Chapter Text
The second day of the semester started just like the first: Wallace awoke to his dormmate’s alarm at 7am, and he attempted to sleep in a while longer while said roommate clamored around the shared space, slamming creaking drawers and singing to himself. Eventually, Wallace gave up on actually getting back to sleep a few minutes after he’d left, sunbeams aimed directly at his eyelids and birds singing specifically to spite him.
Wallace’s first class wouldn’t start until 10, and he doubted the dining hall was open this early, but, reluctantly, he trudged to the shared bathroom down the hall, towel over one shoulder and toiletries in a plastic bag held at his side. As he waited for the water to heat, one hand stuck past the curtain to feel the temperature, Wallace was running his other hand’s fingers across his face, clearing gunk out of tear ducts and picking at a pimple in the crease of his nostril. Catching his reflection in a nearby, fogging mirror, he saw the light glint against one of his piercings, burning a little white hole in his vision.
One warm shower later, Wallace felt a bit more like a person. He still had a few hours until his first class, so he went by the mail office—nothing for him—and then to the library’s computer lab to check his email—one from his mother, read and unreplied to, still sat at the top. With even more time to kill, he went to get a coffee from a shop near campus, taking the long way back.
It was a 2000 level Communications course where Wallace first saw Scott. The lecture hall was gigantic, and Wallace had arrived, like, at least 5 whole minutes early, but many of the seats were already taken. Most of what was left was in the first row, as well as a few random spots here-and-there. Wallace, having entered from the bottom of the auditorium, could judge the appearances of his classmates nearly unashamedly, trying to find at least one guy who was cute. If he was also fruity-looking, that was a major plus, but Wallace wasn’t going to be too picky.
Wallace cared about his studies, really. He wasn’t the best student in the world, but he wasn’t spending every minute of every class scoping out who might be available for a fuck. First day though, that’s the perfect time to scope out some ass. Syllabus day was always a wash anyways, and the responsibilities of homework and extracurriculars hadn’t really ramped up yet. The other 364 days of the year, he was a great student, really.
Near the top row, there was a man with long ginger locks falling into his eyes as he tried and failed to spin a pen across his knuckles. Wallace watched as he dropped it again, catching the pen miraculously with his other hand before it tumbled onto the heads of the students below him. He pushed his bangs out of his eyes frustratedly, as if they were the sole cause of his lack of dexterity. A quick scan again around the room, and Wallace was confirmed in his suspicion that this man was his best shot.
Climbing up the aisle and scooching past the redhead’s chair, Wallace’s moves were calculated as he removed a single pencil and a newly-bought notebook. He placed them methodically, doing so with his right hand, the one he’d long ago noticed was slightly less creased than his left. Wallace believed in leading with his best foot.
He didn’t meet the other man’s eyes as he moved, and he certainly didn’t expect it from the ginger, but once or twice glanced, only to realize his peer was still entirely focused on the pen bouncing across his knuckles and onto the desk.
Sitting just as strategically—crossed knee-over-knee to hopefully imply effemininity—Wallace didn’t strike up conversation immediately, instead staring ahead and down at the professor, who was fiddling with the projector and muttering. After a minute or two of this, someone in the front row offered to help. After a few more minutes of two people poking at random buttons and turning any knob they could find, the front wall lit with an unfocused projection of a white page with black type. Even with the text near unreadable, the presenter decided it would work well enough, beginning the class with a tiny voice that barely reached Wallace. For the rest of the year, all of these things were extremely bad signs, but today, a quiet professor with technological issues was exactly what he needed.
The lecturer was going over the grade needed to pass when Wallace leaned over and asked, “What do you think of this class?” It was sort of meant to be a joke, like, ‘What’s the deal with professors, amirite?’ but it didn’t land, the man’s eyebrows knitting together as he replied, “It’s—it’s okay… Who are you?”
Yes, it was absolutely cheesy to reply with, “The man of your dreams,” but Wallace had gotten away with much trashier—usually under multicolored lights and the influence, but still.
The man actually did laugh at that, though awkwardly, saying, “I’m not…”
No offense to this guy, but…yeah fucking right. Nice try.
Still, just because other people can tell you’re gay doesn’t mean you know. Wallace absolutely wasn’t going to push back or anything, but the redhead was far, far from a lost cause, dicking-down-wise.
“My bad,” Wallace said nonchalantly, trying to sound as if he couldn’t give less of a shit. “I’ll start over. I’m Wallace.” He considered holding out his hand to shake, but decided it would come off as ricocheting back into an overly formal masculinity. Wallace had to remind himself that he was talking to a dude in a graphic tee.
“I’m Scott,” the man said, looking incredulous with a raised eyebrow.
“So,” Wallace tried to strike up conversation again, “this class. Real shitshow so far, huh?”
“I mean…” the man’s voice lilted confusedly, “...it’s not that bad, I guess…?”
“We can’t read the syllabus,” Wallace said exasperatedly. “I don’t even know the exam schedule.”
“I think you were talking over him,” Scott said, similarly exasperated.
“Touché,” Wallace said with a little nod. ‘Have it your way, then,’ he thought, ‘Time for model student Wallace!’
And he even took notes! That guy, Scott, didn’t look the type, but maybe he was into bookish valedictorians—Wallace’d been in the running for salutatorian, thank you very much—so, it was worth a shot.
At the end of the class, however, the man didn’t seem to even register Wallace’s presence, instead packing up his stuff with a spaced look on his face.
There’d been a lot of men who’d rejected Wallace’s advances over the years, and 99.9% of the time, he didn’t push it, even if he suspected they were secretly gay. He believed in easy, quick fucks, not romantic dashes to the airport to beg an ex-lover to stay. There was no reason to waste his time on a man who didn’t even know he was a fruit. But…Wallace didn’t know what it was, but something endeared him to Scott so heavily that he returned from the library with a phonebook, and a belated realization that he didn’t know the guy’s last name.
…
Two days later, Wallace again sat next to Scott, peeking from the corner of his eye at his paper, hoping for a hint. Sure, he could’ve just asked for the guy’s number, but where’s the fun in that?
Funnily enough, Scott labeled the top of his notes with a first and last name, handwriting not unlike an elementary schooler’s—but Wallace was sure of a ‘P’ name, most likely ‘Pilgrim.’ The phonebook confirmed his suspicions, and better yet, gave him an address. The guy didn’t look it, but maybe he was incredibly studious, and he’d be more talkative outside of class.
That weekend, Wallace rang the doorbell of a nice suburban home and desperately hoped that Scott didn’t live in the dorms. He’d be much harder to track down there. As Wallace thought about that possibility, the door swung open, and an annoyed-looking teen with dark hair stood behind it.
“Who’re you?” the kid asked.
“One of Scott’s friends,” Wallace answered. “Do I have the right house?”
The kid rolled his eyes and waved Wallace in. “Yeah, this is the right house.” Then, he screamed, “SCOTT! Company!” towards the floor. Wallace stepped inside, hearing the distinct sounds of Donkey Kong below the hardwood. After a few moments with no answer, the teenager led Wallace through the entryway and towards a staircase that headed downward and explained, “He’s in the basement, obviously.”
Wallace descended, peeking over the railings to double-check that he hadn’t walked into the home of another guy named Scott, or worse, his parents were present. But no, there sat the redhead, eyes strained towards the TV, but nestled back into the plush couch all the same.
“H—” Wallace started as he approached.
Without even looking at him, Scott exclaimed, “What are you doing in my house?!”
“Your brother let m—”
“Who are you?” Scott added.
Wallace side-stepped it, asking, “Are you playing video games?” And, more importantly: “Do you have any lemonade?”
Scott, surprisingly, seemed satisfied with that ‘answer,’ responding with, “I dunno. Ask Lawrence.” Wallace assumed that was the brother he’d just met.
Wallace decided he’d go searching for the lemonade later, instead taking a seat on the couch, careful not to block Scott’s line of vision to Donkey Kong 64. He sat a good distance away from Scott in an attempt not to scare him, again sitting as effeminately as possible, with his calves folded under his thighs and his elbow propped up on the arm. He stared unabashedly at Scott’s profile, wondering what crazy, life-changing dick his instincts must’ve been sensing to make him go through all this trouble. Seriously, the blowjob game better be off the fucking charts, because tracking down a man at his parents’ house over—what, a crush?—was not normal! It was serious romcom bullshit, and Wallace couldn’t believe he was involved in it! Couldn’t believe he was the instigator! Seriously, if someone did this to him: major turnoff. Too desperate. What was he trying to prove coming here?
“Oh, wait—” Scott said suddenly, still not looking at Wallace, “—you’re in my COMM2300 class.”
“Yeah,” Wallace said, knocked out of his thoughts. “The one with the broken projector.”
Scott made a short mhm sound and didn’t continue the conversation further, instead focusing on collecting bananas. After a few minutes, Wallace asked, “Does this game have multiplayer?”
Scott groaned like he’d been asked that question a million times before. “Yeah, kinda, but it’s a different mode, and I’m kinda in the middle of something…”
Wallace held his open hands up in surrender, and Scott seemed to see it out of his periphery, continuing the level with a relieved sigh.
Yeah, like, this dude had to be a service top more giving than Jesus H. Christ, or a power bottom who could ride for months at a time, or something, something incredible in the sack to justify watching him play video games in near-silence for at least an hour! Wallace couldn’t believe every minute he didn’t abandon ship. And to think, he’d brought condoms. For all he knew, this guy really was straight! What was he trying to prove?
Then, maybe the worst possible outcome: Scott’s parents came home. Wallace knew how to deal with parents—he’d had a few trysts in high school, and even more with college-aged men living with their parents, but it was never fun. He planned on playing up Mrs. Pilgrim’s cooking when she offered him dinner, but after a long time without a home-cooked meal, Wallace barely had to pretend it was the best thing since sliced bread. During dinner, he attempted to imply that he and Scott had multiple classes together, even participating in clubs, maybe. He was trying to give Scott an opportunity to brag about being a social butterfly to his parents, but Scott shot him down by mentioning that they only shared one class.
At the end of the day, Wallace came away from that evening with about ten minutes of conversation in total with Scott, and since it seemed Scott didn’t have a cellphone, not even a number! Even if, miraculously, the guy ended up gay, Wallace would have to ask him on dates by calling the Pilgrim’s house, probably talking to Lawrence like, ‘Hey, can I ask you a huge favor? Can you try to pull your brother away from Ocarina of Time to come talk to me on the phone? I know this is a Heraculean test of strength, but I believe in you, young Padawan.’
Yeah. Sounds super hot.