a sum of small things | camren (au)

the fourth year | july - december

A/N:

*insert that American Horror Story gif of Emma Roberts saying "surprise bitch, I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me..."*

:::

December in London is absolutely freezing. You're leaning against the brick wall of a back alley behind the theater, cursing your leather jacket for not helping you in any way. Still, you're not just shaky from the cold.

You watch the dancers exit with your heart beating in your throat. Watch the way they're laughing together, wrapped in thick coats, watch their post-show glow, the way they beam at the few people asking autographs. But by the minute, everything gets more quiet. People are leaving, going home, and you're starting to think you made a mistake.

You made a mistake coming here.

"You alright, there?" A guy with thick brown curls walks up to you, wrapping his scarf a little bit tighter around his neck. His accent is British. "Are you waiting for someone or something?"

Your voice is hoarse. "Yeah, uh—a friend." He nods, so you add, "Her name's Camila?"

The guy grins. "I think she's at the pub already. We usually go there after shows."

"Oh." You hope he thinks your voice is shaking because of the cold. "Is that, uh, far from here?"

He laughs. "Right around the corner. You can walk with me."

:::

july

:::

"What are you reading?"

You don't look up, just lift the book a little higher, showing him the cover.

"Emma Cline, The Girls..." Shawn drops down in the seat across from you. "Seems fitting."

"Fuck off," you mumble, keeping your eyes on the page. Your throat feels scratchy. You haven't said more than three words today despite the fact that it's nearly lunch already.

Shawn doesn't respond. He rummages through his backpack and pulls out some kind of music magazine that you couldn't care less about. When the barista comes over, he orders a coffee. You can tell that the girl is trying to get your attention, probably to ask you whether you want anything else. But you keep your gaze down, eyes on the page. You don't want anything else. You just want to read.

You wanted things and you couldn't help it, you read, because there was only your life, only yourself to wake up with, and how could you ever tell yourself what you wanted was wrong?

There's a heavy sort of ache in the center of your chest, a burning behind your eyes. You force it all down with your next exhale, force it down down down until it's weak enough that it's almost died out; you have gotten really fucking good at that lately.

With your teeth sharp and painful on your bottom lip, you look up at Shawn. He's already looking back, mouth serious, worried frown on his forehead, like he knows what's coming.

Your voice sounds shaky, but you force yourself to say it anyway. "Any news?"

Shawn's eyes are dark. He studies you, quiet, with a hint of something in his eyes you wish you didn't have to see: pity.

He shakes his head. "No."

//

None of these days feel like your own.

There's no training, no summer school; you didn't audition for it because you weren't supposed to be here, of course, and now you are here, and there's no place to go. The city is empty of people that you know. Your ballet class group chats are filled with pictures of theaters in Russia, beaches in Cuba, stupid selfies with the Eiffel Tower. You've blocked pretty much everyone in your phone, and you wake up alone, to no messages. You don't really do anything all day, don't really talk, and then, you go to sleep with your throat aching from the lack of social contact.