Archive of Our Own

Bradley knows the man writing his prescriptions doesn't actually give a shit about his problems, but it's almost incentivized to tell him anyways, because the overpaid old coot on the verge of retirement would rather prescribe another medication than listen to Bradley prattle on about any problems. Plus his insurance is willing to overpay for everything.

"I think we've narrowed it down to a few treatment plans," the older man finally says and Bradley looks up from the uncomfortable chair he's slumped over. "The antidepressants sound like they're working with your current medication, so we'll keep the dose the same for now, but if your condition changes let me know."

He rips off the sheet of paper with the medically scribed nonsense on it and sets it on the coffee table next to Bradley. Bradley is quiet, looking over the note. "So what else do you think is wrong with me?"

The man sighs, because this definitely isn't his job to tell him. "Your therapist talked with you about your diagnosis, right?"

Bradley did, in fact, remember that conversation. It was uncomfortable as hell, being asked if anything particularly traumatic in his childhood had fucked him up, and frankly it was none of their goddamn business, and no he didn't feel like sharing with the class even if that meant his mental issues wouldn't have an official name.

"Well, regardless, we can pivot treatment plans if it doesn't seem to work for you. Is there any other issues with your current regimen you'd like to discuss?"

Bradley thought of what the plug from the frat had said the big ticket pills were, and remembered how to ask for them. "Uh, yeah. I've also had a lot of trouble sleeping. From stress. Like. A lot. You got anything for that?"

His psychologist sighed and scribbled on another page of the prescription pad.

Bradley tried to find another job, really. He'd tried to angle an internship with his dad, but the old man was pretty insistant that after his whole... "episode" that a service job would humble him back into some sort of semi-functional human being. Bradley was pretty sure his dad was just embarrassed and didn't want anyone at the company to know about his son's poor mental health or the reason why he needed money that daddy wouldn't give him.

And Bradley couldn't necessarily be mad about that. Or at least didn't deserve to be.

Walking on campus drove him nuts now, too many eyes on him, despising him probably. He tried his best to blend in better, some generic college hoodie obscuring his face at all times. He could be a pariah for the last years of school for all he cared. It was too late to branch out at this point anyways, so the less he was noticed, the better.

The Bean Scene's liberal bleeding heart was forgiving and happy for the morning rush help. It was unfortunately a pretty hot location, but in the dim room if you kept a hat on and your head down, nobody recognized or cared who you were. The perk of a service job was nobody giving a fuck about who was behind the counter.

That was about where the perks ended, as it turned out. College kids weren't absolutely awful but the other customers drove him nuts.

"Entitled, whiny, twerp," Bradley mutters under his breath, remaking the drink a second time for a problem customer.

"Talking to yourself again," the girl in the beret says with a hum. "Dramatic irony."

"You can say karma," Bradley says softly. "Fewer syllables for me to understand when you talk down to me."

She laughs, and it isn't the punctuating laugh in her poetry, it seems genuine. Bradley's face loses a bit of the tension as he pours steamed whole milk into the ceramic mug.

"And no spit in the mug either. That's character growth from the L7 who used to hate this kind of scene," she says, leaning cheekily from her stool across the bar.

"Give it a minute," Bradley says, the corner of his mouth perking up, and it feels like the closest thing to a smile in over a month. He hazards a glance into her eyes and it pangs through him just how scarce eye contact is for him anymore, aside from when he's begging his psychiatrist to up his prescription so he can sell pills on the side. He looks away, serves the cup, and starts cleaning his work space now that the rush is finally over. The girl is still there, and he hasn't spoken to anyone in such a long time. Maybe it would be okay if he pretended he was something less pathetic than the guy he was at the moment. "So, uh. Are you reciting anything later?"

"Hmm. Maybe tonight. But I'm actually waiting on a friend."

Hah- friend. Now she's just rubbing it in. But now he has no idea where to steer the conversation. His first actual social interaction since he started talk therapy and he's actively fucking it up because he's not invested enough in what they're talking about like always. So despite the fact he doesn't care, he latches on to the first question his mind can think of.

"Oh, cool, cool. Anyone I'd know?"

She snorts, muffling the noise behind a hand. "Oh, Bradley. All too well."

Fuck.

"Max is coming here?"

She eyes the panic on his face but doesn't immediately mock him for it. Not that he would blame her.

"That was the plan. You know, as seriously as you boys took that competition, Max isn't the kind of guy to hold it over you for the rest of your life."

"He should." Bradley scrubs at the drip grate of the espresso machine, washrag pulling up splattered milk and dried espresso residue.

"Too bad, that's more Max's decision than yours. If you don't continue making an ass of yourself." She squints her eyes, sizing up the expression on Bradley's face and the window behind him before she repeats the last part deliberately. "Don't make an ass of yourself."

There's motion out of the corner of his eye and Bradley sees Max through the stairwell window, almost skipping down the stairway to avoid fraying his JNCOs.

Bradley's hand fumbles the rag and drops it. His apron feels like its strangling him.

His voice is steeped in tension, exasperated breaths unable to push the words out. "I'm gonna make an ass of myself," he says to her, absolutely petrified. Max gets to the door and Bradley's legs give out. He tries to compose himself before pulling his legs towards his chest. It's stupid, he's stupid, for not being able to even be seen by Max almost two full months after his monumental fuck-up. He'd already stopped showing up to the only class they'd had together, probably jeopardizing any chance of graduating that semester.

The girl in the beret sighs, leaning further back away from the bar.

"Hey!" Max calls, and Bradley feels sick at the sound of his voice. It's happy. "Bobby and P.J. are grabbing their boards, if you wanna come watch after we get coffee-"

His sentence cuts off and Bradley knows Max just noticed a barista was nowhere in sight.

"Pretty sure they're on lunch now," the beret girl supplies helpfully. "I actually have to catch up with one of my classmates, but tell baby Buddha I'll be over soon, okay?"

"Alright, we'll wait for you there," Max says, and Bradley would recognize the sound of that whirling skateboard wheel anywhere. There's got to be one in his hands now that he's fiddling with. His whole body aches with how much Bradley misses that sound. "But I have to tell you about some bullshit in English lit, see you soon."

Bradley waits a long time, the sound of rubber-soled sneakers squeaking on linoleum fading away, followed by the jingling of the door. Finally, the beret girl says "...you're clear. That bad, huh?"

"I'm not a sore loser," Bradley huffs getting up. And sure, his ego had been torn to shreds, but he was handling it. Somewhat. "Not now, at least. I know when I've been beaten and Max won. Fair and square." At least, on Max's own part the game had been. "But if I want to keep my dignity-" of which there clearly is none, once Bradley thinks about the words leaving his mouth.  "I can't be around him, or I'll be that person again."

She sips from her cappuccino cup, humming in thought. "Hmm. Do tell."

The first circle around the support group session was just introductions. He wasn't really paying attention to other people's names, but there was a girl he was pretty sure was younger than him in all black with flat ironed hair, a heavy-set guy in a plaid button-up, a woman with a stroller, and so many other forgettable faces. Bradley only gave his first name when it was his turn. He was supposed to be taking notes, writing down things he empathized with or related to but all he'd done yet is scribble what he thought a few names were and drawn a sick ass rat-bones mounted double kick skateboard in the margins. The skateboard was engulfed in flames and splattered with blood. He scribbled it out.

The second circle around the room, they were mostly just sharing why they were there. What crazy bullshit everyone had done to get recommended to this support group in the first place. And Bradley was sure he had them all put to shame, if that was the sort of thing he wanted to brag about. Like sure, maybe you don't have child custody anymore or your bestie won't return your calls because you got a little agitated they didn't come to your birthday dinner, but did any of them destroy nearly a million dollars in sporting event equipment? When it came time to share though, Bradley threw all those details away. Maybe they had done the same thing, sanitizing the story to the generically vulnerable parts they could actually talk about without fear of judgement.

"I cared so much about winning, I hurt my best friend. And now everyone at my school... treats me like the village idiot."

The man leading the group discussion didn't berate Bradley for only saying that, fucking thankfully. He did however kick-start some other discussion relating to shit they must have talked about last week, so none of it made sense to Bradley. He zoned out for a moment, thinking of skating downhill, backside, angling the nose in a casual weave through people in the way, the rattle of wheel on pavement echoing in his legs, when his thoughts were interrupted with someone across the circle groaning.

"I can't hold a relationship, because I scare everyone away, and it's killing me. I want to have a normal family, but at this point maybe I will be a single mom forever."

What had the group leader said they were talking about? Favorite person? Like your spouse or whatever?

Bradley had never been in a serious relationship. He'd never shown enough interest in girls to get his family off his back. Aside from what to say to get them to the frat party you were holding, or asking about answers to math questions, that was usually where flirting ended. And guys, on the other hand... His pencil chipped absently at the notebook making tally marks that turned into a rail, another skateboard reverse nose-grinding along it.

The young, emo gal... Tiffany or something, was kicking her feet as the eyes turned to her. She looked away, most of them did, Bradley noticed, as she shared. "My favorite person is like, always my best friend. And it, like, makes it so hard because I always want more with them than they do me n' stuff? Like I get that relationships aren't 'transactional' but I... Like it's so hard to tell which parts are my fault."

Bradley thought of Tank for a moment, and he knew it wasn't anything like what they had experienced. If anything, Tank normally got the short end of the stick in being Bradley's friend.

"And the worst part is like, they're still that favorite person, even though I hate them. I hate seeing them and everything they do and think about them all the time. Like, even though they make me so mad, I would drop everything if they wanted to be friends again."

Bradley's scratched lines slowed, his eyes peeking over the top of the notepad.

"That's a really good point, Ashley," the counselor said once she petered off into silence. "We usually talk about FPs in the context of partners and family members, but an FP can be anyone our brains have connected with seeking validation and reassurance."

Bradley's pencil lead snaps. He looks back down at the notebook, imagining the nosegrinding skateboard in yellow with blue wheels. He thinks of the most undeniably talented skateboarder on campus telling Bradley that he'd rather ride with other no-name skaters than be teammates with Bradley and see how cool they could be at skating together.

All the air escapes the room, so Bradley pulls out his pager and leaves early, mumbling something about an important call.

"So they won't just outright say that I'm crazy, even though they clearly think I am! Like, you don't get the good resale meds unless you're a basket case, and they are making me some good cash."

The girl in the beret stirred her second cup of coffee, hanging onto every word Bradley said. "So your solution to a lawsuit that was the product of borderline criminal behavior is just actual criminal behavior."

Bradley's face was blank, as if she had just now heard what he was saying. "Yes?"

"Oh, right. Unrelated but I would love to make you my thesis statement."

"Judge all you want, but I can't just pay off that settlement working for minimum wage and shit tips, I'll be in debt forever!"

"Welcome to the world of student debt, Bradley. If you aren't careful you might start relating to your peers." Bradley grumbles at her, but doesn't disagree, grabbing a carton of soy milk from the fridge and shaking it. She takes another sip. "You are taking some of those pills, right?"

Bradley pours out a single serving of the soy before letting the milk steamer rip with a squeal.

"Well, yeah. Honestly I don't think I could get through the day if I didn't. Even on meds, I've felt like blowing up so many times today."

Her espresso cup tinks against the porcelain saucer. "That actually is impressive. You are just full of surprises, silver spoon."

Bradley squints, caught somewhat off guard by the comment and unsure of its intention. It didn't sound like an insult despite the misnomer. "Uh. Thanks, you too-" Bradley searches for a name but turns up blank. "Uh, mochaccino... what's your name again?"

She laughs, but doesn't answer, instead standing up from the stool and passing her saucer back to Bradley. "I'll see you around, silver spoon." And she's off to meet up with her friends.

Max was pissed. Just his luck that he gets to the pharmacy ten minutes before closing and they don't have his meds. And since it's Friday, he can't call his doctor's office to get the prescription filled somewhere else until Monday, at which point he was already supposed to be submitting a term paper. There were so many people out celebrating the first stress-free hours of their dead week, and he couldn't be one of them.

"Max-y!" Bobby cheers, shirtless outside of their dorm reeking of weed and with a cup in hand. If Max hadn't known their RA was living out of the library cramming for his pre-med final, he might have been concerned. Instead, he was agitated. Bobby picks up on it, even as cross-faded as he is. "What's up Max-imum? You don't look so good."

"Damn pharmacy is closed. I haven't even started on this paper," Max mopes, reaching for the door handle.

"Hup- stop right there, Maxy. PJ was majorly mackin' with his girl." Max let go of the knob turning and sighing. "What's this about the pharmacy? You need some more riddle-it' in?"

"No, they switched me over to Adderall," Max sighs, rubbing his eyes.

"Oh, don't even sweat it bro, I know a guy who knows a guy."

Max's face scrunched up, skeptical. "What, like a dealer?" He's quiet for a second, reconsidering just how badly he wants to pass his finals. Beggars can't be choosers, can they?

"I think you can only reach 'em by phone," Bobby drawls, grabbing a red sharpie from underneath his glove. "N' you gotta call before two from the payphone outside that club next to the Bean Scene, y'know?"

"Rave?"

"Nah, the gay one."

The two are quiet for a moment as Max processes that information.

"I think it's a privacy thing," Bobby adds helpfully. "Like, oh, you're not gonna snitch n' say aw the plug's at the gay bar cuz... Y'know, what were you doin' at the gay bar?"

"That's definitely not it," Max huffed, letting Bobby write the number on his hand. "If you're looking for a dealer in the first place, that should make you suspect enough, right?"

Bobby shrugged, capping the sharpie before throwing his drink back. "I dunno, smoking has never been that complicated.  I'm gonna go sneak another drink from the room down th' hall. If they're not done by the time I get back-"

Both of them knew Bobby didn't have a confrontational bone in his body. "Then I'm gonna knock again," he finally decided, pivoting on his foot and stumbling down the hall.

Being somewhat paranoid of getting caught, Max pulled his hoodie up as he skated over. It hadn't taken more than five minutes to cross campus and get to the payphone, the faint glow of the club honestly very inviting were it not for the errand he was currently on. The payphone was an unexpected charge for the night, but Max made change, punching in the number Bobby had given him. The phone rang a while and Max's nerves were getting to him. What if he was getting caught up in some drug bust? Or what if the phone never picked up and it was some elaborate prank?

The only people around are a triad of lanky leather-wearing punks more interested in smoking. The phone continues ringing without answer.

The side door of the club opens and Max keeps his head somewhat down, trying to seem cool and collected. But he sneaks a glance in case it's trouble.

It had been two months since Max last saw Bradley, but it was unmistakably him. His hair is longer, but Max would recognize that trademark bourgeois fashion sense anywhere, especially around a club like this where he just looked like a preppy poser. His sweater vest is at least grey, but his dress shirt underneath is a familiar blue. And attached to his khaki waistband was a beeper, currently blinking. It stops the exact moment Max hangs up. Their eyes are locked, both in shock before Max remembers why he's there in the first place.

"Oh great. So you're the reason every kid on campus can get my prescription before I do." Max has had low restraint on his irritation all day and it seeps through as he marches over to invade Bradley's space and point accusatorily at him.

"Freshie, quiet-"

Bradley eyes the group outside in fear for a second (they're too drunk and too deep in conversation to care) before his familiar seething bite reappears- only for Bradley to hold a hand up and take a breath, closing his eyes. The tension mostly drops from his face, leaving only apathetic ennui.

"Do you need something?" Bradley asks, voice firm but not exceptionally cruel. "Because we can talk it out, but not that loud or we're both getting kicked out of here."

"Yeah actually," Max says a lot closer to his ear and it definitely is supposed to come off as a threat how close the other is talking to him but it rides that fine line typical of every interaction last semester that makes Bradley second guess himself. "You normally do it out here? Or is there somewhere private we can take this?"

Bradley scoffs and rolls his eyes, putting distance between the two of them with a small push. Still, he gingerly takes one of Max's hands and makes way back into the club and towards the bathroom, tightening his grip on the other's wrist while passing more punk groupies writhing to music and scene girls making out with each other. It's a little on the lighter side for a pre-dead week Friday night but crowded enough that Max understands why he's being dragged through the dark club. And every single one of them is dressed in what has to be women's cut pants, because they don't sell pants that tight at the department store.

"Are they having a theme party here or something? I feel like we underdressed."

Bradley ignores him, pushing into a sticker-covered door that reveals the club's bathroom. It's occupied by another make out sesh, but Bradley pays it no mind as he drags Max to a stall, locking it behind them.

"Alright, what do you want from me?"

Max's ear raises slightly, listening to the wet noises from the other couple just outside the stall door, ensuring they aren't being listened to. "I need, like three pills at least, I don't know, how do you measure that out? Like 90 milligrams of Adderall-"

"WHA-"

"I told you there's a fucking drought right now because somebody," Max accentuates with a finger jab that Bradley winces at, "is buying. It. All. Up. And I really need my prescription for finals week. Now do you have it or not?"

Bradley feels too warm in the tight bathroom stall, the mortification of the goody two-shoes pride of the school who despises him, Max fucking Goof, possibly ratting him out has his hands fidgeting as he pulls his shirt up to feel for the fanny pack he has it all tucked into. He pulls a prescription bottle out and empties the entirety into a small baggie, doesn't bother counting, and just holds the bag up for Max.

"Five singles. I really don't want the smoke right now and you... clearly need them more than I do." He looked defeated, an expression Max remembers from the last time he decided to have mercy on the other and scrap the agreement.

Max eyes the bag suspiciously, trying to gauge Bradley's sincerity. Maybe it just wasn't that big of a loss, but if he didn't need the money, why the hell was he dealing in the first place?

"Why are you doing this?"

"I just said I don't want trouble Goof."

Max feels a twinge of guilt, having been so angry with the other over meds he was getting for free. Maybe some of that anger had been unwarranted.

"I mean why are you dealing, Bradley?"

He looks the other way, red in the face like he's restraining himself from going off on the other. His hand combs through his overgrown hair and he exhales.

"Can you please just take the pills and leave me alone?"

Max doesn't move and Bradley wants out, so he grits his teeth and bears it, shoe scuffing against grout as he finds his words. "So. I'm kinda short on cash right now."

And this isn't the moment for a snide comment, so Max does his best to soften the question. "Your dad cut you off then?"

Bradley nods, hands tucking into his pocket and brow flattened into an apathy while his eyes are glued to the crack in the bathroom stall. "You could say that."

"Huh. How much is it to stay at the frat?"

Bradley's face hardens, the slight wrinkle developing between his brow and Max feels like an asshole, but how was he supposed to know?

Max reflexively apologizes. "Sorry- I... I hadn't heard."

The other rolls his eyes. "It's fine. I've got one of the shitholes upstairs for right now, kind of wasn't any place to go halfway though the semester."

"So this," Max gestures at Bradley's untucked shirt, fanny pack barely visible, "all covers rent and school?"

And shit, if it does, maybe Max doesn't have to get that job over break. He could just sell his extra pills for tuition. It might break his dad's heart though, and it's reason enough to stop the train of thought. Bradley bites his tongue but he wants this stupid conversation to be over so he plows right into the fucking point.

"No, I owe some cash." And of course Max is still blankly staring at him so he gets into the meat and potatoes just so he can go back home and forget he saw Max tonight. "To ESPN. Had a whole suit over the blimp and property damage and-"

"A fucking blimp? Bradley, how the hell are you paying that off? How much does a blimp even-"

"Like half a million. But I managed to get it thrown-"

"How?"

Bradley's eyes roll, staying anywhere else but on him. "A lawyer who could prove most of the damage was a freak accident, really good liability insurance, and court ordered therapy."

"Oh." And suddenly the pills in his pocket feel really heavy. "So you owe-"

"Just a hundred thou' right now. On the bright side, my psychologist is loose with a pad and has no issue with over-medicating me. So in time this should kinda sort itself out."

"These really are yours, then?" Max asks, thumb tracing the plastic baggie outlining the pills. His eyes are on the bottle Bradley is pocketing, and catches the other's name printed on the side.

"I mean, yeah, but like I said. My psychiatrist gives me a lot more than I need. And a lot of what I don't. Like, I'm pretty sure I don't have ADHD and the 'attention deficit' is just-" Bradley pauses, realizing he doesn't have to say... well, anything about what's been going on in therapy. Right. "Are we done here?"

Max sighs but concedes. "Yeah, sure. Um. Thanks, by the way." He unlocks the door and hurries out. He doesn't look back, but his hand stays clenched tight around the bag in his pocket, all the while feeling like it's burning a hole through his palm.

Life goes by sporadically for Bradley. The monotony of the damn cafe that takes up most of his life. The afternoon classes he still shows up for are agonizing in how exposed he feels. And yet every other moment is fleeting, meaningless, and impossible to grab any fulfillment or joy from. The changing of seasons happened imperceptibly. What had once been the shirtless days of sand volleyball were long gone and somewhere along the line the layers he used to shelter himself from others' prying eyes were now keeping the cooling bite of fall at bay. Winter would probably come in the same way but he would be too busy in the stale auditorium classes, dingy cafe, or occupying his mandatory appointment at the therapists office to notice.

This is the first time therapy feels like it's going too quickly, and of course it's because he actually wants something out of it he can't get in under an hour.

"So, what am I supposed to do if I do like someone like... that?" Bradley doesn't know why he can't say it out loud. Madly. Insanely. Manically. Limerent.

"Well. It depends on the relationship." There isn't one, and Bradley isn't sure if that would be more pathetic to say. "It's important to realize the other person isn't perfect. And they can't consistently act how you want them to. Those are unfair expectations to put on anyone."

"Right," Bradley says, staring at the toes of his shoes, scuffed from the grip tape of his board. "So that will make it go away?"

His therapist, a guy who must only be his senior by five years at most and looks like a weasel, stares like he's trying to ask a question telepathically. Bradley wishes he could. That would probably make this all a lot easier. "It might help. But you also need to give yourself space. Have your own hobbies outside of the house. What do you enjoy doing?"

He knows the answer. And Bradley has been terrified of doing it in public and hasn't since the event, because the answer is the problem.

He comes up with a foolproof solution, though. The skate park should be empty at night.

Key word being should.

Even with his term paper finished and out of the way, Max wasn't able to pick up his prescription. So when he crashes, he crashes hard.

He can't sleep at all, and at a certain point  all his tossing and turning would wake P.J. and Bobby up. And for letting him write his eight page paper in peace, they didn't deserve that. The red flash of the analog clock reads 1:07. Max was giving up. If he was this restless he was at least going to get a sesh out of it. Grabbing his skateboard, Max crept out the door and into the night, quietly skating over to the half-pipe on campus.

On his way, Max regrets his choice in atire, having hopped out in his undershirt without regard for the bite of fall air. He hopes that if he gets enough of a sweat in, he won't feel the cold anymore.

There's someone on the vert when Max gets there, a kid in a dark helmet and hoodie who is hitting a backside 540 so beautifully, Max's jaw drops for a moment.

The grind he hits on the other side is a slappy, no jump involved, and slows him until he drops down to the center to start a spin on the nose of the board that goes... on for a while. It almost looks like ice skating the way he maneuvers the board.

Max can't help but to whistle, but the other skater takes no notice, pushing off on their left foot to scale the half pipe again. They pop another aerial like its nothing, and Max can't hold back a cheer. "What's up, midnight rider?" Max calls, pushing off the ground to close their distance.

The other skater has a portable CD player peeking out of their pocket, Max notices, as they take the thin-banded earphones tucked along the back of the helmet down to rest on their neck. Light, caramel brown hair puffs forward from under the dark helmet, and Max tries not to show the surprise on his face once he recognizes Bradley.

"I was finished here anyways, if you need the space," Uppercrust says flatly. Max puts his hands in his pockets, trying to appear way more chill after their last interaction. It's possible he's made an ass of himself begging for Adderall from a man that almost killed him, but on the other hand, Bradley seemed like he was way more stable. Not that that made up for anything.

"You don't have to go anywhere," Max finally says. "And I wanted to say thanks, by the way. For last week."

"Anytime," Bradley says softly. "I owe you a ton anyways. For saving Tank especially."

"Oh, uh, right." Max isn't sure how to respond to that, despite it being what he wanted to hear. It would be shitty and self-aggrandizing to agree with him, wouldn't it? Even though it's true. So he changes the subject. "I've never seen you hit a 540 before. Like, not even at last year's game."

Bradley knows it's praise, but it hurts because of course Max thought since his sheer talent was enough to win the X games that the case must be true for Bradley as well. "Can't pull out the full bag of tricks, there is a time limit."

Max is skeptical. "The higher vert though, you'd definitely get enough speed."

Rolling his board back and forth under one foot, Bradley sighs. "You're a bigger fool attempting a 540 and failing than playing it safe with a 360. Judges don't care what you can do off the course. A failed 540 is the same points as a failed 360. You just look like a..." Bradley struggles to find the right phrase, hand brushing back and forth in the air like it could brush the brain fog away. "A try-hard poser punching above their weight."

Max wants to say 'well then don't fail it,' but Bradley... actually has a point. Sure, he made the qualifying round, nearly blinded by frustration, but he could have made it if he'd played it safer. But Bradley also could have made it, fair and square if he'd just applied himself. Maybe it was performance anxiety that held Bradley back. But there was no way of knowing now.

"I wish you would have skated in the qualifying round," Max finally says, sliding down to sit on the bank. "I like seeing what you're actually capable of."

Bradley's heart flutters.

That's has to be the word for it, the way it seems to stop and then kick-start at double-speed.

Max made a horrible mistake in talking to him. That horrible, awful, possessive thing that delights in ruining his life is grabbing ahold of him, he knows it, can feel it even through the dose of antipsychotics. He should leave while he still can.

"How's your 540?" Bradley instead asks, sealing his own fate.

Max's smirk is still insufferable, but it's competitive and not violent rivalry. "Not as good as my 720," he jokes, and Bradley can't hide his own smile.

Bradley is having the time of his life calling out random tricks and watching Max attempt them. Max does the same back.

"Ollie sex change," Bradley calls as he lands it, and he knows he has Max stumped by the sound of his groan.

"Fuck, dude, I don't ride switch."

"Max Goof can't stance goofy?" Bradley jokes, pivoting back in a lazy turn. "All that street skating and you don't even have your namesake. Cruel irony."

"I didn't say I couldn't, did I? I just don't," Max mocks. "How about a 360 McTwist, huh?"

Bradley laughs. "Not even comparable. Switch is like... a basic skill but the McTwist is-" and Max had landed the McTwist before Bradley finished his sentence.

"Ah, fuck."

Max smiles, brow raised as he coasts back down the ramp. This was easy for him. Even at his worst during the qualifier, the McTwist hadn't even been the most difficult trick Max pulled off. Bradley sighs, acquiesing to the challenge. He takes a moment, picturing the flip before building speed. His legs already burn from the hour he's spent on the ramp, but he needs to land this. He pushes past the ache as his rear leg pushes off pavement, finally dropping fast enough that his arc back towards the other side fast enough to crest over the coping and into the air.

The aerial is a solid attempt and lands safely but knows he missed his mute grab, and the flip veered far too much into just a regular spin.

"Doesn't count!" Max cheers.

Bradley grits his teeth as he thinks the trick through again, rides low, and feels the side of the board with his hand, but just can't picture the right angle.

"Show me again," Bradley says, eyes fixed on Max. He's deadly focused, and it sends a competitive thrill through Max's chest.

He kicks off without hesitation, hitting his sweet spot for speed before he scales again. There's that second where he's up and prepared for his spin, feet losing their grip on the board. Max grabs it but locks eyes with Bradley as he does.

The other dog has stopped skating, watching him intently. It shouldn't throw off his hold when he sees the others' eyes, focused brow, his bit lip, but it does, and Max's back foot isn't touching the board. His foot pushes too hard on the nose to try and compensate at the last second and he feels the tracks ram into the coping on the top embankment. Max slides down the side, but the sound and reverberation in his ankle is unmistakably something in his board breaking.

Bradley should have ducked, turned away, something, when he saw Max bail but he didn't. He feels the impact before it registers that he even saw that wheel pop off.

"FUCK," Bradley shouts, falling to his knees, hands to his face. The impact had knocked the word out of him, but now in the absence of shock inflammation settles in, blistering hot in the center of his face. Max is disoriented for a second but gets his feet underneath him quickly.

With the floodlights overhead, shining down like a spotlight, Max runs to Bradley's writhing crumpled form.

"Lemme see, lemme see," Max coaxes, pulling Bradley's hands from his face. His eyes are watering, and the poor guy's nose is already streaming blood into the corners of his mouth. "Ooh," Max hisses involuntarily, probably freaking Bradley out more, who sticks his tongue out to feel the wetness across his lip. And... he's missing a tooth? Max cups the other's jaw, tilting his head to get a look, but the spot is free of blood. So just the nose then.

Frightened eyes follow Max's gaze when Bradley isn't in too much pain to focus.  "S'not broken, s' it?" he asks through a shaking jaw.

His tiny button nose? Not likely. "No, but I bet it smarts like hell. Here," Max says, pulling his white tank off into a ball to soak up the still-gushing fluid off the rich kid's face. "Let's go get you cleaned up." Offering his arm, Bradley shakes from the throbbing pain as he takes it, leaning way too heavily on Max as his disoriented legs try to get under himself.

Max Goof grabs the remnants of his board as well as Bradley's before he heads for where they'd met the week prior, hobbling with the unsteady weight leaning against him.

"Fucking stupid," Bradley whines into Max's ruined shirt as they stumble across the street. "Couldn't have even been my own trick that fucked my face up."

"You look fine," Max assures him. "Once it dries out, you'll be back to winning pageants in no time." He registers the cold in the back of his mind, appreciating the warmth from where Bradley leans against him. Making it back home would not be fun.

"Hilarious," Bradley mopes, and it takes Max remembering that the situation is mostly his fault to keep from laughing.

"You should take a picture, dude," Max says once they get to a sketchy side alley entrance. "You look like the Mutt right now."

"The mutt? Rodney the Mutt?" Bradley's thick brow perks upward and his expression can only be described as delighted. His balance is way better now, the initial shock subsiding to a dull throb.

"The blood makes you look wicked rough."

If Bradley's tail wasn't tucked, it would be wagging. "I have a camera, somewhere! You've gotta take it for me."

The excitement is contagious, even as Bradley shifts almost his whole weight against Max to pull his keys from his pocket, wedged underneath the beeper and cd player.

It all falls into an unceremonious pile in the doorway with their skateboards as Bradley stumbles through the unlocked door, making way for what must be the bathroom.

Max feels along the wall to flip the light, looking for wherever the camera might be. It comes on slower than it should, humming as it does, and despite the warm glow of the bulb the apartment feels cold. Is cold. There's a decent bed, a trunk, a side-table, and a desk with a lamp. In the corner, there's a blocky TV sitting on the floor that looks more like it was dropped off and never moved than it looks deliberately placed. Bradley plows through the paint-peeled bathroom door, shirt still held to his face.

"It's in the trunk," Bradley yells behind him. Max follows, popping open the trunk to grab the camera but also takes note of the other items inside. There are several boards propped on their sides, grip tape in red and black, extra urethane wheels organized in stacks, and more than a few spare trucks. The camera is in the corner, a bulky black and blue Polaroid that Max quickly snags.

When he gets to the bathroom, Bradley is staring at the mess he's made on the white shirt. "I'll get you a new one. Or clean it." he mumbles.

"Keep it," Max laughs. "I've got plenty. Say cheese," Max says, and Bradley's missing-tooth smile is illuminated with the camera flash.

Max grabs the photo and shakes it, and Bradley is staring for a second too long at lean muscle and taught abs. His face is flushing underneath all the blood.

"Aren't you cold?"

Max's smile falters. The adrenaline had worn off, and the shadow of warmth where Bradley had leaned against him was fading fast. "Um. It is a little cold in here."

Bradley knows there's probably a normal reaction in hearing that, but with the prospect of having a single friend he doesn't remember what that reaction looks like. It was so easy getting friends in Gama Mu Mu; after trauma-bonding during the hazing of rush week you could buy drinks for every event and secure your status as the most likeable guy in the frat.

He doesn't have the cash to spare for that at the moment.

"I've got a spare t-shirt you can borrow in the closet," Bradley finally says, pulling the shirt away from his face once the bleeding had stopped.

Just as he hears a beep.

"Fuck," Bradley sighs, scrubbing the dried blood off his face. It muddies the water as it comes off, dried rivulets in his hand becoming sticky again like goddamn watercolors and making a bigger mess of everything.

"I got it," Max says, taking the camera with him as he goes. Numbers flash up on the screen, and they don't make sense to Max at all--only three kids from his highschool even had a beeper, and Max wasn't any of them. "Uh, 255? And there's a ten, star, two."

"FUCK," Bradley groans again, scrubbing a little harder. Max can hear him muttering about stains on his favorite shirt's sleeve cuffs. "My fanny pack should be in the trunk too. Can you grab it?"

Max obliges, putting back the camera and still-developing photo while he's at it.

"You can grab a new set of wheels, if you want," Bradley says, and his face is finally clean. "I gotta go make some cash."

He rifles through the bottom drawer of the bedside table, the sound of pills rattling as he grabs just the one he's looking for.

For a moment, Max considers declining the offers, but he's shivering and his board is fucked and he'd rather not have to run another errand before finals week. "Okay, cool. It was... actually really nice hangin' with you, man." He pulls on the t-shirt from the closet, the only one Bradley has, anally hung on a coat hanger between dress shirts and pressed slacks.

Bradley stops at the door, the corners of his mouth quirking upward almost hesitantly. "It was, even after fucking up my face. Thank you."

The second Bradley is out the door, Max already knows the set he wants to pick out. The white wheels look perfect for street skating and should be easy enough to adjust to. There's no reason to stick around Bradley's room now.

The bedside table drawer is sitting slightly ajar.

There's no reason to stick around, but he is curious. It only takes him a second to rationalize a quick peek.

It was honestly a waste of time, because most of the names are completely foreign to Max or seem entirely irrelevant. He recognizes Prozac and Adderall, but that's about it. Carbamazepine sounds like a pasta dish and he's not sure what Alprazolam is used for. Max wonders which of the bottles Bradley actually uses and which ones are only for resale. It's a lot of pills, and that's only one drawer of the side table. Certain there's more in the drawer above it, Max pulls it open.

There are not pills in that drawer.

That's the first thought that goes through Max's head.

The second is 'dear god what is this gay magazine doing in Bradley's drawer.'

The third thought, which takes a considerably longer beat to formulate, is 'holy shit, Bradley might be gay.'

And it isn't even the only magazine, which might have exonerated Bradley from the assumption. It's Mutt and Stud up top, a magazine which prominently features dogs undressing each other. There are several issues of Pup Play mixed in and then at the very bottom of the stack is Leashed. An Aussie-russet haired dog is front and center, collared in black leather with the magazine's namesake wrapping around his eyes like a blindfold.

When he was a kid, playing hide and seek over at PJ's house, Max had crawled underneath the spring frame and had laid face to face with a picture of a shirtless female cat holding a mess of leather strands between her hands. That had been his first introduction to girlie magazines. Pete's crass pin-ups had seemed traumatic at the time, but now, looking at a muscled dog wearing nipple clamps, Max felt like his child-self had gotten off easy.

Which is why he should have put the magazine down.

When Max leaves the apartment with new shirt and skateboard in tow, Bradley is nowhere to be seen outside. JNCOs are sagging down Max's hips, magazine heavy in Max's pocket almost as much as his mind. He's halfway to his dorm before he realizes he forgot to grab the wheels

Withdrawal-induced insomnia wasn't enough of a punishment on Max's body. Dreams were figments of intangible things, upsetting as much as they were fleeting.

When he wakes, he's shivering, nails digging into the sides of his arms. Bobby and PJ are still there, snoring. Max lays for a moment in his cold sweat, breathing, rubbing over the indentations he's left in his arms. It's mildly soothing. He inhales, and the scent is comforting, like apples and wood. Applewood? That was a thing, right? It's a bit different from the usual smell of the dorm, and even though they'd finally gotten most of the men on their floor to shower at least once a week, the smell is too pleasant for the petri dish they live in.

It's the shirt.

Max remembers the magazine next, eyes snapping open in the dimly lit room. He listens closely to PJ's shallow slumbering breath and intermittent snores from Bobby.

It's underneath his pillow, slick exterior cover sliding out seamlessly on the sheet and into his prying hands.

He flips between pages of nude men, captioned like they were on the front of a VHS sleeve or out of a tabloid.

See this Mutt in full color at your local video store!

Can Reggie take it all?

And way dumber taglines like "It's pretty big!" in bold white letters.

Max would roll his eyes if he wasn't so engrossed, finally settling his eyes on a full centerfold of a man with a slim, athletic build and a mop of fluffy brunet hair. His eyes are hidden, but his jagged teeth are caught mid-laugh in the photograph.

Max needs to put the magazine away, but it's too late. He knew he liked Powerline, like, how could you not, but other men? It wasn't anything he'd considered too hard before, aside from noticing when guys in his school were traditionally attractive.

But now it was in front of him, and it wasn't just possible. It was enticing.

He closes the magazine, resolving to return it to the rightful place, because there was no way he could keep this in the shared room. Bobby, PJ, and Max had all agreed they would never debase themselves to jerking it in the dorm, the companionship of total babes excluded of course.

He turns over and sighs, resolving himself, but it's a mistake because the smell hits him again.

And suddenly it's Bradley in those pictures, kissing down a man's chest, toothy smile way too wide, russet brown bangs curling over soft but mischievous blue eyes, and tail tastefully obscuring between his legs.

How long was his tail?

Max's nails bite into the side of his arms again, no, he wasn't going to think anything like that, because that was shitty as hell to imagine anyone else that way, and Bradley wasn't fair game just because they had some weird history and both probably liked men.

It isn't different, is it? Because it was definitely shitty to do to girls. Max had to assume liking guys was like liking girls, and only a creep sexualized random people. Maybe other people did, but Max never had and he certainly wasn't about to start!

Especially with Bradley. Who he was tentatively an acquaintance of at most.

Incredibly hard and completely mortified, Max muffles his face into pillow and fights his urges til the sun comes up.

Bradley sleeps like a lead weight, the constant hell of his stupid morning job and night hustle knocking him out not a second after he's halfway under covers.

Unfortunately he feels like a lead weight for the first two hours of his shift at the café. Despite his proximity to caffeine,  Bradley never feels awake anymore. But there's something else on his mind this morning, weighing him down.

Bradley had taken his exact dose on the dot and had even prayed afterwards to whatever benevolent god would listen that he would forget whatever the fuck he felt with Max Goof before he destroyed his life. ...More than he already had.

Because the absolute ache left over from coming back to his shitty cold apartment was eating him alive, and he really needed to talk with his therapist to process everything before another weird interaction happened.

There's an undercurrent of panic that the antipsychotic isn't combating (and if anything, abetting) because Bradley can feel himself slipping into the hellish sensation of depersonalization. It was death, his hands simultaneously feeling too far away, like his whole body was drifting, and like his lungs and heart were claustrophobically crushed in his chest. While he was standing at the counter. Unoccupied after the early morning rush.

Why am I panicking? I shouldn't be panicking. Nothing is happening. Nothing is happening.

He breathes, takes a sip of water from a mug with fumbling hands that absently tingled with the sensation of being too large.

Things can't get worse. I'm okay.

For as dumb as the affirmation is, it works, and exhaustion catches up with him. It's a saving grace, soothing the too quick rate of his heart, calming the firing nerves in his hands, bringing his mind back somewhere behind his eyes instead of up in the clouds. It's what he gets for selling the antidepressants he needed but maybe he could leverage this for another trial prescription of antipsychotics that don't make him feel like he's dying.

Bradley snorts awake from where he'd been pretending to work when the bell of the door rings, signaling another customer. Bradley busies himself cleaning mugs, keeping his head down and slowly blinking more awake.

"What can I get you," Bradley says in his most monotone, his mind still lagging in slumber and brain fog. It's that cat Max is friends with that Bradley also almost killed, hanging off of that beret girl who still wouldn't tell him her name.

"Hey, can I get two mocha cappuccinos, plea- OH GOD!" The cat finally looked up, dropping his wallet onto the counter in surprise. Coins clatter on the counter, spilling out every direction.

It's quiet for a moment, as Bradley's brain works overtime to catch up to the situation. That was probably a reasonable response to someone who strapped rockets onto his skates without regard to his personal safety. Or maybe he just looks how he feels and that in itself could be enough of a jumpscare. But Bradley should probably say something. "What if I just made a really big one and got you two straws," Bradley mumbles.

He should probably say something else.

The beret girl's mouth quirks upwards and her cat boyfriend is still sputtering, looking around the room as if to ask if anyone else saw that Bradley fucking Uppercrust the Third was wearing an apron and holding a rag.

"I'd like my own, thank you very much," the beret girl adds.

"Can I get a name for your order?" Bradley says to her, brow raising. He dries his hands, uncapping a sharpie expectantly.

"PJ," the cat says in mild offense, and Bradley pouts but writes it down on his notepad.

"Two mochachinos for PJ and..." He looks up expectantly and the beret girl laughs, eyes narrowing.

"Not that easy," she says, picking a stool at the bar to sit at. PJ hesitates but begrudgingly sits next to her. "So what's new in the celestial happenings in Bradley's sad little universe?"

Bradley lights up, because he actually does have something to share before he remembers that she is, first and foremost, Max's friend. And he probably shouldn't get his hopes up or overstep whatever boundaries Max has with his friends.

"I'm ahead on my payments. And it feels really good. And I also... so I bumped into someone, and I didn't think they liked me, but it was actually really... nice. I feel like we could be friends."

"Oh Bradley, you have a crush?"

His face is twitching and his lip tightens. PJ is staring and maybe the conversation is too comfortable. "No. No, it's not like that." He stares deep into the void of chocolate he's pumping into the bottom of the mugs. He's supposed to identify his feelings when they're this intense. It's not despair he's feeling, that familiar sucking wound of anguish in his chest. It's just defeat.

The quiet resignation of what can't be.

"Anyways. How are things with you?"

"My class is performing their finals here," she says, her hand finding PJ's and lacing over the top of it. PJ stares at her with absolute adoration. The first drip of espresso splashes on Bradley's hand and he flinches.

"Oh fuck, that's today?"

"And tomorrow. They've got a couple time slots."

Espresso slowly fills both mugs from the double spouts. "Are they any good?" He asks.

Her free hand flutters in the air as she speaks. "Oh, all art shows the soul. And I think they do just that. All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling."

Bradley looks up from frothing the milk. "Oscar Wilde?"

Her eyes light up mischievously. "Silverspoon, you never cease to surprise me. What do Greek boys know about Oscar Wilde? The obvious aside."

"You're pushing it," Bradley says with a wry smile. "Had to write a paper for our literature class, that's all." The one he has with PJ and Max. The one he might actually attend today.

"Well, in that case," the girl in the beret says, "Oscar Wilde would dig all these genuine emotions."

"That bad, huh?"

Bradley couldn't be too upset. It would be fun to watch something get made fun of. The novelty would probably wear off pretty soon, though. He sets the mugs in front of PJ and the girl, and PJ grabs his wallet shyly, like he's interrupting the conversation by trying to pay for his order.

Bradley turns to go back to washing dishes. "Nah, it's on the house."

PJ sputters, like he's being humiliated. "Hey, no, I've got it-"

"I insist, I can't make you pay for drinks if Dickenson here is the only half-decent poet I hear today."

"How noble. My deepest gratitude for your half-assed platitude," she says with a dry smile, and Bradley matches it from beneath his visor.

"At least let me pay for her drink," PJ says indignantly, and Bradley looks up, confused.

What was his deal? Who the hell said no to a free drink? Did he honestly think he was-? Oh. "I'm not into your girl, PJ."

Mochachino takes a sip from her drink regardless, wordlessly accepting the charitability. PJ still looks upset. "Not really your type anyways, am I?" she goads.

Bradley felt his eyebrow twitching, fighting to respond to what was probably a light-hearted inferal with an unnecessary amount of anger. "I'm not into PJ either?"

PJ flushes, mortified. "I didn't think you were!"

The girl in the beret laughs again, giving a quick sympathetic peck to her boyfriend.

"Just accept it as an apology for the X games," Bradley says, trying not to grit his teeth at the statement. Even though he hadn't seen the appeal in Max's friends, Max picked them over Bradley. Well, over the Gammas. There had to be some redeeming quality about them.

Which only ever infuriated Bradley when he thought about it, because the win really came down to Max anyways. But the beret girl also thought PJ was cool. He was outnumbered, and begrudgingly he actually respected those two opinions, even if they weren't based in reality. Unfortunately, PJ seemed just as reluctant to change his opinion on Bradley.

He'd just have to try harder.

"I'll do my best to make up for how I treated you."

"Huh. Alright?" PJ still looks skeptical, but averts his attention to the stage where one of the students was getting ready to perform.

The lights dim right as someone steps up to order at the counter. That never ceases to piss Bradley off.

So he starts making a soy latte right as a sophomore he recognized from Beta Kappa (with way too much bravado for a man with his sizeable forehead and inversely proportioned talent) begins a poem about breasts.

"The curves and pertness of her chest- the bulging flesh we both undress-"

Bradley starts up the milk frother to drown it out, steamed soy milk screeching intermittently and Bradley definitely isn't doing it on purpose.

PJ looks between the coffee bar and stage, curious and somewhat amused, but mochachino manages to keep a straight face herself, pencil scratching criticism into a spiral-bound notebook. The latte is finished, but unfortunately the poem continues.

"Twins, I've touched, held before the light, cascading beams in soft moonlight-"

Bradley has had enough of it and fills his mug with just a little bit of water, turning the frother on and letting it scream.

PJ giggles and the beret girl raises an eyebrow in his direction.

"I weigh the bumps upon her ch-chest." The dude is losing his cool, taking a breath and staring Bradley down as he turns off the steamer and pulls the hot mug away from it. He waits two seconds, flipping it back on as the guy tries to start where he left off. "Twenty pounds, more or less-" They both stop at the same time again. The guy on stage holds back a growl, before striking what had to be a rehearsed pose, hand outstretched and the other clutched to his chest.

"Soy latte for Julia!" he shouts. The dude is glaring daggers now, but Bradley looks completely uninterested.

"Do you mind?" the poet finally barks, and Bradley doesn't even bother acknowledging the kid.

The guy on stage recomposes himself. "Underneath her bosom, my heart rests."

The air is filled with stilted snapping, so Bradley makes sure to whistle and clap the loudest from behind the counter. "Beta Kaaaap! HOO, HOO, HOO," he hoots gutturaly, and the guy on stage angrily takes his leave.

"That was certainly.... empassioned," mochachino says with a disgusted sneer.

"No disrespect to Oscar Wilde but I doubt he ever heard poetry like that," Bradley says, pouring out his mug of boiling hot water.

PJ laughs, looking at mochachino's notebook. "You're gonna have to find some 'constructive' in your criticism."

"The silver lining-" she starts, and pauses, rubbing her forehead in thought, "is a passionate end and utility of silence."

"I like it," Bradley hums, "but I think you can do better."

"Like the bravery in performing that in the first place?" PJ asks, and the group is overcome with giggles.

Max ambles in the sunlight like a zombie. Prescription refilled, he has a chance to feel semi-functional again, just in time for class.

He never appreciated how large the campus was on his skateboard, but now he was experiencing it firsthand and appreciation did not come to mind.

He's squinting until he hits the shade of The Bean Scene, and even the thought of caffeine sooths his migraine. Maybe he could get to class early, take a nap, then chug a room temp coffee. The thought makes his stomach growl, and Max is reminded yet again why a hard start and crash were murder on his body. To think he had another week of this.

He ambles through the door, squinting to adjust to the pitch darkness inside. Was it just him or was it darker than normal?

Max hears snapping as he makes his lethargic way to the counter. So it isn't just him.

He can barely make out the barista at all in the light, directing his voice to the silhouette wiping down counters. "Double shot of espresso," Max grumbles.

The silhouette pauses, and Max thinks he's gonna have to repeat himself. In all fairness, it was pretty hard to hear between snaps and maybe they hadn't seen him. He leans across the counter, just as the houselights come on.

Bradley Uppercrust III is behind the counter. Frozen in place.

"Brad? What are you doing here?"

Bradley sighs, but doesn't bother correcting him. "I thought that listening to poems for five fucking hours would be fun, clearly I fucking work here, Max."

Max looks down, noticing the brown apron. "Oh. Right. Um. Can I still get a double?"

"Still no, that'll be 3 dollars."

Max slides the bill over the counter, sheepishly looking anywhere but the counter, but he's still starving. "I'd like a croissant too. If you can."

"I can't," Bradley answers, setting a plated croissant down on the counter before he returns to tamping espresso. He bites his lip for a second, wondering if he should acknowledge last night at all. It wasn't like anyone would hear that they'd hung out; PJ and that nameless poet had already left so he could walk her to class. "You didn't take any wheels last night," Bradley finally says.

"Hmph?" Max freezes mid-bite. He swallows thickly, mouth top dry for the croissant. "Oh, wheels. I completely forgot."

"I figured. ADHD, right?"

Max is taken aback for a moment, because it had way more to do with the shame of snooping through Bradley's stash and getting the hell out of Dodge before he was found out but... Bradley didn't need to know that. "Hah. Yeah."

Bradley's eyes don't quite meet his, instead staring at Max's chest. The shirt is all too familiar, and the thought makes Bradley's chest tingle. Max notices.

"Oh!" Max looks down, pulling the fabric away from himself. Bradley sees the lower lines of hip meeting thigh and jerks his neck resolutely in the other direction. "You can have your shirt back-"

"NOT HERE!" Bradley shouts mortified, and suddenly has the eyes of everyone in the café on him, including Max's awkward buck-toothed squinch.

"-after class," Max finishes, and Bradley is gripping the mug tight enough he thinks he could snap it.

"Right. Uh. I'll be there today," Bradley says, handing the coffee to Max. "Guess I'll see you." He felt sick.

"Oh. Cool," Max said, hoping he didn't sound too excited. "Yeah, see you around then."

The moment Max is out the door, Bradley squats behind the counter, mortification seeping into his lungs. God, he was stupid. He used to be popular, damn it! Maybe going to class was a bad idea. He had to get it together before finals week. He needed to see his therapist.

When Bradley can't possibly see him, Max grabs the fabric of his shirt, rubbing it between his fingers. He takes a sip of espresso, and warmth permeates everywhere in his body. The headache is finally gone.

Now, on his mind instead, is Bradley in that brown apron. He needed time to figure this whole attraction thing out before he squicked Bradley out more than he clearly already had.

The same thought echoes through both of their minds.

I just have to play it cool for now.

"Knock, knock," a voice calls from outside the dim, smoke-filled room.

Remi Montmorency opens bleary red eyes. He'd almost drifted off for a moment. That itself was a testament to his exhaustion, because the walls were vibrating. The bonfire outside the back patio hadn't let up at the designated shut down time. If anything, it was instead in full force. Anything that wasn't nailed down had a chance of going up in flames. Especially the wicker porch furniture, which historically tended to be knicked first, even by younger pledges. So Remi had made the express choice to volunteer on keeping his eyes on the more flammable items inside the Gamma house. He'd just needed to close said eyes for a second and forgot to open them was all.

The man outside doesn't bother with the pleasantry of a second knock and instead uses a shoulder like a battering ram to force the door open. Smoke wafts out the door, sparkling in the warm glow of the bonfire. More smoke pours out from the patio than the bonfire could even spit out.

"You need to get this guy under control."

Remi's tail is curled around his leg, tightening once he recognizes the student stumbling with the support of the Beta Kap barging into the den he'd hidden away in.

The shorn redhead fighting to get away from and relying on his support in equal measure slurs through a response. "N' you need to gimma drink back, asshole-"

"He's not from my frat," Remi says softly. Standoffishly.

"You're a Gamma, aren't you? You guys promised to help host, and this kid's thrown up like three times. Annoying as hell, too," the Beta Kapp says, ignoring the refusal and walking further in. He immediately regrets that, because the thick haze blanketing the room is intent on wafting out the door whether he's in the way or not. He muffles a cough with a frown, the ginger slung on his shoulder sliding closer to the floor. "Who the hell hotboxes with cigarette? Smells like depression in here."

Remi's tongue feels the dry, sticking interior of his mouth. Everything tingles from numbness as he spits a forgotten cigarette butt off his lips and onto the patio floor. A Gamma. Maybe in another year he'll be that Gamma. Senior year he might finally be recognized by his name.

"You can set 'im on the couch."

When the Beta Kap stares him down, Remi realizes he's going to pretend not to have heard him.

"Fine. I got it." Remi says in a deadpan tone, wiping what might be leaf, might be ash off his chin as he gets up to take the inebriated freshman off the guy's hands. Or shoulder, rather. The name comes slow, but Remi had been privy to more than one of Bradley's obsessive ramblings before the recent 'incident.' It's Zimmeruski. He held the freshman up by his ankles at the former president's command on orientation day. Now, nearly a month after midterms, it was coming back to bite him in the ass.

"Kay, bye Ricky."

"That's not my-" He's already out the door before Remi can respond, the blare of the party returning to the annoying muffle in the background as the door swings shut.

"I'll walk ma damn self," Bobby says again, but his feet never find purchase. It's anything but graceful, but Remi manages to land him on the couch. Not before he yaks on the patio floor, though. Thank god for vinyl.

There's a protocol for this, one Remi has been versed on repeatedly this year and he likes to think he's getting good at it. Step one, air the room. Crack a window. Turn a fan on. He slides over a floor mat with his foot to mop up the mess for now before turning his attention to Bobby. Who is... out cold.

A loud snore asures him that the freshman is just sleeping it off. Remi turns Bobby the way tabloids always say to after a rock star dies in their sleep. He never knows if he's doing it right but nobody placed under his care has died yet. There's a dirt-crusted planter he shoves just under the edge of the sofa with his foot. Perfect for catching someone's sick.

The tube TV is airing Discovery Channel, some very mild blurb on fish migration. The perfect trip accompaniment for the potentially crossfaded. Bobby snorts before curling up and drifting off again.

Remi watches, now culpable and responsible for somebody else's well-being. He can't light up a cigarette now that he needs to ventilate the room. Sitting back down in his chair he switches his focus between the TV and Bobby.

The freshman's fur is mussed and dirty, like he'd gotten into a scrap or two tonight but came out relatively unscathed. Though that could also be the product of getting manhandled and dragged into the Gamma house.

After some interesting blurb on salmon jumping, Bobby snorts again, head craning to see where he's at.

His head flops back down, hand raising into the air. Neither move for a moment, both just staring at the hand.

"High five," Bobby says.

Remi doesn't move.

"High five," he says again, open palm swaying in the air.

With a sigh, Remi gets up and slaps the hand. It goes down for all of three seconds before popping up again, right as Remi has just gotten back into his chair.

"High five."

"I'm not making that a thing," Remi says in a flat tone.

"You a fuckin'... coat rack or not? Don't leave me hh—haaaaangin' buddy."

Unsure of what being a coat rack implies, Remi rolls his eyes and gives in. The high five is perfectly average, mediocre and leaving barely a tingle in his hand. It's enough to satisfy Bobby though, whose body limps back into snoring semi-sleep. Remi can't move from the spot, watching for any sign of injury or pain. The side of his face has a small stain of ruddy brown. Blood? Or mud?

"Somebody hit you?" Remi whispers under his breath, trying to get a better look.

"Hmm, asking about my homelife now? What, you gonna call CPS?" Bobby's eyes are still shut but he tilts his head in Remi's general direction.

Remi stumbles back, not anticipating Bobby being coherent or awake enough to notice him. The boldness of the statement befuddles him too. It's said accusingly but feels like a bad joke.

"Where the hell did the party go?" Bobby says, blinking as his hand trails up into the air again for a high five.

"Hold on," Remi asks, checking pupils for movement. They never seem to fully lock onto him but he's hesitant to get any closer. "Are you concussed?"

Bobby manages to roll his twitching eyes. "Nah man. I've just got shit vision. I can't help it."

"Oh. Okay."

At least Bobby was awake enough to answer some questions. The second step of sitting was ascertaining the gravity of the situation.

"You smoke?"

"I'm insulted," Bobby says with an exageratted gasp, hand thrown to his forehead. It misses its target, flopping beside his head, mouth still partway open. He's still pretty far gone. The question doesn't need answered, though. Remi can smell it now.

"Take anything tonight?" he asks, popping open a half-melted cooler beside the sofa side.

"What, are you a fucking cop? You don't look...Jump Street-y."

"What do I look like, Zimmeruski?" It's said with no malice, but Bobby squints at the retort. He usually does wear shades, doesn't he? Remi isn't 100% sure. It's possible that they're prescription. Bobby's squinting eyes never quite lock onto anything—Remi included—and not for lack of trying. It's also possible that he's seeing double. Maybe the glasses help with it.

"...do I know you?"

"Not really," Remi says, deciding to leave it at that. He doesn't need to bring up last month's drama with a guy who seems to have entirely moved on from it. So Remi moves on as well. The third step of Gamma-sitting protocol is sedation or sobering. "You wanna keep the party going?"

Invigorated enough to slouch forward, Bobby cracks a wide toothy smile. "Fuuuuck, whatchu got?"

Cans of O'Douls bob up and down in the water, alongside a litany of approved mixers for the belligerent and just those that need to sober up. Bobby hasn't picked a fight yet, so Remi forgoes the NyQuil for pickle juice. Remi snags a can and jar from the cooler.

"Haven't heard of... Oodles," Bobby says, trying to sound out the name on the can.

"Off the hook. Better than whatever shit they've got out there."

"Gimme," Bobby says, swaying like he's trying to stand.

A can of the non-alcoholic beer is held in one hand, a jar of pickle juice in the other. Forgoing the cup, Remi pours the can in the jar. "And I've got something here that'll knock your socks off proper, yeah?"

The whites of Bobby's eyes are barely visible as he tries to focus on the outstretched jar. "Hell yeah. Fuck those guys outside." Finally able to push himself at least upright, he takes the offered jar with two hands.

Step four is optional. It kills time. But it's by no means necessary. "They run outta hot dogs out there?"

"Uhhh...... I didn't see any."

Drinking heavy on an empty stomach—no wonder Zimmeruski had gotten sick. "Are you hungry?"

Jar pressed to his lips, Bobby pauses, but rejoices at the taste of salty dill-infused vinegar against his lips.

"Fuck... I could eat."

It takes no time at all to whip up a sandwich. Bread, butter, and cheese make sweet love to each other in a cast iron pan. Bobby invites himself into the house soon after and slowly treks towards the kitchen, bracing against the wall so he can clutch his drink in a death grip. It's taking him a while to stumble through the maze of wood-panelled walls left over from the 70s, calling after Remi as he does.

"Not a big party guy?"

"I got my fill of drunk teenagers about three months ago," the voice calls from the distant glow of a far room. There's pool tables in the way of Bobby's wobbly path that he keeps bumping into, sloshing his cocktail over gloved fingers.

"Ouch. Point taken."

"I didn't mean..." Remi tries to rephrase his sentence. Something less insulting about the guy he's harassed enough already. "I mean... I prefer intimate settings. Parties with people I care about."

"Still doesn't sound like I'm the exception," Bobby says, hand shading his eyes from the kitchen light.

"...fuck. Yeah, sorry."

"Then let's be friends," Bobby says, hand covering his eyes.

Holding a spatulla over the burner, Remi freezes, unsure if he heard Bobby correctly. He isn't sure if he even should respond. "....are you okay?" Remi instead asks, watching Bobby enter through the doorway from his spot in front of the stove. The freshman is feeling around blindly for an expanse of wall to lean against, but it's hard with drink in hand. He's lightly skidding his knuckle in circles to find a clear enough area.

"Resting my eyes," he says casually. Like this is a normal occurrence. It probably is. "Really bright in here. That smells... so good..."

Bobby leans too far forward, inhaling warm wafts of steam. Remi catches Bobby with one hand to his chest, propping him back up against the wall. Grilled cheese still browning on one side, Remi grabs a bottle of Perrier from the fridge.

"Good. I can get you another bottle if you want."

Bobby smacks his lips, realizing they are somewhat dry and the picklejuice isn't really helping. "Yeah, I could hold another drink." He throws back the rest of the juice like he's shotgunning a beer. The form is so practiced that it's likely not the first time tonight that he's done it. The pickle jar tumbles into the trash. "Do you tell the other blackout drunks that it's alcoholic too?" At Remi's stupefied silence, Bobby shrugs. "If pops only smacks you around when you're sober, O'Douls isn't a mistake you make twice."

Remi makes a stilted noise that should be a hum but sounds a bit too much like an awkward laugh despite his best effort to choke down any improper reaction. There isn't really an appropriate response, and he's unsure of where they stand now. Or if Bobby's upset. Remi feels horribly defensive and like he has no right to at the same time. "Hey, you got dropped off on me, compadre. If you'd rather hoof it outside with some frat kid who hates your guts enough to personally escort you to me of all people, by all means. This is just a safe space to sober up."

Bobby breaks the tense air with a smile. "Hey, I appreciate it, believe me. I mean, a fucking grilled cheese dude? You're so nice to me. Everyone here is so fucking lame. But you're nice to me."

Nice. It's not an adjective anyone has ever used for chronically-standoffish Remi Montmorency. Despite that, Remi feels his lip quirk. No chance Bobby would say that if he knew. Or maybe he didn't remember. Usually the thought stung, but this time it truly was for the better. Whatever. He's cooked a lot of bacon for drunk party guests in the past year, and it's always loudly appreciated. It's the best part of the gig. Even though-

"You're only saying that because you're drunk."

"Nah, man. I'll say it to your fuckin' face ss... sober." Bobby stumbles over the word, either hiccuping or holding back more vomit.

Remi flips the sandwich seamlessly onto a paper plate, Bobby's squinting eyes trained on crisp golden bread. Without a second's hesitation he snatches it.

"You're that happy about a sandwich?"

It doesn't have a chance to cool before Bobby takes a bite, teeth crunching through exterior crust then tearing away a sizeable bite. Cheese pulls in a delightful stretch from sandwich to mouth.

"Mmmph. Like from an angel. I would make love for this sandwich," Bobby says through mouthfuls of bread and cheese.

Turning off the stove, Remi laughs, caught by surprise. What a weird thing to say. Bobby has such a weird sense of humor. Although... there's no question about it, Bobby is gay.

Remi thinks.

At least, when the Gammas argued about it on move-in day, someone had passionately made the case that Bobby's single earing could only mean one thing. Probably Bradley, he had a weird knack for those details. So there was some plausible deniability to the thought.

Remi hazards a glance just to see if it was still there and instead Bobby is staring back at him, brow raised suggestively. A gold hoop does indeed dangle from his ear.

"So. What is your name, angel?"

Remi's brain short-circuits for a second. He's caught entirely unprepared. It could still be a drunk man's idea of a joke. Words struggle to come out of his mouth. "I just forgot... I have to go. But it was nice... uh-"

To hell with it.

Remi darts out of the kitchen, heart pounding a little too quick in his chest, heat rising on his neck. He's going to his room, damn the furniture, damn the bonfire, damn Beta Kapp. Thankfully Bobby was probably too drunk to give a shit...

PJ hadn't gone with Bobby to the bonfire but finds him later that night anyways, hand trailing along the wood siding of a fraternity, most of his weight against it, in search of his glasses. PJ manages to find them on a folding table and then corrals his friend back to their dorms. All the while, Bobby is retelling tales of some divine angel with pickle beer and grilled cheese.

It's the Friday before dead week and Bobby should be having some semblance of fun, drinking, smoking, potentially snagging a tab from his psychonaut homies. He shouldn't be in this theater this late in the evening and he shouldn't be helping in this production at all. Bobby isn't even in a practicum class this semester but he's roped into rehearsal for the theater anyways because their sound tech called in sick and he needed the extra credit. Seeing how mind numbing the job is, he understands why the other dropped it immediately.

He tries to counteract the monotony with several creative additions. They could definitely make improvements to the show, but every suggested change has been met with scathing remarks and the grad student director not so subtley reminding him to stay in his lane. After two hours it becomes clear that the sound isn't being used to enhance the play at all. They just want him for cues.

Every 'from the top' or 'run the scene again' is followed by a snooty finger flicking towards him, wordlessly commanding him to sound a doorbell or foley a knock on wood.

Without fail, the light always rights itself to where the director wants without a word, look, or gesture to the followspot.

Even though he's only a sophomore, that rat-faced Gamma working the lighting gets zero feedback from the director. Every movement is understated, the perfect kind of precision that makes it fade into the ambience of the stage and seamlessly dim from view when not in use.  Sometimes it feels like everyone else on this production has forgotten that the light is even a part of it.

After the last line has been read and the director has concluded rehearsal for the day, Bobby creeps up a rusty ladder backstage up to the roof access with the theater students. The sun is setting, and it'd be a pretty decent view if they got anywhere near the edge, but that'd risk getting caught.

The theater students stand in a huddle, mumbling about how cold it is outside, how poorly the show is running, what classes they should have dropped a month ago. It's the Gamma who offers up his freshly rolled blunt, but quickly he falls back into obscurity after an actress whispers "Thanks, Remi."

Brick wall, background-extra-in-real-life Remi. Three days into this shitshow and he finally had a name for the rat face that would always sit infuriatingly at the edge of the circle where only Bobby ever seemed to notice. Not even just at the theater; he had been a nameless face in half of Bobby's blunt rotations in the year thus far. From skate hangouts to parties, from theater circles to psychonaut get-togethers, he was always there, arms crossed and eyes focused on some unseen thing in the distance that was pissing him off. Aside from the almost ever-present sneer on his face, he was content to sit back and let everyone talk over him, even when he was supplying the high. Until his eyes landed on Bobby. They had stood next to each other once before, and Bobby still remembers the tremble in a thin but otherwise firm hand when he was handed a lighter.

The blunt passes between fingers, each trembling in the cold November evening air. Bobby's eyes focus on the glowing tip at an actor's inhale. It was irritating how decent the roll was, even more agitating that Remi stepped back to give up his turn in the rotation. Not like anyone else noticed.

"Man, she had it out for you today," the leading man says, and Bobby groans.

"I guess so. Is she always this anal?"

"Hah... Yeah. You get used to it. You're doing alright though?"

"It's so fucking boring. But yeah. I'm good." Bobby tries to be considerate with his hit, but pauses on his inhale.

It was good. Too good for Ohio, for sure. He got nickled and dimed on most bags not worth half what he had to spend, brown tinged bags of seeds and stems the most his ETV's tight budget could afford him anyways.

Where was Remi getting this shit?

He exhales through his nose, relishing the way it tingles his brain.

The actors start their session of deep questioning. Or version of it, at least. They were all chill kids, but most of the things they wanted to talk about when high were tabloid conspiracies and conversation filler Bobby left behind at the inebriated age of 16.

"Did you guys hear about that Y2K thing?" one says. "Crazy, dude."

"I heard it was this long-con plan by the soviets before the big collapse," the actress next to him says. Bobby doesn't even pretend to be interested in the conversation. He lets their words drift away for a moment and finds himself peeking at Remi from behind his shades.

Prescription shades were often a blessing in disguise, which somewhat made up for the photophobia. He could be facing whoever was talking but make direct eye contact with Remi and he'd never know. He usually looked like whatever was happening wasn't worth his time, but when he looked at Bobby... There was something off. Like he was searching Bobby for an answer, looking him over like a jigsaw puzzle. He's doing it now, but it feels different this time. Softer, somehow. Probably out of guilt. The Gamma couldn't seem to keep his eyes off of him unless Bobby's head was pointed towards him. The blunt only passes by him one more time before the subject changes.

The lead actor grumbles, looking at the evening sky. "We're pushing 8 o'clock. What time did you wanna make it to the performance arts meeting?"

Theater students mutter under their breath as they shuffle back off the roof, not even acknowledging their charitable blunt roller as they left.

It's just Bobby and Remi on the roof now. The fur on his neck bristles, and not just from the cold wind whipping by.

"Hey," Remi starts, cupping his blunt like he's afraid of it smoldering out in the chilled air. Or like it's warming him. Maybe it's just something to occupy fidgeting hands.

"Hey, yourself," Bobby says flatly.

The Gamma has that soft look on his face, and he almost-sheepishly tugs on his sleeves trying to put the words together. He passes the blunt to Bobby like a peace offering. Bobby doesn't take it, staring at the offending object. He grew up with a dead beat dad and similarly absent mom. He can sense a forced apology a mile away.

"The Gammas... I wanted to-"

"Look man, I like your cute little prep steez, but don't get it twisted," Bobby interupts. "We work together, that's alright. But I don't need anything from you. Including an apology if it doesn't mean anything."

Remi takes a step back, looking genuinely crushed but confused. "I know that. I don't mean to—cute?"

Bobby rolls his eyes, despite knowing Remi won't be able to see it. Bobby doesn't want to contradict himself by taking another hit, so he doesn't.

Even though he really wants to.

Bobby shoves the blunt in Remi's hand back towards himself and tries to make a choice with some integrity. Hanging out with a Gamma was bad news. It would betray PJ and Max and that was reason enough to cut the conversation short.

Remi is flushed, eyes searching the shorter stagehand for some sort of expression through his shades.

"What, you don't want a hit?"

Bobby bristles, because he does, God he does, but he doesn't want to hear a lame excuse as to why things are different now and somebody who tried deliberately to hurt him and his friends had a change of heart. It's an all-too familiar tune and he'd rather not do the song and dance. "Wouldn't want to waste your good stash on a freshman," he says numbly.

"This isn't even the good shit," Remi says softly, and the way he doesn't seem particularly offended now reminds Bobby to mellow out.

Usually he smoked so he never got this agro. High school had been hell until Max and PJ had come along, and even then their friendship had been reluctant on Bobby's side, always feeling like he was being taken advantage of or used transactionally. But Remi hadn't asked a thing of him. If anything the shoe was on the other foot, and that was uncomfortable. He didn't want to feel like he owed something to Remi. He still resents that he had ever acted that way himself, only offering his friendship in the form of favors or food on the worst days.

The Gamma eases himself into a squat, gracefully sitting himself on the rooftop, blunt held between his lips.

"Where do you even buy your shit?" Bobby asks, certain he'll get some bullshit answer about how the rich kid doesn't want to share a plug.

"Calisota. My best friend grows. I'm out of supply for the rest of the semester, but I can hook you up later if you want."

Bobby's mouth slacks, just a little. It's a second before he realizes he should say something. "Oh. Uh. Cool, man. Sure."

"I don't have a pen and paper, but if you want I can write it down for you. I know a pusher in town too if you need... like, Prozac or something. Adderall too, if you need that for finals."

Damn it. Weed, the great unifier, has taken most of the indignant wind out of him. He should probably make nice. He slips a red marker from his pocket and squats awkwardly to offer his glove to Remi, who writes down the numbers with a smile.

"Uh. Second one is me. Top one, you gotta call ahead around that gay bar in the evening, so there's the hours too. I think he's using a pager? If you don't use it, that's chill, but you sound like you need it," Remi says. Bobby doesn't flinch at the mentioned location, which Remi takes quiet note of. "You've seemed super stressed out lately."

"It'd help," Bobby says, eyes drifting back to the blunt Remi has pressed to his lips. "This fucking play, man. I don't know how you do it. It's like they don't care about us at all."

Remi almost looks dissapointed at that, eyes lost in the white sealant-painted concrete top they're both on. Bobby feels awkward being the only one standing so he sits down a lot less gracefully.

Remi doesn't say anything for a while, taking another drag and blowing it in a thin stream out the side of his mouth. He pinches the blunt and ashes it off his knee, fumbling for words. "It... feels like I can go days without anyone noticing me. Sometimes... sometimes I feel like I'm not even the main character in my own life."

Bobby feels like a light goes off in his head. Like this guy hadn't been a real person for the past four months, but to even be able to acknowledge it out loud broke the curse. Like Bobby had lived the same way in a dark room for so long and only now was he flipping the switch. A good high was supposed to feel like that. "I know exactly what you mean."  He watches the shades of dark blue mingling with the shades of orange in the sky, imagining the colors seeping together like water.

Fuck, that'd look even better if I was really feeling it. "Hey man, if we're gonna be talking some shit like this, I'm gonna need you to pass."

Remi laughs, rolling his eyes. "Damn, I wish I could waste this good shit on a freshman, but alas," Remi says, taking a large hit and holding it in.

Bobby finds himself smiling despite the stupid joke. He looks around at the empty roof, the sky still fading from dull orange to dark blue. It's getting colder.

"Remi, let me hit. Right now."

"Mmm-mmm. I'm smoking this whole thing. You can catch some fumes if you want though."

Bobby's brow raises, a small mischievous smile on his face. Remi's eyes widen, already tensing and leaning back in anticipation before Bobby lunges at him.

He falls back against the concrete, Bobby on top of him, smoke billowing out all at once and Bobby is there to inhale all of it, heady metalic zing, Remi's breath, and whatever gummy bears the stagehand was eating behind the follow light during rehearsal.

Remi is staring up at him in pleasant surprise, his large snout making space for an even larger smile. "There's no way that was good," he says laughing, blunt still cradled in his hand to keep it from snuffing out. Bobby snatches it, batting Remi's grabbing hands away so he can get a good puff in. A hand still manages to grab him by the shirt, pulling him in close enough for Remi to attempt to shotgun off his hit.

Remi is half-lidded and bleary, but desperate and Bobby is holding it in, head feeling like its swimming but still smiling at the sophomore's needy expression. He braces his arms on either side of Remi's head, face tilting to get him closer.

Remi opens his mouth and their lips brush, and like those cheddar samples at the grocery store it's delicious but not enough. Not nearly enough. Bobby cups Remi's head, exhale meeting inhale, lips feintly ghosting over each other in a pretense of necessity, even when there's nothing left to breath in. Remi finally gives a hesitant brush of tongue, and everything carried feintly in the air tastes stronger. The Gamma makes a noise of shock, like he hadn't realized they had touched either. Bobby pulls back, sitting on Remi's waist breathless. There's no guilt clawing at his stomach, just the both of them in the moment, but Bobby still has the opportunity to make the right choice. This would be wrong, wouldn't it? This would betray Team 99, would skim too quickly past making things right with the Gammas and jump into the deepend with another dirty secret he'd have to keep from Max and PJ. He's surprised at how little the notion even bothers him. Bobby doesn't always subscribe to astrology, but he wonders if he has a higher self looking down and testing him. It certainly feels like a test. Even if it doesn't feel wrong... he needs to think this over. Remi pulls his hands away seeing Bobby's wariness.

"F-fuck, I'm sorry," Remi pants, eyes red and unable to focus. "I didn't mean to-"

"Still trying to apolgize," Bobby says after he catches his breath. His head is spinning, trying and failing to right itself. "But that was definitely on purpose."

"I thought you were flirting when you—You called me cute! I thought... Look, man, if you're not interested, we don't have to mention this again, I won't tell anyone."

Bobby snorts. "Dude, that is so not the problem."

Remi's shoulders slouch in relief at what could have been a hard conversation with the Gammas. "Is there a problem?"

It's chilly. Not unbearably so but the stomach Bobby is sitting on is so warm.

"I haven't been tested in a while. I dig whatever this is, but I don't put out that easy, man. And I just learned your name, like, ten minutes ago."

Remi seems shocked, opening and closing his mouth for a few seconds. "Just now?"

"Dude, it's been months and you never said anything to me."

"....touché."

"And like, sure, if the circumstances were different I wouldn't mind hooking up right now-"

"What?"

"-but I have this stupid fucking show to focus on so I can pass this semester. So.... this can't interfere with the play. Don't make this awkward." It was a poor choice of words. Asking for a lack of awkwardness was counter effective in Bobby's experience, yet it was too late to take the words back. Remi wears awkwardness endearingly enough that Bobby can't help but stare at the way he lights up with a dorky smile and intent lowered brow.

Sitting up quickly, Remi nearly topples Bobby over but catches the freshman in his lap. "Not awkward. Got it."

He leans back, letting Bobby untangle from him and stand up. It was still getting colder. Even more so with the sun slipping further away behind the horizon. Even more so once they were apart.

Remi is still staring so intently at the man who had given him the last traces of that warmth, like it's Bobby lit up by the stagelight. He almost is, framed in the golden waning lines of light from the setting sun.

I see you, he wants to say. But he knows how stupid that sounds out loud.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Bobby."

He doesn't pause for a second as he kicks open the exit hatch."Bye Remi."

The door to his dorm has a sock on it when Bobby gets back and the sight has him deflating immediately. He knows what a hot and heavy make-out sesh sounds like, and the noises coming out of their dorm room fit the bill. If he'd known this was what waited at home for him, he might not have left Remi alone on the roof. He has no other plans for tonight. He won't be able to find any of his stoner friends on short notice. There's the sound of a party distantly down the hall and Bobby sighs. It's a Friday. The dorm with all the noise coming from it has the door popped open.

He could get cross-faded tonight. Fuck it.

The night passes in a haze, between drinks and poppy dance music in the psychadelically decorated dorm of a girl that's a friend of a friend, rejecting a tab he definitely can't fit into his schedule after his last trip, pacing the hall to wait at his door again, and then popping back in to refill his cup with cheap spiced rum. Remi is never far from his mind, the brief sensation of a tongue imprinted in Bobby's mind. He always quickly reminds himself of how the X Games had gone in the first place, the utter shock it had left PJ in and the mess it had made for Max's old man. It wouldn't be right to ignore all that for the sake of some quick tail. And yet... his smile is lazy and content, his lungs and lips are living in another moment in time. He's got to get it together.

When Max shows up, frazzled as all hell, Bobby relishes the opportunity to get that Gamma off his mind. He gives Max the number he'd just gotten from Remi. Thankfully, Max doesn't ask too many questions that Bobby can't just bullshit an answer to.

"Smoking has never been this complicated," Bobby says to Max before wishing his buddy luck on his journey.

Bobby wakes up the next day barely in time to make rehearsal. He's tired and sloppy, but he doesn't stray from the director's shitty plans at all. She barely yells at him now that he's got the major cues down. But he finds himself occasionally watching the light, the way it dances across the stage. It hurts his eyes to look at the spotlight, but behind his shades he can appreciate the smooth subtle motions from the man working on the catwalk.

When rehearsal wraps up, Bobby is staring up the fire escape. Nobody's mentioned anything about a meet up today, but he finds himself anticipating one anyways.

He can hear footsteps, light but unmistakeable, overhead in the catwalk. He doesn't want to look up and seem excited, so he doesn't, climbing the rusted fire escape before Remi can catch up to him.

The roof access cracks open, revealing nothing but blue and the occasional wave of crows flying by to blot out the sky. Bobby hazards a peek past the side of the building now, campus sprawling out in front of him. It's Ohio, so most of the buildings stop at the second floor. The theater needs three floors to accommodate box seats, giving just enough altitude to make out the top of his own dorm clustered by orange and yellow and trees. The main road winds past it like a river, along lecture halls and cars, sidewalks dotted with students in hats and jackets. His ear flicks when the hatch closes again, Remi leaving distance between them as he joins Bobby at the wall. He looks different. Like for the first time, he's not putting on some jaded persona. Which might be why he looks so nervous.

"Getting some air?" Remi asks, hands braced against the wall and thumbing his lighter.

"Yeah. This whole production is kind of ass, I'm not gonna lie." A spark from the lighter catches Bobby's eye and Remi has certainly noticed.

"I've got something that might help," Remi says, pulling a tangle of seran wrap from his pocket.

"What's that?"

"Exodus Cheese. I thought you'd like the funk." He looks up, and eyes meet over Bobby's shades, staring for a second too long. Remi's face furrows, stuttering and backtracking. "I mean, it's like, whatever though. If you don't think you can handle it, it's cool."

Bobby squints. "I can handle the funk, man. Don't even joke like that."

Remi laughs, fumbling with the baggie and pulling out a pipe. It's a heavy duty piece of hardware, the kind Bobby remembers some of his more delinquent highschool buddies toting that necessitated swiping the metal screen aerators from sinks in public restrooms.

"What, you brought hash?"

"Oh, no," Remi says, tilting it so Bobby can see the regular flower. "Just what I had on hand. But, y'know, if you want to make a hash sandwich sometime, I'm down."

A thrill shoots down Bobby's back at the prospect of something novel. A relatively safe way to get fucked up that he hadn't tried yet. "If there's one thing you know about me, I'm down for anything."

One side of Remi's mouth twitches upward, like he's trying hard not to read into anything. "Tell me about it. Tell me about yourself."

"Well... how much time have you got?"

They both struggle with the lighter for a moment, hands cupping around the flame to keep it from snuffing out. Bobby picks the offered pipe up with his mouth, cold metal shocking his lips and distinctly funk-flavored warmth filling his inhale when the spark finally takes.

"However long you want. Whatever you want. I'm just down to hang."

Bobby doesn't usually talk about what's constantly on his mind. It feels like most of his life is avoiding his problems. He's always been better at burying them and then soothing the ache with his friends. Some small part of him is also afraid of the familiar rejection he'd face if he opened up to the frat boy about.... any of that. "I'm taking bare minimum hours on a full scholarship," Bobby finally says, holding the burning air in his lungs for a moment. "Gonna get as close to an AV degree as I can before I change majors. Milk that shit for all it's worth." He leans close to Remi on his exhale, and Remi seems to relax in the cloud of Bobby's second-hand high. "I saw Cats on VHS on the best trip of my life, and that got me into theater. But I gotta do something to make money. I don't know. I'll figure it out. I love cheese. Love comics. Love rollerblading. I'm pimping my van into a primo stoner pad."

Remi takes a hit off his hardware, eyes intently focused on Bobby like he's learning the secrets of the universe. "A production of Cats... is that like the end goal?"

"Well, I kind of... want to direct something. I don't know. I could make a couple skate films. Do some stunts. Dumb shit. I never really had a plan. I mostly got into school for the X Games. Thought about dropping out if we didn't win."

"I hope you stay in," Remi says. "I mean like yesterday, you had some great ideas. Music cues, tension, actual effects? This is just a low maintenance production. There are other directors here that won't treat you like an afterthought."

Bobby looks out at the sky again. The X Games had been his only target for a long time. There hadn't really been a plan after that. The past few months of school had been fine, but Bobby was aimless. He floated between groups, and Remi had followed, trying to make amends. Or maybe not. After yesterday, Bobby isn't sure what the intention had actually been. It might have been Bobby's fault for calling him cute in the first place. It was hard to defend that as a normal thing to notice.

"I don't know. There'd have to be a pretty good play."

"Starlight Express up your alley?"

Bobby tries to hide his smile with his hands, but gives it all away with a snort.

"Fucking Starlight Express!" Of course anybody with half a brain cell would know Bobby was crazy about that shit, but hardly anyone even knew about it and it was embarrassing as fuck to tell people he liked Thomas the Tank Engine a la West End.

Remi had picked a cheesy strain for Bobby too. He wonders if Remi pieced shit together silently in the background of other people's lives. If he was this considerate with all the boys he liked or for his friends in general. "You're a good listener," Bobby says in appreciation.

"Try to be," Remi says in a soft voice, hand raising to offer Bobby the pipe.

And just like that, Bobby's sold. This guy is too cute to NOT hook up with at least once, damn the consequences. And it's almost finals week, so if it goes poorly he can just tough it out for the next two weeks. There's a campus event running all afternoon for STI testing and he's pretty sure there's pizza if he provides a sample. He would have gone anyways.

"Okay, well like. One hit, n' then I'm bouncin'."

"If you're already leaving," Remi says, taking another hit. It doesn't even need words this time, Bobby cups Remi's face and tilts his head. Breathing in Remi is made difficult by his large nose, but Bobby can't find it in himself to think it's anything other than fun. When he pulls away, Remi is red in the face and panting. It's too easy to work this guy up.

"I'll... fuck, I can stay for another. 'N then I gotta go."

It doesn't stop at an inhale this time. There's tongue, and it's probably Bobby's, but then its both of their tongues. Then it's the both of them, arms grabbing at shirts and legs pressed between legs, seeking out contact and chasing the high of young, dumb, and horny desperation.

The metal pipe clangs when Remi drops it onto the ground and Bobby and Remi quickly join it. The high is already hitting. Bobby's mouth is dry and his nerves are electric. His limbs move to touch more, feel more, but he feels so feint in someone else's arms. He's grinding down against Remi, cupping his face and tilting it for more, more, more. He tugs Remi's hair to get the right angle and it draws a beautiful reaction, a soft transatlantic whine and breathy groan.

"Fuck, Bobby, hah-"

"Is that good? I can do it again."

Remi swallows, throat bobbing. He nods. "If you don't mind getting pomade all over your gloves. Wish you had hair to pull."

"You would have loved my mullet," Bobby says, giving the long snout next to his face a quick peck. It was growing on him surprisingly quickly. "But you can fuck my neck up if you want."

Remi stares blankly.

"Like, bite it, leave hickeys and stuff."

"Oh!" Remi obliges immediately, snout tracing the cleft of a shoulder. His tongue laps at it before sucking lightly.

Bobby groans when a thigh presses along the underside of his cock, and everything is suddenly too tight. Wine colored dress pants tangle with plum. His hands snake under a shirt and Remi shivers.

The concrete they're sitting on is too cold, the air is too fucking cold, but Bobby needs to feel the other so badly. He makes up his mind to stop before a grip full of warm skin or a tongue draws him in again.

"Okay," Bobby says, pulling away to breathe heavy and fight the urge to kiss Remi. "I still need to get tested. So I can't go all the way."

Remi's lip is terse. Like he hadn't even considered the possibility of anything past a high, hot and heavy makeout session. "Yeah, that's cool. Take the reigns."

Bobby is painfully curious, hand tracing Remi's collarbone and neck. "You sleep around any?"

The snout next to jerks away from Bobby's face when Remi snorts so they don't smack into eachother. "I'm lucky folks even notice me here. Kissed a few girls. One guy. But I haven't hooked up since last summer."

"That's a shame," Bobby says in a whisper next to a teardropped ear. It twitches from the burst of heat. "They're missing out."

Remi looks the other way, lip twitching in between embarassment and a smile. It wasn't supposed to sound so romantic but Bobby loves the effect it has.

So does Remi it seems, because he's thrusting up against Bobby now, breath ragged as he still tries to hide his expression. His arms cradle Bobby to him, firm fingers gripping his waist to leverage them together.

The cold doesn't even bother Bobby anymore. His nerves feel like TV static and he can barely feel anything else save the occasional burst of warmth across his neck. His hand brushes over the outline of Remi's cock, and the man underneath him arches, gasping. Bobby fumbles a hand through Remi's fly, desperate to feel what he can't see.

"F-fuck, Bobby-"

"Mhm?"

Remi spasms, the fist in his hair jerking him back. He's hard, even as Bobby parts the plaid boxers' button fly to expose him to the air. It bobs, bloodflow fighting against gravity and the chill around them. Bobby's thumb circles a rose-blushed tip. It's longer than his enclosed fist, he thinks he could probably fit the other. And then he does. He'd be staring in awe if they were anywhere else and he's so damn impatient. A laugh bubbles out first and then he's whispering in Remi's ear like there's someone around to hear.

"Hung like a horse. Gonna have to ride you. Break you."

Remi is flushed, probably from the cold but Bobby likes to imagine he has that affect on men.

"Getting chilly?" Bobby asks, and Remi nods, hips thrusting his cock through Bobby's tight fist like it's echoing the gesture. "I could warm you up." Bobby ducks his head down, sliding himself down Remi's leg and sticks his tongue out in flirtation. Remi's hands snatch his ears before Bobby can commit to the act.

"Wait, I have a condom!"

Bobby stops, looking from the dick he really wants to put in his mouth to Remi's flushed face.

"A blow job with a condom?"

Remi reaches one hand into a pocket, other hand keeping Bobby at bay. "Oral herpes would be a moodkiller," he clarifies. "You okay with latex? It tastes like a balloon if that sweetens the deal."

Bobby laughs. "A little pre-sump-tuous. Thought you were getting lucky tonight?"

Remi manages to get the condom on with minimal fumbling but can't hide a smirk any time he looks at Bobby once. "Optimistic."

Finally able to lick the head he's been dying to get his hands on, Bobby looks up at Remi. Remi stares back from around his large snout and it almost makes Bobby giggle from the angle. He holds the base of the condom snug against skin, tongue tracing down the underside. He readjusts his grip on the condom, sliding it back down into place and Remi lets out an adorably shaky breath as his hips spasm in place.

"Oh. I'm seeing the allure now. Like a stroker. Or a blow job with layers."

Remi puts his hands over his face, stomach visibly tensing from his poorly concealed laughter.

"Layers? Oh god, no-"

"You're mad that I'm right."

"Won't be able to think of it any other way," Remi says, sighing and relaxing on the concrete. Bobby strokes him, hand over hand down his shaft, leaving the sensation of nothing but penetration over and over again. It's teasingly slow but horribly effective, as Remi has gone stark silent.

Finally, the pattern is broken. Bobby ghosts his mouth over the glans, lips pursing for just that extra bit of pressure. Remi's fingers scrape over his scalp, hair too short to thread through. It feels pleasant though. Bobby tilts his head, leaning into Remi's hands before swallowing down as much as he can take in this position. It does taste a lot like a balloon.

Latex screeches as he adjusts his pose, fingers pulling the condom taught as he inches closer to the base of Remi's cock. He's not sure he's ever taken anything this long before. His exhale comes in a controlled burst, mouth sinking down in rhythmic tandem with every breath. His whole body has to move to take it at this angle, and he grinds himself against Remi's leg as he does so. Imagining what it would feel like inside him has Bobby aching.

"I can go down on you after, if you want." Remi's choked voice interrupts his thoughts.

Bobby pops off the top of Remi's cock, wiping errant saliva with his sleeve.

"I'm good."

"You are?"

"After I get tested, I wanna go all the way. I want to feel you. But like, til then I don't mind a little blue balling. Just means I get a higher pay-off."

Remi still looks conflicted. "If you're sure... You don't feel like I'm pressuring you into this, do you?

"You're talking a lot for a guy getting his dick sucked," Bobby says, tongue laving over shaft and hand twisting with every pump. "This right here is a self-indulgent taste test." Well. As much taste as there could be with a latex barrier.

All is quiet for a moment and Bobby is frightened that they've jumped the gun, but Remi goes back to shallowly thrusting into his hand. He takes it as a good sign and focuses back on the task at hand. He drops into a comfortable angle for his throat, pushing against resistance with a heavy inhale through his nose while clenching his fists. He can feel the itch in the back of his mouth but fights it with an added flex and finally he's smooth sailing, the slide in and out of his throat alternating with every calm breath. He looks up over the top of his frames at Remi's heaving chest and swaying head.

"Oh... Bobby... f-fuck-"

Hands grip the outside of thighs to pull Remi and himself together. Entire bodies moving in tandem, Bobby chokes down another inch while Remi chokes back a moan. His legs shift apart, letting Bobby push himself down further, and it's taken as an unspoken invitation. Bobby grips Remi's legs and spreads, pushing them upwards until Remi's hips are raised into a more comfortable position for his throat. It also conveniently brings their faces that much closer together. With every thrust down onto Remi's cock, Bobby feels a burst of ragged air against his face.

"Never done it like this," Remi says in mild surprise at the position.

Their eyes lock, and Bobby's mischievous glint sends a thrill of fear through Remi's stomach. Bobby takes him for all he's worth, hands pushing against lean gorgeous thighs to press knees against shoulders. Something is squirming close to Bobby's hand—a tail. It's long and coiled. It flexes rythmically as Bobby goes down, hypnotically, and then it kinks. Before Bobby can ask, Remi lets out a startled noise.

"Bobby, fuck, I-"

And the dog in question doesn't slow, doesn't let go. Remi has no choice but to grab his spasming legs with shaking hands, tail evidently twitching in his pants. Fingers claw the underside of his thighs when he finally reaches the precipice. A shiver runs through him as his core tightens and then with a shudder it all releases, electricity surging through every nerve.

It feels amazing, as it usually does. Weed compliments sex like cheese compliments a tortilla chip. But Bobby has eviscerated him, sucking through every spasm and pinning him down until the sensation was overwhelming. Carefully, Bobby pulls back, the pressure from his throat surrendering his sensitive and spent cock. Audibly popping off of his dick, Bobby snags the end of the condom with his teeth. Remi thrashes as the condom is pulled off of him, the bundle of oversensitized nerves slammed with the unexpected sensation in the last ebs of his climax. Bobby has a nefarious grin as he spits the condom onto the ground.

Slowly releasing his legs, Remi breathes out slowly. He's still shaking, and Bobby curls into him to share whatever warmth he still has.

"You good, man?" Bobby asks, scratching the other's scalp.

Still oversensitive and untensing every muscle, he answers automatically. "Really good, thank you," Remi says, mouth dry, shivering, back starting to hurt. He feels like he's been hit by a car. He tucks himself back behind his boxers and hopes he doesn't stain his jeans. It takes him a second to even his breathing to speak again. "Thanks. So. What are you doing after this?"

"What, after getting tested? ...I dunno."

"I, um. Have some comics. At my place, if you're interested. And I was gonna give you the rest of the bag."

This wasn't supposed to be anything serious, but.... Bobby hugs the other, dreading the thought of peeling away to face the cold. Cuffing season really was in full force. He actually... is thinking of going over. "You sure Tank won't be... I don't know, I haven't really spoken to any of the Gammas since... y'know."

A hand pulls him closer in reassurance. "There's no ill will at all. Tank's actually been wanting to make amends for a while. Max... saving his life and all. I invite you into the house, nobody will say shit if they know what's good for 'em."

With a content sigh, Bobby's head thunks softly onto his shoulder. "You sound like a mob boss."

"What, making you an offer you can't refuse?" Remi quirks a brow.

"Something like that. First you give me your number and now this? Getting into your room?" Bobby cracks a full smile. "Remi, you sly dog."

"Dirty rat, actually," Remi says in a flirtatious whisper.

Consider that suspicion officially confirmed. Now he wants to see that tail.

It's only Monday of dead week, but the ominous threat of finals lays heavy. A small high to take the edge off is in order. Bobby physically can't wait to try Exodus Cheese in his bong and has needled a perfect amount into the bowl. The day has been a little weird, with Bradley and Tank's very public fight still floating through his head. Max has wandered out to ditch Bradley's baggage, PJ has left to order pizza for his girlfriend or something (Bobby hadn't truly been paying attention to the specifics) and Bobby is finally alone in his room for the first time in a long time.

He hasn't read throught the stash of comics Remi lent him yet and is going to take the opportunity before finals week brings any more stress his way, starting off with the latest adventure from Chip 'n Dale. Bobby leans back in the chair, propping his foot up on the corner of the desk.

A fatal mistake.

His foot barely nudges the bong, but it tips too far and slips off the side. He can hear the slosh and a spike of anxiety hits him as it falls onto Max's bed, splash cresting over the top. He barely hooks it by the mouthpiece, stopping it from shattering or causing a larger spill when it thunks against the bed frame, but drags a flurry of papers from the desk with the motion. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-"

Bobby is racing against time, throwing papers onto the ground and stripping Max's bedsheets.

The pillowcase has taken most of the damage, soaked in the light funky scent of dorm-tap bong water. He decides he can run Max's sheets through the wash, tossing it in the large dormitory laundry cart.

Which still leaves a cluster of papers for Bobby to sort through and salvage.

He grabs the notes from English class, blessedly free of water damage, and sets them back on the desk.

The comics are spread everywhere on the floor, and Bobby wouldn't normally care about them staying in mint condition but he'd at least like to read through them before they're destroyed and they're also Remi's. He straightens everything into a stack, adjusting pages and checking for wet spots, but everything is blessedly clear.

He pauses after grabbing the next issue. There's a photo of a dog on the front, ginger and black hair. Bobby doesn't remember grabbing this in the stack, but it's possible he overlooked it. Leashed?

He spaces out sometimes and he had gotten pretty high on Exodus that same day. It's possible Remi accidentally loaned something from his wank bank. Maybe purposefully. And who is he to look a gift horse in the mouth?

Nasty dog, he thinks, sitting back on the rolling chair.

And there sure are a lot of dogs. Almost exclusively. Pages flutter, and Bobby is giggling looking through photo on photo of cuffs, leather, harnesses, holes.

He almost regrets not taking Remi's offer to repay the oral, especially now that he's got so much eye candy to oggle. But getting blue-balled was part of the build-up anyways. It would be worth it in the end.

....wouldn't hurt to take the edge off though. The base of his palm presses hard against the growing bulge in his pants.

There's a pair of guys tied together—thigh to thigh, chest to chest, sharing one ball gag. Bobby's mouth is already sufficiently dry but it's only now that he notices. He undoes his fly with one hand, feeling himself through the spandex of his speedo. Flipping another page takes him to a skinny mut with intense features, tied to a chair with a riding crop held to his crotch by someone behind the camera.

It's a money shot that can get Bobby most of the way there. It's so easy to see Remi desperate, begging for some kindness to be laid upon his beautiful dick.

Is that what he's into? Maaaaaajor kink-age. It isn't too hard to imagine wearing leather. He's already got the speedo collection down. Would Remi like that?

So far, Remi had seemed down for anything. Like he was perfectly content to have Bobby pull him around. In a lot of ways, Remi was an unknown. To most, it made him seem extremely bland. Definitely more bland than Bobby would ever consider going for. But it was exactly what made him so intriguing. Nobody from the cast seemed to know anything about boy-next-door Remi—few even knew his name. He was a secret, Bobby's dirty little secret. He turns the page, hoping for some more illuminating content as to what Remi might like.

PJ's shoulder busts the dormitory door open, hands laden with an oversized hamper with the intention of finishing laundry and then walking his girlfriend back from her last class of the day. Instead he sees Bobby, dick in one hand and very-clearly-gay porn in the other. He drops the hamper with a gasp.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING-"

For most there exists a fight or flight response to percieved danger, a phenomena first penned by Walter Bradford Cannon in 1932. There of course exists many subsequent responses in the sentient psyche, however a common tertiary response for stoners is seldom studied. In Bobby's inhibited and paranoia-sensitive state he exhibits the rigidly trained denial response that takes the form of stress cleaning.

Bobby throws the magazine against the wall, fairly certain PJ hasn't seen the contents of it, pants on and zipped up like nothing has happened before he continues picking comics off the ground.

PJ stands there a second longer in beffudlement, watching hisroommate move robotically to pick up laundry like PJ hadn't walked in on it.

"-ON MY FUCKING CHAIR?"

Bobby hazards a look at the other. "....nothing?"

PJ's face is stark white, hand wiping down his face. "Why would you- right before I—ON MY CHAIR!"

"-I'm gonna go finish laundry," Bobby says, rolling the tote out of the room without another word.

PJ stands awkwardly in the doorway, a shiver of disgust shooting through his tail. Of course he should have guessed this would happen eventually. Roommates probably walk in on each other all the time he reasons. There's probably a normal reaction to have to it, but PJ has been high-strung his entire life.

"I'm throwing away the fucking chair!"