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MY FACE FALLS AS ARYAN, HAVING FOLLOWED my directions to my home, pulls onto the street.
I should have expected this.
It isn't even an unfamiliar sight.
I don't look at him but he's slowing down the car anyway, sensing my shifting hesitation.
Strange how some vodka, one naked girl, one little yellow leaf, a failed exam and a semi-civil conversation— pretty eyes, he'd said and I'd wished I could turn him to stone with a look just for it— could bring us to such a wordless understanding of one another.
I don't unbuckle my seatbelt at all, merely staring out the tinted windows at the flock of cameras. News vans. Gossip channels. Eyes, eyes, eyes. They didn't see Mira Zahed. They saw a news article printed with my father's name.
Didn't they have anything better to do?
But no, they don't. This is their job. His life is theirs to dissect.
And my life— what is my life?
When they'd last flooded the outside of my childhood home like this so many years ago, the subject of their dissection, little, bright-eyed Mira had been very much alive under all their glaring surgical lights and scalpel news articles. They'd dissected the ruins of my family, tearing something apart that had already been torn to begin with.
And now they're back. Prodding at a dead body.
"This fucking city," I hear Aryan murmur under his breath as he brings the car to a halt right before my surrounded front gate.
But no, this wasn't Los Angeles anymore. They'd brought their vans to my front door. A camera flashes.
He's looking at me. I hate it when he looks at me. I especially hate it now.
"What?" I snap impatiently, breaking my staring contest with the nearest camera to glare at him.
Aryan is used to my glare. He doesn't even wince. I want him to wince though. I want to lash out. It's so easy to lash out at him.
I've never been the type to start a fight. I walk away— no, I run away—, I hide, I pretend I don't feel any of it. Yet, since the universe tossed this asshole into my life and told me to deal with, all I've wanted to do was fight.
After all, Aryan and I are at war.
"What's the plan, Zahed?"
I bristle on the leather seat. I glare out the windshield. I'm not even sure they can see more than our shadowed outlines through the tint. They won't capture my scowl, Aryan's impatient tapping on the wheel, they won't capture the battle lines drawn between us.
The urge to tell him to put the damn car in reverse and get me out of here is strong.
But from the set of his jaw as his eyes pass between me and the crowd blocking my gate, I can tell that he expects something different from me.
He expects war. He expects a fight.
And like that, I find my first compromise with Aryan Shankar. A common enemy.
"Drive," I say at last. "They'll have to let you pass."
This is my home they've come to, the home he left years ago. My home. I'm going to fight for it.
"You can bail me out if I run over any paps, right, Zahed?"
"Let's be real, Shankar," I tell him, "I'd let you rot."
Aryan grins like he wouldn't expect anything else. Then, he hits the throttle.
The reporters blink at the approaching car. Their cameras pause momentarily. And they scatter like ants beneath my shadow, like dirt under my shoe.
I fumble for my keys where the button to open the gate was, pausing when I realise he has them.
Aryan drives slowly, despite his comment about running over paps. He's careful, controlled behind the wheel.
It's why I decide to reach for them myself. They hang just above Aryan's knee, dangling from the ignition on my keychain. I dip my head and press the button, the gate swinging open and my fingers brushing the knee of his jeans as I go. I'm back in my seat a heartbeat later. Aryan shoots me a quick look before pulling into the driveway.
However, I'm throwing a glance over my shoulder. The flocks fall back into place but no one dares step onto the property. I sigh. Aryan does me the favour this time and hits the gate button on the key himself and I only turn away when the gate closes on them.
I'm yet to breathe though. I know they're still there.
The driveway climbs up from the gate onto the property itself. And then the property tumbles down the hillside. I was born on uneven earth.
We crest the small cobblestone parking space outside the garage itself and Aryan turns the car off.
With one last glance down the driveway at the gate, I climb out. He's tall enough that I can peer at him over the top of the car as he follows suit. I avert my eyes when he too peers over the top of the car.
Aryan swings my keys between around his finger and whistles a quick note. I'm treading around the vehicle when he says, "Heads up."
And then he tosses the keys.
I blink and the keys are on the floor.
I glower across the yard at him.
Aryan merely shrugs, his shoulders rising and falling beneath his white shirt. "Too slow, Zahed."
I scowl at him before dipping to retrieve my fallen keys.
Idiot.
Aryan stands patiently in wait and I debate stabbing him in the leg with the key as I rise up.
If you'd told me earlier today that I'd come home with Aryan Shankar at my side, I would've laughed so loud. If you told me I'd be willingly twisting the key into the front door as Shankar eyes Petra's peacefully bubbling fountain that sits beside the door, I would've cried because of how ridiculous that is. If you'd told me any of the events of today, honestly, I would have cried from laughter.
Somehow, I'm here, pushing open the door, eager to drag myself and Shankar into the house.
He follows behind and I don't glance over my shoulder at him when the door shuts. My jaw tightens as I realise my exact predicament.
I willingly let this asshole into my house.
"Shoes off—," I stop, turning and realising that he'd already kicked his off and rested them neatly beside the door.
Aryan shrugs. "My Nani would beat me with a slipper if I dare walk in her house with my shoes."
My mother would also throw a fit if I dare step on her Persian rugs with my shoes on. She'd rolled a good deal of them up when I was seven and had decided to make slime on the pretty one she'd bought at a market in Beirut.
I turn away from him and walk ahead after kicking off my own shoes.
"Nice place, Zahed," he comments. I don't look over at him again.
I should've pushed him out of the car and fed him to the paps.
His footsteps train behind mine as I curve toward the kitchen and I'm instantly annoyed by the sound. Honestly, boyfriend? I can't even stand the sound of his footsteps, for God's sake.
I know I'm not being fair or nice. But I've never been particularly nice to him at all and I'm not going to start today.
"We didn't quite think this plan through," I say, finally turning to him, hip pressed to the kitchen island.
Aryan occupies space beside the fridge and has his arms crossed over his chest as he glances over his shoulder with risen brows, glancing through the walls of the house to the reporters below. "Truly?"
Sarcasm.
I glare.
"Yeah," I say plainly. "Because now I'm stuck here with you." I wrinkle my nose. "And we both know neither of us enjoys one another's company."
Aryan's eyes light up with understanding.
He'd said I had pretty eyes. I'm pretty sure he was mocking me. But his are much prettier, I think. They're as dark as spilling secrets. They reflect all the light. A lit-up night sky of a stare. Twinkling.
"Ah yes, I see your point, Zahed," Aryan muses. He presses his shoulder to the side of the fridge and pulls his phone from his pocket. The action reminds me of my own phone.
I slip mine out too, content to ignore him, even if it meant I might risk seeing more notifications from the wrong Nazarenko.
Instead, the first ones that greet me are, in fact, from Dima.
But I don't open them because Ivan's weird texts flash behind my eyes and I have no idea how to process them. I set my phone down and Aryan's still staring at his.
I blow out a breath.
Yeah, let's just ignore each other. This will be much easier.
He's typing as I slide away from the counter toward the freezer. I ignore him as I pull it open, cold air gracing my cheeks.
The freezer door separates us so he doesn't see me roll my eyes when he clears his throat.
Shut up, I think, before he even starts speaking.
"Raf's still on campus, waiting for Kenna," he informs me. "So, it'll be a while until he's here to take me off your hands."
I close the fridge door, ice cream in hand, and I make sure he sees me roll my eyes this time.
"You know, up until today, I was fully convinced you just didn't know how to drive because you never drive yourself around," I tell him dryly.
I still refuse to say that he was, well, a damn good driver.
"I'm an engineering student, Zahed," Aryan replies, eyes sliding curiously to the three tubs of ice cream in my arms. I ignore his stare, walking over to the counter where I drop the tubs and fishing a spoon from a drawer. "Of course, I know how to drive."
"Then, why are you always carpooling like we're in kindergarten?"
He ignores my dig. I feel his grin. I don't even have to turn around to see it. "Never got a U.S. licence."
I blink and turn on him, brandishing my spoon of non-dairy chocolate chip ice cream threateningly. "You— what?"
He's still grinning as he shrugs like it's perfectly fine. "Just be thankful those photographers weren't cops," he mentions. I balk.
And when he inches toward the counter, he's testing his mortality because I am wildly close to stabbing him in the eye with my spoon. The last thing I'd needed today is the potential risk of being pulled aside in a car with Aryan Shankar. Why the fuck doesn't he have a licence after being here for so long? Why did he drive my car? I'm going to kill him.
Aryan pretends not to see the violence in my eyes as he brushes against the counter. I inch away on instinct, clutching my one open tub and my spoon like weaponry.
I inhale to let him know that he's testing me. He naturally ignores the sound and picks up one of the tubs, eyeing the labels.
I'd never noticed until today what Aryan smells like. He smells faintly like curling smoke and— cardamom? Anise? Clove?
Herbal cigarettes, I'm guessing.
I lean away from the warm scent of him.
Aryan drops the tub onto the counter and inquired with a risen brow, "Is this your coping mechanism? Vegan mint chocolate chip ice cream?"
I open my mouth to defend myself from the judgement in his tone but he's already carrying on, waving a hand. "Tastes like toothpaste, by the way."
I push him away from the counter then. Hard.
He only laughs and slinks back to his former stance by the fridge.
"Leave my ice cream alone, Shankar."
"It's only been like five minutes and you've resorted to violence," he observes.
"Maybe you should keep your mouth shut and no one will have to die," I reply.
"Who says no one has to die while we wait for Raf?" He's tapping his phone again.
I stare at him dumbly. "What?"
"Let's kill each other, Zahed."
•••
Our small compromise doesn't last long.
It ends the moment Aryan pulls out his phone and tells me to download some stupid app where there are guns and and weirdly bloody graphics.
I'd blinked at the screen and asked, "What are you? Twelve?"
"Trust me," he'd said. "The amount of joy I get from killing Herrera is unmatched. This is exactly your type of thing."
Approximately thirty minutes later and we're in the living room now, the sunlight filtering past the large windows overlooking the backyard, falling across Aryan's set brow as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, phone grasped between his hands in steadfast concentration.
I'm sitting opposite him, on the rug, back leaned against the bottom on the stretching white couch, my phone in my hands, the screen properly concealed from him because the last five or so rounds only intensified my trust issues when it comes to Aryan Shankar.
He's killed me a total of eight times by literally sneaking up on me. I'm starting to think he spends the entire game scoring the map just to find me and stick a knife in my back.
Fan behaviour, honestly.
The game is simple once you get the hang of it and I forced myself to get the hang of it quickly upon realising that the asshole was taking advantage of the fact that I don't know shit. By the tenth round, I pick up random weapons and grin behind my screen.
My ice cream is long forgotten, melting on the glass coffee table in front of me as I weave my way around the virtual map.
I'd never been one for video games of any sort but he was right— it's exhilarating to have the opportunity assassinate Aryan Shankar, virtual or not.
I keep an eye out for him everywhere I go along the game's map.
But no one is around beside a poor random player who I promptly murder, hiding my quick, flashing grin.
I watch the seconds tick by because there's a kill cooldown on this game that isn't very good for my impatience. I'm biding my time for Shankar.
Truth be told, I have no idea how long we've been sitting here in the living room. I have no idea whether I put the rest of the ice cream back in the freezer or if the cameras are still outside my gate and if Dima texted again. And it's relieving.
Five seconds tick by in the game and I look up at him. He's still very concentrated. He takes this very seriously. So do I.
Which is why he's properly affronted when I sit up and accuse him plainly, "You're cheating, Shankar."
Aryan sits up too, fixing me with a bewildered stare and pressing an insulted palm to his chest. "I am not," he defends himself.
Ten seconds left.
"Fucking liar," I accuse decisively with a sharp jerk of my chin.
Aryan blinks at me hotly. "What? What proof?" He swings out his free hand, his phone in the other. I try to slyly glance his screen to find him on the map but he hides it well, to my irritation.
Nine seconds.
"You're just sus," I tell him.
Eight seconds.
"You learnt that word an hour ago—,"
"Yeah, well you're sus and cheating."
Seven.
"Zahed, I get that you're new to this game but that's not how it works—,"
Is he mansplaining a video game to me right now?
"I get it," I say, tone biting, "you had one of your IT friends or something pull some strings because there's no way in hell you're beating me fair and square."
Six. I tap my knee.
Aryan scowls at me over the top of his phone. "Have you considered that I'm just good at this game?"
I roll my eyes. But my diversion is working. "Sure," I say plainly.
Five.
I navigate my way around the map, dragging my finger along the screen until my eyes catch his character. He isn't watching his back at all, too busy glaring across the table at me.
Four seconds. I conceal a smirk.
Aryan's character carries some bright blue gun and wears rabbit ears. He's twelve on the inside, I'm convinced. I straighten imperceptibly when he starts walking away from me in the game, back still turned.
Three seconds.
"You're coming to find me and kill me, aren't you?" I ask him casually. "Because you're obsessed with me and cheating."
"I'm not cheating," he says once again, with a roll of his eyes, tapping the screen as his game self moves further away.
Two seconds.
I grin.
One.
"Damn, what a shame," I say, hitting the kill button instantly. "Because I am."
Then, I'm on my feet, grinning like a madwoman as Aryan's virtual body slumps onto the floor, blood splattering across the screen like a gory horror film. I throw my phone onto the couch behind me as I burst into cheers, rubbing it in his fucking face.
"In your face, in your fucking face," I'm saying, pointing at him as he too stands, shaking his head as his screen glows red with defeat. My grin widens.
"What was it you were saying, Shankar? Hm?" I throw my hands to my hips and narrow my eyes at him. "What was it? New to this game? Not how this works?"
I clap my hands together. "Well, guess what, bitch? You're dead."
Aryan looks amused rather than annoyed, dark eyes sparkling. "You done, Zahed?"
I drop my clasped hands and narrow my eyes at him. "No," I decide, pointing a finger at him. "I want to hear you say it. I won. You're a dead man."
Aryan surprises me by grabbing the accusing finger I have pointed at him. I blink. He grins. His hand is warm and rough against my skin, his hold as arrogant and sure as his grin. An entire coffee table stands between us and yet I want to inch away from him, from the blaze of his stare, from the small warmth of his hand and the smoky, spiced scent of him.
But like hell would I back down.
So, I hold his stare as he smiles and says, "You won." A thrill fills my blood, shredding down my spine. "I'm a dead man." His lips quirk, sensing my joy. "Good game, Zahed."
Then, he lets go of my hand. Or maybe I pull away. I'm not even sure but I have it curled into a fist at my chest a second later, fingers flexing.
We stare at each other for a stretching moment. I'd wanted to inch away but now I can't bring my feet to move. I should grin because I'd won but instead, my head raced with a thousand other thoughts. And I have no idea what was going on in his head. His eyes are dark and without their usual spark that gave everything away.
The spell breaks when Cinna's sharp bark sounds from somewhere in the house. Then, the sound of paws on the marble. I'd been waiting for him to wake up. Fuelled with energy from a long nap, the small Pomeranian zips through the house, appearing in all his furry glory in the living room.
Aryan's eyes are readable now and they're filled with wariness as he scrambles away from the dog.
Cinna barks happily at me, nudging my feet lovingly. "Brat," I greet him.
Aryan, still a little pale in the face, steps back from me and the dog and comments, "You're one to talk."
I ignore the dig, bending to scratch Cinna behind the ear. Aryan is perfectly still, palms lifted halfway as if ready to surrender at any moment. He's scared.
I grin from my place on the floor, glancing between him and Cinna. "You're telling me you're scared of dogs, Shankar, but not those bitches in Kappa Kappa Alpha?"
He's quiet, wary and tense because Cinna's attention has caught on something that isn't me and the small dog shifts away from me. But I'm not done mocking him yet.
I laugh, shaking my head. "Cinna doesn't bite," I inform him, but he doesn't look very comforted. "I'm not so sure about the sorority girls though."
Aryan stopped listening on a whole, I think. Because Cinna decides in that moment that his new object of affection should be Aryan's leg.
With an excited bark, Cinna barrels over the rug towards Aryan, sending the grown man tumbling back on those long limbs of his, his face coloured by fear. I can only watch as he falls back onto his chair just to get away from the dog.
Aryan grunts as Cinna barks at him, the dog's head cocked in confusion as to why this human is such an asshole.
I intervene only when I think Aryan might actually kick my dog out of fear.
Rolling my eyes, I amble over to him and pick up Cinna, holding him to my chest as I stare down at Shankar. "For fuck's sake," I say.
Aryan only sinks further into the chair as if he's scared I might drop the dog on him.
I roll my eyes again.
"You shouldn't be scared of my dog, Shankar," I say boredly, just as Cinna nuzzles my chest like the attention whore he was. "You should be scared of me."
"Your dog has teeth," he says.
I flash mine at him. "So do I."
"I'm not scared of dogs," he defends himself, like he hadn't just fallen onto his ass. "I'm just not a dog person."
"I can literally smell your fear."
"That's just my cologne."
I roll my eyes and step away from him with Cinna in my arms. He visibly relaxes.
"Don't fuck with me, Shankar," I warn. "Or I'll send my dog after you." I smile at him.
He looks properly threatened.
Then, he's saved from any more threats by the ringing of his phone. Cinna is happily sniffing my crop top while he answers the phone.
"Fuck," I hear the person on the other end greet. "There are vans out here, man."
"OMG, Mira." I hear a squeal in the background. "You're like famous af." Kenna sounds happy.
She gets her joy from pretty girls and I get mine from threatening Aryan's life.
Aryan meets my eyes in question.
"Tell them to drive in. I'll open the gate."
Aryan slowly rises to his feet, chatting over the phone with his friends while simultaneously eyeing Cinna in my arms like a hawk. I look down at my dog and pout. "He doesn't like you very much," I tell him. "But that's okay, he doesn't like me that much either and his opinion is shit. He's shit."
I grab my keys from the kitchen counter as Aryan dips toward the door, phone at his ear.
Aryan reappears, shoes on. "Are you talking to your dog?"
"He's a much better conversationalist than you," I reply.
He's hung up the call and I've already hit the button for the gate. We both tilt our heads toward the door when the telltale sound of tires alert us that Herrera and Kenna have arrived.
I walk ahead of him, knowing he was shit-scared of Cinna. He stands behind, afraid the dog might spring from my arms as I unlock the door.
A dark-haired boy idles behind the wheel of a Toyota on the cobblestone driveway, the glass down as Kenna sticks her head out the backseat window. Her hair is wild, her lips bruised and she's smiling like a devil.
"Miraaaaa!" She cheers, stretching my name. "Your house is so cute! And, your dog!" She coos at Cinna across the driveway. "I love him. I love you. We should have a sleepover sometime!"
And though I've just met her today, I find myself nodding with a small smile at her passionate speech as Aryan brushes past me out the door, shaking his head softly at her antics.
In the front seat, Herrera scowls at thin air and snaps at Aryan, "You gonna get in anytime this year or you have to give Zahed a goodbye kiss?"
Kenna howls in the backseat.
Aryan flips him off.
I debate flipping him off too because ew. I'd rather die than get a goodbye kiss from Aryan.
But Aryan is turning my way anyway. I know he's not going to kiss me obviously. I have the dog in my arms. And well, we hate each other so much that we'd just spent the past hour trying to kill each other on a game.
Yet, for some reason, the smile he throws me as he dips his chin in a soft nod makes my heart pound in my ears. "Good game, Mira."
♥ ♥ ♥
matthew 🤝 aryan
being dead men
i haven't read this through so excuse any errors but among us owns my life at this point in time so i have dedicated an entire chapter to it xxx