Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

August 28th, 2013

Hi. My name is Meloria Hughes. However, most people call me Mel. And here I am in 2013, standing in the middle of a dorm lobby in New York City, trying not to look like a lost tourist with two suitcases weighing more than my entire self.

I grew up in Florence, surrounded by cathedrals and cobblestones, the type of city where history looms over you like a constant reminder of something greater than you. My father spoke on Renaissance art, while my mother worked two shifts as a pediatric nurse. It was the ideal combination that made me appreciate both medicine and stories (science for how the body functions, and novels and films for how the mind travels). Between rewatching The Social Network and making notes on Fernando Alonso's Ferrari races, I concluded New York was where I wanted to be. Medicine at NYU, with literature on the side. I had big goals, an untidy hairstyle, large glasses, and a tote bag full of books that I would never finish in time.

Thus, I found myself dragging my existence into a building that had a subtle scent of pizza, dust, and nervousness, jet lagged and half-dizzy from the bustle of Manhattan.

My room was on the third floor, at the far end of the hallway, where the fluorescent lights flickered far too frequently. It wasn't big—just one narrow bed, a desk with scrapes on the wood, and a closet barely wide enough to contain half of my clothing. But it belonged to me. It's all mine.

Although dorms at NYU were supposed to be shared, overseas students were occasionally placed in singles if the housing office ran out of pairings. That was a polite way of saying congratulations, but you're too complicated to fit into the spreadsheet. I didn't care. A roommate required me to justify myself every time I remained up until 3 a.m. watching races streaming on a dodgy website, or when I reorganized my bookcases alphabetically by the director before switching to alphabetical by author.

Within an hour, the simple beige walls no longer appeared so bland. A fading but adored Ferrari flag hung above the bed, contending for attention with my increasing collection of movie posters—Inception, The Social Network, and a vintage Ferris Bueller's Day Off print I purchased at a flea market. Pink seeped into every area, soothing the chaos: a knitted shawl from my grandmother draped across the bed, fairy lights with rose-shaped covers twisted along the wall, pastel storage boxes neatly packed beneath the desk.

The desk itself looked like a personality test had exploded: my laptop perched between MCAT prep books, a modest pile of PS3 games (The Last of Us, Uncharted 3, Skyrim), and a nice row of novels—The Hunger Games rested on top, waiting to be finished. My controller sat connected in like it belonged there permanently.

That’s when he appeared.

Tall, dark-haired, carrying only a duffel bag with a cheesy grin. He leaned on the doorframe as if he had practiced. "Do you need any assistance with those boxes? Fortunately, I'm available."

I blinked at him. Once. Twice. “Oh. No… thanks.”

His grin didn't change. If anything, it expanded, as if he assumed I hadn't realized his great charm. "You sure? I have powerful arms and no plans."

"Congratulations," I mumbled, and before he could finish his fictional script, I shoved the door shut. Not a slam, but a hard, final click.

By the time I was finished, the sky outside had become deep orange, with Manhattan humming beyond the window. I dusted the dust off my jeans, threw my braid over one shoulder, and strolled out into the corridor, hoping to find a vending machine and breathe in an open space.

And, of course, there he was.

Same dude. He leaned half in, half out of his door, as if he had been waiting. He recognized me immediately and raised his hand in an uncomfortable gesture. "Hey… uh, bag girl."

I paused mid-step, arching my brow. "It's Mel." "Right. Mel." His grin became sheepish this time. "Cool name."

Before I could flee, chaos engulfed me. A tall, pallid, anxious boy carrying a dinosaur facsimile the size of a refrigerator. Its plastic tail banged into the wall hard enough to rattle the ceiling lights.

"Sorry! Important paleontological research!" he said, as if carrying a T-rex through the halls of a college dorm was a typical Tuesday pastime.

I pressed myself against the wall as a guitar began strumming from someplace deeper in the building, followed by a person shouting, "Mac and cheeseeee saved my souuul!" as if the lyrics were a mystical insight. The sound echoed off each door in the hallway.

Then there's a faint beep-beep-beep, which indicates smoke alarms. Shouting. The distinct smell of anything burned. I overheard two female voices panicking down the hall, one loud, the other plain annoyed.

At this point, I was half-convinced I’d enrolled in a mental institution by mistake.

I was going to return to my room when another person appeared. Tall and sharp-featured, holding a Coke can, he smirked as if he had been watching the entire circus for fun.

"Hi," he remarked nonchalantly. "Welcome to the dorm for endless odd. Don't worry, we'll only grow louder after midnight.

The ruckus continued behind me, with dinosaurs bashing into walls, guitars screeching, smoke alarms wailing, and that cheesy-grinned guy's chuckle echoing as background noise.

"Great," I said as I hurriedly entered my dorm room, closed the door, and fell back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling and reflecting on my life choices.

"This is gonna be a long year."

Chapter Text

The first class of the semester ended with relief rather than delight. My notes were already a jumble of doodling, half-baked mathematics, and a reminder to buy proper pens rather than borrowing them from strangers. By the time I walked off the NYU campus, my stomach was growling louder than the traffic outside.

That's how I got up pushing the glass door of a cozy-looking coffee shop I'd passed over a dozen times—Central Perk, with its green awning and orange glow spilling out like a promise.

The air inside smelt like roasted beans and freshly baked pastries. A girl with glossy brown hair tucked behind her ears stood behind the bar, fiddling with a coffee maker. Despite lacking confidence, she maintained a nice appearance.

“Hi,” I said, pushing my glasses up as I approached. “Do you—uh—sell toast? Like… just toast?”

She blinked, then smiled like I’d asked for the most complicated drink in the world. “Toast. Yeah. I can do toast.”

“Perfect. And, um, coffee. Strong, please. I just survived chemistry.”

Her smile widened. “Oh, I get it. Believe me.” She slid a mug across the counter, a little clumsy but with the kind of warmth that made up for it. “I’m Rachel, by the way.”

“Mel,” I answered, wrapping both hands around the cup. “Thanks for saving my life.”

Before Rachel could continue, the door flung open. A small brunette with a purposeful step and a chef's jacket thrown over her arm walked inside. She saw me and Rachel talking and her face brightened up instantly.

“Rach! You remembered to lock up the muffins, right?” she teased, before her eyes shifted to me. “Hi. New face.”

“This is Mel,” Rachel said quickly, like she was proud she already knew my name. “Mel, this is Monica. She basically lives here too.”

Monica grinned, the kind of smile that felt like a handshake. “Well, anyone who survives Rachel’s coffee is basically family.”

Rachel swatted her arm, laughing, and I couldn’t help but smile into my mug.

I ran into them several times throughout the next week. Sometimes in Central Perk, sometimes on the street outside my dorm, and sometimes at the corner store while I was carrying far too many grocery bags. They didn't treat me like a stranger; instead, they embraced me with such ease that it felt like I'd been there for years.

One evening, Monica nudged me after work. “Oh, by the way—you haven’t met my brother yet, right? Ross?”

I raised an eyebrow. “The dinosaur guy you mentioned?”

"That's him," Monica said, leading me to the couch at Central Perk, where a tall man with friendly eyes and nervous energy was already seated. He looked at Rachel, who had just passed by with a tray of beverages, and instantly looked like someone had ripped the rug out from under him.

“Ross, this is Mel,” Monica introduced. “Mel, Ross. He’s… harmless.”

“Hi,” Ross muttered, almost spilling his coffee.

“Hi,” I echoed, trying not to laugh.

A few days later, the fire alarm sounded in my dorm building. Students piled into the hallway, carrying pillows, textbooks, and one bewildered cat. I stood barefoot in enormous sweatpants, watching at the mayhem, when three voices broke through.

“False alarm?” one guy asked, tall with floppy brown hair and a sarcastic edge to his tone.

“Or maybe your cooking,” another added, shorter but no less smug.

Beside them, a woman with bright eyes and a guitar case slung over her shoulder just shrugged. “Honestly, it’s the building. It likes to scream sometimes.”

They noticed me standing there, and the tall one tilted his head. “Hey. Haven’t seen you before.”

“I’m Mel,” I said, hugging my arms. “New. Apparently to both NYU and faulty fire alarms.”

“Chandler,” the tall one said.

“Joey,” the other chimed in, already grinning.

“And I’m Phoebe,” the girl added warmly.

Before I knew it, we were laughing and complaining about the dorms, and somehow—because fate is either cruel or hilarious—we wound up at Central Perk for lunch later that day.

Rachel waved when she saw me, Monica brought up a chair, and Ross botched his words again when Rachel approached too closely.

I looked around at all of them—these mismatched strangers who somehow felt less like strangers—and realized that New York may actually be okay.

Rachel smoothed her apron and slid into the chair beside Mel. “Okay, so since you’re the new kid in our little circle—” she gestured vaguely at everyone with her latte, “—we should probably do the whole, what’s your major, what’s your plan for life kind of thing.”

Joey immediately perked up. “Oh! Oh! I’ll go first. Drama. Obviously. I’m gonna be a star.” He puffed his chest, gesturing toward the window as if the street outside were a Broadway stage.

Phoebe grinned. “More like a shooting star. Bright, fast, and probably crashing into Earth.”

“Hey!” Joey whined, though he was already laughing.

Monica, ever the organizer, nodded seriously. “Okay, fine. I’ll keep this structured. Culinary arts and hospitality management. Someday I’m running my own restaurant. You’ll all eat there, and you’ll love it.”

“Do we get a discount?” Chandler deadpanned.

“You’ll pay double,” she shot back.

Mel laughed, Chandler's eyes flicked to her, lingering a second too long before he looked down at his untouched coffee, smiling at his own poor timing.

Ross, clearing his throat in the way only Ross could, added, “Paleontology. Dinosaurs. Fossils. Ancient civilizations. It’s… uh, you know, important.” His gaze flicked nervously toward Rachel, who was politely nodding but very clearly stirring her coffee like it was the most fascinating thing in the universe.

Rachel finally chimed in, flashing her bright smile. “Fashion merchandising. One day I’m gonna be running Bloomingdale’s. Or maybe Prada. Or both.”

“Ambitious,” Monica teased.

“Stylish,” Rachel corrected.

Phoebe plucked at the string of her coffee stirrer like it was a guitar. “I’m sort of undeclared, but I’m into music therapy. Like, healing people through sound, you know? Though, technically, I’m already healing people with my music.” She hummed a completely off-key tune until Joey clapped.

Mel smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Well… I’m pre-med. With a literature minor. Because apparently I like pain and books equally.”

“Ohhh, the smart one,” Joey said, nodding solemnly, as if this explained everything about her.

Chandler leaned back, resting an elbow on the couch arm. “Pre-med and lit? That’s, like, saving lives and correcting grammar. You’re basically a superhero with a red pen.”

Mel’s cheeks warmed, and she laughed softly, brushing him off. “Hardly.”

He looked away, pretending to sip his coffee, but Phoebe noticed the sideways glance he cast at Mel while she wasn't looking.

Monica, noticing nothing, clapped her hands. “Okay, so in summary: Joey’s a future star, Ross is digging bones, Rachel’s designing clothes, I’m feeding everyone, Phoebe’s saving souls, Mel’s saving lives, and Chandler—”

Everyone turned.

“…is still figuring it out,” Chandler admitted with a shrug. “But hey, someone’s gotta be the comic relief, right?”

“Yeah,” Joey said through a mouthful of cheesecake. “But like… what’s your major again?”

“Communications,” Chandler sighed. “Which is ironic, because I’m terrible at talking about my feelings.”

Phoebe leaned over Mel’s coffee cup like she was peering into the future. “You’re all gonna have a very interesting four years.”

And somehow, Mel believed her.