crackled in the air, our bodies practically vibrating with hostility. Aiden leaned in closer, his eyes still locked onto mine, and his voice carried a fervor that put me on edge.
"Harper, listen," he chided in a condescending tone as if I were a disobedient child. "Art, in my opinion, shouldn't be about escapism. It needs to be a reflection of reality and the complexities of life. Where do you think the popular phrase 'art imitates life' comes from anyway?"
"So, you're saying that every artist who tries to offer people a break from their problems is a sell-out?" I scoffed.
Aiden didn't back down, his gaze unwavering.
"No, not necessarily. But it's about balance. Art should engage with the world, not just provide an escape from it."
I shot back, my voice edged with frustration, "And who decides where that balance lies, Aiden? You?"
"Harper, you're missing the point entirely. It's not about me deciding. It's about artists challenging themselves and their audiences. It's about pushing boundaries and exploring the human experience."
I scoffed again, my fists involuntarily balling up.
"Oh, so now you're the patron saint of art, guiding us all toward enlightenment?"
Aiden's lips curled into a snarl, and he shot back with a venomous tone, "No, but at least I'm not pandering to the lowest common denominator just to make a quick buck."
My face flushed with anger and my voice was low and shaky as I spat, "Right, because selling out and starving aren't the only options, Aiden."
Aiden's nostrils flared, and he leaned in so close that our noses almost touched, breaths mingling together, "I'd rather starve for my principles than compromise my integrity."
The silence that followed was deafening. Our eyes locked in a battle of wills, neither of us willing to concede an inch. But then, something shifted in Aiden's expression. His eyes dropped to my lips and for a second, I saw his armor break. A fleeting sense of vulnerability.
One that I didn't care for.
Recounting his words, I hissed, "And I see firsthand how well that's been working out for you."
His gaze flew back to my eyes, a smattering of shock echoing through them.
Without uttering another word, Aiden abruptly stood up, almost knocking me back in the process. He stormed out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, and slammed his bedroom door shut behind him.
I was left alone in the searing silence, the lasagna he'd made for me now a ruined and cold culinary casualty on the kitchen counter.
As I stared at the mess, I couldn't help but wonder if our feud was just another layer of 'realistic complexity' that Aiden so blindly believed in. Blind being the key word.
Aiden might prefer starving for his principles, but I'd rather feast on the heartwarming success of bringing people joy, even if was wrapped in a 'sell-out's' disguise.
_____
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Song: feel something by Bea Miller
Vote goal for a double update this week: 15
A/N: Just when these two seemed to have found common ground, their principles just HAD to collide and add more fuel to the hate-flames. Tch tch.
Have you ever had a passionate argument about something you hold close to your heart? How did it affect your relationship with the person on the other side of the debate? I'd love to hear your experiences in the comments!