Chapter Text
There's only one person in the auditorium when Bradley gets in.
Goofy, his former teammate, is humming some dated tune that was probably all the rage his first time in college. Walking quietly down the steps, Bradley sits in the front most right corner, tucked far enough away from the usual Gamma spot that he wouldn't be noticed.
Goofy, with a sixth sense for awkward confrontations, zeroes in on the disgraced fraternity president and heads over to him.
"Mr. Uppercrust!" he shouts, waving and stumbling across steps and chairs. It's a blessing that nobody else is in the room yet because he's not sure he could handle that sort of attention.
Mentally correcting himself before he said 'brother Goof' out loud, Bradley gives half a smile. "Oh, Mr. Goof," he says, feigning delighted surprise despite the pit of dread in his stomache. "Did you need something?"
Goofy clamors to a stop in front of him, reflexively going for a fraternity handshake, hooking his pinky around Bradley's. Startled, Bradley reciprocates.
"We don't have to... I mean, neither of us are in anymore."
"But we were!" Goofy says with a buck-toothy smile. Just like Max's. "We commited to being brothers, and you don't just throw out family. Maybe the fraternity is different than blood, but it's pretty close! So, I figure we try and start out on a new foot. How you doin' brother?"
Stammering, Bradley pulls his hand away. Just leave it to Max's father to still see any redeeming qualities in the man that hurt his son. He needs to cut this interaction short before someone witnesses it. At the same time, he's not sure what Goofy's academic track is. He might not see the other ever again. He'd never have a chance to make things right.
"I... I need you to know I'm sorry," Bradley says quietly. "And even though it wasn't my intent to hurt Max- to hurt anyone-" he steels himself, fists balling. He couldn't run from consequence.
"I didn't look back for a second."
Goofy seems to flinch at the harsh plainness of the statement. It knocked whatever words he had prepared out of his mouth, and it does make Bradley feel guilty. But he should know that trying to be anything more than acquaintances again was a lost cause. It was better this way.
"Well I appreciate your apology but, I-" And just like that, the entrance to the lecture hall bursts open and the professor walks in.
"I think you should go sit with your son," Bradley says, sinking into his seat.
Goofy pauses for a moment, but slowly, he leaves, walking back over to his usual spot with far more grace than he'd arrived.
Thank God, because Bradley isn't sure he can handle being noticed by the students trickling in.
"Mr. Uppercrust!"
....Fuck.
"A word," the professor calls, and Bradley gives up any hope of making it through the class with any dignity intact. He straightens his dress shirt, grabbing his bookbag and anticipating the worst as he makes his way over to the front podium.
"Yes, sir?"
"Your attendance has been lacking."
'Uh. Yes. I can explain that. But you have been getting my assignments in your drop box, right?"
His professor sighs, rubbing his brow. "I have. But I still can't pass you in this class in good conscience. Attendance is a part of your grade in this class."
Like hell it was. A lecture hall with an attendance policy would have been covered on the syllabus. To submit the bare minimum to pass, Bradley had read the thing front to back.
Like most of it.
"Well, I actually have paperwork regarding my absence," Bradley says, pulling court documents from his bag.
His professor eyes the documents, flipping through them. It's about a minute that Bradley stands at the front of the class, bristling from the heat of eyes that are surely on his back. Finally his professor hums, noticing the dates. "This only accounts for two of your absences, Mr. Uppercrust."
Bradley tries not to show any irritation outwardly as he pulls out the documents outlining his psychotherapy schedule. "I believe this should cover the rest of it." He'd made sure explicitly that he would be occupied during his shared Gen Eds. Every day was accounted for.
The professor sighs, mustache twitching as he tuts. "For future reference, Mr. Uppercrust, I would appreciate being made aware of these absences before they happen."
Bradley grits out the fakest smile he can. "I'll be sure to keep you in the loop better, sir."
Finally, he must deem this embarassment punishment enough, and waves Bradley away.
Turning, Bradley is further submitted to indignation, as some greasy freshman has taken his spot. Reigning in the anger, Bradley takes the empty spot next to him.
"I'm ak-tually saving this spot for a friend," the guy lisps. Bradley seeths. Fuck your friend. But he slides his bag the one extra space away from the guy. Didn't wanna sit next to him anyways. He pulls out his few notes for the class, and hopes they cover a lot of material during the review. He's got a couple weeks to make up for.
"Hey Maxy!" Bradley hears Goofy shout behind him. The ache in his heart still catches him off guard. He promises himself he won't look, not after this morning. It doesn't matter at all though, because Max's sneakers squeak down the steps to go talk to the professor.
"I just wanted to say I appreciated the extension, teach. You're literally a life-saver."
"Oh, it's nothing, Max. I'm looking forward to reading it in full."
Cockamamie bullshit if Bradley had ever heard it. This was blatant favoritism. He's glued to his notes, certain if he looks up, he's finally gonna snap.
But the moment passes, and Bradley breathes, exhaling most of the malice, and breathing in soothing, familiar apathy.
Max slides his bag next to Bobby as he takes his seat, strewing crumple-edged and dog-eared papers into his workspace. His main study method is rewriting everything he's already written. He had a highlighter for this exact reason, but for the life of him can't find it, so Bobby comes in clutch with a pink gelly roller pen and red sharpie.
"Don't lose that," Bobby slurs, eyes glazed over with groggyness. "Like. Very serious, Max. Those are my only good pens left from this semester."
"Then what are you using?" Max asks, writing his name up in the top corner of a fresh, clean page in his notebook.
"Isn't that what you're writing those extra notes for? We share in this house, compadre."
Max rolls his eyes but smiles. "Okay, sure, you can study off of my old ones. Once PJs done with them." The cat in question must be skipping today, or just running late. He was a decent student though and could probably stand to skip a review.
Goofy is seated on the other side of Bobby, and he isn't intruding into every conversation. Which has been a large sign of growth this semester. But he looks troubled.
"You okay dad?"
Goofy startles at the last word, looking over at the others. "Bradley was gone a while, is all. Gorsh, I hope everything's okay."
Bobby narrows his eyes, and raises his glasses, looking the direction that Goofy had been staring. "What, that's him?" He elbows Max in the side. "I thought he'd dropped out after the X Games."
"Why?" Max says, rubbing the hair on the back of his neck and staring at his notes. "It wasn't the end of the world."
Bobby raises a brow, peaking over the top of his circle-rimmed glasses.
Fuck, right, why was he trying to defend the guy? Over some fucking Adderall? A t-shirt? Some magazines? Max bites his tongue, because he isn't sure how he's supposed to feel. But it's probably not like this.
"I don't know when he was gonna hit that button," Goofy mumbles, and Max and Bobby quietly listen. "But I... I think a lot of that might have been my fault too. I'm the reason everything went off when it did."
"Dad, that's... that's not your fault. You know that! We all know that-"
Tank quietly takes his seat next to Max and he stops mid-sentence.
Tank had never really opened up about the incident, and now was a piss-poor time to find out.
"Hey Tank," Max says with as much cheer as he can muster. God, this whole situation was too confusing and he was so not about to play devil's advocate. He was just gonna go back to his notes.
"Out of the themes discussed in medieval cannon," the professor says, monotonous and boring the life out of the class already, "you should be able to discuss Pilgrimage and Beowulf in detail."
Max scribbles names as they're mentioned, doublechecking that he's covered them in the notes before.
"What the hell is he doing here?" Tank mutters beside him.
"That's what we were wondering," Bobby whispers back. Max grits his teeth, trying to pay attention.
"-and when is it that we discuss Eloise and Abelard's affair?"
"The Renaissance," Max blurts out, forgetting to raise his hand, but the professor nods and accepts an informal answer for the review.
"We thought he got kicked out," Bobby whispers behind Max's head.
"Nah," Tank says. "We oust him from the Gammas, and the X Games gave the Gammas a 2 year ban."
"That fuckin' sucks dude."
Max sighs, losing place in what they're covering now. Shakespeare? It sounded like Shakespeare.
"He's looking over here again," Bobby whispers. "Like, what the fuck is his damage, huh?"
"It's whatever," Tank says. "If he wants to be bitchy, let him. Not gonna bother me."
Max gives up on his notes with a groan. If he had to annotate for another second with the conversation in the background, he was gonna lose it. He scribbles out the nonsense he's written down on the last line, setting his pencil down and running a hand through his hair.
"I thought you all were still tight, not gonna lie dude," Bobby says, now crowding Max's space to talk to Tank.
"Ugh. We could be, if Bradley could just man up and talk to me like a normal person. But he's never been..." Tank trails off, and Max wonders how close the two had been.
"Normal?" Bobby laughs.
Tank doesn't seem as hurt by Bradley's actions as Max had assumed he was. In fact, he seemed pretty lighthearted about the entire situation. The thought keeps spinning around Max's head. Tank would probably know Bradley was gay. Like, if Max was gay, he'd for sure tell Bobby and PJ, wouldn't he? That's the kind of thing you talk about with friends. ....and maybe Max needs to talk about his recent development with them. If Bradley had talked about it with Tank, he'd know how to have that conversation. But Max couldn't just come out and ask about it, right? There had to be some subtle way of fishing for details.
"Hey, um. Tank, I have a question."
The man raises his brow. "Go ahead, sweetheart."
Max nudges Bobby away and thankfully his friend takes the hint, sighing and rolling his eyes as he shuffles his seat closer to Goofy. "So like... Kind of unrelated, but if you knew. Um. Somebody you were friends with. Who maybe was secretly was... Not. Into women. Do you tell them you know? Or would you just pretend you didn't know?"
Tank's eyes narrow, brow furrowing in what Max assumes is anger. "Why are you asking me?"
"Hah! It's nothing, no judgement, I'm just wondering if you've been through that situation. Specifically. With a friend."
Tank visibly bristles. "Max. Who told you?" He peers around the classroom, briefly locking with Bradley before the other quickly buried himself back into notes again.
Max sees the direction Tank is staring, and feels somewhat relieved that they're both on the same page. Now he could get answers. "Uh, nobody! Nobody had to tell me. But I mean. I mean... maybe it was kind of obvious." With the whole hanging out in a gay bar shtick, Max is surprised he ever gave Bradley that much plausible deniability.
"Obvious?"
"Well. Yeah, pretty obvious. So, I just wanted to know, how long have you known?"
Tank is clearly affronted. "Most of my fucking life."
He had no clue they'd been friends for that long. Max smiles. "Oh, shit. A long time then. I just found out like... yesterday?"
"You what?" Tank's fingers thread along the side of his face, pushing his ears back, the vein on his forehead noticeably bulging.
"Yeah, okay, so like. On the down low, don't tell anybody, I talked with Bradley-"
"That bitch!" Tank growls, slamming his hands down on the table, and the blood in Max's veins run cold. Maybe Tank wasn't as chill with the situation as he thought.
"Quiet down," the professor calls, and the discussion across the room comes to a halt. Thank God, because Bradley couldn't take the whispers. Worse than that though, Max wouldn't even look at him. It was potentially deserved for his passive aggression at the beginning of class. But Bradley could see, could hear them whispering his name. Throwing himself back into his notes, lines fuzzily bleed and blur together. He can't focus at all, and if it keeps up he'll be spiraling just like this morning.
"Since you all seem so keen to talk during the review," the professor grumbles, fed up with this shit and probably finishing the last year of tenure, "then let's reopen the discussion on Panthea. Tank?" He enunciates the nickname, irritated the fraternity president wouldn't answer to anything else.
Ugh. He was so bitchy for a man his age.
"Uh, Panthea. Right. That's aesthetic movement."
The professor sighs. "We were discussing themes, what are the themes, Tank?"
The senior scratches his head, looking uncharacteristically irritated by the simple question. "Uh, Love?"
Bradley giggles, a lot of the class does, but the professor zeroes in on him specifically.
"Mr Uppercrust! Do you have something to add?"
"Sure," Bradley says, folding his arms. "What do you wanna know?"
"Themes," the professor repeats, probably irritated by being faced with his own condescension.
"Well, Tank isn't wrong. It's about love. But it's the relationship between beauty and love."
The professor would ordinarily find that answer sufficient, but Bradley has clearly pissed him off. Likewise. "And do you have any textual evidence to support that?"
Like the whole fucking poem? Bradley's finger skims the margin looking for a highlighted line in his textbook.
"Yeaaaah. Sure. Line 161? Beauty is informed by love and passion. He's not literally saying flowers wouldn't bloom, but that nature wouldn't be... uh... beheld without the humanity to see it. I guess." What the fuck am I even saying, Bradley thinks, thumb pressing the top of his pen down.
Thankfully, 3 years of intellectual bullshitting have served him well, because the professor lays off. "And we can contrast that with De Profundis," the professor drawls, drooping cheeks flapping at the latter part of Profundis. It's ridiculous enough that Bradley's mood considerably brightens. "Which Wilde wrote when?"
Bradley is practiced in his indifference, finger flipping pages in the corner of his notebook.
"After he was incarcerated for sodomy," Tank says, and the professor looks extraordinarily surprised that Tank could have gotten that right. Bradley bristles, but then remembers he has zero concern over policing Tank's behavior. "But he only ended up losing in court because he was an egotistical shitty friend."
Bradley grimaces, and he knows Tank is staring right at him. Talking about him.
"I suppose that's one way to put it," the professor concedes. "He did have ample opportunity to flee the country but instead decided to sue for defamation. His ego... Good point." The professor had clearly never contextualized the work in this way and seemed very intrigued. "A bad friend... You mean in expecting his constituents to defend him by potentially endangering themselves in the case?"
Tank crosses his arms, staring Bradley down. "All he ever did was whine about how hard he suffered being a wealthy intellectual rich boy, but the second he gets his due he's turned on all of his higher-up friends."
Bradley scoffs. "Hey, he stuck out his neck for his friends, even if you don't believe it."
"Hmm, I suppose he did pay off Lord Douglas' blackmailers," the professor says, skimming through his own book.
"That doesn't make up for telling everyone how gay his friends are!" Tank says with a scowl. Bradley is perplexed into silence. What the fuck is his deal?
"Wait, was Oscar Wilde gay?" Bobby blurts out. Admittedly he had been sleeping through that part of the semester. "I thought he just really loved his besties."
"Is this gonna be on the test?" a woman asks from the back. "I don't remember talking about this in class." The class is in pandemonium now, breaking out into discussion. The professor clears his throat to regain attention. He clears it a second time after it's clear nobody heard him.
"You're very right, this won't be tested, but we can have this riveting discussion at some other point," the professor sighs. "You'll also need to be able to discuss our 20th century poets."
Bradley can't hear over his blood boiling. The clock says there's 5 minutes left in class and he's gonna take his leave early.
The greasy freshman next to him is still sitting alone and Bradley minutely relishes in that fact. "Friend couldn't be bothered to make it, huh?" he whispers with a devious smile, just short of flipping the kid off. The freshman in turn, sticks his tongue out. Restraining his violent rage, Bradley pivots on his foot with a forced look of superiority and makes his way out of the class, Tank's eyes following as he leaves.
He looks angry.
Really angry.
Bradley doesn't stagger until he makes it through the door and into the hall, far more winded from the steps than he should be. He's lightheaded, breathing too loud, lungs too tight.
Fuck. Not right now.
Had Tank shaken him that much?
He makes his way to a water fountain nearby, drinking the metalic trickling stream. The water feels too thick. Or maybe his mouth is too small. It feels like he's fallen through a funhouse mirror, like he's breathing it in. No, that doesn't make sense.
His hands, too large, too far away from his face, cup the stream of water. The sensation isn't enough to snap him back to reality; nothing feels like it's supposed to. His fist slams on the metal. It's not enough contact. He punches down on the water fountain, knuckle colliding with wet metal.
It's not enough contact.
Snap out of it, Bradley. Wake up. Wake up.
He slaps his face, and it feels too numb. He slaps it harder, and momentarily thinks of throwing himself on the cold tile, like the shock to his system would help, like he wouldn't feel like he was dying right now. What the fuck is wrong with me?
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Tank is behind Bradley, staring him down as he approaches, crowding Bradley's space until the overhead florescent lights are blocked from view. Despite the wetness on his lip from the fountain, Bradley's mouth feels dry. But he wasn't going to let on to that in front of the new Gamma president.
"What's wrong with me? Tank, do you hear yourself? Embarrassing yourself in front of the whole class, and for what?'
"You promised you'd never tell anyone, you swore on your life."
Bradley's mouth is flat, eyes narrowed minutely. "I don't have a fucking clue what you're talking about."
"You outted me."
Bradley snorts. Then laughs.
He doubles over wheezing.
"Are you fucking serious, Tank?" He wheezes between laughs. "You just shouted out to the whole class how queer you were over a study hall. I didn't do a damn thing!"
Tank grumbles, grabbing the corners or Bradley's shirt and hiking him off the floor. He could feel a seam tearing, on his favorite dress shirt.
"Max knows I'm gay, and he's been talking to you. How else would he know?"
Bradley can't help but laugh even as he's dangling in the air, head rolling back as his finally gives up trying to stay upright in his disconnected state. "Maybe he used his eyes, Tank. But I had nothing to do with it."
Tank turns his head. Disgusted, mortified, conflicted. Bradley wants to say a hundred things. He wants to say sorry, but saying it now felt cheap after pissing Tank off more. He wants to tell Tank to fuck off, but the thought of disappointing Tank any more also hurts. He's still hiked in the air, Tank's hands shaking from holding Bradley up. Bradley anticipates a swing, a slam, something. It would probably ease his racing heart rate to have an actually tangible threat to worry about.
"Are you gonna hit me?" Bradley asks coyly, tongue sliding over his teeth, a hint of enthusiasm that puts Tank off completely.
"Why do you want me to hate you," Tank finally says, lowering Bradley back to the ground, but the hands don't release him yet.
Bradley scowls, but he is glad Tank hasn't let go yet because he'd probably fall over at this point. "I don't want that. I never fucking wanted that." His head falls forward, and his hand futilely grabs at Tank's, his breath coming a little harder. Class would be letting out any second. He needs to leave before it gets worse.
"I can't talk about this right now. But I will. I'll... I'll see you later. Okay?"
His hand tugs at Tank's, who hesitantly let's him go. But the missing hand is all that was holding Bradley upright at that point. With it gone, Bradley stumbles across tile and into a bulletin board on the wall.
It's muffled, but Bradley hears laughter. Did he fall? The cold linoleum floor underneath him does exactly what Bradley had wanted, rocking him back to his senses, back to his self. All according to plan. When he opens his eyes everything is tilted. His head tingles.
...He should probably get up.
It only takes a second to get his feet under him, and he's out the building just as quickly, getting away from Tank, from class, from everything.
Fuck the rest of the day, he was running home.
---
"Holy shit," Bobby says, peeking around the gathered crowd. "PJ picked a hell of a day to skip."
"Huh? What's happening?" Max asks, trying to see whatever the hell Bobby is looking at, but everyone is so damn tall.
"A little aggro," Bobby says, weaving through the slowly dispersing crowd, and Max follows behind.
"I didn't even do anything, baby," Tank mumbles, watching Bradley Uppercrust III run out of the building, bag discarded next to the wall he bounced off of. "Just ran into the wall himself."
"Woah man, you sure you didn't check him or something?" Bobby asks. Like, sure, he wants to give the big guy the benefit of the doubt, but that seemed crazy.
The Bradley kind of crazy.
So maybe it was true.
Max is silent as he sheepishly approaches, coming to stand in front of Tank. If the classroom discussion had been any indication, things were not good. "If you want to talk. We can-"
"I don't," Tank says, and he steps off for the Gamma house. "You can grab Bradley's shit, since you're so tight, now."
Max stands there for a moment, staring at a bag that was probably worth more than all of his textbooks combined. He probably should grab it. Even though that would be signing up for another awkward run-in.
What the hell was he getting himself into?