Chapter Text
Gary Barkovitch insists he fell. The teenage boy, no older than 14, had come to his Meemaw's house with a bad limp and a nose full of blood. He's now sat in one of the dining table chairs, plastic-covered cushions squeaking as he jerked from the antiseptic-soaked cotton his grandmother had brought to his face.
"Yknow I ought to tell those youngin's parents bout all this," she started, carefully inspecting the red splotch pasted on his right cheek. From the worry on her face, Gary knew he'd have an ugly bruise on his face for the next while. "I told you Meemaw, I just—" he winced again, "I took a nasty fall on the way home,"
His grandma's face grew cross. "Don't you lie to me, Sonny."
Gary fiddled with the lace doily on the table next to him, looking down at his feet.
"You at least want to tell me what it was about?" The hardwood floors seemed so interesting right about now. He doesn't want to ignore her, lest she get crosser, so in a voice barely above a whisper, he asks, "I ain't soft am I?" It's so quiet, he's not sure he was really talking to her in particular.
He hears Meemaw sigh as she puts aside the last of her now blood-soaked tissues before cradling his face in her hands, carefully avoiding the spots that looked too sore.
"Listen to me, Gary. Them boys rough you up because they're mad they can't make you hard and mean like them,"
"Sure, yer a wee quiet, not the biggest fighter, but what's wrong with that? A boy can't be sweet?"
Gary can feel her thumbs moving stray blonde locks out of his face and he digs his jagged nails into his palms as he fights his urge to cry.
"I like you sweet." A quick kiss is placed on his forehead, and it fills him with a tenderness that makes the tear clinging to his lashes fall. His grandmother wipes it away without a word.
She steps back to let Gary lift himself off his chair and tuck it back under the table. He tries to hide how badly his jeans were rubbing on his scraped ankle.
"Now run off and take a good shower, don't let me catch you on that bed in yer condition!"
—
Gary inhaled the sharp air as he took in his new campus. Fucking Maine. Wasn't his first choice, but he goes where the money goes, and he'd be insane to turn down a full ride.
He's marching his way to his residence building now, morning sun far too bright to be lugging around 3 pieces of luggage. After weaving through hordes of emotional families and jittery freshmen, he finally made it to his floor.
Room 304. He fumbles with his keys for an embarrassingly long time before finally getting the door open. He finds a bare twin bed, a wooden desk and a matte black swivel chair tucked in, cubby holes and shelves on both ends of the desk and an empty corkboard nested between the pair of shelves. He pans to his right and sees the same, minus the chair being blue. It's almost eerie how parallel everything is.
Guess he made it here before his roommate.
He shoved his suitcase and the rest of his bags into a corner and began unpacking. God, fuck all those people with their families helping them do this shit. By the time he finishes, he's tired out his mind. Gary flops down on the hard twin mattress, softly breathing in his sheets, still smelling like the fabric softener from home. Closing his eyes, he said a silent prayer to no one at all that this would be different, nothing like the Carolinas.
—
Barkovitch startles awake at the sound of a loud thud.
"What the fuck?"
"Oh shit—sorry man, did I wake you?" Gary rubs open his eyes to a huge pair of glasses, eyes behind them full of what looks like guilt for waking him up. He has a box full of books and journals at his feet, stray pages littering his side of the room.
Gary pushed himself upright with a grumble and tried to wipe the drowsiness off his face while his new roommate continued a string of apologies.
"—really hope we didn't get off on the wrong foot, Oh, uh, I'm Richard by the way,"
No response.
"…Harkness."
"Yeah I got your fucking name." Jesus, this shit is so awkward.
Gary feels a bit sorry for the guy. He's clearly trying, but he was never the best at holding new conversation.
"And you're..." Oh shit yeah— "Gary, uh, Barkovitch."
Real fucking smooth, man.
"Oh yeah, uh—Orientation, you plan on going to that right? Asking cuz it's like now if you wanna come with." said Harkness, flashing a friendly smile as he adjusted his glasses.
Fuck yeah, orientation. He forgot about that. He now realised he would've probably slept through it. Realistically, he still could, but he felt too bad for this kid to turn him down. "Yeah, ok. Sure, man."
—
There's a crowd of people when they arrive outside. People are laughing, writing down each other's room numbers and sharing names. Waves of people walk by the various booths posted up by the college, with overenthusiastic club members handing out flyers. Some girls were already bunched up in little cliques. How the hell do people manage?
"Harkness—?" Gary calls out for his roommate, realising he'd been people watching for so long he'd gone and disappeared. Fuck.
He looked through the big crowds, suddenly feeling very small compared to everything. He bit at his lip, nervously itching at his hands as he weaved through the person after person. How the fuck did he lose him so quick? Curse his tiny 5-foot ass.
Eventually, he found him by the Journalistic Society booth with an absurd amount of flyers and sign-up sheets already in hand.
"Where the fuck did you go? I—" Gary cut himself off, cringing. He sounded like some desperate kid who lost his mommy. He's known this guy for like an hour. If Harkness heard the panic in his voice, he didn't comment on it. "I told you I was coming to check out the clubs and stuff, did you not hear me? No worries though—I've barely made it to half of these yet,"
Gary just gave a quick nod before starting to walk ahead. He didn't really want to look at Richard right now. At the end of their little lap around the booths, he actually ended up with a flyer of his own. Turns out Maine State has a pretty big photography club, which he guesses he should've assumed, given how good the program was.
They made it to the free food trucks, and Harkness is golfing down a shittily put together chicken slider. He's also trying to hide that he's eying up some blonde guy standing across from them. Very poorly hiding it. Of course he'd end up rooming with some faggot. The guy is pretty tall, built too. He looks like a dick. Richard's little Ken doll then chuckles, and Gary realises he's talking to someone.
Holy Shit.
Gary stops picking at his fries, his mouth gone dry at the sight of the man next to him.
He's a bit shorter than the blonde, braced against one of the shoddy food trucks. His arms are crossed, palms under his biceps, fuck his biceps—and his beautiful, tanned skin is gleaming in the afternoon sun. Gary let out a shaky breath he didn't know he was holding. His features were sharp, contrasted by the dark, flowing hair that cascaded down his broad shoulders, stopping at the biceps he was still trying not to look back at. His mouth was pulled into a small crooked smile that Gary found so goddamn endearing he felt sick.
Holy Fucking Shit.
Gary watches the mystery man's smile fall, brows furrowing, and it its only when Harkness taps on him that he realises he's glaring at him. Fuckfuckfuck—
"You good, Barkovitch?" is all he hears before he shoots up, grabbing his flyer and bag of fries and deciding he was finished with orientation. With everything today, actually.
Gary hides out in his room the rest of the day, thoroughly embarrassed and pissed at what his day had turned into. He skips dinner and forces his eyes shut when he hears his roommate come in for the night. He's hit with a pang of guilt at the soft "Goodnight" he hears from across the room.
That night, he dreams of strong arms and long hair falling onto his cheeks.