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If Divya hadn’t stayed up all fucking night adding to his research binder, he might’ve cared more that Cameron Winklevoss was flirting with Marylin. But as it stood, he was running on two-and-a-half cups of chai and four hours of sleep, so he was in no position to dictate who his teammates chose to speak with. It wasn’t like Cameron had motioned to divide the house on Divya’s resolution at Glastonbury, causing it to fail by just two votes. And it definitely wasn’t like Cameron had used right-of-reply on his speech about improving immigration laws when he really hadn’t insulted Jamaica, he was just rightfully pointing out–
“Div, could you do me a favor?”
Divya finally looked away from Cameron and back towards Christy, who had returned with her plate full of slightly-overripe fruit and plain yogurt from the continental breakfast buffet. Fixing him with a stern look, she sat down in her seat and flipped her perfectly-straightened hair over one shoulder. “If you could pause the irrational hatred of the Winklevosses for, like, five minutes, that’d be great.”
Divya scoffed, poking at his dry eggs with his fork. “I don’t hate the Winklevosses. Tyler’s fine, it’s just–”
“Cameron, yes, I know,” Christy interrupted, plucking a piece of honeydew from her plate and inspecting it carefully, “He’s the devil incarnate, you hate him so much, he’s a privileged piece of shit, whatever.”
“I do not sound like–”
“I know you don’t,” Christy replied smoothly, leaning down to pull out her laptop from her briefcase, “But if you keep looking at him like that, people might start getting the wrong idea.”
Divya felt his grip tighten on his mug, taking an overly-calm and serene sip. “Fuck off.”
Christy just laughed. “Oh, gladly.” She flipped her laptop around, tapping the screen with one manicured nail. “Just as long as you help me research water treatment plants in Ghana.”
—
If there was any place not to be right before General Assembly, it was the men’s bathroom. Every conference, without fail, there was always some scared freshman vomiting in one of the stalls or some half-naked guy desperately trying to apply one last coat of deodorant to mask his nervous sweats. Still, Divya grinned and bore it every time in order to try and make himself look as polished as possible. In a committee full of wrinkled pants and untucked dress shirts, he might as well take the time to straighten his tie and adjust his cufflinks. After all, the presentation was half the battle and he wasn’t going to leave anything to chance.
Thankfully, conference center bathrooms weren’t like high school bathrooms, and Divya found himself alone in front of the streaky mirrors and stained porcelain sinks. Maybe it was weird he was getting his little moment of peace and zen from a bathroom multiple children had probably been conceived in, but it wasn’t like he could be picky. There were no underclassmen asking him what an operative clause was (for the fifteenth time), no tights he had to hastily sew back together, and best of all, no Cameron W–
“Oh–”
Divya tensed, whipping around at the sound of that irritatingly familiar voice. Of course, of course it was Cameron, standing there with his impeccably-coiffed hair and his stupidly earnest half-smile.
“Divya,” Cameron said softly, taking a small step forward, “I–you–hello–” He cleared his throat. “You look…you seem ready.”
Cameron Winklevoss was speaking to him. Why was Cameron Winklevoss speaking to him? Had Tyler put him up to this? Or worse, Christy? Or maybe this was some sort of new age intimidation tactic they taught over at Brunswick to try and distract him. Well, whatever it was, it wouldn’t work.
Turning away to hide the heat rising in his cheeks, Divya busied himself with his collar and tried very hard to ignore the unnerving feeling of Cameron’s eyes burning holes in his back. He wouldn’t dignify anything Cameron said with a response. He’d beat Cameron at his own game if it fucking killed him.
Divya stubbornly kept his eyes trained on the mirror in front of him as he felt Cameron slowly walk up to the sink directly next to him. What was this guy planning? Cameron wouldn’t touch him physically, that wasn’t his style, but Divya wouldn’t put it past him to use his chivalry and politeness to say something underhanded to make him think he was going crazy. He was probably trying to think of something right now that would catch him off-guard.
Tensing, Divya risked a split-second glance at Cameron just to see that the man was…washing his hands. Oh, Cameron had to be doing this to mess with Divya. Why else would he choose to stand so close to him, so close that all he could smell was the dizzying scent of Cameron’s expensive cologne?
Divya huffed. The cologne smelled nice, it always did, but he wouldn’t be fooled. No matter how nice Cameron smelled, Divya wasn’t weak like Marylin. It would take more effort than that to throw him off his game.
Taking care not to let it show on his face, Divya slowly set his gaze back on his own mirror. Every hair was perfectly in place, every wrinkle in his pants was smoothed out, and his tie was perfectly in line with the lapels of his jacket. He probably could’ve left the bathroom a while ago, but he wasn’t going to leave before Cameron–it would be like admitting defeat.
Why Cameron hadn’t left yet was another question entirely. Despite the fact that it had surely been over the twenty seconds of recommended time (and Divya was sure a Greenwich kid like Cameron would follow that rule like the goddamn Bible), the faucet was still running and Cameron hadn’t budged from his spot.
Divya frowned as he risked another glance at him, eyes narrowing as they zeroed in on Cameron’s hands. Cameron’s right hand was currently gently scrubbing at his left pinky, nails just barely grazing over the skin as he lazily rotated his hand under the water. Now, Divya liked personal hygiene as much as the next person, but even he had to admit…washing your hands for several minutes was a little bit excessive. Divya tilted his head slightly, absentmindedly studying the veins running over the top of Cameron’s hands and the tough calluses on his palms. He supposed they weren’t completely horrible-looking as far as hands went. Divya wasn’t, like, an expert in hands or anything, but they were big and well-proportioned and would probably easily envelop Divya’s hands. You know, if the situation ever came about. Which it wouldn’t. Ever.
Divya forced himself to abandon that train of thought, tearing his eyes away from Cameron’s hands and focusing back onto the mirror. Except , fuck, it wasn’t his mirror, it was Cameron’s mirror–and Cameron’s reflection was staring straight at him.
Divya froze. Fuck. Fuck. Cameron’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly and his lips parted, almost as if he wanted to say something. Divya quickly jerked his head away from the mirror and away from Cameron’s intense gaze, but the damage had already been done. Even as he heard the squeaking sound of the faucet being shut off and the mechanical buzz of the paper towel dispenser, he could still feel Cameron just… looking at him. He could practically feel his heart thumping out of his chest, beating in time to the click of Cameron’s expensive leather loafers on the bathroom tiles.
“So, uh…”
Don’t look, Divya told himself, staring resolutely at his own reflection in the mirror. Out of the corner of his eye, he could just barely make out Cameron standing at the entrance to the bathroom, torso angled towards Divya.
Don’t look. Don’t look.
“I’ll see you in committee?” Cameron’s voice sounded strangely hopeful. Like…like Divya actually meant something to him beyond the mutual hatred.
Shit, that voice was doing funny things to Divya’s brain. He couldn’t get soft, not now, not ever. Gritting his teeth, he turned to look Cameron square in the eye, taking a sick sort of pleasure in the way Cameron’s shoulders went stiff. “May the best delegate win.”
Cameron nodded, giving another one of his dumb half-smiles before turning and leaving without another word.
As soon as Cameron had gone, Divya exhaled loudly, scrubbing his hands over his face to force himself back into competition mode. Cameron’s weird psyop wasn’t going to work on him; he was going to walk into that committee room, absolutely annihilate every single one of those delegates, and get his coach off his back for another month or two. Divya’s got this, he’s fine, everything’s fine–
A sudden vibration in Divya’s back pocket interrupted his stream of Confident (with a capital C) thoughts. Frowning, Divya fished out his phone and tapped on the screen, rolling his eyes to see an incoming barrage of texts from Christy.
Christy: girl committee starts in like 15 minutes where tf are u
Christy: if ur not back within the next minute i’m going to my room without u
Christy: cricomm is calling my name
Christy: ghana needs you in GA why are u abandoning them
Divya snorted, quickly punching out a reply.
Divya: Sorry, I had to deal with an emergency situation in the bathroom. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named made an unwanted appearance.
Christy responded within seconds.
Christy: we’re debriefing when we recess for lunch you hear me narendra???
Divya sighed, imagining the judgmental stare Christy would give him.
Divya: Roger that.
Without stopping to see Christy’s response, Divya pocketed his phone again and rolled his shoulders, walking to the bathroom door and heading out into the hallway.
Game time.
—
“Thank you for your consideration.”
Divya took the time to gather his notes before nodding respectfully at the dais, walking slowly back to his seat as polite applause rang throughout the room. That had been one of his better speeches this conference. The chair and the director had been scribbling furiously on their legal pads throughout the time he was talking, so that had to be a good sign. Either that or they were tearing him a new one, but Divya was choosing to think positively.
By the time Divya returned to his seat, the chair had already called up the next speaker, the delegate from the Czech Republic. Divya vaguely recognized her, she was from a charter school south of the Bronx and had the astounding talent of not saying anything worthwhile in her moderated caucus speeches. Usually, she would pick a few buzzwords (picked out by her coach, no doubt) and just keep repeating them until everyone in the room was bored half to death. This time, the words seemed to be “national sovereignty,” and Divya couldn’t help but wonder if he should keep a tally in his notebook to show Christy later.
Well, it was a small mercy that speeches only lasted a minute. The girl finished her speech with one last plea to respect the Czech Republic’s national sovereignty, breathing heavily into the microphone to an awkward smattering of applause.
But just as she was (finally) leaving the podium, Divya felt a hard poke on his left shoulder. He turned in his seat, coming face-to-face with an acne-ridden page that couldn’t have been any older than an eighth grader.
“Here,” the page said in a nasally voice, holding out a folded scrap of slightly-damp notebook paper with clammy hands, “Note for you.”
Divya smiled tightly, carefully accepting the scrap of paper in between his pointer finger and thumb. “Thank you.”
The page only sniffed in response, so Divya uncomfortably broke eye contact and moved to face the front again, glancing downward at the note.
To the delegate from Ghana, it read on the top in perfect cursive. Divya didn’t recognize the handwriting, but whoever it was, they sure liked their formalities.
Curious, he unfolded the paper, his eyebrows knitting in confusion as he read the similarly cursive words: mens tua est pulchra.
What the hell? Was this some sort of prank?
Divya flipped the paper over several times, looking for a signature or anything else that could’ve signified who wrote it. But there was absolutely nothing, just the smudge of pencil lead and a suspicious-looking damp spot that Divya took care not to touch.
Divya turned the paper back over to the side with the message, squinting at it and cocking his head to the side slightly. He was no expert in the classics or anything, but from what he remembered from his English class’s unit on Cicero his junior year, it looked like Latin.
But why in the fuck would anyone send him a note in Latin of all things? First, there was Cameron in the bathroom, then this–what was this, Distract Divya Day? It was honestly getting ridiculous, and Divya had half a mind to write a formal complaint to the chair, send it and the note up to the dais, and be done with it.
But on the other hand, Divya reasoned with himself, it couldn’t hurt to find out what the note said first. At least then it wouldn’t be in the back of his mind all day. Yes, that was it.
After a quick glance at the dais to make sure they weren’t looking, Divya snuck his phone out of his pocket and pulled up Google Translate (his Latin was rusty, sue him). He quickly typed in the words on the note, vaguely noting how his heartbeat seemed to be getting faster as the translation loaded. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon–
And then there it was, in all of its Google Translated glory: your mind is beautiful.
Divya inhaled sharply, shoving his phone back into his pocket and gripping his pencil so hard, red marks were starting to appear on his fingers. Okay, that settled it. It had to be some sort of joke, it had to be. Or else it was an extremely misguided attempt at flirting (which, c’mon, this wasn’t the thirteenth century) by some privileged private school kid who thought they were hot shit for knowing the world’s most useful dead language.
It didn’t matter. It didn’t. Divya wouldn’t be distracted by a single note, he had his eyes on the goddamn prize, and no amount of weird nerd antics was going to distract him.
In fact, he wasn’t going to even report the note to the chair. That was what this person wanted, to get a rise out of him, but Divya wouldn’t be a puppet to their little game.
Newly determined, Divya slid the note into his breast pocket and refocused on the delegate currently at the podium, who was practically yelling into the microphone about waterborne illnesses. He’d fill Christy in later and get to the bottom of this, but for now, he’d compartmentalize and bide his time.
After all, it was what he did best.
—
“Okay, okay, tell me again.”
Divya groaned, shoving another bite of his Panda Express fried rice into his mouth. “I already told you three times.”
Christy raised one eyebrow, a talent she had honed in the ninth grade and had never stopped using on Divya since. “Do you want my help on figuring out who sent it or not?”
Divya gave her a look, setting his fork down and rubbing at his left temple. He could already feel a headache coming on. “The page came from behind me and gave me the note about halfway through the first mod,” he recited, “I had already given my speech. No, I didn’t see where the note came from. No, I didn’t report it to the chair.” He huffed. “And let me guess: you know exactly who it is for some fucking reason?”
Christy hummed thoughtfully. “I have a few ideas.”
A beat of silence passed before Divya spoke again. “Are you going to tell me or do you just enjoy the feeling of knowing things other people don’t?”
Christy just laughed and fell back on the hotel bed, poking Divya’s leg with her foot. “I think it’ll be more fun for you to figure it out on your own. What sort of friend would I be if I just gave you all the answers, hm?”
“Fuck you,” Divya shot back, but there wasn’t any heat to it. “At least give me a hint.”
“No.”
“Half a hint.”
“No.”
“A sixteenth of a hint.”
“No.”
“I’ll do your calc homework for a week.”
“Tempting, but still no.”
Divya was tempted to throw his rice at her, but held back only for the sake of not wanting to pick up ten thousand grains of rice up off the disgusting hotel floor. “Fine,” he relented, setting his takeout back on the nightstand, “But if you’re not going to tell me, at least lend me some string and tape.”
Christy grinned wickedly, rising up off the bed like she was Frankenstein’s Bride or some shit. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Twenty-five minutes, an empty box of takeout, Christy’s emergency stitching string, and entire roll of scotch tape later, Divya had narrowed down the pool of potential suspects to three. Well, Christy insisted it should be four, but Divya refused to even entertain the idea of Cameron Winklevoss sending a note like that. Cameron was the practically the poster child for Doing Things By The Book–he probably would spontaneously combust if he didn’t follow the Model UN rules handbook to the fucking letter. At least, that’s what he told Christy as she picked at her nails and tried her best to look like she was listening.
“Oh, honey,” she cooed after Divya finished his wild gesturing at the mess of tape, pictures, and string on her hotel room wall, “There’s just so much you don’t know.”
Divya didn’t know what the fuck she meant by that, but the fact of the matter was that Cameron Winklevoss didn’t send the note and that’s final.
But now came the hard part: actually testing the theories. Divya knew how the scientific process worked, and the only way to move your hypothesis beyond just an educated guess was actually going out and testing it. If he ever wanted to figure this shit out, he couldn’t just sit on his ass and do nothing. He had to take some initiative.
Which was what led him to standing in the corner of the committee room during the unmod staring at theory number one: Eduardo Saverin.
As far as Divya knew, Eduardo went to some fancy boarding school on the Upper East Side and was practically a shoe-in for the Best Position Paper award every single conference. His speeches tended to be a little too…statistical for Divya’s liking, but all in all, he wasn’t a bad delegate by a long shot. He had appeared on Divya’s list of suspects because Divya had it on good authority that he knew Latin (Christy’s friend of a friend of a friend apparently knew someone that went to school with him…or something) and was attracted to men (Divya had stalked his Instagram and found a highlight from a year ago about him attending an event for LGBTQ people in corporate life, which…fun). It wasn’t the best evidence, but Divya had to start somewhere, right?
Currently, Eduardo was talking to the delegate from Bosnia and Herzegovina, some kid with curly hair whose name Divya was only eight-five percent sure started with an M. Michael? Matthew? Whatever. Milton(?) was pointing to different figures on one of the pages in his binder, while Eduardo gazed at it in rapt interest. Max(?) then plucked a stray pencil from one of the tables and handed it to Eduardo, who just laughed and started writing something down on the page. Shit, was that cursive? Did the handwriting match the note?
Divya took a step closer, only to narrowly miss Bob (the rather puppy-like delegate from Senegal that had taken to following Divya around one day) careening back into the corner with an open laptop precariously balanced in his arms.
“Okay,” Bob wheezed, “I told all the Western and Central African countries to come here like you said to, and almost all of them are coming over.”
Shit. Divya didn’t know what was more embarrassing: forgetting that he was here to do Model UN or the fact that Bob was currently looking in between him and Eduardo with a bewildered expression on his face.
“Alright, okay, Bob, thank you,” Divya said quickly, trying to get back into competition mode, “What do you mean ‘almost’ all of them are coming over?”
“Ah,” Bob winced, easily distracted by the question, “Um…I think the Winklevoss twins have formed another bloc. They had already talked to Liberia and Sierra Leone before I could get to them.”
Oh, those motherfuckers. Cameron was Saudi Arabia and Tyler was Singapore (because of course they’d be assigned allied nations), so what could they possibly want with small African nations? They should be courting the delegates from the Middle East and the richer Asian nations, or maybe–oh. Of course. This was a power play. Poaching the members of Divya’s bloc until they had enough votes for ratification of their resolution–a smart strategy, but an underhanded one.
Well, Divya wasn’t going to stand for that. Cameron Winklevoss was going to rue the fucking day he decided to test Divya’s patience.
“Bob,” Divya said importantly, unceremoniously shoving his legal pad into the kid’s hands, “Start off the delegates with introductions. I’m going to go kick Cameron’s ass.”
“Um…” Bob squeaked, but Divya was already marching across the room to the Winklevoss bloc, where a dozen or so delegates were gathered around Cameron and his Macbook. Tyler was nowhere to be seen, but Divya wouldn’t be surprised if he had been sent on some recon mission to pick up some wandering delegates.
Sierra Leone and Liberia were easy to spot, as they were standing at the edge of the group and seemed mildly uncomfortable. Good. That meant they could easily be swayed.
But as much as Divya wanted to, he couldn’t just go over and drag them away. He had to be diplomatic and courteous–he would be so diplomatic and courteous, Cameron Winklevoss would run crying to his mother.
“Excuse me?” Divya asked, smiling pleasantly as he approached the group. Within a second, twelve pairs of eyes were blinking at him curiously. And for a moment, Divya could’ve sworn Cameron’s eyes went soft when they looked at him, but he quickly shook off the thought. A trick of the light, most likely.
“I’m the delegate from Ghana, Divya Narendra,” he went on, keeping the smile firmly plastered on his face, “It’s good to meet you all. I thought I would come over here and ask about what sorts of solutions you’re working towards in your resolution.” He tilted his head. “I believe we could really benefit each other’s nations if we were to collaborate.”
For a brief moment, no one spoke. Then, Cameron slowly rose up from his seat and what the fuck, had he somehow gotten taller in the hours since Divya had last spoken to him?
“We’re focusing on establishing a committee that will research how to assist looking to improve their water quality,” Cameron replied, polite and genial as always, “It would be a great step to saving lives in underdeveloped nations.” He gestured to the crowd behind him. “We’ve already got nine countries committed to being a signatory. We would love for Ghana to be another.”
Oh, so Cameron was shifting into combat mode, that was totally fine. Divya could play it that way, but no way in hell was he going to be just a signatory.
“As it happens, the resolution West and Central Africa is currently drafting also establishes that committee,” Divya said sweetly, “But we’ve also provided funding for the construction of water treatment centers and hospitals in areas where waterborne illnesses are more common.” He glanced over at Sierra Leone and Liberia, who had perked up. Score.
Cameron’s smile wavered slightly. “I admire that. However, we think it would be more prudent to wait and see what the research deems to be the best course of action. The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia will be investing millions into this research, so we’d like to see it spent wisely.”
“Of course, of course,” Divya relented, “I think it’s good to be cautious at times. But I would still like to invite any delegates who are interested to take a look at our resolution. Just in the spirit of examining all our options.”
Cameron’s expression didn’t change, but Divya somehow still got the feeling that Cameron wanted to reach across the table and strangle him. “Well, I won’t stand in the way of any delegate who wants to do what’s best for their country.”
Well. That was easier than Divya thought it would be. Looking at the crowd, he could already see that Sierra Leone and Liberia had started walking towards him. Divya could’ve honestly cried–not because he had succeeded in stealing back members of his bloc, but because he had successfully made Cameron Winklevoss angry.
And now, Divya thought as he herded Sierra Leone and Liberia back to the corner (where Bob seemed to be holding down the fort surprisingly well), he could go back to investigating Eduardo.
Finding Eduardo again wasn’t difficult, but it only took Divya one glance to realize why he’d probably have to eliminate Eduardo as a suspect.
Sometime in the time it took to rescue Sierra Leone and Liberia, the delegate from North Korea had come up to Eduardo and Mason(?) and had launched into a whole tirade about declaring war on the European Union. Maxwell(?) looked vaguely interested in what he was saying, but Eduardo’s expression was as cold as ice. And with his hand placed possessively on Micah(?)’s lower back, it was clear what they meant to each other.
Well, Divya wasn’t going to get in the way of that, so he supposed he could cross Eduardo off his list.
Which led him straight into theory number two, who was currently arguing with Bob over the title of their resolution: KC, the delegate from the Netherlands, who also happened to be his ex-girlfriend.
“All I’m saying is that ‘fund’ is less presumptuous than ‘ improve ,’” she was saying as Divya walked up to her, “If we say ‘fund,’ it’s less of an “I’m-saving-you-be-grateful” narrative, you know what I–oh, Div.”
“KC,” Divya said civilly, ignoring the dry way she said his name. She carefully took him by the elbow and led him to the side, leaving the other delegates to descend on Bob like a pack of wolves. “Where are we at with the resolution?”
It wasn’t that they had a bad relationship, exactly. They could work together in committee and support each other’s resolutions without it being weird. She even still called him ‘Div’ and sat with him in the bathroom at the last conference’s delegate dance as he vomited up Dustin Moskovitz’s weird homemade orange juice cocktail, so…they were fine. She had been number two on Divya’s list of suspects because she had been a little bit of a romantic while they were dating (she had forced him to watch When Harry Met Sally at least ten times) and her dad was some history professor at UConn. Divya didn’t actually know if the man knew Latin, let alone if he had ever taught it to KC, but she was no telling what she could’ve gotten up to in the two years since they had broken up.
“Well,” KC said, stretching out the vowel, “I’ve managed to get two Nordic countries on board, and Erica went to go and convince more.”
Divya’s brow furrowed. “Erica?”
KC squinted at him. “Yes, Erica.” When Divya didn’t say anything, she sighed. “She’s my new partner? I thought you were on top of this sort of stuff, Div.”
Well, Divya had been distracted in the last mod, so he really couldn’t be blamed for missing that fact. But this new development complicated things–Erica Albright had been the third and final person on his suspect list. He didn’t know her well, but all of her previous MUN notes to him had been in cursive, which was as good a reason as any to suspect her. The handwriting didn’t really match, but it couldn’t be that hard to disguise your handwriting, right? She also had a Latin quote in her Twitter bio, which probably counted for something.
Still, KC and Erica being partners was an unexpected wrench in his investigative plans. For one, it would be much more difficult to get one of them alone to talk about it, and even if he did, he couldn’t really rely on either of them to keep it a secret until he talked to the other one. Girls were sort of fickle like that, but he understood. He would probably do the same thing if he were in their position, but that didn’t make it any less stressful.
Maybe Divya could make this work to his advantage. He could talk to KC first, and then if she wasn’t the note-writer, he could try and get some information about Erica out of her. Kill two birds with one stone, as the old adage went.
And speak of the devil. Out of the corner of his eye, Divya could see Erica walking back to their bloc with another delegate in tow, scribbling something down on a notebook as the delegate chattered on about sanctions.
“I’m sure we can draft something to that effect,” she was saying in the voice of someone who has no intention of doing anything of the sort, “We’ll work something out soon. Thank you again for agreeing to sign, we really appreciate Denmark’s support.”
Once a few more pleasantries had been exchanged and the delegate had vanished into the bloc, Erica turned smartly on her heel to face KC. “Okay, I managed to sway Denmark, but I lost Sweden to the Winklevoss bloc, so it’s anybody’s game at this point.” Her eyes flickered over to Divya. “I heard you got Liberia and Sierra Leone back. Well played.”
“I could say the same to you,” Divya replied, “That delegate’s usually pretty finicky, so it’s good you got him to finally commit to a resolution.”
Erica just nodded, and Divya figured it was now or never. “Hey, KC, could I maybe–”
“Hey.”
Divya felt a light tap on his arm from behind and instinctively turned towards the source, only to be faced with another page. She was older and less pimply than the first one had been, but spoke in a voice just as nasally. “I have a note for you.”
She held out a scrap of folded paper, and Divya could feel all the blood draining from his face. He had gotten other notes since The Note, but all of them had been on post-its or legal pad paper, not notebook paper. It had to be the same person, shit, what did this mean? It couldn’t have been KC, she had been over with Bob since he had gone over to talk to Cameron. Erica had been out of his sight long enough to send it without him noticing, but why would she stop in the middle of persuading Denmark to write out a note to him? It didn’t make sense, nothing made any sense–
“Are you gonna take it or not?”
The page’s unimpressed voice jolted Divya back to reality, and he quickly accepted the note with a stiff nod. Just like before, it was addressed to the delegate from Ghana on the top of the paper in the same cursive script.
Fingers trembling, he unfolded the note and scanned its contents. The writing was messier this time, as if the author was in a hurry, but the Latin was unmistakable–it had to be the same person.
“Tu pernicies meae vitae et objectum omnium desideriorum meorum,” Divya read shakily, “Oh, fuck me.”
KC looked up from her legal pad and gave him an incredulous look. “Uh, Div? Do you have something to share with the class?”
Maybe it was a bad idea to let someone (let alone his ex-girlfriend) see it, but Divya was out of options. If Eduardo hadn’t sent it, if KC hadn’t sent it, if Erica (most likely) hadn’t sent it, then who the hell had?
“Ugh,” Divya moaned, tossing her the note before pinching the bridge of his nose, “This can’t be happening.”
KC ignored him. As she read the note, her eyebrows went further and further up on her face until they were almost completely obscured by her bangs. “Well, that’s…something.”
“I don’t even know what it says!” Divya burst out, “I got another one like it during the last mod that said ‘your mind is beautiful’ in Latin. And I thought it was Eduardo Saverin, but he has a thing with Mateo or whatever the fuck his name is, and then I thought it was you, but you were over here the whole time and then I thought maybe it was Erica but it’s not her because why the fuck would it be her and I don’t know why it’s driving me crazy but it is and it’s so distracting and I just want–”
“Whoa, Div, calm down,” KC interrupted, putting a calming hand on his shoulder and leading him a little farther away from the bloc, “Look, uh, I don’t know if it’ll help or anything, but I looked up the translation. Maybe it’ll help you figure out who sent it?” She held up her phone, and Divya could feel all the air get sucked out of the room.
You are the bane of my existence and the object of all my desires.
“Shit,” Divya breathed, “They’re quoting fucking Bridgerton now?”
“You’ve watched Bridgerton?”
“It doesn’t matter if I’ve watched Bridgerton, that’s beside the point!” Divya hissed, “What matters is that I don’t know who’s sending it and it’s driving me insane.”
To Divya’s horror, KC’s lip curled up in a small smile. “Div, c’mon. You know who it is.”
“What?” Divya asked in disbelief, “No, I don’t. That’s what this whole thing is about.”
KC snorted. “Div, you can’t be serious right now. It’s so obvious. There’s only one person in this room it could be.”
“Who?!”
KC lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Cameron Winklevoss.”
No. No, Divya must’ve heard wrong. There was no way it was Cameron, no fucking way. Cameron was rude and entitled and privileged and would probably end up at Goldman Sachs smoking cigars while ordering around his personal assistants. He couldn’t be the sender of the notes, it just wasn’t possible.
“I can see the cogs turning in your head, Div,” KC continued, looking at him sympathetically, “I know you have a weird grudge against him, but it’s practically common knowledge he likes you.” She started checking things off on her fingers. “He stares at you all the time, he goes out of his way to try and interact with you during committee, he wears his nice suits if he knows you’re going to be at a conference–”
“He wears nice suits at every conference!” Divya interjected.
KC laughed again. “Yeah, Div, that’s my point. To you, it would seem that way, because he only wears his nice suits if you’re going to be there.”
“And just how do you know all this?” Divya asked skeptically.
KC rolled her eyes. “Because I have eyes. Also, I have brunch with Christy every other Sunday.”
“Christy’s been telling–never mind,” Divya said heavily, trying to resist the urge to collapse on the floor in hysterics, “It can’t be him. We hate each other. He wouldn’t send me love notes in Latin.”
“Well, you better get over that hatred fast, because Cameron’s coming over here.” KC gestured over Divya’s shoulder, and lo and behold, Cameron was walking over with both arms set firmly at his sides, like he was some sort of fucking politician.
God, Divya’s life had to be a horror movie. Or one of those low-budget comedies where all you could do was laugh at the protagonist.
“Hey, Divya,” Cameron called once he was within earshot, coming to a stop a respectful two feet from where Divya stood trying to hide his panic, “I was wondering if I could talk to you about your resolution? I have an idea that I think will help both our blocs get what they want.”
“Ah, I’ll leave you two to it,” KC said, slipping away before Divya had the chance to say anything else. Some fucking friend she was.
“We’ve already discussed this,” Divya replied slowly, trying to keep his nerve, “Our resolutions are too different. It would be unfair to signatories we already have to change it now.”
“No, I’m not asking you to change your resolution,” Cameron said gently. Too gently. “I’m saying…what if we were to merge our blocs? I talked to mine and most of them are on board, so if we come together, the resolution would be guaranteed to pass.” He stepped closer to Divya, and Divya prayed that Cameron wouldn’t be able to hear the way the blood was rushing in his ears. “I know our methods are different, but at the end of the day, Ghana and Saudi Arabia want the same thing. We’ll be able to work something out, I’m sure of it.”
Divya couldn’t do this, he couldn’t fucking do this, not while Cameron was standing there and looking at him with those pleading eyes. Cameron hated him, he hated Cameron, that was how it had always been and how it always would be. Period. Full stop. End of story.
“I’ll have to decline on behalf of my bloc,” Divya muttered, tactfully ignoring how his voice faltered, “Now, I’m really sorry, but I have to go–”
But as he was walking away, Cameron’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist. “Please, Divya,” he said imploringly. Divya’s throat made a wounded noise, but even as he tried to pull his hand away, Cameron held fast.
For several seconds, Cameron didn’t say anything else. He looked as if he was choosing his next words very carefully, and as much as he wanted to, Divya couldn’t look away.
“I…know we’ve had our disagreements,” Cameron finally said, “Trust me, you’re the bane of my existence sometimes, but we can work together.”
Cameron’s words didn’t fully register for a few seconds. But when they finally did, Divya’s heart practically stopped. All the background noise of the room faded away, and suddenly there was just him and Cameron holding out his heart to him on a silver platter.
“You,” Divya whispered, “It was you the whole time?”
Cameron’s expression was akin to a prisoner being taken to their execution, which was all the confirmation Divya needed.
“We can’t do this here,” Divya said faintly, “I can’t do this…I can’t…” Even with his vision going fuzzy at the edges, Divya managed to yank his wrist out of Cameron’s hold and duck around him. He could hear Cameron calling for him, but that just made him walk faster, faster, faster until he found himself in the hallway trying to remember how to breathe.
Cameron wrote the notes. Cameron felt something for him. Cameron wanted him. Even though Divya had been nothing but cold and callous towards him. Even though Divya fucked over his resolutions every chance he got. Even though Divya slandered him to anyone who would listen. He cared enough to pour his heart out in fucking Latin and…and…
“Divya!”
And there Cameron was, appearing in front of him like a goddamn ghost with concern written all over his stupidly handsome face. God, he had always been there, he was there the whole time, and Divya had been too fucking blind to realize it.
“I’m sorry, Divya, I’m so sorry,” Cameron begged. His hands were fluttering at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what was appropriate to do with them. “I wasn’t thinking, I promise I’ll leave you alone after this–”
“Don’t you fucking dare, Winklevoss,” Divya interrupted, “You don’t get to come out here and say you’re sorry and expect everything to be okay. You quote fucking Bridgerton, and I'm supposed to--”
“Well, what am I supposed to say?” Cameron shot back, his voice rising in anger, “I can never say the right thing around you, you always–”
“Just shut up, Cameron!” Divya shouted, “God, you’re always like this. If things don’t go how you expected, you can’t fucking handle it.”
“Oh, and like you’re any better?” Cameron retorted, “Who’s the one who ran out of the room just now, huh?” He rubbed a hand over his face, forehead wrinkling in frustration. “You know, sometimes I wish you would just–”
If you asked him later, Divya wouldn’t be able to say why he did it. Maybe it was the tension of the moment, maybe it was the teenage hormones, maybe it was the feeling of Cameron slipping away. But something in him snapped and suddenly he was pressing his lips to Cameron’s, relishing in the surprised noise Cameron made. It was awkward at first; their noses weren’t in the right place and their teeth clacked together, but then Cameron wrapped his arms around Divya’s waist and fuck, Cameron was kissing him back.
Divya melted into Cameron’s chest, throwing his arms around his neck and trying to pull him closer, closer, so he wouldn’t know where Cameron ended and his own body began. He didn’t know why he was doing this, but he never wanted it to stop, he wanted Cameron’s big hands on his waist forever, he wanted…he wanted…
“I fucking hate you,” Divya half-sobbed as they broke apart, “I hate you so fucking much.”
“I know,” Cameron murmured, pressing butterfly kisses down Divya’s neck, “I know.”
And that was the main issue, Divya thought hazily as he pulled Cameron in for another kiss. Cameron saw him. Cameron knew how much of an asshole Divya could be and still accepted him for the piece of shit he was. Despite all the crap Divya had given him, Cameron still wanted him.
And he wanted Cameron.
Even after they were pulled off each other by the conference staff, he wanted Cameron. Even as they were being reprimanded for an obscene breach of decorum, he wanted Cameron.
And maybe he always had.
—
In the end, neither Divya nor Cameron won Best Delegate (that honor went to Bob, which Divya supposed he could accept). Still, that didn’t stop Divya from complaining about it.
“It wasn’t even that bad,” Divya grouched as he lay sweaty and sated in Cameron’s hotel room bed, “Like, sure, we weren’t being super discreet or anything, but it’s not like anyone saw.”
Cameron just smiled fondly at him, running his hands through Divya’s bedroom hair. “You’ll get ‘em next time, tiger.”
Divya groaned, shoving his face into the pillow. “Are you always going to look at me like that?”
Cameron chuckled, a deep, rich sound that had something stirring inside Divya’s gut. “As long as you’re in my bed.” He shifted up in the bed, running a hand down Divya’s bare leg. “What do you say we…” He nipped at Divya’s ear. “Cause another diplomatic scandal?”
That earned him a pillow to the face, but he just fell back cackling like a goddamn middle-schooler who had just made a ‘your mom’ joke.
“Oh, god,” Divya moaned dramatically, smacking Cameron on the shoulder, “You’re the worst. I actually hate you.”
And for once in his life, Divya could confidently say he didn’t mean it.