ACCESS DENIED

there’s something distinctly uncomfortable about deviating from their usual routine like this; stella’s gotten good at keeping her personal and “professional” lives separate, but under the circumstances... it just made sense, inviting chan over to re-up rather than handing off the goods. for one, he’d requested more than usual (understandable) and for two, she wants to talk to him without having to worry about being overheard. he’d been the one to look into the email, he’s the computer guy, and if anyone knows what she wants to know, it’ll be him. it doesn’t take long for her phone to light up with the intercom notification, and she presses the button to let him in then grabs a pair of glasses from the kitchen and sets them on the coffee table, bar-slash-bong cart already pulled closer in anticipation of their inevitable need to de-stress. she’s already at the door when he knocks, but if chan’s surprised by only having to knock once, he doesn’t show it. “hey, come on in.” stella’s pretty sure he’s been to her place before, some time last year for something she’d hosted at home, so she assumes he’ll remember to take his shoes off before following her through the archway and into the living room. 

he nods at her greeting, returning it with a brief, "hey, thanks." he slips his birkenstocks off (he's not an american, after all) and follows stella into the living room. even on the surface, stella and chan have always been radically different people, but as chan takes in stella's apartment again, he's once again reminded that she lives in a pink fairytale while chan's own living situation is more similar to the troll living underneath the bridge. "i'm good. comparisons have been made between me and a camel in the past on good merit," he says. "on the other hand, if you have something to snort, swallow, or smoke, i could be very interested."

as the last of the mourners are exiting the crowded building (which, richard notes, is far more crowded than he ever could have expected), he's perched himself on a step, nose and cheeks beginning to flush from the cold. he's not in any hurry to leave, however, and he's not in a rush; no matter how controversial of an opinion it may have been, richard de whitt always thought that marcel dupont was a great man. a brilliant mind, a brilliant professor, a brilliant leader. sure, his methods were a bit controversial, but aren't all the best leaders controversial at times? richard had borderline blackmailed the man to earn his spot in praeditus, but that never meant he didn't respect him. or that the sorrow of his loss wasn't weighing on him. he ponders this momentarily, that the magnitude of the tragedy was made so much greater by the man's brilliance — it's different than the death of some unassuming banker or common worker. it's marcel dupont, a genius, and murdered, too. it's almost akin to the assassination of caesar.

beware the ides of march.

richard fishes around in his interior coat pocket, pulling out a flask and opening it up, taking a swig. sure, a funeral isn't the most appropriate place to drink (understatement of the century, perhaps), but it's cold and the scotch warms him down to the bones. he notices a figure standing next to him, then, and looks up to see a familiar face. a wicked half smile appears on his features as he holds up the contraband, offering it to them and raising his eyebrow.

"lagavulin," he states, propping himself up on his free hand, "seems like you could use it — you look like hell."

he's in the middle of observing the faces and moods of the funeral crowd around him when he gets a nudge from next to him. richard isn't an unwelcome face, but chan's already coming off this morning's breakfast of amphetamines with some mixed results, so he's not sure how liquor would help that. then again, whiskey certainly can't hurt. "sure," chan says. he reaches down, takes a hearty couple shots, then gives the bottle back to richard. "bloody hell, that's horrible." chan reaches into his pocket and grabs a few jolly ranchers leftover from earlier. he opens one, sucking on it as a makeshift chaser. "so, what's your review of the last hour's affairs? figure we'll make it onto the front page of funerals weekly?"

and in the golden light of the greenhouse, gemma can’t help but admire the sharp slope of chan’s jawline, and the subtle glimmer of something-she-can’t-quite-put-her-finger-on in his eyes. she does this a lot - she’s realised - romanticises things she shouldn’t, admires insignificant moments and cradles them close to her chest. “i just came to get away from people. you know.. with everything that’s going on, i thought this was a good hiding place. clearly, i was mistaken.”

and yet, chan does empathize with gemma's desire to get away from people. it's what motivated his coming here to read, too, and he's reminded of the fact that besides a couple others in praeditus, gemma was one of the main members besides chan who actually held some affection for marcel. so he softens, remembers dom's words about gemma being too good for him, and tries to be a bit kinder in his next words. "i get it," he replies. "i don't think i can handle another conversation about murder weapons and possible motive. it feels too much like i'm playing a game of clue." he shuffles between feet, unsure what to say next. "what are you reading?' he settles for, lamely.

she grins in triumph as chan concedes (it took much less time than she expected, honestly) and she hums, "it will be small, promise. just, like, the four people you find tolerable, me, and some of the other club members. my place, obviously, and even i wouldn't listen to drake after the year 2018, give me some credit." tallie lets out a melodic laugh, taking out her phone and typing a few things into her notes app for planning purposes, "just dinner. and some drinking. and the coke, of course. i'll get some other party favors too, really make it a grab bag of substances." that sounds like something he'd like. an she's not sure how else to bring a smile to his often stoic face. maybe fitz's presence will help, "it'll be fun. i'm good at fun, you know this."

he flips through his last notecard from the deck and finds that he's down to just four cards that he's struggling to produce a definition for. to anyone else, it would be a win; to chan, it becomes tempting to throw himself off of something tall. "fuck this, i'm going to office hours," he says to himself. then, to tallie: "congratulations, you're the winner of a brand new individual table. treat it well, no funny business after hours." he packs up his things in a rush, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. before he leaves, he looks down at tallie with one more piece of input. "for the birthday cake, i'm partial to strawberry, red velvet, or funfetti. maybe all three in one. i'd like to think you respect me enough to spare me from a carrot cake."

that is until chan park's voice interrupts his thoughts, a voice which he worries is a hallucination until he turns to see a soaking chan running up to him. they're the only two people on the quad, and like everything else in the last six hours it feels surreal, like they're actually the only two people left on this island, everyone else packed up their bags and left to go somewhere professors weren't getting murdered. "you know, when i told you that you feature in my wet dreams, this isn't quite what i meant," fitz says with a lofty smirk. chan takes his glasses off to wipe the water from their rims and it's so fucking stupid, this attraction fitz holds for the smallest things, like the sight of chan's eyes when they aren't hidden behind thick glass, like the way chan's hair curls against his head reminds fitz of a vine clinging to a root. "sure," fitz concedes, "i suppose i could fit you into my busy schedule. but i'm afraid it'll cost you - you know how the economy is these days." before chan can protest, fitz leans in for a kiss. fitz can't help but wonder if chan can taste tallie on his lips still - he doesn't know why, but fitz hopes he can.

and then they're off, very singing-in-the-rain sans the singing, their shoulders rubbing against each other as fitz lets chan hold the umbrella (it's the price chan pays for being significantly taller, the bastard). "some night, huh?" fitz says in way of conversation. it already sounds like a line that every praeditus member will have on repeat in some version for the next week. "are you alright, by the way? you know, your rendezvous with the trashcan and the corner?" he hesitates before he says his next line. "i was worried about you." another hesitation. "if i'm being honest, i worry about you kind of often."

another occasion is now. fitz quips about wet dreams, and maybe chan really has lost his mind, because that elicits a laugh out of him. it's almost a giggle, as fucked up as that is, kind of breathy and unexpected, but it leaves chan's mouth nonetheless. the laugh is over as soon as it starts, but chan's sure fitz won't shut up about it for another week. chan concedes to the kiss, if only to wipe the grin off fitz's face for a second.

chan's eyes narrow as fitz talks, and he hates this, abhors this, the fact that chan's brief moment of face-in-trashcan has allowed the group to see him vulnerable for a second. "i'm fine," chan says harshly. "it's not my fault something at the banquet was poisoned or just putrid. good luck getting alumnae donations with that kind of oversight in the kitchen." the rain comes down harder around them. chan is about to suggest they camp out in a drier shelter until it settles down, but then fitz continues talking. i was worried about you. chan rolls his eyes. "right, of course, and all that worry bubbled up inside you and manifested in a profound need to crawl into some girl's sheets. glad you're finding a productive outlet for all those complex emotions, fitzgerald." it's not like chan can't tell that's where fitz was before this, not like chan can't smell her on him. "but let me save you the hassle, yeah? i'm doing so, so well. worry about yourself for a change."

only decent. again, chan earns a laugh, proving eternally that he talks a big game for someone entirely adept at being funny and charming, and dom nearly misses the window to catch that hurtled pillow before it tumbles off the balcony entirely.

“you’re attractive but insufferable. what other commonalities do you need?” it is then dom’s turn to consider, head tilted and gaze thoughtful, adding the bare numerals of the two equations against each other as he props the pillow atop chan’s socks. finally, he deduces, “gemma’s too good for you, but you knew that already, didn’t you?” gemma has never put herself first. every trait chan does not share with gemma overlap in the venn diagram of the reasons he likes her. the combination of chan and fitz, though, even while chan reduces the latter to his head game, changes dom’s smile from a crooked grin to something quieter, something all-together too knowing. “i like fitz.” his arms folding against the throw pillow, pinning the slippery boy genius into a jenga-tower of confessions as he offers only, “he pays attention to you.”

fitz knows what chan eats, doesn’t. fitz notices chan’s especially long insomniatic stints. meraviglia’s so-called golden boy hangs onto that wobble of words and decides to believe, not for the first time, in things that are good enough.

“are you really surprised with all those parties you go to? i mean, you’re lucky it’s just the flu, fuck. you could catch mono just standing next to the jungle juice. tell me if it gets chicken soup bad, i’ll come over and confiscate your textbooks ‘til you’re rested.”

as for the gemma comment — "you're too good for me," chan rebuts. "i don't see you advocating that we suspend this friendship on grounds of unequal morality." he shrugs again, apparently his signature move of the night. "fitz can't tell a quadratic formula from a quadrilateral. sorry, but that's a romantic non-starter."

after all, dom has always been the more forgiving out of the two of them. aileen isn't perfect, but dom sees through that to remember the good. fitz isn't perfect, and chan fixates on those imperfections like they're the only things to know about him.

"yeah, right. thanks." chan says. he wishes fitz didn't take his gummy worms, so chan could chew on something to break the silence. no such luck. instead, chan has to sit here, devoid of a snack, but equipped with plenty of guilt to go around. he's been lying to dom for almost a year now about this, isn't it supposed to get easier? "god, i still can't get over how fucked this week has been," he notes. "before everything happened at the banquet, i was gonna talk to you about something, actually," he pipes up. "it's about my d-" he's about to say drug addiction, it's almost there, the tip of his tongue, and then — "dad." he settles on a different d-word instead, a coward where it counts. "it's about my dad. he and i are kind of going through a rough spot right now." and that, at least, isn't a lie.

she  turns  from  the  group  she  had  been  talking  to  to  see  who’s  interrupted,  scoffing  lightly  when  she  sees  that  it’s  chan.  “  what,  need  someone  to  hold  your  hair  while  you  puke  again  ?  because  i’m  not  interested.  ”    she  tries  to  turn  away  from  him,  but  he’s  persistent,  invoking  the  other  night  far  more  publicly  than  she’d  like.  glaring  at  him  and  not  bothering  to  say  a  word  she  begins  moving  through  the  crowd  to  somewhere  quieter,  expecting  him  to  follow  along.  out  on  the  balcony,  she  turns  around  and  crosses  her  arms,  “  alright,  what  is  it  you  want  ?  ”

though gen, infuriating as she can be, doesn't play easy and agree verbally to speak with him, chan takes her cue to weave across the crowd until they're standing on the balcony. outside, he takes the pack of smokes (non-herbal this time) from his back pocket and opens them, lighting one with a practiced efficiency. he's not a regular smoker (his regular vices are much worse than that), but stressful times call for extraneous measures. he extends the pack of cigarettes and the lighter towards gen, trying to offer some semblance of truce to underline their conversation. chan is well-aware that he's been wary around gen in regards to her relationship with dom, and that she certainly hasn't responded well to that, but he's not one to forget that she's one of the most capable members of their little dinner club, and he needs those kinds of allies right now. "the news about dupont is shocking and deeply upsetting," chan says after a heavy drag. "but you know as well as i do that for us, it's also dangerous." he looks at gen with a heavy gaze. "he fucked us with that book, the one with all of our secrets in it. if the authorities get their hands on it first, every one of us becomes a person with a motive. you want to rule dc, i want to rule silicon valley — both of those things get a lot harder with a 'criminal investigation' section on our wikipedia page." another drag, a little more urgent, a little more distressed. "do you think it would be idiotic to look for it?"

where ice cream was involved, though, she was more than happy to endure a little discomfort. "sure," she replied with a shrug, moving her bag so he could sit next to her and accepting the spoon he presented, not particularly concerned with the idea of sharing germs — chan seemed clean enough. after a mouthful and a satisfied sigh, she handed the spoon back, letting him take his turn. "thanks. i swear ben and jerry put crack in their ice cream, it's so good." a characteristic silence fell between them, during which she wished she'd had another spoonful so that she didn't have to be the one making conversation. "i forgot to thank you, last night," she said finally. she actually couldn't remember if anyone had thanked him. "i know we didn't figure out who was messaging us, but thank you for trying. you did a good job."

he looks up from the next scoop of ice cream at mari's follow-up. "right, well, i'm still working on it," he says. what he doesn't say is how much he's been working on it, sleepless nights under his eyes and keyboard-inflicted bruises on his fingers. he's never been comfortable with problems he can't solve. "but it's not supposed to take this long, so that's an unpleasant sign. we might have to resort to educated guesses from a gillian flynn blueprint." he offers another round of b&j's to mari with a raised eyebrow. "you don't have any writerly hunches about what this might be about?"

her area of study provides her with no need to visit the greenhouse - she is not one for botany or ornithology (although she did take a flower arranging class when she was twelve) - but the peace is exactly what she needs at this very moment in time. there’s a beauty in viridescence impossible to find elsewhere, petals and leaves still in full bloom despite the threat of winter slowly creeping upon the island. she settles herself on the floor in the corner, a blanket tucked beneath her and wrapping around slim thighs. she imagines what she must look like from the other side of the glass - could it be believed she’s just another plant, rapidly growing in her reach towards the sun?

gemma is ruminating on the events of the past few days when she hears the door open, torn from her thoughts as she waits for the intruder to finally make themselves known. and despite this being her safe space, she suddenly feels frightened. what if there really was a murderer loose on campus? would the african violets and guzmania protect her? would the orchids fight to the death for her? would the spanish moss cover her in camouflage until it was safe to depart? it’s these questions that are running through her mind as she spots chan’s familiar face making his way through the greenery. “you scared me!” she’ll blush, an odd sense of vulnerability toward someone she wouldn’t consider a friend. “is there a class coming in soon? do i need to leave?”

so anyway, the greenhouse is a bit like those northeastern gardens, and chan goes there sometimes to read the same books he used to read when he was seventeen. he's about to do that very thing when he opens the door and finds a familiar face already there. he does the same thing he always does when he sees gemma, soften just around the edges at first and then harden twice as much in response, lest he reveal the fondness he feels for the girl when nobody is looking. "no, just me," he says. "plus isaac asimov." he holds up the book he was planning on reading, though the attempt is now abandoned. "what are you doing here? weary of extra credit, you've turned to intellectual insights from the isodons?"

dom breaks a soft smile, rueful and contemplative. "speaking of gemma, i think it's your fucking turn to overshare, park. i got a fistful of gummy worms from your little arm candy earlier today. honestly, that mutual sweet tooth of yours made that whole thing make more sense." clearly, dom has picked up the propensity for gossip from his nights with em and dove. he employs it well, down to twisting toward chan, offering his lap up for the other's legs, the same way the girls always do to him, while he gestures to their veritable nest chan has built. "not all this, though. i know you kind of well, since when do you run cold?"

at the gesture, chan furrows his eyebrows but complies anyway, twisting his body so his socks brush against the other man. "i don't have to share shit," chan says with a laugh. "i'm the greatest mind of our generation writing two different senior theses that will likely define theoretical mathematics for the next half decade, wherein there am i supposed to fit petty relationship drama? do you think erdös was going around writing love letters in between publishing a paper a day?" and yet, the look dom is giving him isn't an easy one to push away, and so chan has no choice but to sigh and offer meager confessions: "i think gemma is attractive but insufferable," he says. "and i think fitz is insufferable but attractive." a beat. "and his head game is decent." chan breaks into a smile, taking one of the balcony pillows and throwing it toward dom. "that's all you're getting! greed isn't a good look on anyone, let alone meraviglia's golden boy."

he doesn't even notice the blankets until dom points them out, and then he's shifting nervously. the truth is he doesn't run cold, the coke is more than sufficient at ensuring that, but every since pukegate at the chapel, chan's been taking it easier than he usually does. as a result, not quite full-blown withdrawal, but little hints of it — a propensity to shiver a bit when others might not. "body's not used to fall, i guess," chan says. he hesitates, and every nerve in his body freezes, screaming just tell him just tell him tellhimtellhimtellhim. he opens his mouth: "and." chan says. the words wobble. "i think i'm catching something, maybe. fucking freshmen flu getting to me."

"anyway - what brings you here this morning? looking for something for research? for fun? or just something to take your mind off of current events?" emilia rocks back in her chair a bit, hoping that her allusion to marcel's death doesn't ruffle too many feathers with chan.

"i'm looking for a book called the animals among us by john bradshaw, most likely in the nonfiction section? not for a class or anything, just... fun," he says, though the words sound foreign in his mouth. chan struggles to characterize anything he does as fun, as emilia puts it, since he'd like to think he's far too serious of an academic for that. "and maybe to take my mind off everything else happening, too. i guess you achieve that by working here, right?" again, he almost stumbles over the word 'working', like he's learning a dead language.

he goes to dom's kitchen and grabs two wine glasses, plus some sprite from the fridge (he's not about to drink wine without a mixer — no matter how expensive the bottle is, chan will find it sour). "how was your summer?" chan asks, not because he particularly cares but because he knows it's the polite thing to do. it's something he's working on, that allergy to small talk that he inherited from his mother.