Breathe, Tommy (BxB) (Frat)

Eleven・This, Again

A week later, following the night with Giana, I'm a progressed frozen mess, slumped over the A-frame table in the campus courtyard, hoodie over my head, earbuds in with the sound of nothing playing. The full moon glares back from the sky as it rises through seven pm, eight pm, and nine pm, to where it hangs over my head at 10:57 pm. I begin to feel the cold seep in sometime between mental spiral six and seven, but I can't seem to get up and head back to the dorms.

It's nice out here, the odd student passing by, me totally not thinking about Christian liking me, as if. At one point, a rowdy group lingered while they waited on their friend to hurry up, but since then it's been just me. I like it like that. Awfully quiet, with an anxiety choir in my head covering soprano, alto, tenor and bass perfectly.

Until I hear the sound of footsteps again.

Instead of continuing by me, they come to a stop.

"Hey." Christian drops his backpack on the table, taking a seat opposite me. "You alright?"

The words forming hold in my throat. I keep the side of my head resting on the cool wood, staring off into the distance.

His energy twirls in my silence, accentuating it in ways that make me feel a little less lonely with myself than I have been. As much as I want no one near me, it hurts, and I only let it hurt because it pains less than the idea of company turning miserable the more I let who I am out. It's my cesspool of sadness, my six-foot ditch of mental struggle. It's ugly and not for anyone to see.

"You've been out the whole week."

"Yeah," the words leave my mouth with a small cough, throat dry from the night air.

"Are you doing okay?"

"No."

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"Would you like me to leave?"

"...No."

For the first time here I fully look at him, taking my dormant earbuds out. His hair's semi-dried and a woodsy aroma catches in the air my way from it, his skin is lit under the moonlight and there are little glints in his eyes from the courtyard lights; they look alive, bug-like almost and attentive as he scans my face. Compared to me, un-showered, gauntly from the sleepless nights, colorless from the stress of waiting to hear back about the DNA results from Giana — I feel like my presence is insulting to his.

"You have really nice eyes," he says. "Baby blue."

"And you," I reply without thinking, "when they're not looking at me."

He chuckles. "I was about to say for once you're not being rude, I nearly spoke too soon."

I smile back. It's organic and effortless and the first time I've smiled all week. Like Uncle Jay's hug, I didn't recognize how much I needed this. It breaks the looming fog of uncertainty with my future and everything feels lighter for a second.

"But it's nice, the sound of you being rude. Kinda missed that," he goes on.

"Well, I've not missed you." Lie.

"I assume you've been preoccupied with etiquette classes so you're not projecting asshole-itis every five seconds."

"Actually, I was trialing the different etiquette classes to see which would be best for you."

"Aw, are you saying you care about me, Carpenter?"

"I'm saying I care so much about myself that if I'm going to spend the next four years with you making your unwanted entries into my life, then etiquette classes so you're not verbally being an asswipe is a good investment."