Johannes accepts the drink, gracefully raising his can for a toast before taking a sip. “Speak for yourself,” says, winking at her, “I use four kinds of forks for each meal.” When Nasrin plucks a leaf of mint, it takes Johannes half a second to realise that she’s putting it on her tongue and not about to toss it aside. Way to give him a heart attack.
“Is that so?” Once his heartbeat is steady, he sits by her side on the bed. Nasrin must know it’s one of those days, but he doubts either of them would actually care if it wasn’t. Johannes places his free hand on her back, letting it travel all the way up to her shoulder. “Should we try? I’m sure there are ways of achieving a similar flavour without glasses.” He leans in closer, using a finger to tilt her chin up, and presses a little kiss to her cheek. He’s teasing, of course, but it’s a good way to test the waters before diving in.
✺
“You met me at the peak of my gallivanting in Europe, remember?” Nasrin laughs, reminiscing, “I’m back to being Americanized and never using the proper cutlery or glassware.”
She leans into his touch now, so that almost every part of her body on her side brushes against his, “Don’t worry, I’d never hurt your beloved plants,” she bats her eyelashes, though she’s serious. Nasrin, deep down, admired Johannes’ ability to care for his plants, as silly as it sounds, it was indicative of some level of nurturing—almost paternal, something she wasn’t too sure she had. Her eyes roll at his kiss, as she turns her head afterwards, cupping his cheek in her hand, the other gripping the can. Nasrin closes the gap between their lips, tying the mint leaf into a neat bow with her tongue before slipping it past his lips. She pulls away, only enough that she can speak, but her eyelashes just barely miss his cheeks. She raises her can and gently lifts his chin, putting the top of the can onto his lips and tilting it slowly, “try it.”
Johannes doesn’t mind having Farrow around, but he prefers it when he’s out. That’s when he can finally relax and organise his things without having to worry if he’s bothering the other man. The knocking steals his attention from the task, so he puts a pile of clothes back into the wardrobe and opens the door to reveal a face he knows too well.
“Come in!” Smiling, he steps to the side to allow Nasrin to enter the room. Johannes knows he shouldn’t, but he’s always glad to receive a courtesy visit from her. “So you came here to support me? How thoughtful,” he teases. Despite the gravity of the topic, his tone is light and playful. She must be just as tired as he is.
He glances at the apple cider, already stepping closer to Nasrin. “Do we need glasses for that, or does the support group require a more bare approach?"
✺
She beams at him in response, always happy to see him. Nasrin thrives off of the innate electricity between the two, an ongoing thrill and conquest over time. She matches him, closing the distance between the two, so much so that she can feel the soft pulse of heat from his body. “You know me, ever so thoughtful,” she responds playfully.
Nasrin shakes her head, prying off two cans from the pack, and handing one over to him, “please, we’re not fancy enough for glasses.” Nasrin glances around the room before passing by him, grabbing his forearm gently, before falling back on his bed and opening up her own cider. She softly takes a mint leaf off his plant, “apparently people make killer apple cider mojitos,” before placing a leaf on the tip of her tongue.
he rolls his eyes at her antics but doesn’t deny the fact that she does make things interesting. i mean, who else would drag him from the comfort of his bed at this time at night? “yeah, yeah,” he sighs, placing his hands inside his jacket pockets to keep them warm. “you say that and then we get done for trespassing or something along those lines.” when she holds up the sheet, he takes it and squints at it in the darkness. it’s a familiar piece but not one he’s played all that often himself. “and who better to do that with than beethoven?”
he hums in agreement. “this one is a lot more serene, i would say. there’s something almost peaceful about it.” he’s always struggled with the more restrained pieces himself so he understands what nasrin means. still, he’s sure they can make it work. once they get to the music building farrow takes out the keys he’d snatched from one of his ta’s a year ago and lets them in. “let’s hope there’s no one else here tonight.”
✺
She sticks out her tongue at him playfully—sometimes, Nasrin felt like the only way for the boy in front of her to loosen up was with some spontaneous excitement. But to be fair, she felt that way about everyone. “Don’t worry, I’ll always protect you,” she vows, putting her hand on her heart, “nothing will ever happen to you.” Which, though it was clear she was joking, Nasrin knew that she probably would sell Farrow out in the event they get caught, self preservation and all.
Nasrin nods at his response, knowing he—unlike many others—understood her passion for dramatics. “Look at you, acting like a goody two shoes but still having a key to the place. You know my plan was just to jimmy the a window, right?” she teases, slipping in past him and pulling out her flashlight, peering around for any additional sort of protection, “here, let’s go in this room,” she nods towards the practice room beside them, “quicker exit for the wuss, if need be.”
this time, farrow does groan. he can’t believe he’s about to leave the comfort of his bed at this time of the night except well, he can actually believe it because he’s done it before. there’s no saying no to nasrin, after all. “fine, i’ll be there in five minutes. try not to wake everyone up please.”
and sure enough, in five minute’s he’s donned some sweatpants, a hoodie, and a comfortable jacket and made his way downstairs. he greets his friend with a deep scowl. “if it weren’t for the fact that i actually do need to practice something i would have ignored you, i hope you know that,” he says as they make their way towards the music building.
Nasrin waits outside (im)patiently for Farrow, tapping her foot and whistling loudly to an aimless tune, glaring daggers at the other residents who stare at her. When Farrow is in front of her, the beaming smile returns, growing even larger at the site of his scowl.
“Oh stop,” she laughs, jabbing him with her elbow, “you know I’m fun to be around—besides, Farrow, what do you get out of not going on a fun midnight adventure?” The music building isn’t too far away, Nasrin grabs the sheet music from her tote and presents it to him in all it’s crumpled, annotated glory, “I’m trying to embrace my classical side again. It’s the second movement, but I’m having a bit of trouble with it,” she walks ahead of him, only to do a restless spin with her arms stretched out before looking towards him again, “the first movement is so powerful, but this is reserved.”
farrow’s not really sleeping, rather just about to when he hears the first sound of something hitting the window. he writes it off, thinking perhaps it’d just a bird or the first patterings of rain but then it happens again and again and farrow huffs, throwing his blankets off and standing up to check. he cracks open the window and leans out just slightly to see what’s going on.·
when he sees nasrin standing there he nearly groans.·“what the fuck are you doing?” he whisper yells at her, careful not to be too loud lest he wake up anyone in the dorms.·“it’s nearly midnight, nasrin.” though this has never stopped her before and farrow nearly sighs again, knowing full well in the next ten minutes he’ll be out in the winter cold, dragged by nasrin on whatever adventure she deemed appropriate for them tonight.·
When Farrow’s head finally·peered out of the oh-so familiar dorm room, Nasrin beams like she herself was the sun, creeping out in the darkest night. She lifts her arm and waves her hand, and at full volume says “nice to see you too!”·
She rolls her eyes and shifts her weight to her right side, hands shoved back into her pockets, fingers playing with the loose fabric inside.·“Okay, and when has that stopped me before?” her voice lowers down a bit, noticing eyes peering out of nearby windows,·“come! Let’s go play some music, azizam.”·
who : @jchanncs
where : room 203 (…soon after farrow’s departure)
Soon after she saw Farrow wander outside Faulker Hall for the night, Nasrin slinks into the dormitory, past a cracked open door. Her hood guards her large curly hair, head-to-toe in black, as inconspicuous as possible—though, it wasn’t like she cared too much if someone saw her, either.
Her hand raises to knock on a familiar door ((Room 301)), and greets the man behind it with a smile. “So with all this news of the world ending... I figured I should come over,” she trails off, lifting up a pack of hard apple cider (no, nasrin still hated hard alcohol, but something about the taste of apple cider on a cold winter night brought her comfort, and god forbid she ever overindulge, her stubbornness only ever came out when it came to clouding her judgment), “you know, people really need each other when traumatic things happen.”
who : @farrowea
where : right outside faulker hall
Tap, tap, tap—rocks gently hitting the double paned window. Nasrin was hungry for some sort of adventure with Farrow, a newly found “friend” (maybe acquaintance), through their shared music classes.
“Farrow,” she hisses, trying to get his attention the good old 70s way. Of course Nasrin didn’t bother texting him before appearing—she was lying in bed and felt like practicing piano, simple as that. And while she was used to 24/7 music practice rooms at her undergraduate school, Harcourt didn’t yield that luxury, “it’s me—Nasrin.” (As if anyone would bother doing this on a weeknight with no warning)
education: nasrin studied abroad in the united kingdom for her undergraduate career and now has returned back to the states, studying at her father's alma mater. nasrin is doing her graduate studies in anthropology and music, conducting research work on ethnomusicology in the mughal empire.
part one
Born in the peak of monsoon season to an ambassador and an English professor, Nasrin Ahmadi was already gasping for air. Her parents consulted doctors through embassies and backchannels in Delhi, searching for a solution. Within a few weeks, the hole in her heart was remedied, and she had secured her position as the youngest sibling—the one who has to be protected.
In the beginning, Nasrin was happy, a gleeful young girl who swerved through crowds of people with a mischievous smile. Her days were filled with love and affection from her parents and the ever so common idea that blood meant loyalty—and that Nasrin owed her loyalty to no one else but her family. That is, until one sunset in the courtyard right outside the ambassadors house, in the middle of a diplomatic event with other United States prominent figures—six year old Nasrin was snatched.
She was missing for six days, twenty two hours, and seventeen minutes. Nasrin’s mother would remind her of this every time she tried to leave the house the next two years. The worst days of her life. Nasrin’s father, on the other hand, went on a tirade and fired his entire security staff for gross incompetence. The only daughter of a United States diplomat stationed in India, taken right from under their noses.
Nasrin remembers very little about her kidnapping. The years of sanctioned therapy had determined it to be a consequence of trauma. Nasrin, on the other hand, believes it was because whoever kidnapped her was alarmingly gentle and sedated her into a sleeping beauty slumber until they got what they wanted. Call it Stockholm syndrome, or call it childhood naivety, but she always had a sinking suspicion of knowing her kidnapper. The cold case was drawn to a close after two years of searching for the culprit, who demanded a few documents from her father, then dropped her in the middle of the crowded city to fend for herself.
When her father’s term as ambassador came to a close, Nasrin and her family shipped back to a small town in New England, covered with tall trees and the sound of silence, a sharp contrast from the life she had lived thus far in Delhi. She and her brother, Amal, five years apart, were enrolled into a prestigious boarding school and shipped off with high hopes and dreams. At eight years old, Nasrin remembers pressing her face against the window of the chauffeured car, calling after her parents and begging them to reconsider. You’ll be safer there, I promise, her mother said, cupping her face and wiping away her tears.
part two
The last four years, the doe eyed girl still had a knack for misadventure, but she kept her head down and did her work, eager to please her mother and father as Amal began to struggle with his coursework. Nasrin fueled her feelings into the piano, if only to be fawned over the three times she went home when there would inevitably be a party of alcoholic lawyers, stoned diplomats, and coked up politicians. Classical music provided balance in an otherwise unbalanced life with no home base.
At twelve years old, Nasrin began to watch her loved ones fall apart, screaming to have them hold on, only to see them let go. Her father’s temper had taken a turn for the worse, and in a fit of drunken rage, her mother was pushed down the stairs and suffered two broken legs. Still, adamant to go home, Nasrin’s mother cooed over her on the phone, you’ll be safer there. When she returned for the summer, her mother was gone—without a trace. Once a professor at a prestigious liberal arts college in the area, now no one. Nasrin and Amal screamed at their father for an explanation, to which he only shook his head and sipped on his whiskey: you can’t find someone who no longer wants to be found.
When Amal and Nasrin returned back to boarding school for the fall, Amal entered his senior year and applied to the slew of colleges his father required of him in order to become the next Ahmadi ambassador, but something had shifted for both of the Ahmadi siblings. Nasrin began to act out in uncharacteristic ways—her progress reports noted in a cautious manner: straight A student, but seldom shows up to class, only to cause chaos when she does. Nasrin forged her father’s diplomatic signature countless times, and Amal her accomplice, pretending to answer as him when the school called in concern. Despite never being close, Amal had taken his sister under his wing, and vowed to protect her from whatever force followed their father, that took their mother from them.
That is, until that night. When Nasrin turned fifteen, she started dating far out of her age range to be comfortable (call it her daddy issues), and found a new sense of reckless abandon in the extravagant parties of the rich and famous at the school. She was now someone rising—someone to be feared. Her brother had returned to campus for his winter break at Harvard, and the two had somehow come across the same party. Nasrin’s personality increased ten fold at these gatherings, not aided by any substance, sworn off of those given her fathers addictive personality. She hooked up with boys who were taken, just to relish in the distress of their girlfriends when they discovered. And now, many justified her behavior through assuming she was under the influence—troubled, in a way. But Nasrin was sober, she was addicted to wrecking havoc and destroying lives.
But that night, Amal stumbled right into Nasrin. She stared into his eyes and saw something familiar—the look in her fathers whenever he drank. Except, by the time Nasrin had found him, he was too far gone. Amal had fallen victim to the opioid epidemic, the one that did not discriminate by age, race, or class. But she still tried to fight for him—protect him, as he had once her. But her father’s words echoed in her mind: you can’t find someone who no longer wants to be found. Amal dropped out of Harvard his third year after years of partying with rich socialites and blocked Nasrin on every conceivable platform. His last message was a handwritten letter, delivered to the door of her boarding room–I’m sorry.
part three
It was at sixteen years old that Nasrin understood the meaning of you come into this world alone, you go out of this world alone. And when she fully embraced this sentiment, she became numb to the pain she caused others. She learned to rely on herself as the greatest defense. Her smiles no longer reached her eyes in a way both unnerving and charming.
The last few years, Nasrin has been hellbent on finding her mother and her brother, refusing to acknowledge that they had dropped off the face of the planet with no explanation. As she had been told many times about her own kidnapping, they were both cold cases—it’s better to assume, no matter how hard it is, that they’re dead. But something in her trusty, reliable gut, was convinced both circumstances were due to her father. Knowing his only claim to fame now was gaining empathy from his supporters as he ran for senate, Nasrin kept him on a tight leash—having one more member of his family go missing went from tragic to suspicious. She stole from him whenever she could, inserted chaos with a sense of elegance, but followed his dreams on face value. Now, by attending Harcourt Institute, his alma mater. It’s here she comes across the Harcourt Literary Society, and Nasrin believes it may be the key to truly putting an end to her father, once and for all.
the moment on the page
Nasrin is gasping for air. She’s small—weak, frail, a child. In an unfamiliar home, lying on a worn down couch. She lifts herself around and tries to observe as much as she can, though her head continues to pound. An elegant clock, tall ceilings, a plate of her favorite cookies in front of her.
The six year old reaches for the cookies, unassuming, and scarfs one down. Once she swallows, she feels the figure behind her before she sees them. Her head snaps around just as her right arm is injected gently once again. The hands guide her back to lying down on the couch, and right before her eyes close, her senses are heightened.
The man was tall, with large shoulders and kind eyes. Her hand was on his in an attempt to stop him from injecting her. It was rough and smooth at the same time, as if one part was sandpaper, and the other was silk. And the smell, it was overwhelming, a cologne, an aftershave, something she knew, someone she knew—and then darkness.
