Immovable Object, Unstoppable Force (1) by Jamiesstories2

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A/N: I swear this was supposed to be one chapter, but things happen and in what is quickly becoming my modus operandi, this is a slow burn. Proceed with caution.

Big thank you to Zero and Fantasy Weaver for helping me out and keeping me writing, this work would not exist in its current form without y’all.

Enjoy.

Immovable Object, Unstoppable Force: Chapter 1

Jackson was convinced that Timothee Chalamet wasn’t hot. Jackson was convinced, despite the fact that his girlfriend, turned ex, turned girl-best friend, Hyeon, was waving her phone in his face, invested in the dream that Jackson would change his mind.

Jackson was convinced of a lot of things. If there was one thing he could say for himself, he stayed consistent. His teachers could never compliment him on much, but they could always compliment him on his stubbornness. It was unclear to Jackson whether they meant it as a compliment, but he’d always chosen to take it as one. He enjoyed Hyeon’s company, in large part, because she wasn’t going to back down from debating him, no matter how obviously hopeless the prospects, and tonight, the debate seemed to be Timothee Chalamet.

It wasn’t clear to Jackson himself why he was so invested in the fact that Chalamet looked more emaciated than attractive, but he knew what attractive looked like and Chalamet wasn’t it. Hyeon finally rolled her eyes.

"It’s because you’re straight," she lamented, "Chalamet is clearly only for the girls and the gays."

Jackson laughed, because that’s what he felt like he should do, but something seemed off about her conclusion. He bit on the circular barbell in his side labret piercing in contemplation, a habit, despite the advice of multiple dentists, he could not break.

"It has nothing to do with my sexuality," he responded, finally "It’s obviously because I just have better taste than you, Chalamet is ugly and you’re wrong, like always."

Hyeon mocked being offended, batting her eyelashes in that way she always did when she played pretend. It was in moments like these that it struck Jackson he ought to be attracted to her. That was the theory he’d created to explain why he’d ever pursued her in the first place, even though after their very first kiss he knew he didn’t feel the way he was supposed to. Hyeon was pretty, easy on the eyes, objectively, quite beautiful. But attractive? Jackson had never managed to properly muster those feelings about her.

Hyeon was hurt when he ended things, but she got over it, and Jackson found himself somehow over the whole thing before it even started. Watching the people Hyeon dated now, Jackson knew it never would’ve worked out, even if his body had reacted to hers in the right way.

"Who do you think is attractive then, huh?" Hyeon challenged, pulling Jackson from his reverie, "I have Beckett, maybe it’s time for you to partner up."

Jackson shrugged noncommittally.

"I don’t know… no one at the moment," he responded.

Hyeon rolled her eyes.

"If you don’t think Timothee Chalamet is attractive, it’s no surprise your standards are so high they cross all 11,000 people at this school off your list."

Jackson could only snicker in reply.

Hyeon got up to throw away the remnants of her take-out dining hall food, lightly pulling some of Jackson’s dirty blonde hair on her way over to the trash can. If it had been anyone else, he would’ve reacted poorly, but he trusted Hyeon and Hyeon alone not to actually mess with his armpit-length hair.

After making her way back over, Hyeon grabbed the jacket hanging from the back of her chair and put it on.

"Alright Young, unlike you, I don’t refuse to do half my work on ‘the principle of it,’" she mocked, "So I’m going to go study. Dinner again tomorrow?"

"Sounds good to me," Jackson replied, pulling on his own coat.

The two grabbed their bags and left the dining hall, exchanging final goodbyes before walking in opposite directions.

Jackson figured he had nothing better to do than head back to his own dorm, a little single he’d snagged in a building near the north edge of campus. This was his nightly routine, getting social interaction with Hyeon or, more occasionally now, with his mostly male friends he lovingly called "the frat bros" and Hyeon less-lovingly called "f***ing bigots," and then heading back to his dorm to pretend to do work, while all he actually did was drink a few beers.

He’d considered joining Hyeon on her trips to the library on multiple occasions but had long-ago convinced himself schoolwork was stupid and now found it exceedingly difficult to convince himself out of that belief. However, he was feeling more and more that his stubborn, just bad enough not to be good, not bad enough to be bad, punk act was getting more tired by the day. Breaking the rules was fun when it felt like sticking it to authority, but it was starting to feel less like an anarchist political statement and more like a halfway-decent attempt at royally screwing his own future.

And what was motivating him in any direction besides his own hard-headedness? He was a semester away from graduating college and he had no dream job or life. He couldn’t even imagine what his future wife looked like, and attempting to conjure up what was supposed to be an aesthetically pleasing image was more frustrating than fulfilling.

The weather never helped these contemplative moods. Jackson was a California boy, through and through, and though he’d wanted to run far, far away from his high school years in the Bay Area, he found himself craving breaks more and more. Vermont was gloomy, cold, and wet most of the year, and although he enjoyed the low 60s temperatures of a San Francisco winter, 20s, 10s, and--Jackson shuddered at the thought--negative temperatures were far outside of his tolerance.

He sighed, taking a moment to simply clear his mind and admire the reflection of the streetlights on the ground damp from a late-fall rain, at least the rain and snow made things pretty. The small yellow suns glowed, and he dreamed it was a god he’d stopped believing in years ago come to finally answer all his questions. Instead, the reflection Jackson stared at intently was blocked out by the shadow of a fellow student, walking the opposite way as him.

Jackson raised his eyes to find-- oh f***. Him.

Jackson couldn’t say why he was so fascinated with the man. Maybe it was that he was everything Jackson wasn’t.

He wore slacks, a button up, and a wool coat.

A button up? Really? Jackson couldn’t help but scoff to himself at the man’s wardrobe. This was college, not some job interview.

But he couldn’t stop his eyes from roaming further, stealing the quickest of glances at the man’s face. His sharp jaw, only enhanced by the fact that he kept neatly clean-shaven, his dark eyes, only softened slightly by his glasses, and his buzzcut.

Maybe it was the buzzcut that caught Jackson’s attention most of all. It was short, so short, his hair barely existed at all, a suggestion more than a reality. The allure of it intrigued Jackson. It looked so clean-cut on such a clean-cut man, but it was a little rebellious, too.

Jackson only looked for a second, less than, feeling almost afraid to look at someone so proper as the man. Jackson hid his face behind his curtains of hair, worrying his piercing and contemplating the man’s existence. Jackson was convinced that if they ever met, they would hate each other. Jackson would call the man a square and the man would look down on him, disapproving of his life choices.

But somehow Jackson didn’t feel as convinced of this as he did of everything else.

XXXXX

Jackson dumped his duffel bag of clothes onto the floor, wrinkled T-shirts and jeans covering the rug. Hyeon laid on his bed, scrolling through her computer, having unpacked hours ago. She looked over to witness the mountain of laundry on Jackson’s floor.

"Jesus, Jackson! Did your parents forget to teach you how to fold?"

"F*** off," he replied, "How are you doing work anyway? The semester hasn’t started yet."

Hyeon rolled onto her side.

"I’m not doing work, I’m looking to see who’s in my class," she explained.

Although their university was far too big for them to know everyone, degree programs were concentrated, and you would know pretty much everyone in your program by senior year. Jackson scoffed, secretly interested.

"Stalker."

"Don’t tell me you’re not the least bit interested!" Hyeon retorted, "Like I think it’s better for both of us if you know that weird girl from Shakespeare is in our Chaucer class."

"The one with the blonde hair?" Jackson asked, she’d kept flirting with him during that class and it had made him incredibly uncomfortable.

"No, the Asian girl."

"Isn’t that you?" Jackson quipped, knowing the exact girl Hyeon was talking about.

Hyeon gave him the finger.

"Fine, sorry for trying to warn you!" She replied, "I guess that means you don’t want to know the rosters of your classes next semester."

"Now, let’s not be crazy!" Jackson replied, thoroughly distracted from his assigned task of the clothing on his floor, "I’m a little interested."

Jackson opened his class website for English 371, Queer Literature and New York City, and navigated to the participants tab. The names and faces appeared familiar, occasionally an enterprising new junior or sophomore would appear, or a stranger in his year, but nothing particularly out of the ordinary.

And then, he saw him.

He was almost unrecognizable at first, sporting shoulder-length black hair instead of his memorable buzz cut, but even through a wall of glasses, hair, and pixels, his eyes still bored into Jackson’s soul.

"F*** me," Jackson muttered, low enough that he thought Hyeon wouldn’t hear. He was unfortunately incorrect.

"What was that?" Hyeon asked incredulously.

"Oh, uh, there’s this guy in my queer lit class…" Jackson trailed off.

"Okay, spill? What’s the drama?"

"No drama," Jackson clarified, "He, uh, he just gives me bad vibes."

"I get what you mean. Like a gut reaction?" Hyeon asked.

"Yeah, like that," Jackson conceded, feeling as if his gut reaction and Hyeon’s were somehow different.

"What’s his name?" Hyeon asked.

"Uh…" Jackson looked at the roster once again and picked the man out, "Oliver."

"Oliver? Like Oliver Gardener?"

Jackson looked back at the roster to check Hyeon’s guess.

"Yeah, yeah!" Jackson affirmed, "See? Right here." Jackson pointed out his photo to Hyeon.

"I know what he looks like, Jackson," Hyeon said, "Ollie and I have been in a couple classes together. Although, he does look super different with long hair!"

"You’ve been in a class with him?"

"More than one, he’s in the honors college with me."

Ah yes, the honors college. A prize bestowed on applicants before their first year even began for particularly good grades. Before meeting Hyeon, Jackson had thought of them as a bunch of stuck-up nerds who saw themselves as better than the rest of the general population. Even though almost all their classes were with the regular college, each semester the honors students had a special class and went home to their special dorms to… be special with one another. Alright, so maybe Jackson didn’t know exactly what they did, but what he did know? Was that it was f***ing weird.

Even though Hyeon had challenged Jackson’s theory that all honors students were stuck-up brats, she had not disrupted the fundamental principle. Jackson was convinced that if a regular honors student were to meet him, they would hate him, and he would hate them right back.

"Oh, The Honors College," Jackson mocked in a posh British accent, "Why didn’t I realize? Obviously, he’s perfect."

Hyeon rolled her eyes.

"That’s not what I said," Hyeon retorted, "I’ve had good interactions with him, but he’s basically a stranger. If you think he’s weird, trust your gut."

"I-- I don’t know what I think," Jackson admitted, "Just… weird vibes."

"Are you sure you’re not just scared he’s gonna shave your head?" Hyeon teased.

All Jackson could do was hold his middle finger up in response.

XXXXX

Jackson was trembling in anticipation of the first day of class. For most people, this was a common occurrence, but for Jackson it was rarer than a four-leaf clover. Jackson didn’t get scared for the first day of class, he didn’t give a flying f*** what his professors thought! They got annoyed with him every semester sooner or later and he knew this one would be no different.

Some little voice in the back of his head, however, whispered it wasn’t the professor he feared.

Queer lit was his last class on Mondays and Wednesdays, running from 2:30 until 4:00. This gave Jackson the amazing gift of worrying about the damn class all day long.

It was probably going to be fine! It was… probably going to be fine.

Knowing honors college kids, they stuck together, Oliver would have some stuck-up friend to sit next to and Jackson would sit nowhere near them.

Jackson still couldn’t stop himself from showing up early though, a shock to his fellow classmates as much as it was to him.

He surveyed the somewhat empty room; each table in the classroom sat two people, separated into columns and rows with aisles to walk up and down and find a seat. Jackson took a seat in a desk on the far left, second row from the front, and waited, head whipping around each time a new student walked in through the back of the classroom.

A few minutes before class was set to begin, he arrived. He wore a gray turtleneck and brown corduroy pants with the fanciest, most stuck-up tweed jacket on top. He was wearing a winter hat, but when he removed it, his buzz cut somehow seemed shorter than before, defying possibility. Most of the seats had already been filled, but the one next to Jackson remained empty. Jackson silently prayed, in a habit he’d not lost from his believing days, for Oliver to choose any other seat. But as most caught up on their winter breaks with their desk mates, a deep, husky voice cut through the background noise.

"Mind if I sit?"

Jackson had to take a moment simply to process what the hell had just happened. He had been praying that Oliver would sit anywhere else in the room, but in his distraction, the man in question had moved from his perch at the back of the room to directly in front of Jackson’s face. Great.

Oliver noticed Jackson’s silence.

"It’s okay if you’re saving it for someone, I can find another seat…"

Goddammit how was his voice so rich and deep? He made Jackson feel like a prepubescent teen again. Jackson processed Oliver’s statement, seeing a way out of sitting next to the man, but if he did turn Oliver away and no one came to fill the seat, that might be even more mortifying. Jackson shook his head no.

"You’re good. Feel free to sit." By far the most curt words to ever escape his lips.

"Thanks," Oliver responded, with easygoing confidence Jackson really wanted to smack off his face.

Oliver sat down and Jackson turned back to the nonexistent work in front of him.

Silence.

"I’m Oliver, but everyone just calls me Ollie."

"Jackson."

At that moment, Jackson decided he wouldn’t look. He just wouldn’t look. Because if he didn't look then the man sitting next to him didn’t exist and if the man sitting next to him didn’t exist then maybe Jackson wouldn’t feel so much like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

Oliver cleared his throat awkwardly.

"You alright, Jackson?"

Jackson wanted to stuff his name right back into Oliver's mouth.

"Fine, thanks."

He would not look.

"Just asking because you seem a little pale," Oliver explained, "I have a granola bar and some Ibuprofen in my bag, do you need anything…"

It was a question, but it trailed off in a note of concern and confusion.

Maybe Jackson was being a little unfair… the thought crossed his mind in a moment of doubt so rare that Jackson was surprised at his own brain. His other half immediately revolted. He was not being unfair because this man, Oliver, had made him feel a level of discomfort he had never experienced before and anyone that made him feel like that could not be normal.

He could ease up though. Just a bit. He could make an attempt to let Oliver know that he didn’t just act like a complete and total asshole to everyone he met. He could…

"Really I'm fine, thanks."

"No problem," Oliver drew the words out in a tone that fell halfway between desperation and frustration.

The professor, blessed be, saved Jackson from any more horrible conversion by walking up to the blackboard and writing "Queer" on it. Oliver pulled the first book on the syllabus from his bag, the book Jackson knew they weren’t expected to start reading until Wednesday. What a f***ing suck-up.

Oliver seemingly couldn’t help himself from raising his hand in response to every single question the professor asked. His answers, even Jackson had to admit, were okay. Alright, maybe they were more than okay, maybe they were so interesting and intelligent that it got on Jackson’s nerves, but he’d already made his mind up about this pretentious douche, and he was not going to f***ing change it after a couple of smart-sounding comments.

As the students were dismissed, Oliver looked up at Jackson shoving papers into his backpack.

"It was nice to meet you, Jackson," he said.

Jackson did not respond, however, instead shoving earbuds in his ears and looking up with the tightest-lipped, smile-non-smile he could muster. Nice to meet you, his ass. Jackson knew after that performance, there was no way Oliver was sitting next to him ever again.

And yet.

Wednesday came, and, with it, another class period sitting next to Oliver, who was clearly not taking his rejection lying down. By Monday, Jackson supposed there was no fighting his f***ing fate. Oliver was in it for the long haul, no matter how stubbornly Jackson was not.

By the very same Monday Jackson accepted his punishment for the semester, they were expected to have read the first novel they planned to discuss, The Price of Salt by Patricia Highsmith. Jackson, shockingly, had actually taken his time to sit down and do the reading. Even Jackson himself could not entirely explain why he had done so, perhaps his conviction to prove Oliver wrong got the better of him, perhaps his conviction that all schoolwork was useless was fading, perhaps he was going crazy, because that’s certainly how it felt sitting next to Oliver twice a week. But on the second Monday, there Jackson was. Having done the reading.

Correction: Having f***ing hated the reading.

As class began that Monday afternoon, the professor prompted each student to turn to their neighbors and discuss. Their neighbors. Oliver.

Jackson turned to face him, finally being forced for the first time to look at the man, rather than just pretending he did not exist.

"So," Oliver prompted, somehow seeming legitimately excited, "What did you think?"

"To be honest," Jackson started, "I thought it was f***ed up."

Oliver’s face fell from excitement to confusion.

"Really? I loved it."

Oh. He loved it. Well, wasn’t that just great? Jackson did little to control the look of annoyance that flashed across his face.

"I just think," he paused, biting down on his lip ring. He felt pinned under Oliver’s inquisitive gaze, "I mean, both Carol and Therese have to know their relationship isn’t going to go well. They’re lesbians in the 1950s."

"Mhm?" Oliver prompted.

Mhm? That’s all he had to say for himself? Jackson didn’t know how a guy in the honor’s college could be so damn dense.

"Well why go through with it then? When you both know all that’s going to come of it is pain? Why can’t they just go on with their lives pretending and daydreaming?" Jackson finally explained.

Oliver stiffened.

"Because what’s life if they’re not true to themselves?" He retorted, "Do you just expect them to live with that longing forever?"

"It can’t be worse than the pain that comes from their decisions. Carol loses her child, for God’s sake!"

Oliver was speechless for a moment as he processed what Jackson had just said.

"The fact that you don’t understand that living a lie is worse is shocking to me, Jackson."

Jackson moved to ask him what the f*** he meant by that, but before he could, the professor transitioned to class discussion.

Jackson hated the prick. The way he acted so self-righteous, the way he talked, the way he walked into the classroom just a week ago, Jackson hated all of it. As they progressed through class, Oliver wouldn’t shut up. Again. Raising his hand to talk about "the inherent tragedy of living inauthentically," whatever the hell that meant. Jackson couldn’t understand how Oliver somehow woke up one day, the most confident, pretentious asshole on earth, but Jackson wanted him to go the f*** back to bed.

At dinner, Jackson could not seem to let his rage go. Despite every effort he had made to be chill, this Oliver had somehow weaseled his way under his skin.

As Jackson ranted, Hyeon supplemented her listening face with appropriately timed oohs and aahs.

"The fact I don’t understand that living a lie is worse is shocking to him?" Jackson quoted in disbelief, "What does that even mean?"

At that moment, a fully concentrated Hyeon began to laugh. Jackson’s face somehow fell even further.

"What’s so funny?"

Hyeon sighed.

"I think it means he thinks you’re gay, Jackson."

Jackson could not muster a response louder than a whisper.

"Oh."

"Are you going to tell him he’s wrong?" Hyeon prompted.

"Well, yeah," Jackson hesitated, "But are you sure that’s what he means? I don’t actually look gay, it’s just frat boys who think that painted nails equal homosexual, not real-life gay people."

"Well," Hyeon muttered, a look of skepticism flashing across her face.

"Oh, don’t f***ing tell me--"

"All I’m saying is the painted nails, plus the rings, plus the long hair aren’t making you look any straighter… even to people with gaydar," Hyeon explained, "Is that a bad thing?"

"No!" Jackson quickly exclaimed, he wasn’t homophobic, he wasn’t. Just something about being seen as gay pulled at the back of his mind in a way he didn’t like, "I just… don’t want to give the wrong impression."

"Well, I think you’ve already crossed that bridge, buddy."

As Jackson walked back to his dorm, he mulled over Hyeon’s guess. Oliver couldn’t really think he was gay, could he? Jackson considered simply asking the man, but that felt like a fate worse than death itself, and he quickly decided against it. He knew he wasn’t gay, so Oliver would just figure that out soon enough, too.

XXXXX

And then, it was Monday again. Wednesday had come and gone without much incident, besides the incident, of course, of Oliver looking incredibly punchable. But now it was week three, Monday, and Jackson would pay money to be anywhere else.

When Jackson walked into his classroom, he noticed PRESENTATION written on the chalkboard and knew what was coming. On the first day of class, he had seen the presentation on his syllabus, but his strategy with these kinds of things was to ignore them until absolutely necessary. It seemed that this mysterious presentation had now become unignorable. As he sat down next to Oliver, who was, of course, there before him, he didn’t even bother to say hello. He simply pressed his earbuds as far into his ears as they would go, trying to focus on The Velvet Underground instead of his frustratingly punctual tablemate.

Their professor walked in front of their class soon after, and Jackson finally caved, pulling his earbuds out just in time to hear the instructions.

"Each of you will do a presentation on a book we read this semester, including notable critical perspectives on the work," The professor explained, "In order to avoid chaos, the presentations will be assigned randomly, and each of you will work with your tablemate."

Wait, what? Did Jackson hear that right?

As the rest of the class mumbled about randomly assigned presentations, Jackson could only concentrate on the latter-half of the professor’s statement. A group project. With just him and Oliver. Wasn’t that just great?

Oliver had clearly made it to the same conclusion as Jackson, turning towards him.

"Looks like we’ll be working together," he said.

There was a small smile tugging at Oliver’s lips, but Jackson, as hard as he tried, could not find the emotion causing it. Was he laughing at the hopelessness of his situation or was he legitimately just that excited to do a presentation? Jackson couldn’t decide which was worse.

"Yep," Jackson could only sigh in response, "Looks like it."

"Do you want to exchange numbers?" Oliver asked.

No. In no world did Jackson ever want to exchange numbers with this man.

"Email is fine."

An expression flashed across Oliver’s face for just a moment. Was that hurt? Disappointment?

Maybe he was being too harsh.

The thought flashed across his mind before Jackson could stop it. The second moment of doubt was so shocking after the first moment, only a few weeks earlier, that Jackson legitimately questioned if he was going insane. He was not, Jackson decided after his momentary hesitation, being too harsh. Oliver was probably just annoyed about the fact that he had to work with someone as stupid as Jackson was in his eyes.

Jackson pulled his focus away from his moment of doubt to focus on the board in front of him. His professor had pulled up a website on the projector with a spinner wheel, each segment labeled with a different pair.

"We’ll spin first for The Price of Salt," his professor explained, "Whichever group is chosen will present next week."

His professor clicked. The wheel spun.

F***.

"Alright Oliver and Jackson, you all will complete the presentation on The Price of Salt. Be prepared to lead the class next Wednesday."

And with that, his fate was sealed. Jackson’s life was coming to an end.

As the professor spun his wheel of torture over and over, Oliver turned to Jackson, no longer interested in the order of presentations.

"When do you want to meet to discuss our project?" He asked, "I’d prefer sooner, if possible."

"Uh, whenever," Jackson replied.

Oliver pulled out a brown leather planner.

A f***ing paper calendar. Just when Jackson thought the man couldn’t get any more pretentious.

Oliver flipped through the book, pulling a fountain pen from his bag.

"My schedule is a little full, but I can work around you. What times work best?"

"Literally whenever."

Oliver paused, looking up from his calendar in confusion.

"You mean to tell me you never do things?"

"Yep," Jackson replied, unwilling to be shamed by the incredulous man before him, "Never."

Oliver ran a hand along the nape of his neck, pushing against the rough bristles of his buzz cut.

"Okay," Oliver acquiesced, after processing, "How does tomorrow evening around five sound?"

Jackson refused to check his phone, or any other calendar for that matter, making a show of it now.

"Works for me."

"Great."

Oliver uncapped his fountain pen and scrawled a note in his calendar. Jackson, unable to see what he was writing, wondered for a moment what his handwriting was like, before dismissing the thought out of hand. Probably as annoyingly perfect as the rest of him.

"See you tomorrow then," Oliver finally said, capping his pen, "I like meeting on the bottom floor of Howe Library to discuss group projects, if that’s okay with you?"

"Fine," Jackson replied, wanting any unnecessary conversation with Oliver to end as soon as humanly possible.

The rest of class came and went. Jackson could not stop looking directly to his right, lip ring between his teeth, observing the perfect torture device from God himself; the torture device that was expecting to see him again at five tomorrow.

Jackson debated not showing up at all, but he was not that much of an asshole, not even when it came to Oliver. Jackson figured the best course of action was fashionable lateness, just enough to show Oliver how little he cared for the man and what he stood for.

And fashionable lateness it was. Yet when Jackson arrived at 5:23, expecting to see a scowling face or even an empty chair, what he found instead was Oliver, hard at work, the sleeves of his cream-colored button up rolled to his elbows. Jackson was helpless to stop his shock from showing on his face.

"I- uh- I wasn’t sure if you were going to still be here," was all Jackson could spit out as he sat down, pulling out his earbuds and the sounds of the Violent Femmes.

Oliver looked at him in confusion for a moment, before checking his wristwatch.

"Would you look at that," he said, with a slight smile, "I’ve been here for hours. I honestly didn’t notice until you said something."

Jackson couldn’t tell if Oliver was lying, but if he was, he was pretty damn good at it. The man legitimately seemed unfazed by Jackson’s tardiness. Jackson could only acquiesce to his fate, he was going to do a presentation with Oliver and, if Oliver had anything to say about it, it was going to be good.

"So," Oliver began, the bass notes of his voice sending unexplainable shivers down Jackson’s spine, "I know you and I aren’t exactly in agreement on the novel."

F***ing understatement, Jackson could only snicker to himself. Yet Oliver continued.

"But I think that might be an interesting angle," he explained, "Each of us come at it with our own perspectives and then turn to some critical theory for a third opinion. What do you think?"

Jackson, for once, had lost the ability to be snarky about the man before him. Oliver thought Jackson’s opinion deserved to be placed on the same level as a critical theorist. Oliver thought Jackson’s opinion deserved to be placed on the same level as…his own. Jackson finally opened his mouth, willing words to break their way through the surprise that he was embarrassingly sure was written across his face.

"I kind of assumed you’d just want to present your perspective," he finally managed to mumble.

He was met with a look of shock from the other man and… was that amusement?

"Well, that wouldn’t be much of a group project now, would it?" Oliver replied.

Well, yes. About that Jackson supposed Oliver was right.

"Fair enough," Jackson muttered, "Just don’t give me any important slides."

"Why?" Oliver asked, the lenses of his glasses only slightly softening the inquisitive gaze he directed towards Jackson.

"I don’t think our standards of work are… equivalent," Jackson challenged icily.

"You know I think you’re intelligent, right Jackson?" Oliver challenged right back.

Oh, now that had to be a lie. Jackson could not believe it, this man, who had done nothing but disagree and look confused at everything that came out of Jackson’s mouth, could not think he was intelligent.

"You don’t need to lie to me," Jackson declared, "I know what you think about me, you know what I think about you, let’s just get this over with and leave it at that."

"I’m not lying," Oliver replied, now he certainly looked hurt, of that Jackson was sure, "I wouldn’t engage with your opinions if I didn’t think they were smart. I don’t really know why you think I hate you, but I would like to disavow you of that notion."

Was there a little vulnerability in that tone?

Okay, maybe, maybe, Jackson had been a little off in his assessment of the man.

"I’m confused," Jackson started, in the least hostile tone he’d ever taken with the man, "When we discussed The Price of Salt a week ago, you sounded like you were ready to kill me. When did you decide I’m smart?"

Oliver smiled to himself for a moment.

"I was surprised at your opinions on The Price of Salt, I won’t lie there," Oliver conceded, "And I think it came off a little wrong, and for that I’m sorry."

Did Oliver just… apologize? Now Jackson was one hundred percent sure he was going crazy. Yet the man was still talking.

"But honestly, I find everything you have to say to be incredibly intellectually stimulating. In class we’re too often surrounded by people saying the same thing, but you, Jackson, have something interesting to say."

"I-," Jackson was at a loss for words, "Thanks?"

Oliver chuckled.

"Of course, I thought it was obvious."

His hand came up to rub the nape of his neck, in a motion Jackson was starting to recognize as a tic. The thought of Oliver being human enough to have a nervous tic amused Jackson, he only wished it didn’t draw his attention so explicitly to the sinfully short bristles along Oliver’s scalp, that haircut still throwing Jackson off balance. Oliver cleared his throat, slightly awkwardly.

"How do you want to divide up the slides?"

Right, Jackson remembered, they were here to discuss a group project.

"I don’t really give a f***, so just let me know what you want me to do," He replied.

"Hmm," Oliver hummed, deep in thought. Jackson still couldn’t get over how inferior those husky tones that came from Oliver made him feel, "I think it’s only obvious that the slides on our personal perspectives are our own, and then we each choose a critical theory article to review? I’d say that’s fairly even."

Jackson shrugged.

"What article do you want me to review?" He asked, waiting for instruction.

"Well, I don’t know," Oliver replied, "Which article out of our readings was most interesting to you? I’d really like to focus on the Hesford article myself, if you don’t mind."

Wow. Oliver really had enough faith in Jackson to assume he’d done the readings. Wasn’t that something. Jackson almost didn’t want to break his heart.

"Oliver, you should know, I have not looked at the articles we were supposed to read."

For some reason, Jackson expected the disapproving look of a parent, yet instead Oliver just laughed.

"Don’t worry, I skimmed the Trask article, at best," he responded, "And you can call me Ollie, you know, I wouldn’t have told you that name if I didn’t want you to use it."

"Right, Ollie," Jackson tested the name and found it felt easier on his tongue than Oliver, less… fancy, "I can do the Trask article, I like the author’s name."

Ollie snorted.

"Well then," he said, "I don’t think we have anything else to discuss, so I’m going to get to work. You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like."

Jackson almost felt the ‘no’ leave his lips, a knee-jerk response, but he stopped himself. If he left now, he would go get dinner (on his own tonight, Hyeon was busy), go back to his dorm, drink until he felt sleepy and then go to bed. This existence suddenly felt less-then compared to Ollie’s life of, as he put it, intellectual stimulation.

Plus, if he left now, those slides would never get done. Jackson was sure of this fact, and with the trust Ollie had willingly placed in him, Jackson suddenly felt a push not to break it.

"Sure, I’ll join."

Even Ollie looked surprised when the words left Jackson’s mouth, but he had invited Jackson to join, after all.

Jackson finally pulled his laptop from his bag (up until that point, the tabletop in front of him had remained decidedly empty), opened the slideshow Ollie had shared with him, and began to work. The two sat in concentration, occasionally asking each other for advice, or a page number on a quotation, and for the first time, Jackson felt he could coexist with the man without wanting to commit a heinous act of murder.

At some point, Jackson’s stomach growled, redirecting him out of the focused state he had been locked into. He checked the time and… was it 7:30 already? He had been more focused than he originally thought. As if reading Jackson’s mind, Ollie leaned away from his computer, stretching over the back of his chair.

"I think I’m going to call it for the night," he announced, "I’ve officially lost the ability to keep my brain turned on, and Hesford’s words are turning to mush."

"Fair enough," Jackson replied, still reeling from the revelation that he’d done schoolwork, with relative interest, for the last two hours.

"Look," Ollie paused, unsure of how to word what he wanted to say next, "I’m headed back to my house, my lovely roommate has made me dinner. I don’t know if you’ve eaten, but if you’d like, you’re welcome to join me."

Jackson was welcome to join him? Just three hours ago he had hated the man seated across from him and yet… was he actually considering this?

"Are you sure your roommate won’t mind?" Jackson asked, mostly in service of giving himself more time to think.

"Oh, I’m perfectly sure," Ollie reassured, "She always makes way too much food for the three of us, and she loves to share."

Oh. Three of us. More roommates. More honors college. Jackson balked at the idea, and it must have shown on his face.

"No pressure," Ollie said as he began to pack up his things, "But I promise my roommates won’t hate you any more than I do."

Maybe it was spite. Maybe it was embarrassment at Ollie’s comment. Maybe it was some new, third emotion that Jackson had not discovered until just now. But he was f***ing going to Ollie’s house, and he was going to be happy about it.

"Sure, I’ll come with," Jackson finally replied, "Anything is better than dining hall food."

Ollie laughed, and the pair exited the library together.

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