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He may not be on the fast track to Summa Cum Laude, not like Doc-- and apparently this kid, if Daddy keeps paying out that Big Pharma money to keep his grades at the top of the curve-- but Obi doesn’t need any fancy academic distinction to suss out that Raj’s celebratory kegger idea belongs straight in the ‘godawful stupid’ pile. And with the quick way Doc goes bloodless at the offer, the air’s got that tangy Calculated Insult taste to it.

That is until he squares up right in front of this Timothée Chalamet looking motherfucker and is blind-sided by his bright-eyed, dummy wide smile. Despite the vibe in this room reading like the end of a slow-burn thriller’s first act, this idiot thinks he’s doing everyone a favor. The kid somehow took one look at Annie Hall here and thought that her brand says vomits Pabst Blue Ribbon as an extracurricular. There are times where Obi considers his past gold star failures and thinks he’s nature’s worst clown, but Shenezard-- Shenezard could fill a whole car.

“Raj,” Doc chokes out, looking like she’s two steps from a body bag. “That’s very...generous of you, but you don’t really--”

“No, no.” Between blinks, Raj springs forward, seizing her hand. “Shirayuki, you are the generous one, coming here after all this time to make amends--”

“I’m not,” she reminds him, steely, like the tooth of a bear trap. Or maybe the blade of a guillotine. “I’m here to present a paper.”

“--So you must give me the opportunity to be likewise magnanimous.” One hand may be taken, but the other’s free to snap, loud as a gunshot in the empty foyer. “Sakaki, see to it.”

His lawyer ventures a weary glance, closing his briefcase with a final snap. “Mr Shenezard, you know I can’t be party to providing alcoholic beverages to underage students.”

“Right.” His fingers snap again; the brothers passing by flinch. “Brian will take care of it.”

One of them-- the tall one, built like a linebacker with boat shoes that earn the name-- sighs. “Aw man, not again.”

“I told you, dude,” the other one mutters, pushing him through the doorway. “You can’t make eye contact.”

Raj doesn’t even bat an eye, just stares down at Doc, flushed with victory. “See? Simple. Get yourself ready, Shirayuki,” he warns warmly, “for tonight you will be fêted!”

*

Between Princess and Prez’s egos, there’s no elbow room for any other opinions on the frat’s event committee, but even still, Obi knows there’s some logistical issues to putting together a kegger in barely five hours. It’s the sort of thing he’d worry over if he thought for one second that Doc wanted anything to do with this half-assed excuse for a hook up, but she flees the scene the moment Raj gets distracted enough to drop her hand. It’d be a shame to get all heated when she’s already hanging out a window, escaping the only way she knows how: dangerously.

Real kind of Doc to save him the hassle; if he had to concern himself with her tender feelings, why, he’d barely have time to agonizing over what to wear. Since that’s apparently how he’s going to spend the hours between dinner and drunk o’clock: staring at his backpack full of clothes and hating every stitch on them.

It’s not like he didn’t bring nice stuff; Chief had briefed him-- and Big Guy, and His Lordship, plus a hastily emailed primer from the Big Boss with a rubric for sartorial formalities-- but he can’t exactly wear a sports coat to a keg stand. Maybe CEO Barbie could wear her designer pantsuit and not get a drop on it, but Obi doesn’t have the sort of face that can wear business formal like gym shorts. And the rest of it...

Well sure, jeans and tees would match the vibe; certainly be a step up from the early December board shorts he’s sure will be in fashion tonight, but it’s not-- not--

Hot. His Majesty said this trip would only be four days, a quick jaunt over state lines to see to it that Kihal’s momentary expulsion wasn’t in vain. Packing light seemed smart. He didn’t need to bait the hook when the only item on his itinerary was a poster session and an academic dinner.

He still doesn’t need to; his whole job here is to make sure Doc isn’t eyeing any third-story windows, not his ass. She’s six inches of leg and a drawer full of Victoria Secret away from being his type anyway, and he only came here because-- because--

Her hand had look so pale against the checkered tablecloth, so limp, like it hadn’t been held in years. Like she’d given up on someone being there to take it. He’d held it in the car-- still wet and clammy, a complete accident-- and even now it burns in his memory, the first warmth he’d felt since someone put five inches of cold steel beneath his rib cage. And stupidly, his first thought was, Doc deserves someone who would.

His second is, I’d like to be that someone.

It’s a fucking mystery why. Sure, he-- he likes her, in a real Disney Channel Original, baby’s first crush way, but this whole situation he has at Wistal is a glass shoe, set to shatter the moment he has a diploma in his hands. The last thing he needs is a reason to cling to the shards, expecting more than anyone wants to give him. Besides, he knows by now-- they could hug him and squeeze him and call hims George, but Obi’s the kind of guy who sees and open door and runs through it. There’s no point to being more friend than the job entails. Not unless he wants someone putting up flyers to find their lost Obi, at least. It’d certainly be a first.

“Right.” His palm scrub over his face, muffling out the rest of the world for just a second. That’s all he needs to remember what’s important here. “Just put something on, asshole.”

It’s a stupid thing to worry about. If these clothes didn’t smell like musty library, he wouldn’t even--

Something flutters, right at the corner of his eye. Not big enough to be a threat-- he can tell that right off, but it definitely didn’t come from his stuff. No, looks like it blew out of the trash, pushed along by the sudden burst of hot air from the vents. His mouth tilts, sliding right into a smirk. Speaking of flyers...

Phi Sigma Pi Crunch Time Kegger, this one reads; he has to squint to see the grainy oval in the center is just a photo-realistic barrel. $5 at the door. 8pm on December--

Ha, well. Look at that. It’s today. What a coincidence. Seems he’s not the only one concerned about what’s covering his ass.

*

At Wistal, Obi liked to make a point of showing up fashionably late to any function at the frat. Not to avoid lending a hand-- he did all that and more earlier in the day under Princess’s watchful eye-- but because showing up to a party where you lived a half hour after it started was peak comedy. Sometimes he even sidled up to the Chief’s current conversation and loudly announced, “The traffic getting here was brutal. Real back up near the bathroom, if you know what I mean.”

Bossman could say it wasn’t funny all he liked-- and he usually did, yanking him aside and keeping his scolding sotto voce, as Kiki called it, so it wouldn’t harsh anyone’s buzz-- but once time he slipped it into a casual conversation with some kid Princess knew from prep school, and Big Guy had to put a clamp on a full Bullwinkle guffaw.

But tonight wasn’t the night to play honors society class clown. No, he’d come here for Doc. Fought to come here for her, hard enough that he must have looked stupid, like he was some dog that didn’t know it wasn’t people.

It was worth it. He’d make himself Bobo the fool all over again if he could make sure she never looked as small as she did when they came in the door, if he could make her stand larger than life, like the girl he’d seen wrapped in his jacket at the riverside, everywhere she walked.

By the time he saunters to the top of the grand stairs-- what is it about these rich ass frats and their debutante ball style houses?-- the front hall is already filling up, the ratio of girls to guys skewed far towards the fairer sex as they filter into the labyrinth of parlors to either side. Packed as it is, it still only takes him a glance to find Doc; she’s folded into a corner with a cluster of chairs cover in discarded coats, about as well hidden as a goth kid at a pep rally.

Obi takes the stairs two at a time, beelining for her corner the minute his sole scuffs the carpet. She doesn’t see him-- not tiny like she is and getting smaller by the second. Even when he grips the back of one of the chairs she doesn’t look up, far too intent on the drink she’s barely touched.

“Well, well, well.” He lets his mouth part in a half-tame grin; growing wider when she jumps. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“Obi.” All at once the tension melts from her, the barbed-wire fence of her shoulders easing back down to pickets. “I didn’t see you.”

“Yeah, well--” he scoots a chair off to the side, making a large enough hole to slip through-- “I usually just look for red, but it’s been tough in this crowd.”

She blinks, a cute little knot rucking up right over her nose as she looks out on a sea of solo cups. “Ah,” she hums, her mouth twitching over her own. “I see how you might have some trouble.”

“What d’you got there?” He peers over the rim, getting a quick glance at some clear fizz before she jerks it away. “Vodka tonic or something? You need to get topped off?”

Ah, there she goes. Right back up to threat level Black Watch Plaid. “N-no. Please. I’m-- I’m fine.”

Obi’s never been a big guy-- at least, nothing like the Big Guy, built like a wall and casting a shadow like one too. He’s tall, sure, but even at the top of his gains game, he’d been more wooden shed than brick house. But standing next to Doc now, watching her shrink away, her shoulders hiked into a citadel around her drink--

He’s feels huge. And not in a good way. Good thing he’s had plenty of practice at making himself small.

“Sprite?” he asks, settling himself against the wall. “Wouldn’t figure a party like this had a soda cooler.”

“Ah...” Her chin tilts into her chest, like somehow that’ll hide her blush better than the bad lighting. “No, just seltzer. They have some behind the um, bar.”

“Oh, they’re handing that out?” Back home they sure did-- and kept coolers stocked with a whole bunch of not-booze, for the people who weren’t interested in puking on the front lawn where Kiki Seiran could see them-- but he hadn’t gotten that sort of vibe from this branch of the frat.

“Not...quite.” Her mouth wiggles, like it’s a struggle to keep it shut. “But I did ask. Quietly.”

Considering how the current bartender is locked in deep conversation with a pair of size D’s, Obi can take an educated guess at just how hard it was for Doc to slip in and get a cup with Bar Bro none the wiser. “So is the plan to make like wallpaper for tonight, or is there actually something to do in this old pile?”

Her eyelashes flutter, and it’s stupid how fond he is of way they bat against her cheek, how all he can think of is the way they laid there after she came off that ladder, relieved that it was him that caught her. “Do?”

Ryuu isn’t the sort of kid who complains; he just logs all the things that confuse him out loud as if he’s some scientist in the field talking about mystifying monkey behaviors. Maybe to that kid he is, since every person he meets acts by some strange set of rules he never got the memo on. But as Obi watches Doc shuffle and shrink, her eyes darting around the room like a cornered gerbil, too small to do anything but tuck and run or maybe bite her way out, he remembers the way Ryuu’s eyebrows would tangle together when she left the room, his mouth all knotted up as he said, I can never tell what she wants.

Obi’d laughed at that; Doc was an open book to anyone with eyes. Sure, the little guy might need her to use her big girl words for her to get the point across, but anyone else could get it with a glance. Or so he’d though, until Chief told him, I can never figure out what she’s thinking.

It’s ridiculous; that girl keeps her heart plain on her sleeve for anyone that cares to see. But standing here, he gets it. His survival might have depended on being able to read a room from a twitch of an eyebrow, but regular people-- regular people have to know to look. Any Chad or Brad or Kevin here would take her batting eyelashes and coy reply as an invitation, but he sees the way her mouth teases at a grimace, the way her fingers roll at the rim of her cup. Just being at this party has her in a full-on chihuahua tremble, and now she thinks she might have to entertain him too--

“No pressure.” He doesn’t look at her when he says it, just lazily scans the room, like it doesn’t matter what she says. Like standing here all night sounds good too, as long as it’s with her. It helps that it’s true. “I just want to plan out my dance card.”

When he chances a glance back, her big eyes are too wide, mouth really flirting with that grimace. “There’s a dance floor in one of the parlors...?”

This girl is something else, that’s for sure. “I didn’t literally mean, I wanted to--” he shakes his head, stifling a laugh-- “Never mind. Just...didn’t His Highness mention something about a game room?”

“Oh!” Everything about Doc is all or nothing; she’s either gung ho or utterly uninterested. But now-- now she perks reluctantly; a morning glory that doesn’t know whether it sees the dawn. “Yes. There are a few pool tables back there, if I’m remembering right. Not bad ones.”

“Cool.” His shoulders slouch into a shrug, a casualty of being casual.“You wanna play a round?”

It’s a long shot; Doc’s jumpy and the last thing she’s gonna want to do is look awkward holding a stick just about as big as she is, but--

Her eyes light up; a quick spark, there and gone before Obi’s even convinced he saw anything at all.

“Well...” Her head sways as she considers, finally settling at a thoughtful tilt. “If you’d really like to...”

Obi huffs out a laugh. “I’m asking if you want to.”

“Oh.” Her mouth curls at an edge, an expression so mysterious it might as well be on his. Rather than hers, he means. Not...anything else. “I guess I could try a round.”

*

Obi’s only a player of opportunity, not a pro, so when it comes to grading tables he’s all by feel, not science. But he’ll admit: the velvet’s smooth on this one; not pilled or piebald, but just the right amount to make a game more about skill than luck. Doc seems to approve too, running her hand along a bumper before she says, “I think this one could do.”

“If you say so.” He plucks the rack out from beneath it, catching balls as Doc rolls them down to him. “You ever played before?”

She hesitates, palm hovering over a yellows stripe before she bounces it down the felt. “A few times. Not, um, recently though.”

“No problem. It’s a quick game to pick up.” He’s careful to sound light, easy, like he isn’t do this just to keep her from having a nervous break in the middle of a kegger. “We won’t do any fancy rules.”

Her eyebrows bounce up, buoying near her hair line. “Fancy rules?”

He shrugs, more natural now that he’s not leaning against a wall like a tool. “Like, billiard stuff. Don’t get any weird ideas about it either-- it’s not because I’m going easy on you, it’s because I don’t remember them. And Señor Google doesn’t need to get involved.”

The hand she’s held out for his phone curls, falling back down to the wood finish. “If you say so.”

With a quick roll across the felt, he sets the triangle right on the little sticker. “What do you think? Do you want to break?”

“Me?” Her eyelashes flutter, stilling once her gaze falls to one of those little metal bits on the edge. “Are you sure you want me to do it?”

“’Course I do, Doc.” His mouth curves in his best won’t-melt-better smiles. “If you’re worried, I can always show you how.”

The offer’s meant for a demo, him at one of the table and her at the other, maybe even a side-by-side just so she can get the angles on it, but the second it’s out of his mouth--

Well, he’s seen movies before. Some guy that looks like Patrick Swayze sidles up to girl he’s with, wrapping his arms around her and pressing close, telling her to move from the hip or something. Just thinking about being close to Doc, closer than they were today in the library, sends a rush right down to his toes, pins and needles pricking in its wake.

God. He twists from the table, sipping at too-sour beer. Three months ago he had game for days, and now he’s struggling to put a piece on the board.

Not that this is what that is. He‘s got varied tastes, sure, but he knows what he likes in a girl: long legs and nipped waists, the sort of girl who smiles like she’s got a secret. A sexy secret. Not--

Not someone who wears a cardigan to a kegger, like she got lost going from the lab to the library. Not even if she smiles when she sees him, saying his name like she’s been waiting. Not even if she looks perfect in his hoodie.

Fuck. His eyes clench shut, trying to block out her smile, so bright where she sits on the floor. I’m glad it’s you, Obi.

He tossed back half his cup, wincing as the sourness washes over him, a cold track to his empty stomach. Two years ago, he would have been thankful for this shit, but now he’s been spoiled by Big Guy’s craft beers and Princess’s bottle snobbery that he’s not sure he can even choke down the rest. A real hardship when his usual plan for dealing with feelings is to black out instead of having them.

Obi shakes himself out like last week’s jeans. There’s no reason to get tripped up over a girl who unironically has to use Urban Dictionary, especially when that girls already has a boyfriend. Or at least, a friend who’s growing more and more boyfriend-shaped by the day. And that friend is the same guy who pulled him out of the garbage. He’s just not used to the attention, that’s all. Nothing more to it than that. Dick completely uninvolved. No reason to get all tied up just because--

“C’mon.”

It’s loud in here, bass pumping from one of the parlors down the hall and everyone getting talking at a volume that can only be termed ‘drunk-loud’ to make up for it. But even still, he hears that, a guy’s voice, almost too flat to sound real. Hears it real clear, since it’s coming from just across a short stretch of felt.

“No need to play games.” Obi’s seen this guy before; just this morning this bro clipped him walking out the door, eyes giving off that really dead fish vibe as he glared back. Hadn’t given off much of an impression, but now that he’s looming over Doc, using every inch of that above-average height, well-- Obi’s noticing him now. “I can go get you something, on the house. Girl as cute as you shouldn’t be paying for her drinks, you know.”

Funny, last he checked drinks were free. At least as long as you had the right equipment below the belt.

“I’m-- I’m fine. Really. See?” She holds up her solo cup like it’s a talisman. “If I finish I’ll just, uh, find a soda.”

“You want a LaCroix?” He steps closer, driving Doc back a step. “Bitches love LaCroix.”

The asshole’s right: bitches do love LaCroix. But hearing this guy say that to Doc, to hear him imply she is one--

Well, it makes him itchy. The kind that’s usually solved by taking a swing and ending a night in the drunk tank.

But that’s not who he is anymore-- no, that’s not who Doc needs him to be. The last thing she needs is another complication, another hurdle to jump before she gives her presentation. The last thing she needs is to be doing it alone.

Obi draws himself up, stretching every last inch until he’s got that same big dick saunter Big Guy does as easy as breathing. Maple Leaf might be able to make it look friendly, like he’s just the boy next door who happens to be hung like a horse, but Obi-- Obi does what he does best: make it look dangerous. Like it’d be a real hassle to fuck with him.

“Hey babe,” he drawls, slinging a lazy arm around her waist. It’s not precisely natural; she’s small and he’s not, and it ends up being more of a slant from shoulder to hip. “You know this guy?”

“Ah!” Her eyes are wide when she looks up, too much white as she presses into him. “Obi. We were-- I was only--”

Yesterday’s Catch of the Day frowns at him. “We were just talking.”

“Cool.” Fuck, but he can feel her shivering. “I thought you were gonna show me how it’s done?”

He’s got a lot of balls-- Chief reminds him of that at least twice a day-- but however much that is, it’s not enough for him to shove his nose right into her hair, to really sell this bit. He leans in a little instead, curling his body around hers to make a nice little scene with as minimal touch as he can.

And still, she stares at him and goes, “What?”

Unbelievable. Doesn’t this girl know a rescue when she sees it? “You know. In pool?”

“OH. Right.” She twists back to Filet of Bro, her shaky smile all apology. “Sorry, I’m, um...”

“Here with me?” Obi offers and the same time she manages, “Busy.”

This girl’s going to be the death of him. Still, it works; the guy glances between them with his glassy eyes. Whatever he sees twists his mouth into a sneer.

“Yeah,” he mutters, turning away. “Whatever.”

*

It’s standard procedure to keep staring, to make sure this asshole feels the yeah keep walking glare against his back until he goes back to whatever hole he crawled out of. But that before Doc collapses, bracing herself against the table as her elbows tremble to hold her.

He doesn’t know what to do with this, whether he should stand back and pretend he doesn’t see her knocking knees, or-- or go right up and rub her back, tell her she’s not alone, the way he always wanted when he...

“Hey.” He slides up beside her, close enough for her to reach out, but not on top of her. “You want to get our of here?”

“N-no!” She shakes her head, her rough bob swaying over her shoulders. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Not to tell you your business, Doc,” he hums, leaning his ass against the table. “But you look like you could be doing better.”

“No, really.” Her hands brace on the top rail, pushing her upright with a gasp. “I can do it.”

“Counter point.” Obi lifts his most skeptical eyebrow. “You don’t have to.”

“I know. But I want to.” Her fingers curl over the bumper, and he see it: the moment that delicate jaw of her sets. Instinctively, he counts the windows. “I want to be okay.”

Weird hill to die on, but no one’s ever accused Doc of being normal either. “Okay.”