Immovable Object, Unstoppable Force (2) by Jamiesstories2

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A/N: Thank you for all the kind words on the last chapter. I am honored and honestly a little shocked at the praise you all so graciously gave me. I do sincerely hope you continue to enjoy the ride.

This is a continuation of Immovable Object, Unstoppable Force, please read the previous parts before reading.

Immovable Object, Unstoppable Force: Chapter 2

The two walked along brick pathways, in the opposite direction of Jackson’s dorm. Jackson noted they were headed to the side of campus he rarely frequented, home to the honors college dormitories.

"Sorry, I’m on the edge of campus," Ollie explained as the pair walked.

"Don’t worry about it," Jackson said, caught up in observing a part of campus he only saw when visiting Hyeon.

As the pair passed the last of the dormitories Jackson was familiar with, University Heights, Jackson allowed himself to glance briefly at Ollie. Along with the cream-colored button down he’d noticed earlier, Jackson took note of brown slacks, and the same wool coat Jackson had seen him wear a couple months earlier, black with specks of gray from the natural fibers of the fabric. Jackson suddenly felt a question fill his throat and before he could stop himself, it had already left his mouth.

"Why do you dress like that?"

Ollie snorted, and Jackson watched the vapor of his breath fill the cold February air.

"Like what?" He asked.

"Like… I don’t know, like that," Jackson could only say in frustration, legitimately unaware of how to articulate his point, "Like you’re going to a f***ing job interview."

"Hmm," Ollie hummed through light chuckles, "Have you ever considered I dress like this because I like the way it looks?"

In that moment, Jackson realized he had not, in fact, considered that very obvious possibility. He also realized there was no point in lying.

"Honestly, I hadn’t."

At this, both men could only laugh together.

"I mean, I could ask you the same question," Ollie countered, "Why do you dress like that?"

Jackson looked down at himself, ripped black jeans about two sizes too big, a faded Ramones T-Shirt, layered with a zip-up hoodie and a denim jacket in a poor attempt to keep out the Vermont cold. His hair fell in front of his face as he looked down and he made no effort to push it away, using it as a wall against Ollie’s gaze. He toyed with his lip piercing.

"I don’t know," He admitted, "I guess because I like the way it looks."

Ollie chuckled.

"See? It’s as easy as that."

"And it usually helps ward off people who look like you," Jackson joked, finally looking back up at Ollie.

"Guess it’s not one-hundred percent effective," Ollie replied, with a shrug and smile.

Jackson, despite himself, couldn’t stop from smiling either.

They soon came to a tree-lined pathway with a collection of brick and wood paneled townhouses. Ollie brought them to a house at the end of the row, and unlocked the door, inviting Jackson into a living room.

"We’re a shoes-off household," Ollie instructed as he pulled off his own brown leather snow boots, "Feel free to use that rack."

As Ollie placed his shoes on a metal rack next to the door, Jackson unlaced his beat-up black Doc Martens and put them on the rack, too. It was at that moment that Jackson noticed Ollie’s socks, which were baby blue with cartoon frogs, he couldn’t help but chuckle. Ollie turned and followed the trajectory of Jackson’s eyes.

"See? I’m fun!" Ollie joked.

"If this is your idea of fun, I need to introduce you to the magic of alcohol," Jackson replied.

"I’m quite enamored with that kind of fun, too, thank you very much," Ollie replied in a playfully scolding tone that had Jackson biting down hard on his piercing.

Ollie’s eyebrows furrowed in concern.

"Isn’t that supposed to be bad for the piercing?" He asked and Jackson turned bright red.

Jackson felt a bit of the old fire within him reignite. How dare Ollie make him feel so…small? And how would he even know what was good or bad for a lip piercing? He was obviously not the kind of person to participate in the ‘degenerate act’ of body modification.

"How would you know?" Jackson snapped back.

Ollie raised his hands in the air.

"Woah, hey, I just don’t want it to get infected," He replied, defensive, but also attempting to calm Jackson down, "I have some experience with piercings myself."

He did not elaborate but rubbed a spot on his right eyebrow. When he took his hand away, Jackson noticed the small spot of discoloration above and below. A scar. Ollie had pierced his eyebrow? Then there was more, as Jackson looked closer and finally noticed the silver ring glinting in the cartilage of Ollie’s right ear.

Jackson wanted to fold in on himself and die right there. Had he not f***ed up enough times to realize his assumptions about Ollie were usually wrong?

"I, uh, sorry," Jackson finally managed to mumble at a volume so low he was shocked Ollie understood it, "You didn’t seem like the piercing type."

"No problem," Ollie said, waving his hand in a gesture of forgiveness, "Sorry if I made you uncomfortable by saying something. I have my own collection of tics."

Right on cue, Ollie’s hand shot up to worry the hair at the nape of his neck. Jackson could not resist the urge to tease and gave the man an incredulous look right back. Ollie could only chuckle and look away, walking further into the house and ushering Jackson to follow him.

"Started after I buzzed my head," He said by way of explanation, "Not that you’d get it, but it feels good."

Then Jackson really wanted to fold in on himself, turning bright red at Ollie’s direct acknowledgement of the differences between their chosen hairstyles. He could only take a lock of blonde hair and twirl it around his finger, as he padded along behind the man. Ollie seemed not to notice Jackson’s embarrassment, or if he did, he said nothing of it, instead leading him into a small kitchen, walled off from the rest of the home, with the exception of the large doorway.

There was a pot on the stove and Jackson suddenly realized how good it smelled.

"What did your roommate make?" Jackson asked.

"Butter chicken," Ollie replied, pulling two bowls from the cabinet, "Doesn’t it smell amazing?"

"God, yes," Jackson could only muster, feeling his mouth begin to salivate.

Soon Ollie handed him a bowl full of curry and rice, and Jackson was so entranced by the sight, he didn’t hear a third set of footsteps entering the kitchen. His trance was broken, however, by the sound of Ollie’s voice.

"Hey, Amira."

Jackson looked up to see a short girl with deep ebony skin and black hair tied back in intricate box braids. It took him a second to place her face, but suddenly her name, Amira, brought her into focus. He hadn’t just seen this girl once; he’d seen her everywhere. Student Government, Association of Black Collegiates, International Student Association, Orientation Leader, it was harder to name a poster Jackson hadn’t seen her face on.

Every sense of inferiority that he had slowly tamped down with Ollie came flooding back, twofold. He decided to enjoy the last minute he had in this house until this girl called him stupid, laughed in his face, and kicked him out.

"Hey, Ollie," She instead replied, voice tinted with a slight accent Jackson could not place, "Who’s this?"

Ollie commenced introductions

"Amira, this is my friend Jackson. Jackson, this is my roommate Amira."

"Nice to meet you," Amira smiled.

"You as well," Jackson muttered, counting down the seconds until the other shoe dropped.

Amira moved around Ollie, who was holding his own bowl of curry and got a dish from the cabinet.

"Mind if I join you two for dinner? Whatever Taylor made smells divine."

Taylor… Jackson couldn’t help but think to himself. Why did that name sound so damn familiar?

"I don’t mind if you don’t," Ollie said, pulling Jackson from his stray thought and turning to him for his feelings on the matter of dinner.

Jackson knew full-well he could not tell this girl she could not eat in her own house, no matter how much he wanted to. He instead mustered a smile that he knew was, in reality, little more than a grimace, and nodded.

"Feel free."

The three sat down for dinner in a small dining room behind the kitchen, but whatever hunger Jackson had felt slunk away, and he resorted to playing with his food as the other two dug in.

"So," Amira broke through the silence of people eating, "Where did you two meet?"

"In my Queer Lit class," Ollie said, and Jackson nodded to reinforce the statement.

"Ooh, Queer Lit!" Amira replied, "Jackson, tell me, does Ollie say the words, ‘absolutely incredible,’ in class as much as he does when he’s doing his readings? Because if so, I’m sorry it’s insanely annoying."

Ollie chuckled.

"F*** off, Amira."

Did Ollie just… curse? Jackson felt his mind explode at the idea that the word f*** could leave Ollie’s mouth and couldn’t help but laugh out loud. Suddenly Ollie’s eyes moved from Amira to him, and Jackson wanted to shove his laugh right back down his throat.

"Jackson, speaking of our gay little class," Ollie began, and Jackson could already feel a blush creeping up his cheeks, "Humor me. Who was your root?"

The blush stopped, replaced by confusion.

"My what?"

Both Ollie and Amira seemed surprised at Jackson’s bewilderment.

"You know, your root?" Amira backed up, as if repeating the question would make it any clearer.

"What the f*** is a ‘root?’" Jackson asked, uncaring if the question made him look stupid.

"Sorry, I should’ve explained," Ollie replied, sensing a hint of frustration in Jackson’s tone, "Your ‘root’ is the person who made you realize you were gay."

Oh, well now Jackson was f***ed. Hyeon was right, and he was absolutely f***ed.

"I’m…" Jackson willed himself to just spit the damn sentence out, "I’m not gay."

The end was barely a whisper, yet Jackson could see both Ollie and Amira had heard it, as their faces changed.

"Not even…a little?" Amira asked, incredulous.

Jackson looked down at his bowl, his hair sealing him away in his own private room.

"Nope."

"That’s fine, Jackson," Ollie reassured, "You don’t have to be gay; we’re just surprised because you’re…"

Ollie was clearly trying to find a non-frightening way to say his next few words, but Amira beat him to the punch.

"You’re an incredibly f***able twink," she explained, bluntly.

God was laughing at him, Jackson decided. He’d been served his divine punishment for giving up on piety, and now God was laughing right in his bright red, hidden-by-his-hair face.

"I don’t know what to say…" Jackson muttered.

"You don’t have to say anything," Ollie reassured, "I think Amira is just impressed, as am I, that a straight, cis guy like you chose to take a Queer Lit course."

This did not make Jackson’s present embarrassment any better.

"Who was your root, Ollie?" Amira asked, clearly catching on to the fact that Jackson needed a moment to compose himself.

Ollie laughed.

"Amira, you know who my root was," he admonished, "It’s not like I was head-over-heels for him for years, or anything."

This sparked curiosity in Jackson, along with a need to stop embarrassing himself by hiding in his hair and a bowl of curry. He swallowed whatever shame was left in him, putting on an affect of complete chill.

"I don’t know who it was, Ollie," He declared.

Ollie chuckled and looked away for a moment, hand returning to its home at his nape.

"My root was a year older than us; his name is Jayden."

Jackson wracked his brain but couldn’t put a face to the name.

"Now, Ollie, don’t be such a tease," Amira admonished, "No one called him Jayden, we called him Jay. Jay Sheppard."

As if Amira’s words flipped a switch in Jackson’s mind, as he suddenly realized who, exactly Jay Sheppard was. Even in a school of so many, Jay was…memorable. A fellow English major who was too smart for his own good. He’d show up to class smelling of vodka, circles under his eyes from late nights, yet he’d say things so intelligent it was as if someone was whispering them in his ear. Despite what many called alcoholism and what Jackson would call "having fun," he graduated on time, with a maxima cum laude and an offer from Harvard for graduate school.

Images of him filled Jackson’s head, warm olive skin, bright brown eyes, hair he kept in a bleached buzz cut, and…snake bites with silver circular barbells. Something about the implications of that realization were too much for Jackson to acknowledge, so he pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind.

"Really? Jay?" Jackson asked, incredulously.

Ollie turned away from his tablemates, yet Jackson could see a blush creeping up his neck.

"Really, Jay," he replied, the words sounding as much like a cough as they did an English phrase.

"Let’s not," Amira said, in an attempt to redirect the conversation. While Ollie was still faced away from the group Amira pointed at him and made a heart with her hands, before breaking it in half. The message was silent, but clear: Ollie had gotten his heart broken.

The three finished eating dinner, yet Jackson’s bowl, and Ollie’s after the Jay conversation, remained half-full.

"I don’t want to keep you if you have things to do," Ollie started, having long regained his composure, "But if you’d like to come see my room, you’re more than welcome."

Jackson paused. For the third time that day, Ollie was giving him an out. And for the third time that day, for reasons beyond even Jackson’s comprehension, he did not want to take it.

"Sure, let’s see it."

Ollie’s room was both exactly what Jackson expected, and incredibly, incredibly different.

As the two walked in, Jackson reached for the light switch to help brighten the dark room, but Ollie warned against it.

"Unless you want to burn your eyes on fluorescent lights, let me. I have lamps."

Jackson took his hand away from the switch and allowed Ollie to light the room himself, first turning on a floor lamp near a table that Jackson realized was his desk, then another, smaller lamp that stood on a dresser at the end of Ollie’s bed. The two lights combined gave the room a warm, golden glow that was much more pleasing than the fluorescent lights that were also in Jackson’s room.

Jackson took a moment to look around. The room was a long rectangle, with a bed against the right wall and a deck against the left. Everything was decorated to be comfortable. There was a cream-colored knit blanket strewn on the bed, a soft gray rug underfoot, and more pillows than one could possibly need in a lifetime.

The walls were full of polaroids, art prints, and vintage postcards, save for the right wall above Ollie’s bed, where six vinyl albums were given a place of honor: self-titled records from The Velvet Underground, Violent Femmes, and The Doors, Rumors by Fleetwood Mac, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust by David Bowie, and The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan. Jackson could not imagine a better collection if he tried and was entirely unable to muster the effort required to break the look of shock that he was sure was plain as day on his face.

Jackson had spent so long thinking of Ollie as an academic robot, who charged in an electric chamber in a room with plain white walls. This all seemed so shockingly…human. There was even some mess. Much less than Jackson’s room, but the couple of sweaters hanging off the back of Ollie’s desk chair, books tossed haphazardly on every available surface, and empty coffee mug on the dresser all told the story of a man who was perfectly imperfect.

Ollie allowed Jackson to process whatever revelation he was having on his own time, choosing to sit on the bed and watch the man take the room in.

"You’re welcome to come sit on the bed with me," Ollie invited, "Or sit in the desk chair, whatever you’d prefer."

Something about sitting on the bed felt wrong to Jackson, so he pulled himself out of his trance, and sat in the desk chair, turning it to face Ollie.

"You’re making a face like I just killed someone," Ollie prompted in amusement.

Jackson felt his cheeks begin to grow hot.

"It’s not that," He started, trying to figure out how to articulate exactly what he was feeling in that moment, "It’s just- I, uh, don’t know what I expected your room to look like, but this was not it."

Ollie chuckled.

"What? Is this not ‘academic’ enough for your tastes?" He teased.

"No!" Jackson exclaimed, suddenly more invested in building whatever fragile relationship was growing between them, "Your vinyls, especially, are surprising."

"Oh, god," Ollie replied, "I’m sure you’re judging me right now, I promise I’m not nearly as pretentious as those records make me seem. I do listen to music made after the turn of the century."

Jackson could only laugh.

"It’s not that, it’s just…" He trailed off for a moment, knowing that any acknowledgement of a similarity between the two of them could not be undone, "Our music tastes are more similar than I imagined they would be."

"Huh," Ollie exclaimed, showing a fraction of the surprise Jackson felt, "What’s the overlap?"

"Well, uh, The Velvet Underground, for one."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously!" Jackson exclaimed, "Their first album changed the trajectory of rock music for the rest of time. How could you not love it?"

"I know!"

Ollie lit up as he responded, those eyes that had done nothing but bore into Jackson’s soul suddenly lightened their gaze and Jackson couldn’t help but feel as overjoyed as they looked.

"I hope your appreciation of my collection doesn’t stop at The Velvet Underground…" Ollie prompted.

"Oh my God no!" Jackson replied, "The Violent Femmes? The Doors? There’s nothing on that wall I don’t like."

Ollie was so excited he had shifted to the very edge of the bed, leaning as close as he could to Jackson without practically falling off.

"You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that," He declared, pausing for a moment, seemingly deciding how to word his next move, "What about Ziggy Stardust?"

What about Ziggy Stardust? Jackson could not help but wonder. He liked the album as much as the rest up on the wall, but something about admitting that seemed as if it would have more meaning for Ollie than he wanted it to.

"I like it as much as everything else on your wall. It’s a work of art."

Ollie nodded, and the energy of the room decreased as both men were lost in their own contemplation for a moment.

"Well, if you’d like to look through the rest of my collection, it’s right next to you," Ollie finally said, and pointed to the right.

On the floor, next to Ollie’s desk, was a wooden fruit crate Jackson had somehow missed on his first survey of the room, stuffed full of records. Jackson, in his excitement, slid from the desk chair to the carpeted floor, picking up the crate and placing it beside him. Ollie also joined Jackson on the floor and the two sat cross legged, looking through records the same way the younger versions of themselves looked at Hot Wheels. Holding up sleeves for the other’s admiration, as Jackson stared at the collection with awe and Ollie basked in the praise.

Jackson barely noticed how close they sat until their knees brushed. It should’ve felt normal. This sort of thing had happened with his other friends all the time, he’d spent enough time lying on dorm room floors, packed like sardines, watching movies while being entirely too drunk to move, yet he suddenly felt like he should move away from Ollie’s knee, that it was somehow wrong that it had touched his own.

Jackson pulled his knees into him, from his cross-legged position, into a ball. Knowing how odd this looked, however, he moved again onto his knees, sitting on his heels. Ollie tried to pretend he didn’t notice, but it was frankly obvious that whatever comfort Ollie had worked to earn with his newfound friend had just disappeared into thin air. The two continued passing records back and forth, but Jackson could not will himself to sit still, and they both seemed to know their time together had come to an end.

"I, uh, I should probably get going," Jackson announced, gingerly placing the record he was holding, Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy, on the carpet and stood up. Ollie remained on the ground, starting to gather the records strewn across the carpet.

"Alright, well," Ollie looked up briefly from his task to address Jackson, "Text me when y-"

Ollie clamped his mouth shut, not finishing the sentence, and suddenly became much more interested in his remedial task.

Jackson was confused for a moment before he remembered. Right. He’d refused to give Ollie his phone number. Whatever strange combination of emotions he’d been forced to feel that night, Jackson could still admit that his refusal had been a bad decision. A bad decision that he now had the chance to rectify. He pulled out his phone.

"What’s your number, Ollie?"

"What?" Ollie pulled himself from his records, seemingly lost in thoughts of his own.

"What’s your number?" Jackson repeated, "So I can text you when I get home."

"Oh."

Ollie, blessedly, didn’t interrogate Jackson about his change of heart, and simply repeated his phone number back at him. He also rose from the carpet then, finished with his task, and smiled at Jackson.

"I’ll walk you out."

XXXXX

Jackson’s walk home from the South end of campus was long and the time it gave him to think was…uncomfortable. After visiting Hyeon, who lived nearby, so many times, Jackson was not unused to the journey, yet he was very much unused to the emotions flowing through him at a pace faster than even he could keep up with. He didn’t even know where to begin.

What had he learned? He had learned he was wrong about Ollie. He was wrong about Amira. He was, possibly, wrong about the entire honors college while he was at it. Jackson grunted to the cool night air, having no one to blame but himself for that mistake.

Ollie had thought he was gay. Ollie thought Jackson was smart. Ollie… liked Jackson? This was maybe the strangest revelation of them all. Only beat by the revelation that Jackson might like Ollie too. Jackson, however much he hated to admit it, wanted to spend more time with the man, wanted to go back to his house, and wanted to become a part of his life, freaky buzz cut and all.

He chuckled to himself. Is this what making friends was like? It felt different, somehow, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe he just didn’t like his other male friends as much as he thought he did. Jackson instinctively knew they would laugh at him for something like this. The whole ‘open and honest, heart on your sleeve’ thing wasn’t really their schtick, and he wondered if maybe Hyeon was more spot-on with the bigot accusations than he wanted to admit.

He arrived at his hall, greeted by blessed warmth, and the blank walls and fluorescent lights of his room that felt oh-so sad after his time in Ollie’s oasis of a bedroom. He remembered Ollie’s request, then. How could he forget?

J: It’s Jackson. I’m home.

O: Thanks for letting me know.

XXXXX

Jackson was awoken by his alarm much, much too early for his liking. The thinking had not stopped when Jackson got back to his apartment, nor had it stopped after copious amounts of alcohol, nor had it stopped when he tried to lie down and brute-force his way to sleep. It had not stopped, no matter how much he begged the universe to make it.

So here he was, with a class in twenty minutes, a hangover that was nastier than normal, and a mind running on about two hours of sleep. And it was Wednesday, meaning Queer Lit. Again. Jackson needed time to think, he begged God, whose spite he seemed to have incurred, for much, much more time to think. But any semblance of a blessing was not given, and if he hung around his dorm much longer, he would be egregiously late to class rather than his typical, casual lateness, so he got his ass up and got going.

The day seemed to go by in a blur, helped by the fact that Jackson was half asleep throughout his classes. However, the shadow of Queer Lit loomed high in his mind and Jackson found a problem to ruminate on in the mental darkness. How should he act? He was so used to being an absolute ass to Ollie, that he’d forgotten how to have a normal, human conversation with the man.

As he entered the classroom, however, it seemed he may not have to worry about that question, as Ollie was not there. For once, the perfect student was the unpunctual one of the pair. At the exact minute class was set to begin, he practically tripped over his own feet to enter the classroom on time.

Sliding into his usual seat he looked at Jackson and smiled.

"Nearly lost track of time," He whispered, his breath against Jackson’s ear making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Jackson looked over at him and smiled.

"You should stop hanging out with me, I’m clearly a bad influence."

Ollie smirked.

"No way."

Class continued in the same manner it usually did, and although Jackson’s deep sense of insecurity reared its head every time Ollie raised his hand (which was frustratingly often), Jackson, for the first time, made an effort to tamp it down and instead listen to what Ollie had to say, for the first time acknowledging it to be truly intelligent and worthy of the praise it received.

Jackson let his mind wander to a distinct curiosity about what the man could possibly see in him. Jackson was not a star student, he was average on a good day, and Ollie had probably only heard him speak a combined total of three times about anything academic, yet he was entirely convinced Jackson was intelligent, and why? Jackson resolved to ask him again when he got the chance, finding Ollie’s previous answer not nearly convincing enough.

As class ended, Jackson felt a pull to continue spending time with the man seated next to him, despite the fact that earlier today he was dreading the idea. Even he, himself, could not identify where said pull came from, but it was there nonetheless, and Jackson felt that he ought to do something about it.

Class had ended. They were packing their things.

Jackson could only look from his bag to the head of the man next to him, buried so deep in organizing his papers all Jackson could see were the agonizingly short bristles of that damn buzzcut. Bag. Ollie. Bag. Ollie. Bag. Eye contact.

F***.

"Are you alright?" Ollie asked.

"Yeah, I’m good," Jackson brushed the man off, trying not to die of embarrassment after being caught in the act of staring, "I was just wondering…what do you have planned for this afternoon?"

Ollie’s brows furrowed for the briefest of moments, but the expression immediately morphed from confusion to a grin.

"Nothing much," He replied, "I’m headed to the library now to get some work done, and then I’m headed to the general body meeting for the Queer Student Union."

"Would--" Jackson stopped himself for a moment--he felt so ridiculous asking for something like this-- "Would you mind if I joined you at the library? I don’t think I’ll get work done otherwise."

"Yeah, of course," Ollie responded, so casually that Jackson suddenly felt so embarrassed about making such a big deal out of the question, "I’m actually going to get started on Dancer from the Dance, so I’d love to have someone to trade ideas with."

"Oh f***," Jackson had totally forgotten about their next reading, "We’re supposed to finish that by Monday, aren’t we?"

Ollie laughed.

"I thought you were, ‘Free literally whenever,’" he mocked playfully, "I’m sure you can find some time to read."

Jackson rolled his eyes, but the comment made him want to punch Ollie much less than it would’ve twenty-four hours ago.

"F*** off, nerd," He replied, "This whole ‘doing all your work’ thing is exhausting."

That only made Ollie laugh harder, and Jackson couldn’t help but chuckle along. The man’s laughter was infectious, he found, it made his heart feel…warm.

The pair walked to the same spot they’d met yesterday and sat down. Jackson, admittedly, had not planned on making it this far and had no idea what work he had to do, but when Ollie pulled out his copy of the novel they were supposed to finish by Monday, Jackson mirrored him.

As Jackson read, he began to discover he quite enjoyed the novel, becoming sucked into the story of Malone and Sutherland, and their adventures through the queer scene of 1970s New York. The sense of frustration that permeated the beginnings of the novel was distinctly similar to a feeling that Jackson held in the back of his throat. The sense of not feeling like he fit, even if it was not in the same way as Malone, struck a chord with him.

At some point Jackson looked up from his book to watch Ollie, across the table from him. The man was bent over his copy of the novel, in a posture that was sure to give him back problems, one hand holding the book open against the table, and the other rubbing the nape of his neck, toying with the hair that grew there.

At first, Jackson could not help but wonder what hair Ollie had to toy with, but as he stopped and thought about it for a moment, he realized that the incredibly crisp buzz cut Ollie had walked in with just two weeks earlier had grown since then into a soft pelt, just long enough twist between two fingers, as Ollie was currently doing. Jackson guessed he had just never seen the man often enough before to notice these slight variations in length, or he had never dared to look close enough.

It was in that moment that Ollie moved, and Jackson quickly looked back down at his own book, not wanting to be caught staring for the second time that day. Ollie didn’t have eyes for Jackson, however; instead, he moved his free hand away from the nape of his neck and picked up his fountain pen, scrawling something in the margins of his text. Jackson was struck with the curiosity once again of what, exactly, Ollie’s handwriting looked like, but he was certainly not stupid enough to try and sneak a glance now, that would seem creepy, and Jackson was anything but.

Ollie closed his book on his finger and leaned back in his chair. Jackson took it as an invitation to look back up at the man. It was not as if Ollie was paying much attention, however, he seemed quite pensive. Jackson paused, wondering if he should say something, but he was never one not to open his mouth, and now was no exception.

"You alright?"

Ollie was pulled out of his deep reverie.

"Huh?" He asked as he returned to reality, "Oh, yeah, uh, I’m just thinking about Sutherland."

"Funny," Jackson replied, "I can’t stop thinking about Malone."

"God, what a mess," Ollie snorted, clearly applying some far-off, unknown context to the novel.

"You or the novel?" Jackson joked, wanting to bring that smile back to Ollie’s face that had warmed him so deeply just a bit ago.

"Both," Ollie replied, rolling his eyes and smirking, but with a twinge of something under his tongue that didn’t feel so mirthful.

At that moment, Ollie’s phone, which was face-down on the table, buzzed. He picked it up and looked at the time.

"Oh, I have to head out to set up for the QSU meeting," He said, "You’re welcome to come if you want, but no pressure."

Jackson felt a spike of anxiety run through him at the invitation. Did Ollie forget their conversation from yesterday? Surely not.

"Isn’t that for people who are, like…queer?" He asked.

"It’s a general body meeting, Jackson, we’re open to allies, too," Ollie explained.

Jackson breathed a sigh of relief that he hoped wasn’t too obvious.

"It won’t be, um, weird?" Jackson asked, still quite unsure about whether he wanted to go, but getting the distinct feeling that if Ollie was going somewhere, he wanted to join. The man was like a f***ing magnet and Jackson still couldn’t figure out for the life of him why.

"Not unless you make it weird?" Ollie replied, incredulous about Jackson’s hesitancy, "You’re in a Queer Lit class, how much more ally can you get before you just turn gay?"

Jackson snorted and blushed, but he felt now, after asking so many questions, refusing to go would be embarrassing. He just wished going didn’t feel so damn awkward.

"Well, if you’re sure it’s okay, I’ll go," Jackson acquiesced, after a moment of silence that was longer than he was willing to admit, "But only if you’re super sure."

"I’m super sure," Ollie reassured.

"Okay then," Jackson sighed, "Let’s go."

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