My first AU story. Very short. It's my reinterpretation of a tale from a modern Italian writer. It's very, maybe too much, similiar at the original version at the beginning, but it evolves in a way completely different.

Be gentle. I hope you enjoy it.

Sky Samuelle

Game of Life

It is madness, says reason. It is impossible, says experience. It is what it is, says love. - Erich Fried

Michel turned over the pages of a book recently published from a prestigious author , nervous because those tales were predicable and poorly written. Reading the beginning of the first one and a few paragraphs of the third and the fifth ones was enough for evaluating the presumed quality of the work, and he got irritated, because his conception of literature forbade him to think that they could consider to publish a book so ugly.

Not a common perception for a university student as he was.

A student of Law with a brilliant mind, extraordinary results and a future full of promises, Michel was powerfully handsome and very cultured. His family, of a low social class, fatigued hard to maintain his studies, and because of their sacrifices he applied with passion for a scholarship and succeeded.

He loved reading since he was a little boy, and spied in greed curiosity the lectures of his older sister Anya instead of playing outside with his brothers Adam and Jerome.

The library across the street had looked like a sacred refuge in that terribly annoying afternoon. When Renè Dian, his roommate, had literally dragged him away from his studies to play the fool with their friends, Michel had not expected having to put up with two couples in the middle of a hormonal crisis.

He was trained to bear the heavy 24/7 making out sessions of Jurgen and Simone, but assisting at the hideous spectacle of Renè courting Lisa LaFanne, and her petty comebacks and doe glances had permanently damaged his appetite.

Thanking God for small miracles, perhaps all the flirtation of today meant that the girl would concentrate her unrequited interest towards him elsewhere, even if Renè was not famous for his consistency in his love-errands.

He had escaped at the first chance with a little credible excuse, and it displeased greatly, although luckily everyone was too occupied otherwise to try to dissuade him with much vehemence.

A cell phone squealling a few steps away distracted him from his somber thoughts. A library is the Temple of Knowledge and any customer should have the decency to not violate it, walking inside with a cell on. After all, none would dream about phoning in a church, wouldn't they?

He raised his eyes from the undeserving pages, ready to bestow upon the villain a distasteful and disdainful look, well aware of his capacity to intimidate.

It was then that he saw her, and instantly recognized her, even with her head down.

He knew her from university, knew everything about her, having provided to be detailedly informed through the everywhere present ears of Martin Schtoppell.

Nikita Jones. His age. Student in Economy. Only daughter of Phillip Jones, magnate of the Center Enterprises. Available, but not for him.

From the first time his gaze had fallen upon her by accident, the day of his arrival in the dormitory, Michel had thought that she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He had watched her from afar for almost two years now , like some sick puppy in love, finding in horror that he couldn't or wanted it to stop. She was so strikingly beautiful that she reminded him of the sun so warm that it would hurt your eyes if you would look at it directly.

But it wasn’t just her beauty that linked him to her, at least it pleased him thinking that he wasn’t such a shallow person.

There was a such a natural cheerfulness about her, and an energy radiating from her womanly form which was dazzling. She had that authentic easiness in a crowd, which was missing in him, despite of being raised in a big family, which maybe was the reason for it , and a smile open and moving.

Moving for him at least; it wasn't good for him imagining that other people shared his observations of her.

He liked everything about her: her fierce and loose way of walking, her singing off key when she got drunk at a party, the absurd hats she wore, her way to distractedly brush her hair.

He would have done anything to talk to her once alone, and had done everything in his power to create an occasion: going to parties where she went, becoming friends with some of her acquaintances. But she stayed unobtainable, and he stayed a victim of her allure.

Every time he decided to get close to her and casually engage her in conversation, programming what he would say and what she would answer, he saw her there, in the spotlight where she was born and were she belonged, surrounded by life-long friends, popular and rich like her: Madeline Frayn (daughter of a well-known psychiatrist), Paul Wolfe ( son of the influential Judge Wolfe ), Carla Vasquez ( Hispanic niece of Adrian and George Fourlis, the producers ) Helmut Volker and Elena Vacheck ( talking of sickening sweethearts, potentially worse than Jurgen and Simone IF possible) .

In those moments he lost his courage and retreated into the background, where he continued to observe her like the stalker he was becoming, afraid to ruin a dream, afraid to break his ideal of perfection and his hearth with it. Now she was close enough so he could inhale her delicious perfume, and she was talking very thickly in her cell, making over-dramatic gestures, unaware of everything and even of him, while she was smiling and rummaging in her huge electric-blue purse, matching her very fitting, very short and demure electric-blue dress.

She talked and smiled at the Seymour guy at the other end, like if nothing in the world could bother her or disrupt her pleasant occupation, certainly not his half-disapproving, half-disarmed look.

Michel knew that he was staring, and that if she would surprise him he would be ashamed as never before in his life for his rudeness, but she had always failed to notice him.

So he continued to watch her smiling and talking and laughing in her cell, all while still rummaging in her purse and peeking in books and journals.

Her eyes were twinkling and she was like a little girl insatiably curious or mischievous or simply bored. One of her smiling looks unexpectedly flew upon him and settled there in speculation and private recognition. Her lips smirked seductively and her free hand waved flirtatiously.

From close Nikita estimated her theoretically - secret admirer was far more attractive than at range; although she was way too proud to plainly encourage him, she couldn't deny his intense, and a bit scary, constant admiration of her that had been the topic of many NC17 chatters between her and her best friend from the cradle, Maddie.

Her eyelids fluttered and Michel struggled, temporarily in awe with her azure eyes and crimson mouth, to come up with a pretext to speak with her, wastedly.

She, temporarily unable to effectively pay attention at anything her cousin was rambling in her ear, understood that the first move was up to her, but since her knees were threatening to bend without her permission, and, temporarily putting her call at hold, distress at all perceivable in her request, she asked him a friendly advice.

While Nikita talked again, in spite of herself, in the phone she was beginning to loathe, he moved away to find an adequate strategy. It's his turn and Michel put all his faith in the books, and looked desperately for the right book, the book that would seduce her, the book that would bring him to her. Finally he found it, opened it, took a pen out of his breast pocket and wrote quickly, praying he was doing the right thing. Michel came to her, still telephoning, put his book in her hands and quickly went away, too embarrassed to wait for her answer, helpless against his unexplainable shyness with the only woman on whom he wished he made an impression.

Nikita launched his back a confused thank-you, turned the book in her hands, finally ending her interminable call, disappointed and a little irritated because she could not keep the stunning man longer, damning her bad star and his hurry.

She opened the book and stared stunned at the number of a cell phone hand-written on the first blank page. Under it, she read : MICHEL SAMUELLE CALL ME FOR A COFFEE?

She smiled and meanwhile a deep blush reached her cheeks.

Better wait tomorrow to not look too anxious

THE END

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