Immovable Object, Unstoppable Force (5) by Jamiesstories2

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A/N: It’s been less of an eternity, this time! Hoping to keep this pace up for a while, although I can’t make any guarantees. I’m terrible at replying to comments on the site, but I promise I do see all of them and your kind words fuel my writing more than any drug could. Thank you.

As far as the pace of the story goes, it’s going to keep being the slowest of burns. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.

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

Immovable Object, Unstoppable Force: Chapter 5

The text made him scowl when he received it.

L: Let’s forget about last week, dude. AGR party 2nite!

L: Pull up!

Jackson did not want to go. That was his first thought, and the one he was most certain about.

More thoughts followed, however. The loudest of those being a question about how he could possibly say no.

Jackson hadn’t told Hyeon about the specifics of last Friday, mostly out of shame that, for the millionth time, she had been right, and Jackson had been horribly, horribly wrong. But he had no problem telling her, at dinner when he received Luke’s text, that he was not in the mood for an AGR party.

Hyeon pursed her lips, eyebrows furrowing.

"Sorry bud, I’d let you use me as an excuse, but those boys already hate me a little too much for comfort, I don’t need them going around and ruining my life."

Hyeon had a point, of course. AGR brothers tended to have a frustrating amount of sway at their university, mostly due to their collective status as the group of men with the most money and longest legacies. Any more spats with them and Hyeon was very much placing herself in a dangerous position.

Jackson, however, was at a loss.

"I’m confused," Hyeon finally piped up after the two sat in silence for a moment, "Why can’t you just say no?"

Jackson sighed and put his head in his hands.

"Me and some of the brothers might have gotten in a bit of an argument last Friday," He eventually muttered, "If I just say no straight-up, they’ll accuse me of being vindictive or holding a grudge, some sh*t like that."

Hyeon nodded her head in understanding, despite the fact that Jackson’s gaze was still firmly planted into the palms of his hands.

"Okay so why don’t you make up plans then?" She suggested, trying to help the helpless man across from her solve his problem. Jackson and Hyeon both knew that the less time Jackson spent with those boys, the happier Hyeon was. She made that no secret and now was no exception.

"No can do," Jackson responded, finally meeting Hyeon’s dark brown eyes, "Luke has my location, he’ll know if I’m lying. And I can’t just unshare my location right now, that’ll look suspicious for sure."

"F*ck," Hyeon muttered, dark eyebrows furrowed in thought, twirling a single strand of black hair around her finger.

Jackson bit down on a French fry contemplatively, ignoring the fact it was now quite cold.

"Oh! I got it," Hyeon finally exclaimed, "Just make plans with someone and don’t tell Luke their name, so they’re protected from AGR’s wrath. If he asks, just make a joke and avoid the question, he has your location, so he’ll know you’re not lying when he sees you out tonight."

"Oh, perfect," Jackson replied, "So… your dorm tonight?"

Hyeon winced apologetically.

"No can-do champ, Beckett and I have plans and you are not invited."

Jackson chuckled, he could only imagine what Hyeon and Beckett’s plans were, although he had a few, pretty poignant, guesses. But Hyeon being occupied left him back at square one. His roster of friends was short, including only Hyeon, the AGR boys, and… no.

He couldn’t seriously be considering this, could he?

He couldn’t seriously just ask to come over to Ollie’s house, with no pretense other than hanging out as friends… could he?

Maybe he could though…

He tried to imagine it, him and Ollie having a couple drinks, discussing music or books while laying back on the man’s carpet, it felt oddly…nice. A little bud of that joy Jackson had felt earlier that week peeked its head through the soil of his mind. He wanted to chase that feeling. To have it bloom within him one more time.

J: Hey, what are you up to tn?

O: Nothing much. Having a couple drinks and hanging with Taylor and Amira.

O: Why?

Jackson sat with his messages open, f*cking with his lip piercing, wondering if he should ask to join. Ollie had said it was nothing much. So, if it was nothing much then it was casual, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal to add another person. At the same time, it was just Ollie, Taylor, and Amira. Was that sacred time between roommates? Too intimate for Jackson’s eyes? Did he even want to drink around the three of them? Knowing him and alcohol he was bound to say something stupid.

The thoughts spiraled in his head faster than he could stop them. A whirlwind of yeses and nos, reasons why and reasons why not.

Suddenly, Jackson registered a hand waving in front of his unfocused eyes.

"Are you okay?" Hyeon, who was still sitting across from him, asked, "You look like you’re mid-existential crisis."

Jackson laughed, breathily, filled with relief at Hyeon’s interruption.

"Well, I need somewhere to go tonight," Jackson explained, and Hyeon nodded, prompting the man to continue, "And I’m wondering if I should ask Ollie to hang out."

An expression of confusion momentarily flashed across Hyeon’s face, paired with the girl soundlessly opening and closing her mouth. Jackson prepared himself for a slew of questions regarding what exactly was going on between him and Ollie, but Hyeon clearly decided that conversation was best reserved for a later date.

"Was that who you just texted?" She finally asked.

"Y-Yeah," Jackson responded.

"But you didn’t ask him to hang out?"

"I asked him what his plans were tonight."

"What did he say?"

"’Nothing much,’" Jackson narrated the text back to Hyeon, "’Having a couple drinks with Taylor and Amira.’ Does that sound like an invitation to you?"

Hyeon drummed the table with her fingers in contemplation.

"No," Hyeon replied, confirming Jackson’s worst fears, however she continued, "But it doesn’t sound like a ‘don’t come over’ text either; I think you should just ask."

Jackson decided now was one of those times to just turn his brain off and follow Hyeon’s advice.

J: Would it be okay if I joined in?

The reply came only a moment later.

O: Of course! Come over whenever.

Jackson jumped on the opportunity, sending a text to Luke before he could back out of the decision he’d made.

J: Sorry, I already have plans tonight.

XXXXX

Jackson found himself exceedingly conscious of what he was wearing, resuming the practiced ritual he found himself in every Friday night. This time, however, he had absolutely no idea what to dress for or how. He also got the distinct sense that the goal of the night was not to get hammered and decided to forgo his typical shot of vodka. His sobriety helped him think clearly but did nothing to ease the millions of worries running through his mind.

In the end, he decided to go simple with his clothing: baggy jeans and a long-sleeve striped shirt. There wasn’t much to comment on, positive or negative, and Jackson figured that was the best way to play things.

Out of some misplaced sense of defiance after Ollie’s hypothermia comments, Jackson decided he could not wear a proper winter coat to Ollie’s house, instead opting for his hoodie and jean jacket combination once again. It wasn’t snowing outside anyway, Jackson attempted to justify to himself. Never mind the fact that it was single digit temperatures; no snow meant no dumb jacket.

Jackson immediately regretted his decision, however, as soon as he stepped out of his dorm. But he’d set his mind on not wearing a jacket and he was not going to go back on his word now. He clutched himself tight, ungloved hands quickly turning red in the whipping wind and freezing temperatures.

Making it to Ollie’s house was a blessing.

Ollie opened the door soon after Jackson knocked, and his face contorted in shock and concern.

"Jesus Christ Jackson it’s eight degrees outside! Wear a proper jacket, would you?"

He quickly moved out of the way so he could usher the shivering man inside. Jackson tried his best to feign cockiness.

"No weather will stop me from looking cool," he retorted, although his chattering teeth begged to differ.

Ollie rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Well then I’m making you sleep here tonight," he demanded as he placed Jackson’s meagre denim jacket on a hook, "I won’t have you killing yourself drunk out there."

Jackson already felt a million questions come to his mind as he thawed. Sleep? Where? How? But they disappeared when he was faced with a much more immediate source of confusion.

"Ollie, why do you look… normal?" Jackson asked, unsure of how else to phrase the question.

There was no other word to describe how Ollie was dressed. The clothing wasn’t entirely unlike him--on his top half he wore a patterned sweater that Jackson could only describe as grandpa-like--but under that sweater there was no collar and, most shocking of all, he wore blue jeans, slightly worn on the knees with fraying hems.

Jackson heard giggling from the couch and looked over to find Amira, seemingly entertained by his question. When he looked back to Ollie, the man was also smirking and chuckling under his breath.

Damn Jackson’s quick mouth, running faster than his brain--or any f*cking filter--could keep up with. He felt his face grow hot and was sure he was growing quite red. He bit down on his lip ring. Hard. In an effort to keep his mouth shut, more than anything else.

Ollie was quick to relieve him, however.

"It’s a fair question," he reassured, still slightly chuckling, "I’m dressed like this because it’s a chill night and I’m drinking. I don’t want to wear slacks for something like that."

Jackson could only nod to show understanding, still thoroughly embarrassed by how he chose to ask his question. It was Amira’s turn to pipe up then, as she calmed down from her fit of laughter with some deep breaths.

"Sorry Jackson, I’m not laughing at you," She clarified, "I just-- I tell Ollie all the time he needs to dress less like a retired librarian."

Ollie groaned and lifted his glasses so he could pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

"Look," Amira said, very much directing her comments towards Ollie now, "All I’m saying is you would pull so many hot guys if you dressed sluttier. Aren’t I right, Jackson?"

"I--I, uh," Jackson heard his voice, an octave higher than usual. He ran a hand through his hair, allowing blonde curtains to block Amira from his view, "I don’t think I’m the best person to, uh, ask about this."

"Christ Amira," Ollie sighed, although Jackson could see him smirking slightly. He turned towards Jackson then, "You want a drink? It makes it easier to deal with her."

Jackson laughed and nodded, following Ollie to the kitchen, where Taylor stood at the counter pouring herself a glass of rosé.

"What do you want to drink?" Ollie asked as he opened the fridge, "We have White Claw and hard cider."

"And rosé!" Taylor chirped.

"And the rosé that only Taylor drinks," Ollie added as he turned back to Jackson for his answer.

"I’ll take a White Claw," Jackson replied, and Ollie handed him one out of the fridge, also grabbing one for himself.

"Good choice," he replied as he cracked his open, clinking his can against Jackson’s before taking a sip.

Jackson was overwhelmed by stimuli. Ollie was the same man he knew, yes, but he seemed so relaxed and casual. Drinking alcohol and teasing his friends the same way any other college senior would. Jackson considered he’d been worrying all night about something that was seemingly casual and stress-free. Something he’d do with Hyeon all the time.

He took a deep breath, opened his drink, and took a swig, willing himself to relax. He followed Ollie as the man left the kitchen, Taylor in tow.

The four congregated around the small coffee table in the living room, Taylor and Amira on the couch and Ollie and Jackson on the area rug. As each relaxed into their chosen positions, Taylor spoke up.

"Rose, Bud, Thorn?" She asked.

Jackson was absolutely lost as to how the words rose, bud, and thorn could make a full question, but Ollie and Amira seemed to understand what she meant because they started nodding.

"Who wants to start?" Amira asked, and Jackson immediately tried to hide once again. What the f*ck could they possibly be talking about? Was this some drinking game he was about to get shamed for not knowing?

"I’ll start," Ollie said, before letting his glance flit to Jackson, "Do you know what Rose, Bud, Thorn is Jackson?"

Ollie was giving him a pathway to an explanation, Jackson realized, but now he felt somehow embarrassed to take it. To admit he was not a part of this group in some key way.

"Uh…" Jackson trailed off and cleared his throat, "No." The word was little more than a whisper, but the way Ollie had asked the question, it seemed he’d expected that answer anyway.

"That’s fine," Ollie reassured, "Taylor taught it to both Amira and I."

This revelation alone lifted what felt like a fifty-pound weight from Jackson’s chest. He was not stupid for not knowing of this mysterious ‘Rose, Bud, Thorn.’ He was just like Ollie.

"Basically," Ollie explained, "Your rose is something good that happened this week, your bud is something you’re looking forward to, and your thorn is something bad that happened this week. We just use it as a way to catch up and reflect."

Jackson almost laughed at how different this whole process seemed from his alternative offer for evening plans. Jackson could only imagine what would happen if someone proposed Rose, Bud, Thorn at an AGR party.

"Makes sense," he replied instead. Keeping his thoughts firmly inside his head after what had already happened that night. Ollie took this affirmation as a sign to start his trio of reflections.

"My rose is that Jackson and I got a great grade on our presentation," he started, smiling. The chorus from the couch responded with appropriate congratulations and Jackson could only smile, not wanting to admit how much of a rose that grade was for him, too.

"My bud," Ollie continued, "Is the lecturer who’s coming to campus next week, because I absolutely loved her last book."

Jackson couldn’t help but think to himself what a f*cking nerd Ollie was, but the thought that started as an insult quickly transitioned into something almost… endearing.

"And my thorn is that things keep falling through for QSU formal. The frats are all doing their formals at the same time and it’s been a nightmare to plan."

And there was that feeling of guilt Jackson was starting to become quite familiar with. Jackson took another swig of his drink, hoping to shove the emotion down his throat before it got too overpowering. Of course the frats were making Ollie’s life a nightmare, and Jackson had no illusions about what side AGR stood on.

Amira volunteered to go next. Jackson could only half-listen to what she had to say, mind still thoroughly snagged on Ollie’s thorn, but heard part of her bud, something about Student Government. Moving around the circle, Taylor went next, and Jackson tried to pull himself from his musings to listen once again. If these people were about to listen to him talk about his week, he felt obligated to do the same.

"My rose was, um, today my class got cancelled, so I went on a little hike," Taylor began, "My bud is next weekend is the first school farmstand for the semester. And my thorn is… I talked to my brother on the phone today and it really made me miss him."

Jackson suddenly realized it was his turn. He was caught up in his own thoughts again, most notably the fact that he could not remember the last time he’d called home, and that his parents were probably worrying about him.

"My rose…" Jackson decided to take the easy way out, "is also our presentation getting that killer grade. My bud is, um, hopefully getting to know you guys better tonight. And my thorn…"

Jackson lost himself here. He was not lacking in thorns, but most of them felt much too exposing to reveal so casually. His thorn was what? Figuring out all his friends were bigots? Watching his worldview collapse before his eyes? And yet he didn’t want to be surface level. The others were opening up about real troubles in their life--struggling with their passion projects, missing their family--it wasn’t as if Jackson could say the dining hall food sucked.

"My thorn is," Jackson repeated, "I’m having friend drama right now, and I’m not sure where I stand in the whole thing." It was vague, yes, but certainly true and certainly real.

"Friend drama is the worst," Amira said in response, before taking a sip of her own drink.

Ollie nodded in agreement, but Jackson saw a question sitting in his eyes that spelled trouble.

"Okay!" Taylor piped up, visibly excited, "Since we have enough people, I’m taking advantage of the opportunity. We’re playing BS."

"As in… bullsh*t?" Jackson asked, deeply confused.

"As in bullsh*t," Ollie affirmed.

Taylor gasped in mock horror.

"Jackson, have you never played BS before?" She asked, "It’s like a classic family card game!"

"I mean--" Jackson started, trying to figure out how to explain himself, "I grew up in a card game family, but my parents weren’t exactly pro-cursing at the card table."

Taylor opened her mouth to respond but Amira cut in before she could vocalize a single syllable.

"See Taylor this is what I’m saying!" She passionately exclaimed, gesturing vaguely in Jackson’s direction, "Just because you had hippie parents doesn’t mean all of us could curse without getting our asses whooped with the closest Ch’ama."

"Okay, okay," Taylor threw up her hands in exasperation, "Well we’re not playing cards with any crazy religious parents anymore"--Jackson felt himself involuntarily turn a shade of bright red--"which means we can say bullsh*t at the card table."

"Aye, aye!" Ollie exclaimed in agreement and grabbed a deck of cards from a nearby bookshelf. As he dealt, Taylor explained the rules of the game to Jackson. People placed cards, counting up from ace to king, they could lie about their cards, and if you thought someone was lying, you could call bullsh*t. The goal was to end up with no cards. Easy enough.

They practically ran through the first round. As much as Taylor enjoyed the game, she was a terrible liar, either turning red or stuttering her way through her sentence every time she had to lie about what card was in her hand. Soon enough, Amira had won the round, and Taylor sat with nearly the whole deck in her hands.

House rules, as had been explained to Jackson, were that once someone won the round, the person with the most cards was considered the loser and was out. Those who were not out moved on to play the next round. There were three: Amira, Ollie, and Jackson.

As Jackson played, he couldn’t help but let his eyes slip to Ollie. Usually, when the man was concentrating, Jackson was focused with him, but for the first time, Jackson could really get a good look at the man lost in thought. His eyes kept being drawn back to the pensive man for reasons even Jackson himself couldn’t understand.

Something about those dark eyebrows, furrowed in concentration, eyes squinting through the lenses of his glasses, the free hand that ran its way up and down the nape of Ollie’s neck… it rubbed Jackson’s brain the right way. Clicked like the final piece in a puzzle. Sang like the final note in a Velvet Underground song. It was shockingly--though Jackson hated to use the word--perfect.

"Jackson?"

He heard a woman’s voice say his name, somewhere far away, beyond the fog of his mind.

Wait, that woman was Amira. Sh*t! Jackson burst through his daydream as if coming up from drowning.

"Yea? Wha-- Huh?" Jackson said in his best approximation of the English language.

"It’s your turn," Amira replied, rolling her eyes.

"Sh*t! Sorry," Jackson practically stumbled over himself to pull his mind back into the present moment, "What number are we on?"

"No problem," she reassured, "You’re three."

Jackson looked down at his hand. Two cards. Both threes.

He placed them face down on the card pile that had accumulated at the center of the table.

"Two threes," he announced his play, and Amira’s brow furrowed.

"Absolute bullsh*t," she declared, "There’s no way you happened to have two threes."

Jackson flipped his cards over, triumphant, and slid the deck towards Amira as her face fell.

"Motherf*cker!" She exclaimed as Ollie laughed.

Jackson had won the round. And Amira had just acquired a significant chunk of the deck. It was down to two: Jackson and Ollie.

BS technically couldn’t be played with two people, but Taylor had a way around it. They dealt the deck out for three and discarded the third pile so that neither Jackson nor Ollie could cheat by counting cards. Both men picked up their decks and the game was on.

It started slow, cards were placed, small piles were exchanged. But suddenly they reached a point where the pile of cards between them got taller and taller. Both Amira and Taylor were captured. Whoever was forced to take this pile into their hand was absolutely done for.

It was Jackson’s turn. He had to put down an eight. He didn’t have an eight.

He would have to lie.

"One eight," he declared, placing his card on the pile.

Ollie paused.

"Just one?"

"Just one," Jackson confirmed, trying to keep his cool.

Ollie was simply silent for a moment, eyes squinted in incredulity.

"I think someone might be lying," Ollie teased in a sing-song voice.

Jackson tried to play it off, chuckling in a way he hoped seemed natural.

"You’ve barely known me a month, Ollie," Jackson replied, smirking, "You have no idea if I’m lying."

Ollie smirked, and Jackson felt the slow creep of anxiety run down his spine and pool in his gut.

"No, no, no," Ollie replied slowly, capturing the power of his full baritone voice in those three words, "I know you, Jackson Young."

Ollie reached up and pulled his glasses down the bridge of his nose, pinning Jackson with his full, unrestrained gaze. Those brown eyes, sweet chocolate and sharp bourbon met grayish blue and Jackson suddenly felt as if the owner of those eyes had reached into his skull and pulled his mind out for inspection. He heard the click of his teeth against his lip ring before he even felt his mouth close, face growing hot under the continued stare.

And just like that, Ollie pushed his glasses back up his nose, still smirking, and announced his decision.

"Bullsh*t."

Jackson waited a moment before accepting his fate.

"Motherf*cker," He jokingly sighed as he took the cards, but under his hopefully convincing act, his gut was full of a whirlwind of emotions.

How could Ollie read him so well? And why did those brown eyes make him feel so damn strange? Emotions welled up that Jackson had never felt before. A desire to never see that gaze again, and a quieter desire to stomp on Ollie’s glasses in the hope he’d see that gaze forever.

He couldn’t focus for the rest of the game, focus was out of the question, and his poor lying caught up to him over and over again, until his portion of the deck grew bigger by the moment.

Ollie smirked as he placed his final card, daring Jackson to call bullsh*t, but when Jackson took him up on the dare, he discovered Ollie had not lied. He’d won. And he’d wormed his way underneath Jackson’s ribs, Jackson realized bitterly, close enough to inspect his heart in uncomfortable detail.

"Congrats," Jackson conceded, "But I’ll get you next time, just wait."

Ollie snorted back.

"Sure you will buddy," He replied, clapping Jackson on the shoulder and making him jump slightly, "You’re a sh*t liar, I can read you like a book."

Jackson could only roll his eyes in response, taking a swig of his drink and holding up his middle finger.

Amira cleared her throat loudly, as if to announce she was talking now. All eyes in the room snapped to her.

"I have another idea of a game to play," she said. Jackson couldn’t be sure, but he thought he detected a hint of iciness in her tone, "But first, Ollie, I need to talk to you for a second."

Ollie’s eyebrows furrowed. Clearly Jackson wasn’t the only one who’d sensed a sharp note in Amira’s voice.

"Sure," Ollie replied, standing along with Amira and walking out of sight.

Jackson turned to Taylor, the person out of the trio that he knew the least, anxious that their shared history would make things even more awkward than they would be otherwise. But as soon as Ollie and Amira walked away, her face lit up with a smile.

"So, Jackson, remind me of your major?" She asked.

"English," Jackson replied, and was quickly sucked into a conversation about his major, his concentration, his favorite classes and books. Jackson found himself enjoying Taylor’s company, but he still wanted another drink to distract himself from Ollie’s conspicuous absence.

During a lull in the conversation, Jackson stood.

"I’m going to go grab myself another drink, do you want more wine?’

"No thanks," Taylor smiled, and Jackson noticed for the first time just how red her cheeks had grown over the last hour.

"Hit your limit?" He asked with a smirk.

"Most definitely," She replied, chuckling.

Jackson ambled towards the kitchen, when he heard voices. He assumed the sounds were simply bleeding through Ollie’s bedroom door, but as he got closer to the kitchen entrance, Jackson realized Amira and Ollie hadn’t gone somewhere private to talk, instead opting to stand in the kitchen.

Jackson knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop. He shouldn’t. There’s a reason Amira wanted to talk privately, and it almost certainly included the fact that their conversation wasn’t meant for Jackson’s ears, but with an opportunity like this on a silver platter? It’s almost as if god wanted him to hear.

"Amira," Jackson heard Ollie say in hushed tones, "It’s not my fault you can’t distinguish between being friendly and flirting."

"Oh, come on Ollie," She hissed back, clearly trying to keep herself quiet despite frustration, "I’m not stupid. You don’t act like that around me, and if you did, I would smack you."

Ollie’s volume dropped even lower on his next line, too low for Jackson to hear, but Amira made up for it by practically talking at a normal volume in response.

"Hellen f*cking Keller could tell he’s not straight, Ollie, that’s not the point!"

Woah. What?

They weren’t talking about him, were they? He’d made himself perfectly clear that he was as straight as an arrow. Besides, it seemed like Amira was implying that Ollie was flirting with him, and that most certainly could not be the case, because Ollie knew he was straight and knew that he was way out of Jackson’s league. Ollie went for boys who got accepted to Harvard, not boys who nearly slacked their way into failing junior year.

Jackson decided to turn away from the conversation. It was making him uncomfortable, giving him the distinct sensation of worms eating through his stomach lining in confusion and disgust. And it was clear that, no matter who they were talking about, Amira and Ollie did not want this conversation to be overheard by other’s ears. He ambled back into the living room, meeting Taylor’s slightly confused expression with a smile.

"Turns out Amira and Ollie are in the kitchen," he explained as he sat back down, "I didn’t want to overhear something."

Jackson hadn’t fully thought through this lie. The house was small, and if the kitchen really was occupied, Jackson would’ve made it back in two seconds, but Taylor thought through the lie even less than Jackson in her state of mild to moderate drunkenness, simply nodding in response and returning to scrolling through her phone.

Jackson could only sit, inspecting the wood grain of the table before him. Half of him wanted to pull out his own phone and scroll his contemplative mood away, but the other half knew it would only make things worse. And so, he sat in silence, Amira’s sentence playing over and over again in his mind.

There was no way they were talking about him… right?

Amira left the kitchen first, flopping onto the couch and sighing.

"Everything good?" Taylor asked, picking up on the change in the air.

"Yeah, don’t worry about it," Amira reassured, smiling to try and soothe Taylor’s anxiety, yet Jackson would not be so easily convinced.

Ollie walked out of the kitchen then, causing Jackson’s head to snap in his direction. Ollie held his glasses in one hand, the other hand massaging the bridge of his nose. As soon as this display of exhaustion started, however, it stopped. Ollie slid his glasses back onto his face and smiled at the group, taking his place on the floor once again.

"What game did you want to play next?" He asked Amira excitedly, as if the tense interaction had never happened.

If Jackson had needed a drink before, he really needed one now. He stood as Amira thought about what game the group should play next.

"I’m going to get myself another drink, does anyone want anything?"

Taylor, clearly having a little trouble keeping track of things, piped up drowsily.

"I thought you already got yourself a drink earlier?"

F*ck.

Jackson might have been able to explain his way out of Taylor’s less than interrogating question earlier, but around two discerning people who seemed to be close to stone-cold sober? His explanations were going to suddenly make less sense.

"Uh-- I-- I was going to go, but Ollie and Amira were… in the kitchen."

The last word was said so timidly, it was a wonder the group even heard it.

"Ohhhh," Taylor sighed in response, giving the other two ample time to allow looks of horror to grow on their faces.

"Did you overhear us talking?" Amira asked.

Jackson was practically using his piercing as a chew toy. Ollie looked up at him, over the lenses of his glasses and Jackson cursed whatever deity had made those eyes so damn piercing. He couldn’t lie to them, Jackson knew, he’d get caught immediately, but he could dance around the truth.

"Only for a second," Jackson replied, "Once I realized you guys were in the kitchen and not in Ollie’s room I sat back down."

Not the truth, but not totally a lie either. He had only overheard the pair talking for a second.

Ollie’s gaze softened and Jackson wondered if he’d really managed it.

"If you’re grabbing a drink for yourself, I’ll take another White Claw," Ollie said, before turning towards Amira and Taylor, "If you two can’t think of a game, my vote is for Spoons."

As the trio began to discuss the merits of Spoons, the conversation was turned away from Jackson and he was finally free to retrieve his much-needed alcoholic beverage. The seltzer Jackson grabbed for himself was already missing a sizable amount of liquid by the time he sat back down at the table. He realized tonight was not the time to get f*cked up, but the urge to take at least five shots of vodka was strong after the recent, very awkward, encounter.

Spoons did end up being the next game of choice, then Poker, then Blackjack. But by the third round, most people were too drunk or too tired to successfully add to twenty-one, and Amira took the win on luck alone.

"Alright," Taylor finally spoke up, eyes half-lidded from sleep, "I need to go to bed."

"I’m right there with ya," Amira agreed.

Jackson wasn’t very tired, but he was four drinks deep and knew that the only way to stop him from consuming another was bed, so he agreed with the consensus of the group.

Taylor and Amira rose from their places on the couch, making their way to their bedrooms on the second floor. Jackson sat on the floor, motionless, unsure of where to stand or what to do. Ollie had made a comment about Jackson sleeping over, but he couldn’t have been serious, could he?

Ollie stood from the ground and sat on the couch, patting the seat next to him--an invitation to join. Jackson took the offer, but sat far away, not wanting any stray body parts to touch as they had in the past. There was a silence that sat between them, somehow thicker than the air. Unbreathable. Immovable.

"Jackson, can I ask you something?" Ollie finally spoke. It was quiet, his voice sounding even deeper after a day of heavy use.

"Sure," Jackson replied tentatively, conversations like this with Ollie never seemed to go in Jackson’s favor.

"Why did you want to come over tonight?"

Well sh*t. Jackson was right. This conversation was not going to go in his favor in the slightest.

"I, uh, I just wanted to spend some time with you. Why?"

"Jackson," Ollie warned, and just from the tone of his voice alone, Jackson could tell he was f*cked, "Haven’t we already established tonight that I can see straight through your bullsh*t?"

Not entirely, Jackson wanted to snap back, but that would start an even worse conversation. A conversation that Jackson would like to avoid for the rest of eternity.

"Ollie, I don’t know what you’re talking about," Jackson tried, but if the lie was weak last time, this time it was dead before it left Jackson’s mouth, "I-- I just like you. Is that not enough?"

"It is enough," Ollie clarified, "But if you like someone, you don’t lie to their face."

"Why do you even give a f*ck?" Jackson snapped back before he could stop his unfaithful tongue. He hated himself for the words as soon as he said them but hated himself for them more when he saw Ollie’s face. It was a look he’d become familiar with. A look of hurt.

"I’m sorry," Ollie eventually muttered, "I’m prying again, aren’t I?"

"No, no, you’re not," Jackson reassured, "I just-- I don’t want you to hate me."

"Jesus, Jackson," Ollie muttered, and ran his hand over his hair, forehead to nape, short bristles bending against his palm, "How many times have you thought I’m going to hate you, and how many times have you been wrong?"

"This--" Jackson moved to argue, but realized any response he could conjure was weak against Ollie’s appeal, and when he opened his mouth, his bold retort shriveled into a mutter, "This isn’t like that. This is different."

Ollie seemed pensive, his tone more kind after Jackson’s weak appeal.

"Let me hear how different it is, then."

"I wanted to--" Jackson felt the courage deflate out of him but did his best to push through his own pause, "I wanted to come over tonight because I got invited to a party at… AGR and I didn’t want to go."

There was only silence for a moment, as Ollie took his time to process Jackson’s explanation.

"That’s it?" Ollie asked, incredulous.

But before Jackson could properly reply, he watched as the gears turned in Ollie’s head, as the man picked up what Jackson was hinting at under the surface. Jackson wanted to open his mouth, to speak, to stop the realizations running through Ollie’s mind, but his lips were practically sewn together.

"How often do you get invited to parties at AGR?"

The question cut through Jackson’s bullsh*t with such directness he nearly felt the blade slice his heart.

"Every weekend."

"And how often do you go?"

"Every weekend." The answer was a whisper.

Ollie sighed, took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes as if he was tired. Neither man said anything until Jackson couldn’t stand it any longer.

"You look mad at me."

"I’m not-- It’s not--" Ollie sighed again, stared down at his hands, and refused to make eye contact with the man sitting across from him, "I’m not mad at you Jackson."

"But?" Jackson supplied, shockingly patient in anticipation of his demise.

"There’s no but, it’s just… You’re too smart to be going there."

The statement hung in the air for a moment. It was true. They both knew it. Jackson wanted to retort, but he had nothing to say.

Ollie opened and closed his mouth. There was something he wanted to say.

"I mean--" He stopped and started like a scratched CD, but finally settled on the right words, "I know you know what sh*tbags they are. How could you…"

The question remained unfinished, but both men knew what he was asking.

Jackson wanted to explain. He had to explain. Even if the truth was shameful, he’d already felt enough shame tonight. A little more wouldn’t make too big of a difference.

"When…" Breathe in, breathe out, start over, "When I was in freshman year, I couldn’t fit in, I couldn’t find my place and I-- I didn’t have anybody. It was my dumb, randomly assigned, fratcented, sh*tbag roommate or nobody. And so, I went with the dumb, fratcented, sh*tbag roommate and when they inevitably rushed, I knew better than to do that, but… Well, they kept inviting me to parties and I didn’t have anything else to do so I-- I just kept going."

Even behind those frames, Jackson could see the understanding start to dawn in Ollie’s eyes and began to hope that maybe he wasn’t so f*cked after all.

"Hyeon’s been on me about it for years. Telling me they’re bigots, they’re assholes, they’re bad people and I know, but imagine what it would be like if you didn’t have anybody else to go to. If it was them or nothing. I know it sounds sh*tty and cliché to throw around, but Ollie, you have to understand, they were there for me when no one else was."

Silence.

"I get it," Ollie finally replied.

"No, you don’t," Jackson snapped back, suddenly angry for no discernable reason, "You found your people."

Jackson expected Ollie’s gaze to harden, but instead it grew softer.

"I don’t but… I do," Ollie murmured back. A peace offering. "I can’t imagine what my life would look like now if Amira and Taylor hadn’t entered it."

Jackson digested those words. Ollie allowed him to.

"If I may," Ollie started, and Jackson nodded to give him permission, "You don’t seem so keen on going to AGR now so… what’s up?"

Jackson sighed, before launching back into his story. It seemed that if he was really going to tell Ollie everything, he was going to have to tell him everything.

"I went. Last Friday."

Ollie nodded slightly, encouraging Jackson to go on.

"And I think I’d like to say that they were ‘too drunk’ or that they were saying things they didn’t mean, but the problem is I think I was just sober enough to realize what they were saying. And that they’ve probably been saying stuff like that all along. I called them out. We got into a fight. They invited me to a party this weekend and I-- I-- I didn’t want to go, but I didn’t know what to do so… I’m here."

"Well, I don’t hate you," Ollie reassured with a joyless chuckle, "I don’t even dislike you."

"I thought you were the one telling me not to lie," Jackson snarked back and Ollie could only roll his eyes, although this time there was the slightest hint of a smirk gracing his lips.

"I’m not lying," Ollie replied, firmly, as if he wanted to end the possibility of doubt in Jackson’s mind with those three words, "I’m glad you’re here, Jackson."

"Are you?"

"I am."

There was a moment of silence. Ollie watched Jackson’s thoughts race behind his gray-blue eyes.

"Are you just glad I’m here because I’m not at an AGR party?" Jackson finally asked.

The question was quiet, timid, an admission of a thought almost too painful to consider.

"No, Jackson," Ollie replied without hesitation, "I’m glad you’re here rather than anywhere. I’m just glad you’re here."

Another silence, just slightly more comfortable than the first. Jackson sat in the discomfort of appreciation. He didn’t want to think it was such a big deal. It wasn’t such a big deal.

"Well, thanks," Jackson finally muttered, sensing he should say something, "I’m glad I’m here, too."

Ollie yawned then, covering his mouth with his hand, and the yawn made Jackson realize how tired he was, too. He rubbed his eyes before running both hands through his hair.

"Sh*t, dude, I gotta get home."

"Are you kidding?" Ollie immediately responded, disbelief written across his face, "I already told you; you’re staying here tonight. I’m not letting you go out in this."

Jackson felt an immediate sense of indignation return and almost wanted to go home for the f*ck of it, but he just as quickly shut his mouth, remembering Ollie came only from a place of concern.

"Ollie, I don’t know if that’s a great idea," He started, shaking his head, "I mean, for starters, where the f*ck would I sleep?"

"I have no problem sharing a bed, but you’re also welcome to the couch," Ollie replied, as if the suggestion of sharing a bed wasn’t the craziest thing Jackson had ever heard…

Well…

Was it that crazy?

Jackson had done it with his straight friends plenty of times. Was this just poorly couched homophobia?

But it did feel… different, Jackson decided, for a reason other than the fact Ollie was gay. He couldn’t even put his finger on why, but there was some overly large feeling pressing against his ribs that said: This. Was. Different.

"I, uh, I’ll take the couch," Jackson finally muttered, still unsure of his own answer.

"No problem," Ollie replied, hand absentmindedly toying at the nape of his neck once more, "You’re welcome to use my bathroom to wash up before bed."

Jackson laughed before he could stop himself but regretted it the moment he saw Ollie’s face morph into a confused expression.

"What’s so funny?" He asked.

"Oh, uh…" Jackson trailed off for a moment, already feeling his cheeks grow hot with shame. Ollie’s gaze wouldn’t let him escape the question that easily, however, and pulled answers from behind his bared teeth, "On a typical Friday, I’m blackout drunk by now," Jackson explained, "’Washing up’ tends to be the least I need to worry about."

Ollie snorted, regarding Jackson with eyes halfway between amused and piercing.

"Fair enough," he finally muttered, looking as if he wanted to say more, but keeping his mouth closed.

The pair moved in silence, setting up the couch with blankets and pillows. Ollie disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, and Jackson sat back on the couch.

He felt his chest release, and an anxiety he didn’t realize he was feeling lift from his shoulders. But the loss of Ollie’s presence wasn’t exactly the relief it seemed it would be at first. Instead, the anxiety was replaced with a kind of disappointment he resented. Why did this one man’s presence seem to single handedly dictate so much of what he was feeling at any given time, and why had Jackson never felt this way about anyone else before?

Ollie emerged a moment later, in flannel pajama pants and a gray T-shirt. Jackson couldn’t stop himself and laughed, catching Ollie’s attention and making him roll his eyes, smirking all the while.

"I’m really ruining my image as the stoic academic right now, aren’t I?"

"Oh, it’s already been ruined," Jackson replied, jokingly, "The day you started talking to me is the day I knew you weren’t as serious as you pretend to be."

Ollie opened his mouth with a smirk still painted across his face, but he closed it just as quickly and sighed in defeat.

"What?" Jackson took his turn to interrogate.

"I was going to say the day I started talking to you was a mistake, but even as a joke you’d know I was lying," Ollie admitted, and Jackson cocked an eyebrow, urging the man to continue. Ollie took the invitation, "Talking to you is the best f*cking choice I’ve made in a long time."

Jackson felt his cheeks, which were just cooling, heat up once again.

"Sure, bud," he replied, chuckling at Ollie’s earnestness, at a loss for how to reciprocate the honesty, "You’re pretty cool too."

Ollie shook his head, smiling, and turned on his heel toward his bedroom.

"Goodnight, Jackson."

"Night, Ollie."

XXXXX

The warmth of the morning sun spread across Jackson’s cheek, and he saw light behind his closed eyelids. He was surprised, to say the least. He’d expected rest to only come after a struggle--it was the first night in weeks he’d tried to sleep without the help of alcohol--but it somehow arrived before Jackson even noticed it.

Jackson opened his eyes and spent a single moment wondering where he was. His background, a cozy living room rather than his barren bedroom, but he remembered then where he was sleeping and why he was sleeping there.

He started to pick up on the scent of coffee in the air and hushed voices coming from down the hall. After he managed to drag himself out from under the blankets, Jackson wandered down towards the back room, to find Ollie and Taylor together at the dining room table. From far away, with their dark hair, glasses, and plaid pajama pants, they almost looked like siblings.

It was a serene scene for a single moment. They sat in the morning light, hands wrapped around steaming mugs, speaking in that easy way only close friends could. But Jackson’s footsteps suddenly creaked in the quiet hallway, Ollie looked up, and the scene was broken. The energy was different, and Jackson felt a deep sense of frustration that he could not exist on the same plane that Ollie and Taylor did.

"Hey, Jackson," Ollie broke his train of thought, "Want some coffee?"

Jackson stood, paralyzed for a single moment. It was a simple question, but he didn’t have an answer. Half of him wanted to stay in this cozy oasis and become the trio’s fourth roommate for life. Half of him wanted peace and quiet to reflect on the combination of feelings he’d been forced to experience in the last twelve hours.

The second half won out.

"Ah, I’m good," Jackson said, "I should head home."

"Are you sure?" Taylor asked, brows furrowed, "You’re welcome here as long as you’d like."

No, he wasn’t sure, Jackson wanted to admit, but he’d made his decision, and he was going to stand by it.

"I’m sure, thanks."

He needed time, anyway. He still hadn’t really processed everything he’d told Ollie last night. Or how Ollie had reacted to everything he’d been told last night. Jackson was just… a bit lost in his own thoughts, and he didn’t think he would find himself until he left this house.

Ollie stood and approached Jackson.

"At least let me walk you out," he said, smiling. His hand twitched and it almost looked as if he was going to reach out and touch Jackson, before stopping himself. At this rate, though, Jackson would not put it past his brain to imagine things where they didn’t exist.

"Of course," he replied, and the pair walked to the front together.

Jackson had slept in his clothes from the day before, so all he had to do was don his boots and flimsy attempt at a winter-proof jacket.

"Last night was great," Ollie said when he saw Jackson was ready to leave, "You’re always welcome back."

Jackson felt warmth and appreciation bloom in his heart and spill from his throat.

"I’ll be taking full advantage of that invite, last night was great."

"Don’t get hypothermia on your walk home, okay, Young?" Ollie said with a smirk as Jackson opened the door to the outside world.

"I’ll do my best," Jackson replied with a smile of his own before turning and taking the first step into the weather.

It felt like a particularly long walk home today. Jackson noticed that soon enough, and the fact that it felt uncomfortably similar to the morning-after walk of shame he’d made so many girls take in the past didn’t make things any better.

Was this his walk of shame? The thought that he’d finally given into the clearly anti-punk, incredibly uncool segment of his mind that made him like Ollie certainly felt shameful, and the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about it only made the shame worse.

By the time he did get back to his dorm, that inkling of shame had grown from a spark to a full-out bonfire and Jackson mulled over the health effects of starting to drink at ten in the morning.

When he looked at his phone, however, he was pulled from his spiral for just a moment. A text from Ollie. Twenty minutes ago.

O: Text me when you get home, Cali boy.

Jackson smirked at the message, and suddenly all thoughts of re-rejecting the half of him that--frustratingly--loved Ollie’s presence disappeared.

J: I’m home, bullsh*t master.

One hour passed. Two. And Jackson couldn’t totally say why but something felt wrong.

He checked his phone. Again. He’d been doing that a lot the past 120 minutes.

Nothing from Ollie. Absolutely nothing. Not even a heart or thumbs-up reaction on the message.

He was being crazy, he told himself, absolutely ridiculous, making something out of nothing when Ollie was napping, or busy with his friends, or busy doing work, or busy doing… anything really.

But.

Ollie always responded promptly. Always. It was one of the things Jackson admired and envied about the man. Why was this the one exception?

---