Work Text:
It’s 8am on a goddamn Saturday and Snowman is very seriously debating about committing a homicide.
The police would understand, she’s sure of it. Who could blame her for a little murder when her roommate had woken up at the crack of fucking dawn and was insisting on cleaning the room. Things could wait a few hours - it’s not like it hadn’t already set all night. But no, no of course they couldn’t. Ms Paint couldn’t possibly just wait a few a little while and let Snowman sleep, recover and clean up. Instead, her roommate was sighing loudly and passive-aggressively and Snowman was doing her best to pretend she was asleep because if she got woken up so Ms Paint could sign at her, Snowman was going to kill her.
The police would absolutely understand. 8am, on a Saturday. That was more than understandable. That was justifiable. No court would convict her.
Another of those loud sighs slides out of her and Snowman can hear her rustling something - her sheets? The rug? Who fucking knows. Whatever it is, it’s far too loud and goes on for too long. Snowman stays perfectly still, faking sleep completely out of spite (also partly out of the entirely futile hope that maybe if she fakes it for long enough, she really will fall back asleep and will wake up to a wonderful blissful afternoon without any passive-aggressive roommates hovering right by her bed).
Just as Snowman’s about to sit up and sign for Ms Paint to fuck off, there’s the clattering sound of shoes on the halls outside, and the shutting of the door. She’s gone. Snowman sighs and relaxes again, ready to finally drop off to sleep.
But she doesn’t. All of Ms Paint’s usual bullshit has her too riled to sleep, and yet also too tired to actually do anything useful. Wonderful. It’s not as if she’s had four hours of sleep and might perhaps want more. Of course not. Murder remains on her mind, even as she rolls over in bed.
She reaches out to her bedside table, fumbling around until she manages to find her phone. Her eyes stare blearily at her passcode, trying to remember what it is. Two wrong entries later, she remembers that she had to change it last night to keep Fin out. Snowman groans and racks her brain. What did she change it to? Something to do with a song? What was it… It was playing when she got up to dance?
Oh right. She punches it in (skirtsNsweaters8) and the phone finally opens up, revealing a few dozen different notifications and what appears to be at least four different parties texting her.
Like an archaeologist, she uncovers the events of the evening through her feeds, using Instagram to find where exactly Sawbuck disappeared to (his jowely smile is especially broad with his head pressed up against a remarkably cute girl’s as they check in from what looks like a Denny’s) and Snapchat to discover who Itchy went home with (she taps quickly through a dozen snapchats of various people’s genitals and quietly hates that she’s familiar enough with Itchy to know that none of them are him). Doze has tagged her on Facebook in an album and she flicks through the shots, grinning at some of the funnier ones.
It had been a great time out. They’d started out at the boy’s school, moved to the local bars and finally a handful had come back with Snowman to the dorm to polish off a bottle of wine and listen to some records.
But in all her uncovering, she comes across something she doesn’t remember - a text from a number she has no contact info for, and no memory of entering in her phone. The single text starting the conversation offers no clues either, just a simple “Here”.
Snowman debates about deleting it. Whoever it is, they can’t have been terribly important if she can’t even remember who it is. No point in not tidying up.
Then again, this could be one of her friends with a new number. Snowman taps out a quick message: Who is this?
She switches over to twitter and catches up on her feed. Crowbar is up early, as per usual, tweeting out his usual positive affirmations. Itchy is also already awake (or perhaps didn’t sleep at all) and has replied with the usual expected sarcasm and inappropriate image macros. She quietly likes them all, smirking to herself when Itchy immediately tweets at her.
@thecrowbar7 @queensnow8 I SEE YOU FAVING MY SHIT ANSWER YOUR FUCKING TEXTS
She simply likes his tweet. Her phone buzzes as the text comes in.
My apologies but I don’t recognize this number and it appears to have been entered into my phone last night. If you could tell me your name, I would share mine.
Hmm… how curious, and somewhat worrisome.
Excuse my reluctance to share my name of neither of us remember each other. Your number appears to have been added to my phone last night, potentially as a prank. I will remove you.
A fair proposal. Have a wonderful day.
You as well.
Snowman doesn't delete the number. Something about the gracious way the other party handled her rejection amuses Snowman and intrigues her. Perhaps she'll leave them in a little longer.
Her phone buzzes. It's a text from Itchy. She deletes it sight unseen, knowing that it will only be an unflattering picture of his crotch. For someone who insists on showing his delicates to everyone he knows, he certainly doesn't know how to frame them.
And, social media exhausted, she lies back down and sees if she can manage to sleep this time. It seems that she can, and she sleeps all the way through Ms Paint’s return and any further passive-aggressive sighing.
--
11pm on another Saturday night and she has entirely managed to misplace her band. This is both incredibly unlikely and yet simultaneously fully expected of them.
The trouble with being in a fifteen piece jazz band is that attempting to organize them all is a bit like herding feral cats across a stream. Scratch does an amazing job of it, mostly by anticipating everyone’s actions and being an unlikable smug shit at the same time. Snowman has no particular use for playing nice with him, but he manages the others and it allows her to entirely opt out on being the one who has to harass people into showing up at gigs on time.
She’s supposed to take the stage in 15 minutes but there’s no sign of anyone, not even Crowbar (who is always half an hour early to everything), not even Stitch (who usually calls when he’s running late and gripes the entire time), not even Scratch himself. Snowman has checked her phone and ensured that she is in the right venue, and she has casually texted a few of the more reliable members on the off chance the boys are all traveling together and have gotten somewhat derailed.
No one has responded back at all. She balances her violin on her knee as she sits backstage, checking her phone again. No new tweets from anyone. No check-ins on Facebook. Not even a selfie from Fin on Snapchat, at least nothing from the last four hours. No contact at all.
She glances at her other contacts, wondering if she should touch base with any of them to see if it’s her phone that’s the trouble. There’s Ms Paint. Though a quick glance shows that the last message with a reminder from her to please please please be sure to reserve the TV next time she plans on watching a show in the common room, with a smiley on the end. Snowman has pointedly not replied, as reserving the TV is the kind of game she refuses to play. Either it is free and for use, or it is not. That’s the way of things in the common room. Only fools attempt otherwise.
Snowman glances down to the next contact. Ah, the mystery person. She taps it open and types out a quick text message.
Lovely evening tonight.
Not thirty seconds later, a response is returned.
The weather has been particularly cooperative. I had thought you were going to remove my number.
I was. I changed my mind.
There’s no response at first. Snowman taps her fingers along the body of her violin. The backstage is busy and she’s wondering if she should come up with some backup plan if her band stands her high and dry. She can play of course, but people are here to dance to a big band, not to watch some woman play violin for an hour. Still no sign of motion from anyone on any platform, but at least she knows it’s not her fault this time.
Her phone buzzes. She checks, and there’s her stranger again.
Fair enough. May I ask why?
You were polite and equally straightforward. That was reason enough to keep you around. If you find this intrusive, I will stop.
The response is quick.
I also find your candid tone refreshing. Would you mind if I text you as well?
Of course not. Feel free to speak whenever. I should warn you, I will disappear in a moment. I have a prior obligation to keep.
Her phone buzzes but it’s not her friend. And then it buzzes again, and again, and her phone fills up with what appears to be at least five hours of notifications. A quick glance and she sees that all of these items appear to have been uploaded now, as if they were without any internet or cell service for hours.
She skips Itchy’s still buzzing series of endless texts and what looks like hysterics from Trace, and goes straight to Crowbar. He’s sent two texts.
“Excuse me,” The stagehand’s hand waves just within Snowman’s line of sight and her head bobs up. The girl smiles and signs as she speaks. “Is the band coming?”
Snowman nods and quick signs back. They’re late and will be here soon. She’ll play until they arrive. She quickly gathers her things, glancing at her phone one last time.
The mystery friend has texted again, not words, but a picture instead showing a lovely view from the top of some building. Snowman smiles and sends a photo of her own - a quick snapshot of the parted curtains from backstage looking out at the audience.
Her band doesn’t show up until halfway through the set but it’s still a success in the end.
--
3am on early Sunday morning and Snowman is quite drunk. The bars are closed and half of them have ended up at her dorm room, drinking and listening to jazz and chatting. She’s had to turn down the player a few times because Itchy keeps yanking it up too high, insisting that he can’t feel the music right now. Snowman’s given up on reminding him that there are people who can hear it around and just keeps nudging the knob back down every time Itchy goes near the player. He’s not sneaky at all.
Right now his hands are going a million miles an hour, signing his way through some elaborate story involving some particular grotesque sex act he committed with the help of another. He hasn’t said that it was Doze, but judging by how red Doze is and his own fumbling attempts to interrupt and derail, she suspects the punchline will be the reveal.
But nobody else is paying much attention. Matchsticks has passed out on the floor, curled up on the still-stained rug that he likes so much, and Fin and Trace are having some intense conversation. She catches a sign now and then when she glances over, picking up enough to figure out that it must be about who has ownership of what is either a song or a girl. Die has crawled into her closet and she is ignoring whatever he’s sulking about.
And Snowman is on her bed, texting the woman she has come to nickname Queenie. From what she has figured out, Queenie lives on campus as well, goes home on the weekends, and is some high demand program that keeps her very busy. She also takes photos of flowers and loves to send Snowman images of sunrises along with good morning messages.
She’s the only person who can get away with a good morning at 6am without suffering Snowman’s usual death glares. In fact, Queenie’s habit of snapping photos of the sunrise has worn off on her, and she tends to snap photos of the sunset, sending those off to Queenie with a good evening message.
Snowman’s genuinely come to enjoy hearing from Queenie day and night. Though they haven’t exchanged any photos yet, she finds herself speaking about Queenie to the others, relaying her thoughts or opinions or showing off some photo she’s taken.
There’s a clapping sound and she glances up. Itchy beams once he’s got her attention and signs at her, though everything is sloppy. He’s so drunk right now and she leans on context to help her figure out what the heck he even wants.
“Ask for a nude.” Itchy signs and waggles his eyebrows lavishly. “Send her one too. I’ll help.”
Snowman delicately flips him off. Though, she has had a few more glasses of wine than she should, and so, at 3am on a Sunday, she texts Queenie.
I request a selfie
It’s somewhat more bold than she usually is with Queenie, but not out of line in her opinion. She has certainly requested selfies from friends before, enjoying seeing her friends grinning faces and the backdrops of their lives. Only one person has reacted poorly to it, and Snowman isn’t certain if Ms Paint didn’t appreciate her wording, or if she just didn’t appreciate Snowman. Pairing them had been a poor choice.
Her phone buzzes. It’s Queenie.
My goodness. You’re certainly bold tonight. But I think if you would like a selfie, you should send one first.
Hmm… Not unreasonable, not at all. It was only fair. Snowman taps her fingers on her bedspread. Well, she had been planning to send one if she got one. Switching the order didn’t matter that much. So, she leans over and taps Cans’ shoulder, drawing his attention away from Clover. She smiles and signs to him. “Will you take my photo for a friend?”
Those big hand signs back a “Sure” and he takes her phone, the device nearly disappearing when he takes it. Snowman brushes her hair back, does a quick touch up, and poses. Cans snaps two of them, pausing with a frown. Snowman feels the hands on her back and glances to the right, finding that Itchy’s slipped in behind her and is photobombing her selfie. She just grins at Cans and motions for him to take it anyway.
It’s the best of the ground, even with Itchy’s round head peeking in from over her shoulder. Snowman takes her phone and sends it.
Greetings from a late night party with the rudest man in the world.
Itchy taps her until she looks at him and he signs to her. “Ask for a nude now. For me. Be a pal.”
Snowman gently shoves him off the bed and settles herself again. She taps the phone on her leg and waits. There’s a chance she might not get a text back. Queenie might choose not to extend the favor. Snowman wouldn’t blame her, though that would certainly ruin the friendship they’re currently cultivating at the moment.
The door opens and Snowman glances over to see Ms Paint there, in her bathrobe and her nightshirt. Itchy quickly signs a hello and Ms Paint has that pained look on her face that she gets when cornered by Itchy. She signs to Snowman. “Does the music need to be so loud?”
“No one else is complaining.” Snowman signs back. They’ve certainly kept it down enough that the RA doesn’t care, though she also suspects they could do nearly anything and the RA would still not leave her room.
“It’s very late.” Ms Paint says, but she won’t come right out and say no, leave, get out. She is far too determined to be a nice girl. And of course, Snowman has decided to take full advantage of that. It isn’t her job to teach the Ms Paints of the world to learn how to stand their ground and dig in, not when she seems to relish in being so passive-aggressive.
“It is. Do you need something?” Snowman signs and watches as Ms Paint’s resolve crumbles in an instance and she signs back a no. She watches as Ms Paint slips back out, off to go sit in the common room and watch late night infomercials. Or perhaps she’ll finally take this opportunity to approach Caliborn’s sister and spend the night with her. Ms Paint has some strange hang-up about actually dating the girl, which Snowman frankly could care less about.
If you want something or someone, go and get them. Otherwise, simply let them go and stop being so damn wistful about it.
Her phone buzzes. Snowman checks. It’s from Queenie. She scoots her back to the wall and checks it as covertly as she can-
Oh… Oh, she knows who this is. The face is so familiar. How many times has Snowman stood across from her and debated Questant in their shared political science classes? So that must be why they had one another’s numbers. It hadn’t been them who entered them into their phones, but likely Mendicant, since they had all been paired together on a project.
Questant looks beautiful, her cheeks glowing and her hair somewhat rumpled. Snowman smiles a little to herself and before she can second-guess her action, she texts:
You look beautiful, as always.
You as well. It seems like you’re having fun.
Snowman has a sip of her wine. She thinks. Then, she stops thinking and simply acts.
Consider an invitation extended your way. Room 612. We’re listening to jazz and drinking wine.
Itchy bumps the record player up. Snowman gets up and turns it down, and when she turns around, Itchy has her phone. He’s grinning, signing one-handed at her while he flips through her texts with the other. “You need us to clear out for your bootycall? Or can we watch?”
“Put it down.” The threat is implicate. Itchy grins but does as he’s told, putting the phone down. Snowman picks it up and casually takes her seat again, acting as if she has no need to worry that Itchy texted something while her back was turned.
There’s nothing he sent, but there is a received text.
I’ll be by in 10 minutes. Should I bring anything?
Just yourself.
The next text from Questant contains a single astonished smiley. She laughs at the sight, huffing softly and her shoulders bouncing. Snowman smiles to herself and she doesn’t even bother to hide it from the others.
Another text comes in from Questant.
When people are so forward, I expect them to buy me a drink.
Will you settle for a glass of wine? We have rosé.
That will be acceptable. I shall see you soon, Snowman.
Snowman smiles and ignores the questions the boys are signing at her right now. They’ll find out soon enough. Snowman slips off the bed and heads out of her room to grab a fresh glass from the cupboard.
As she heads past the common room, she spots Ms Paint on the couch. She’s fallen asleep, her blanket halfway off and her phone lying on the floor. It must have slipped out when she drifted off. Snowman sighs a little. This girl… If she doesn’t actually learn to stand up for herself, she’ll be eaten alive. Snowman tugs her blanket over her and picks her phone up, tucking it underneath her where it at least won’t be pinched by someone else.
And she’s in such a good mood that she doesn’t even wake Ms Paint up out of revenge for her own irritating early-morning behaviors. She simply fetches the spare glass and heads back to her room, gently tapping her thumbs against the glass and making a soft clinking beat.