There's less than an hour remaining until the start of what is likely to be the most important night of Troye Sivan's life thus far and he is probably, definitely panicking. Not to mention, his hair is downright refusing to cooperate. He's standing in his tiny dorm bathroom, the mirror still all fogged-up from the shower, frowning at the wet, wilted strands of his fringe.
"Cory," he whines, dropping his comb in defeat.
His roommate appears in the doorway a moment later with a yawn, casual and unconcerned as always. Of course Cory wasn't worried. He woke up every morning looking like he'd just stepped fresh off the pages of Vogue, for fuck's sake.
"What's wrong, Lou?"
Troye's shoulders sag, scowling at his reflection. "I don't know what to do with my hair."
Cory hums in thought and steps closer, raising a hand to stroke through the damp strands. "Think it looks best when your quiff is all feathery."
"Could you help? It never looks as good when I do it."
Cory just nods, yawning once more into the back of his hand.
Troye closes the lid of the toilet and sits down, his feet crossed at the ankles, letting Cory smooth some product into his hair. It smells like cucumber-melon, and Troye really hopes that won't be a turn-off. The banquet is tonight.
Cory sculpts his fringe, using a round brush and a hair dryer. He finishes the look with some hairspray, holding the feathered, caramel locks in place. "All done," he says, stepping back so Troye can look in the mirror. The hair dryer rests on the countertop, ticking as it cools.
Troye smiles at his reflection this time, pleased with Cory's handiwork. Although his face quickly falls when he remembers he still hasn't decided on an outfit for tonight. "Thanks," he murmurs quietly, "...but what am I going to wear?"
Cory follows him out of the bathroom and into the small dorm room that they share. The space is a bit cramped, but they've made it their own. He plops down on one of the twin beds and watches as Troye roots through his wardrobe, biting at his thumbnail the whole time, a nervous habit.
"Are you worried, Troye?"
Troye rolls his eyes. "No, Cory," he retorts, thick with sarcasm. "I'm perfectly calm. Haven't you noticed?"
Cory just shakes his head, the corner of his lip quirking up a bit. "You know you're going to get paired up, right?"
Troye shakes his head. "Nothing is a certainty."
"Your arse is a certainty."
Troye snorts. "Yes, well...you need more than just a nice arse to get matched at these things."
In this world, regardless of gender or orientation, you were either born a dominant or submissive, and Troye is definitely a sub. Cory is, too. That's why they're here, living in this door room, attending an Academy with all the rest of the university-aged subs in the area. The Academy for dominants was just a few blocks over, and tonight, the annual 'matchmaking banquet' would be held. It wasn't mandatory; just a chance for single dominants and submissives to come together and meet, maybe pair up if you were lucky enough to find a mate. If not, there was always next year.
Troye has never attended one of these banquets before, but he's sort of hoping this will be his year.
At eight o'clock sharp, the subs are led through the Academy's Great Hall and into the ballroom, instructed to wait for the doms to arrive. A diamond chandelier is suspended from the ceiling, casting a warm, twinkling glow across the room. Buffet tables line the walls, filled to the brim with savory appetizer platters and bottles of sparkling champagne and cider. The lounge area is arranged with small tables and chairs, looking comfortable and inviting. Music spills from the speakers in the corner, something soft and upbeat, underpinning the ever-present tension in the air.
