Just Go Along With It ✔️

Break Ups and Breakdowns

The day began with a broken alarm clock, a smashed window, and a rock no bigger than a fist reading the word homewrecker in chalk. It landed on your bed, broke your REM cycle, and kept your mind alert, shocked to the land of the living and the breathing and breaking, and bringing you from the land of dreams.

"How am I going to explain this?" You run your hands through your bed hair, and glancing to the dented clock, gasp. "Crap, I'm late!" You hiss.

Halfway through slipping jeans on, the phone on the floor began frantically buzzing - was it really such a good idea to have the Mario Cart theme as a ringtone in a moment like this? - with the unknown, quite unfamiliar number showing up on the tiny screen.

"H-hello?" You manage to grab it just in time, and breathlessly answer, "______ ________."

"_______?" A familiar, rumbling tone questioned, firm and present in the air like a foghorn through mist. Thor. "- don't hang up, I've got to tell you something -,"

"Why would I hang up on you, when it was you skipped the date last night?" You shot back, slipping a fresh shirt on. "We haven't spoken properly face to face in honest to God weeks, you make no attempt to even drop by to say hi or anything? Oh my g- you're so bullheaded, and stupid Thor, and - lost your phone? Who's is this?"

"________ -," he starts, but you continue on.

"What kind of excuse is that? That's my name, you jock!" You're fighting to keep tears in, fighting to keep walking yourself out toward your seminar, and sound half angry all the while rather than a mess you feel bubbling up from within. "Tell me, Thor, what are you playing at?"

Thor sighs, and almost too quietly to hear properly. You're sure he whispers this, because all it sounds like to an untrained ear is a breath. "I think we should take a break."

Your heart stops.

But your roll hasn't.

"Well, you know what I think?" You huff, all but not running down the hallway of your building, "I'm freaking late to class. You're very most likely confused. At least one of you knows how to treat me like a decent freaking human being."

And with that, you hang up.

It isn't until two thirty that day that you finally slow down enough to process that your long time boyfriend (two years seems like eons to you)  - Thor Odinson - doesn't love you anymore. Or wants to take a break? What is this, F. R. I. E. N. D. S.? It's also at two thirty at which you collide with another student, sending their books flying. And thusly, you and this sandy haired guy in a purple muscle tee reading Even I'd Hit This with an archery symbol end up on the floor.

"Aw, books," he moans. 

"I swear I was paying attention," you murmur, helping the boy gather papers that seem to have exploded from his folders. With a glance, you look to him, and can't help but gasp. "Shit - shit, you're him! Clint Barton, right?"

His smile widens into a crooked crescent, crinkling his light eyes. "That's me," he beams. "I'd ask if we used to be friends, but I'm sure I'd remember you."

You blush. "No, no, I just - you're the archery champion of my old district - my art class made you that terrible banner that they hung up for the state championships a couple of years ago." You gush. "That, and yeah, I am a fan. You're practically an Olympian."

"Don't inflate his ego that much." You sit straighter, and glance up to hear where the almost bored drawl is coming from. She's slightly taller than you, and has hair that sits like flames wildly on her shoulders and a bemused smirk. "So, you must be the _____ _________ I've heard about. Clint, be a sweetie and help them up."