#yogsfic

Parvis is sprawled out across Will’s knees, head in Will’s lap. The rest of him is draped across the bench they’re sat on, his legs hanging off the end at an angle that doesn’t look particularly comfortable but apparently works for him. Or, at least, he’s not complaining about it – though considering the amount of alcohol in his system at this point, that doesn’t really count for much.

Someone apparently called Kirin is on his other side, perched on the small sliver of bench not taken up by Parvis’ sprawl and Will’s tired hunch. He’s got an arm around Will’s shoulders, leaning against him and doing what feels like his best to crush him. The man’s a good foot taller than him, probably more, broad shouldered and heavy and very definitely not doing anything to keep himself even remotely upright. His cheek’s resting against the top of Will’s head, beard a barely-felt scratch against Will’s temple, and Will’s not entirely sure he’s actually still awake.

Part of Will is honoured that he apparently makes such a good pillow. The rest of him is rather more concerned about the way the arm trapped between the two of them is going numb.

Will’s not actually entirely sure who Kirin is, if he’s being honest. He’s seen him around the place once or twice, recognises his face – but an impressively drunk Parvis had dragged him over to where Will had been sat in some unfamiliar bar at a little before midnight, introduced him as my new favourite person ever, and that had been it. Parvis had dragged them both around for the rest of the evening and Kirin had followed, an arm around Parvis’ shoulder and a bemused smile on his face at Parvis’ exuberance and enthusiasm.

All in all, he’s been the easier of the two to deal with, even taking the lack of feeling in Will’s arm into account.

“Vampires,” repeats Parvis, and tries to dig his teeth into Will’s jeans-covered thigh by way of clarification. He fails, mostly ends up drooling a bit, and Will sighs.

“I will push you onto the floor,” he says – but it’s mostly an empty threat, one hand coming up to card through the mussed and slightly sweaty tangle of Parvis’ hair.

Parvis giggles, wrinkles up his nose, and doesn’t seem too bothered by the prospect. “What if– what if I’m a vampire, Will?” he says. Thankfully, he doesn’t try and bite anyone again. “I’ve got teeth. I could be a vampire. I’d be a good vampire.”

There’s a moment’s pause where Will considers dealing with all the problems in that sentence – starting with why do you want to be a vampire and ending with I’m not sure having teeth is the primary requirement there – and then just gives up. He strokes a thumb through Parvis’ hair, feels the way Kirin’s breath stirs his hair with every exhale, watches the sky fade from black to blue, and breathes.

“He talks a lot, doesn’t he?”

Kirin’s voice is thick with sleepiness, lips only an inch from Will’s ear, and Will can’t help huffing out an amused noise. “He really, really does,” he says, and can’t help but smile when Kirin chuckles.

After a long moment, Kirin shifts a little, so Will’s arm is no longer trapped between the two of them. On the bright side, that means it’s no longer going numb. On the less bright side, that means the pins and needles can begin as the blood returns to it. It also means he’s leant even more against Will’s side, leaving Will’s arm nowhere to really go other than around Kirin’s shoulder – but Will’s sort of okay with that.

Apparently bored by the lack of attention being paid to him, Parvis makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a distressed kitten, and begins his inefficient attempt to chew through Will’s jeans again. There’s an unpleasant wet patch forming against Will’s outer thigh that’s entirely the fault of Parvis’ mouth, but Parvis doesn’t seem to notice.

“Stop that,” says Will, and flicks Parvis’ nose. He sighs again when Parvis tries to chew on his fingers instead. “You’re terrible.”

“Pretty,” adds Kirin, voice little more than a murmur. Will’s not sure whether he’s referring to Parvis, the sunrise, or whatever he’s seeing behind his own half-closed eyelids – he’s still not entirely sure if Kirin is awake, or just sleeping with his eyes partially open and sleep-talking at convenient moments – but he hums in agreement nonetheless.

“Okay, you’re pretty, your face is a work of art…” sings Parvis, delighted and out of tune, giggling. He rolls over onto his back so he’s staring at Will’s face, at the slowly-purpling sky beyond that and the faint scattering of stars laced through it.

“Aren’t you in a band?” asks Will, absently carding fingers through the short hair at the nape of Kirin’s neck out of sheer force of habit. “How are you tone deaf and still in a band?”

Parvis giggles harder, but somehow manages to get the rest of the words out through his laughter. “Your smile could light up New York City after dark.” He reaches up vague, questing fingers over his head. Somehow, they manage to find Kirin’s face to poke at his mouth. Kirin sighs, chuckles a little, and Parvis grins wider at the rush of warm air over his fingertips. “Okay, you’re cover-boy pretty, stamped with a beauty mark…”

His fingers dance over Will’s cheeks, tracing out his freckles – one, two, three, too many to count – and Will feels his cheeks heat up, knows he’s probably gone bright red.

“You’re terrible,” repeats Will, though there’s no heat to the words, just tired affection. He threads his fingers a little higher up through Kirin’s hair to run careful nails over his scalp, and sighs at the way Kirin curls into him. The weight’s almost comforting, now, the warmth of the two people pressed up against him enough to stave off the shivers of the early-morning cold.

“I definitely need both your numbers,” says Parvis sleepily, ignoring Will completely as per usual and yawning widely. The sun’s rising, which seems like the perfect time to start thinking about sleep.

Kirin hums quietly, tilts his head a little more until his lips are pressed against Will’s temple, which does nothing to help the slowly fading blush across Will’s face. “I’m not actually sure I know where my phone is,” he admits, patting vaguely at his pockets with one hand before giving up almost immediately. “Ah well. It’ll turn up. Probably. Everything’s fine.”

Will laughs, flushes again when he feels the way Kirin’s lips curve into a smile against his skin at the noise. “Parvis, you already have my number.”

Parvis blinks up at him, grins wide and slightly sappy. One of Kirin’s hands settles on his head, and Parvis leans into it – into the way Kirin’s fingers link with Will’s against the tangle of his hair, the heat of their hands sinking into his scalp. “Oh, yeah,” he says, softly, and reaches up to touch two fingers to the corners of Will’s mouth. “I do.”

And then he promptly falls asleep, mouth open and drooling against Will’s leg.

It’s around the point that Parvis starts to snore, barely three minutes later, that Will decides they really need to get back to their student accommodation. “Wake up,” he says, tapping Parvis’ shoulder. “You need a bed, and I’m not dragging you to one.”

When that doesn’t work, Will jams two fingers into Parvis’ ribs, and then grabs him around the waist to prevent him from rolling off the bench with his flailing. “Up!” he growls, detaching himself from Kirin and standing up to haul at Parvis’ upper body, ignoring the groaning noises the action produces that are somewhat reminiscent of the undead. “I swear to god, Parvis…”

Kirin watches the performance with something between amusement and confusion, before getting to his own feet and stretching expansively – something Will’s very grateful for. Despite his height, Parvis is scrawny enough Will can just about manhandle him. Judging by Kirin’s broad shoulders and solid torso, Will wouldn’t be able to do the same with him.

It takes a considerable amount of hauling and supporting and cajoling to get Parvis on his feet, and he only manages to stay on them by wrapping arms around Will’s shoulders and leaning heavily against him. This close, his breath smells of cheap alcohol and something sweet, probably the coke he’d been mixing with whatever he was drinking, and Will wrinkles his nose in distaste. “You’re disgusting,” he informs Parvis, wrapping a reluctant arm around his waist to stabilise him.

“And you’re pretty,” retorts Parvis, swaying forward until their noses nearly touch, giggling at how red Will turns – whether from embarrassment or annoyance, he doesn’t know and doesn’t really care. “Pretty, pretty Willy Strifey…”

“That’s not an insult, Parvis,” mutters Will, pushing his face away and trying to ignore Kirin’s poorly-muffled laughter.

As if suddenly reminded of Kirin’s continued existence, Parvis perks up a little, prodding Will’s shoulders with the fingers of the arm thrown over it. “Oh, yeah! What’s happening to him?” he asks, hanging off of Will’s neck and waving a hand in the vague direction of Kirin.

For a brief second, Will is annoyed – apparently, he’s now responsible for the strange man that Parvis picked up, purely because he’s the most sober, which doesn’t really seem fair. But Kirin’s spinning in circles, peering at the skyline in a mystified and distinctly non-sober fashion, so it’s a fair enough question.

Will sighs, and turns to face Kirin, Parvis swaying like a counterweight against his hip. “Where’re you staying?” he asks, and Kirin shrugs.

“I’m kind of lost,” he says, apologetically – as though it remotely bothers Will whether he’s lost or not. He doesn’t sound too concerned, though. “I’m sure I’ll get home fine, though. My flat’s probably somewhere…” He spins in another circle and staggers, before staring up at the stars, frowning. “It’s fine.”

Will sighs, and wishes he were drunk enough to be okay with leaving Kirin to wander the streets in the early hours of the morning. “It’s not fine,” he says, exhaustedly, and grabs Kirin’s wrist to tug him along behind them. “You’re coming with us. Come on.”

He pretends not to notice the large, slightly dopey grin that spreads across Kirin’s face, and very carefully doesn’t wonder whether he’s just been played.

The walk back is, thankfully, largely uneventful. Parvis has trouble staying on his feet and staying awake, but Kirin’s steady enough to help Will hold him up. Between the two of them, he manages to walk most of the way, his cheerful singing slowly quieting down to an out-of-tune hum.

Kirin gives him a piggy-back for the rest of the short trip, draped drunk and sprawling and still humming to himself over the width of Kirin’s shoulders. It’s an effort for Will not to stare, reluctantly amazed at the way Kirin bears Parvis’ weight so effortlessly, despite the very distinctly crooked line his footsteps make across the pavement.

The student housing flat block isn’t too far, a ten minute walk from the bar they’d been in, which itself was a five minute walk from the park they’d all ended up in. The walk back takes them over twenty, thanks mostly to Parvis’ shambling gait at first, and then to his weight slowing Kirin down, but they do all eventually make it in one piece.

Opening the door to the building, and then the door to the flat Will and Parvis share with Xephos and Lalna, and then the door to Will’s room, is something of an adventure. For a heart-stopping moment outside the building itself, Will thinks he’s actually lost his keys – but then he finds them in Parvis’ pocket, and from there it’s just a case of remembering which key is for which door, and then remembering exactly how keys work.

He realises, as he fumbles his attempt to put the key in the lock for the fourth time, that he may be drunker than he’d thought.

When they all finally fall into Will’s room – literally, falling through the doorway when the door suddenly opens with them all leaning against it – Parvis is asleep again on Kirin’s back, and neither Kirin nor Will are particularly awake. While Will shucks off his coat and scarf, carefully toeing off his boots, Kirin heads straight for the bed, taking Parvis with him.

By the time Will’s kicked his shoes off, moving both Kirin and Parvis’ shoes out the way of the door so they won’t all trip over them in the morning, his bed has already been stolen.

Kirin’s taking up most of it, sprawling expansively across the mattress, eyes already closed. Tucked under his arm and pressed against his ribcage is Parvis, a ball of too-long limbs somehow wedged between his side and the wall.

Will sighs. He can always go and sleep in Parvis’ bed, provided he’s forgotten to lock the door to his room as he usually does – and if that fails, he can brave waking Xephos up to try and beg the blow-up mattress off of him. Not that he particularly relishes the thought of waking the other student up at what’s rapidly approaching five in the morning.

Standing there, running a hand through his hair in faint exasperation, he jumps when Kirin’s hand curls around his wrist. It tugs him insistently towards the bed, only holds on tighter when he tries to pull his arm away. “No,” says Kirin, plaintively. Will tries to extract his wrist again, fails to pry the bands of iron that are Kirin’s fingers away from his wrist. “No, please, don’t do that. Please.”

He tugs again – and Will, exhausted and still a little, perhaps a lot, drunk and so very done with all of this, lets himself tumble onto the bed. Onto Kirin’s chest.

“Better,” murmurs Kirin, sounding inordinately pleased with himself, rearranging an unhelpfully ragdoll Will into a more comfortable position. He ends up with his head tucked under Kirin’s chin, curled mostly on the other man’s chest, legs tangled with Parvis’. One of Kirin’s arms is thrown over his shoulders. “Much better.”

Will wants to argue, to point out that this really isn’t better at all. There’s far too many of them in a single bed. They’re going to overheat horrifically in the tiny room, someone’s going to fall off the mattress, and they’re all going to wake up in the morning with aches from being contorted into strange positions.

Lying sets his tea down in front of him, and then swipes at the back of his head, a gentle clip around the ear that makes Kirin yelp at the wound to his pride nonetheless. “ That’s the most pretentious thing you’ve ever said,” they complain dryly, settling down in a chair across the table from him and setting their own cup of tea down. “And a load of rubbish to boot. But yes. I won’t claim to understand your strange and sudden affection for two people you hardly know. Romantic love is, I must admit, something of a mystery to me.”

“But you love me, right?” teases Kirin, peering at Lying over the top of his mug and batting his eyelashes at them. “Right?” He laughs at the face Lying pulls, all frowning disgust and stuck-out tongue in a parody of revulsion, and blows gently on the hot tea to try and cool it.

“If you believe that, you either have a very strange definition of love, or you’re more deluded than I thought,” mutters Lying. They can’t help the way the corner of their lip twitches up at Kirin’s renewed laughter, though, at the way he has to set his tea down on the table to avoid slopping the boiling liquid all over himself as his shoulders shake. “Oh, come on, it wasn’t that funny.”

After several moments, Kirin eventually calms, wheezing out a slow exhale and rubbing at the corners of his eyes with one thumb. “Oh, your face,” he manages, shaking his head.

Lying sighs, drumming their crimson nails against the side of the delicate, floral-patterned cup. “And here I was thinking you might have matured a little since I saw you last,” they said, the icy disappointment in their voice belied by an undercurrent of affection. “Evidently not.”

“You know me.” Kirin snorts, curling his hands around his mug and then hissing when the heat seeping through it burns his palms, letting go again quickly. “I don’t believe in all that getting old and sensible nonsense.” He smiles lopsidedly, blowing carefully on his tea and lifting the cup to his lips with the handle to take a tentative sip. Emboldened by the lack of burnt tongue as he swallows, he takes another mouthful, sighing quietly. “Hmm,” he murmurs, thoughtfully. “Spiced rooibos?”

“With rose and apple,” confirms Lying with a small dip of their head. They take a small sip from their own cup, letting their eyes close for a moment. There are few things better, in their opinion, than freshly-brewed tea, and it deserves to be thoroughly enjoyed. “You like it?”

Humming softly, Kirin takes another sip, savouring the taste. “Delicious,” he says, “although I’ll admit to still being fond of citrus. There’s nothing quite like lemon tea and honey.” He wraps broad hands around the cup, now warm rather than burning, and exhales quiet contentment as the heat seeps down through his palms to settle in his bones.

“How’s the rest of university life going?” asks Lying, after a minute, thumb rubbing absently at the curve of his mug’s handle, drumming fingernails against the body of it with a satisfying pattern of clinks. “Other than the hopeless romanticism in the face of your complete and utter lack of a love life?”

Kirin winces, ducking his head a little. “Ouch,” he mutters, pressing a hand to his heart. “You wound me, old friend.” When Lying doesn’t respond, though, he sighs, shoulders rounding a little as he slouches over his tea. “...Not bad?” he offers, tiredly, all the tease and banter gone from his voice. “Not bad at all, all things considered, but you know how PhDs are…”

“Exhausting?” offers Lying, taking a sip of their own tea with one arched eyebrow.

Nodding, Kirin lets his eyes drop to the table, moving his hands in small circles until he can stare at the swirling liquid in the bottom of it. “Exactly,” he agrees. “It doesn’t help that Ridge managed to scrape his way into returning this year, somehow. Head of department said he’d promised to be on his best behaviour or something like that. Hah.”

Lying’s eyebrow managed to arch even further, far enough it was in danger of disappearing into their hairline. “That sounds, pardon my French, rather like bullshit to me.”

“Yeah,” said Kirin, a faint note of misery in his voice. “Everyone else is used to it enough by now that they just ignore him, but there’s this new intern in the lab I had to explain everything to, and…” He groans, dragging a hand across his face. “A fun conversation, that one. Hello, welcome to the lab, by the way there’s this guy who’ll almost certainly ruin one your experiments for the fun of it at least once, try to avoid him, though he’s probably going to introduce himself– I’m this close to doing something ill-advised about him. This close.”

His fingers tighten unconsciously around the fine china of his mug, and it’s only when Lying reaches out to touch a small, well-manicured hand to his wrist that he notices how white-knuckled his grip is. “Sorry,” he murmurs, letting go with a force of will and rubbing his face with his free hand. “I’m not trying to break your nice cups, I promise.”

Lying inclines their head in a silent don’t worry, and hums softly, looking thoughtful as they take a sip of their tea. “Do you want me to make his life living hell?” they ask after a moment, voice deceptively sweet.

“Lying, not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but...” Kirin sighs, dragging a hand through his hair and dropping his elbows onto the table. “What are you going to do? He’s a PhD student, and–”

“–I’m a staff member with a doctorate and tenure,” finishes Lying for him, baring their teeth in something that could, very generously, be called a smile. “I can have him dragged through the mud if I so choose.”

Shuddering a little, Kirin carefully dodges responding to the tempting offer – he’s not about to risk getting Lying fired for a bit of petty bullying, no matter how much the thought of making Ridge squirm appeals to him. “Your poor, poor students,” he mutters instead, shuddering dramatically. “If you’re this much of a terror out of the classroom, I dread to think what you’re like inside it.”

Shaking their head, Lying scoffs. “Oh, please,” they say, derisively, smile shrinking a little but still concerningly toothsome. “If they can’t handle me, how on earth are they going to handle a career in law? I’m only doing my best to prepare the small, fragile little things for what they’re going to be facing later on.”

“How many have you reduced to tears so far this year?” asks Kirin, the smile slowly returning to his lips.

“At least one per lecture – although, I must admit, it’s getting harder.” Lying’s smile widens again, and although it looks vicious, Kirin can see a faint glimmer of pride in their eyes. “They’re learning.” They drain the last of the tea from their cup, and when they set it down, they’re frowning slightly. “One of them’s even gotten it into her head to argue with me. Nano, I think she goes by.”

Kirin’s eyebrows shoot up high enough they almost reach his hairline. “Argue?” he says, incredulously. “With you? She must be mad.” He’s been friends with Lying for years, now, known them ever since he was a tiny first-year undergraduate – but even he’s not sure he’d voluntarily try and argue with them.

“She’s fiery,” says Lying, and if it weren’t for long years of familiarity, he’d miss the intrigued note of delight in their voice. Lying loves someone to go toe-to-toe with almost as much as they loathe people who talk back to them. “I… admire her tenacity, especially for a first year.”

“Oh, you admire her tenacity,” teases Kirin, smiling, ducking to avoid the swat Lying aims at his head as they rise from their seat. “Hey! Hey. Be gentle with me. I’m a fragile, hopeless romantic, remember?”

Lying snorts at that. “Hopeless romantic, yes,” they say, pouring themself another cup of now-lukewarm tea from the cooling, slightly over-steeped pot. “Fragile, no.” They pointedly ignore the tea cup Kirin holds out to them, nose in the air as they settle back into your seat. “Get it yourself, if you’re going to be so rude.”

Pouting, Kirin throws Lying a look intended to be deeply wounded, but he suspects Lying would probably just call pathetic. They’ve always been rather immune to his puppy eyes. “You’re such a bully,” he complains, teasingly, getting up and heading over to the kettle to pour himself some more tea.

“Of course.” Lying doesn’t seem terribly bothered by the accusation. A small, fond smile curls the corners of their lips up when Kirin’s back is turned, aimed at the broad expanse of his back and the plaid pattern of his shirt. “How long have you known me for? More than six years, now? I’m honestly not quite sure what else you expect from me.”

“William?” prompts Sips, curiously, one eyebrow raised. He’s never seen Will look anxious like this before. Stressed, overworked, tired, pissed off… but never scared, never this distracted, never nervous and twitching and fidgeting like a spooked rabbit. He’s somewhere between intrigued and, against his better judgement, concerned.

“None of your business,” Will mutters, mutinously, ignoring Sips in favour of worrying at his lip with his teeth – before then jumping again when, ten seconds later, his phone vibrates in his hand. The screen lights up with a new text.

“Aww, no need to be like that, you big babby,” says Sips, in that soft, easy drawl of his. He nudges Will in the ribs with one elbow, thankfully far more gently and far less bonily than Parvis usually does. “We’re friends, right? Buddies. You can trust me.”

“I wouldn’t trust you further than I could throw you.” Will scowls when Sips just laughs quietly – it hadn’t been a joke. “No, seriously.” He pushes his reading glasses a little further up his nose, and resists the urge to squint out of sheer force of habit as he peers down at Kirin’s newest message.

[you need more friends] i think we probably do

Will stares at the text for a long moment, the bottom dropping out of his stomach as a wave of anxiety washes over him, and then hits the lock button. He can’t deal with this right now. He needs to pay attention to… whatever the lecturer’s saying. Resisting the urge to curse, he shoves the phone in his pocket, picks up his pen again, and tries to focus. Whatever Kirin has to say, Will can respond during the break.

By the time the lecturer calls quick break, though, an hour in, Will’s phone has vibrated in his pocket again. There’s another new message from Kirin waiting for him.

[you need more friends] are you on main campus? i need to grab lunch, we could talk there

Hesitating for a long moment, thumbs hovering over the small phone keyboard, Will resists the urge to chew on his already bitten-raw lip. Instead, he raises one hand to his mouth and chews absently on the overlong sleeve of Xephos’ jumper, and then on the corner of one thumbnail once he realises what he’s doing. This jumper isn’t his to ruin, after all.

He should have given it back by now, he knows, but Xephos hadn’t asked for it back, and he really hadn’t been able to face the thought of his usual shirt and waistcoat today. He’d put them on and, instead of protected, he’d felt restricted, like the waistcoat was a laced-tight corset instead. The jumper had been… better, soft and warm and oddly forgiving. He’d put it on and breathed a little easier.

[Strife] Yeah. Okay.

[Strife] I’m in lectures until 1. Meet you at 1.15?

The response is almost immediate – and, despite everything, oddly comforting.

[you need more friends] :)

He stares at the message for a long minute, trying to decode the meaning behind it. An agreement? A way of saying I’m not angry? Had Kirin just been too lazy to type out full words for a response? He’s not sure, but the small smiley face makes some of the wound-tight anxiety in his stomach ease. When he clicks the phone screen locked and slips it back into his pocket, he’s smiling a little.

“Aww, is poor little Strife lonely?” comes a loud, mocking voice from behind him.

Strife grits his teeth.

He knows exactly who it is – Smiffy, the resident punk-wannabe of the class, a first year with wildly out-of-control green hair, a heavy leather jacket, and a nose ring. The carefully cultivated rebellious attitude is somewhat undercut by the fact that Strife knows his twitter handle is @geckomom, and is mostly tweets of him cooing over the tank full of the little creatures he has at home.

“Go away, Smiffy,” he says, stiffly, without looking round, not particularly willing to play the other student’s games today – only to groan quietly when his words are met with a familiar, heckling laugh, and a low ooooh. “And the rest of you, too.” He should have known that wherever Smiffy was, the others would be too.

The Sirs, as they called themselves, were the bane of his existence. A group of three loudmouthed, crude first years who were all bark and no bite, and all the more annoying for it. They swaggered around the place, throwing their weight around as if they owned the entire university.

Strife couldn’t stand them.

Admittedly, Sips seemed to be the only person who could stand them. Most likely because they turned into overenthusiastic, overexcited puppies in his presence, tripping over themselves and squabbling amongst each other in what Strife found a frankly pathetic bid for attention. Strife wasn’t entirely sure why they’d picked Sips of all people to behave for – though, from the unbridled longing he’s caught on not one but all three of their faces a handful of times in Sips’ presence, he could make an educated guess.

Either Sips was very, very oblivious, or he was playing hard to get, and Strife’s honestly not sure which is more likely. Or more funny.

It’s Trott, though, their nominal ‘leader’ – a short, almost scrawny thing with overlong hair scraped up into a stubby ponytail and a mild overbite, covered in seemingly endless freckles just a shade darker than the warm brown of his skin – that speaks up first. 

“Who you talking to there, Strifey?” he asks, and Strife has to clench his jaw against the urge to snap back that Parvis is the only one allowed to call him that. “You’ve not managed to find someone who actually wants to be friends with you, have you? Because that’d be a bloody Christmas miracle, that would, and it’s only November.”

“Maybe he’s paying them?” chimes in Ross, with a wide grin. He’s got the most unnaturally large amount of beard that Strife’s ever seen on a nineteen-year-old – which is definitely not jealousy speaking, has nothing to do with his own thin, patchy facial hair that refuses to grow into anything useful beyond stubble – and dark, permanently angry eyes. “Ooh, that’s pretty filthy, Strife, paying someone to fu– to be your friend. Pretty dirty. Grimy, even. Disgusting.”

Strife’s hands clench into fists against the desk, and he becomes aware his shoulders are nearly up around his ears where he’s hunched over, curled into the borrowed jumper as if to protect himself. “Fuck off,” he mutters, breaking his usual rule of no swearing on the basis that this is an emergency, and scowls at the low, patronising, threatening chorus of oooooh noises he gets in response.

Something must show on his face, because Sips’ eyes dart between him and the three Sirs, lips pressed together into a thin line.

“Hey, Kermit and company, back off,” he says, mildly, a moment later. His mouth is back to its usual, lazy grin. “Just because you can’t get anyone to touch that weird… thing you call your dick, doesn’t mean you have to shit on everyone else.” 

He grins as the vicious look on Smiffy’s face changes to embarrassed humiliation in the space of a heartbeat, and at the way Strife squirms at his crude words.

“He got you good there, mate,” says Trott, sympathetically, as Smiffy flushes bright red all the way to his roots and slumps down in the lecture chair, like he’s trying to hide inside his oversized leather jacket. With the washed-out green of his hair, his crimson cheeks make him look like a particularly cheap and low-quality Christmas decoration. “Pretty bad burn. Third degree at least. Might need to call an ambulance.”

Ross snickers from Smiffy’s other side, nudging him with his elbow. “Ooo, he’s right though, isn’t he?” he crows quietly. “Might need an ambulance anyways, just for Smiffy’s fucked-up cock. Looks all infected to me. Is it supposed to be that shade of green? Matches your hair.”

“Fuck off, Ross,” snaps Smith. “You weren’t saying that last night when you were fuckin’ slobbering all over it, were you, huh? You little–”

“I’m sorry,” calls the lecturer, voice raised and the annoyance plain in her tone – it’s only then that Sips and the Sirs seem to realise the rest of the lecture theatre has gone silent. Break’s apparently over, and everyone’s noticed but them. “Am I boring you? You’re free to leave if I am.”

The Sirs shuffle awkwardly amongst themselves, staring down at the desks of the lecture theatre and mumbling mutinously in that three-voices-one-sentence way they do that creeps Strife out, looking rebellious but generally ashamed. 

Sips, however, looks nothing of the kind. “Sorry, miss!” he calls back, cheerfully, raising a hand by way of my bad. “The first years nearly shat themselves again.” 

A ripple of snickering and murmuring runs around the lecture theatre at his words, and the lecturer sighs. Smiffy’s cheeks darken even further, and even Ross looks a little flushed. Trott stares determinedly down at his books, jaw clenched.

“If you could try and pay attention, that would be great,” says the lecturer, loud enough to quieten the giggles that Sips’ words set off. “That includes you, Mr. Underscore.” She’s not scowling any more, though – if anything, she just looks resigned – and when Sips bobs his head sheepishly and shrugs in a what can you do? sort of manner, she turns back to the whiteboard with a roll of her eyes.

The rest of the lecture passes in a blur of words and diagrams and explanations, none of which Will processes properly. He thanks whatever gods may or may not be listening that this particular lecturer always uploads the powerpoint to their class page, because he barely even hears what she’s saying, too caught up in worry about his meeting with Kirin. When they’re finally dismissed, his bag is already packed, notepad and pens tidied away and glasses in their case, and he’s the first out the door.

By the time he reaches the main campus café, a couple of minutes’ walk from the building he was in, Kirin is already there. He’s standing just outside the doorway, leaning casually against the wall, polystyrene cup of tea in one hand and half-baguette in the other. When he spots Will, he smiles a little, and waves.

“There’s not really any space inside,” says Kirin, almost apologetically, when Will gets within hearing distance. “I meant to grab us a table, but they were all full by the time I got here. Anyways, it’s hardly private, and it’s incredibly noisy.” He winces just at the thought of it, nose wrinkling and eyes squinting a little.

Will tries very hard not to find the motion faintly endearing, fails, and eyes the wide courtyard in front of the cafe. It’s a small area of grass and trees, undoubtedly intended to be a green space in an overwhelmingly urban campus. Instead, it just manages to look sad, and somewhat dead given the approaching winter.

“We could sit on a bench?” he suggests. It’s cold out, but not that cold, and they’re both dressed warmly. Kirin’s in his sheepskin parka, the zip done up tight under his chin. Will’s in his woollen car jacket, the thick, bright red scarf that was a birthday gift from Parvis wrapped around his neck and face up to almost his ears.

Nodding, Kirin holds out one arm in a sweeping gesture, looking from the courtyard to Will. “Lead on,” he says, trailing easily into step after. 

They pick the first unoccupied bench they come across, tucked close enough to one of the buildings to avoid the wind, a tree to their left sending dead leaves floating down on them occasionally. Settling down on the bench, Will doesn’t fail to notice how carefully Kirin positions himself – distance enough between them that they’re not touching, but close enough it doesn’t look like he’s snubbing Will. 

He’s not sure whether to be annoyed at Kirin’s attempted coddling, or touched by his thoughtfulness, so he settles for picking at the clingfilm around his sandwiches and saying nothing.

Kirin seems far more at ease, opening his half-baguette and taking a bite from the top of it. “So,” he says, when he’s finished swallowing, and had another bite. Judging by the look of relief on his face, it’s the first thing he’s eaten all day. “What… what did you want to say to me? Or would you like me to go first with the talking.” He’s watching Will curiously, intently, and the weight of his gaze is almost enough to make Will shiver.

“I– I wanted to say sorry,” says Will, stiffly, clearing his throat. “For the. The other day. I was–” He swallows, staring down at his hands, clenched around his clingfilmed sandwiches hard enough to press dents into them. “You were just being friendly, and I behaved in an unacceptable manner.”

He doesn’t like apologies, and the words stick in his throat. He manages to force them all out nonetheless.

Kirin listens in silence, and then inclines his head. “Thank you,” he says, softly – almost thoughtfully. “Although, given what I’ve heard from Parvis, your reaction was… understandable.” His face darkens at the memory of whatever conversation he’d had with Parvis, jaw tight and eyes hard. It’s the most angry Will’s ever seen him, and it’s just a little bit terrifying. “What he did was– unkind of him, and very stupid. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” says Will, almost automatically. He peels the clingfilm off his sandwich, for something to do with his hands, but his stomach is so twisted up – despite Kirin’s generous acceptance of his apology, despite the fact he doesn’t seem to be angry – that he can’t find it in him to start eating it.

Humming quietly, Kirin nods, and takes another bite of his baguette. “No, it’s not,” he agrees. “But it was–” He breaks off, sighs quietly. “It’s all ended up as a bit of a mess, honestly, and– although Parvis is entirely responsible for his own actions, I can’t help but feel a little responsible for the circumstances, at least.”

There’s not much Will can say to that, really. He grunts quietly in response, shrugs one shoulder, and finishes opening up his sandwiches. Even the sight of them makes him feel a little sick. 

Kirin, apparently, has no such concerns, given the way he’s steadily devouring his baguette. 

The silence they sit in is far from companionable, and it itches under Will’s skin like the beginnings of a fire. His insides twist tighter and tighter, the anxiety spiralling higher in him, until something gives all at once.

“What do you want from me?” he asks, voice almost angry. For what feels like the hundredth time in the past few days, he can’t breath properly, can’t swallow past the strangling lump in his throat and the churning in his stomach. His sandwich sits in his lap, opened but incredibly unappealing.

When Kirin sighs, quietly, he doesn’t have to look up to guess the expression on the other man’s face. 

But then Kirin shifts next to him, ever so slightly, just enough that their shoulders touch. He remembers, suddenly, the last time they were like this – with Parvis laid across his lap and Kirin’s head resting against his, warm and easy and comfortable.

He wonders how, after that, they ended up here.

“Oh, Will,” murmurs Kirin, quietly – and though his voice is soft, there’s no pity in it, just an achingly endless patience and gentleness. “I don’t want anything from you that you’re not willing to give.”

The world stops turning for a long second.

“Neither does Parvis,” adds Kirin, misinterpreting the stunned silence. “I know he… what he did upset you, and I don’t blame you, it was– rude of him. Very rude. But it was a mistake, even if that doesn’t make it any more okay, and he won’t… Neither of us want to push you like that.”

It’s too close to an actual discussion, too close to properly talking about this – whatever this is. It makes Will’s stomach twist and clench with both anxiety and want. Because he wants this. He does. God does he want this. 

He’s just not sure he can ask for it yet.

“Parvis invited me out clubbing this Friday,” he says instead, slowly, raising his head and daring to meet Kirin’s eyes. They’re wide, a little confused – but a little hopeful, too, a spark of something in them so different from Parvis’ manic glitter but equally bright. “I– he said he invited you, too.”

Inclining his head in tentative agreement, Kirin’s eyes search Will’s face. What he’s trying to find there, Will isn’t sure, but he doesn’t seem satisfied when he says, “Yes, he did. I’m… busy, though, at the moment. I might– might not be able to come.”

Will’s might be oblivious sometimes, but he knows an out when he sees one – and this is Kirin offering him an out. Offering Will an easy way to turn him down, despite the way his face shutters with nervous, anticipatory disappointment. 

It makes Will’s heart clench a little, but it solidifies the roiling nerves in his stomach into fierce determination.

“You should come with us,” he blurts, before he can talk himself out of it again, before he can force himself to ignore the way Kirin’s closeness makes his heart beat faster and his skin prickle. “It… it wouldn’t be the same without you. And Parvis would sulk for the whole evening, if you didn’t.” He adds the last few words as almost an afterthought, a way to try and deflect the attention from himself.

Kirin’s eyes grow wider at that, wider and almost hopeful. “Will…” he breathes, quietly, and this time when he searches Will’s face for something, he looks like he finds it. “Are you sure? This isn’t… I’m not asking Parvis, here. I’m asking you.”

“It wouldn’t be the same without you,” says Will, a little more firmly. His heart feels like a bird trapped inside his ribs, fluttering and too-fast, but the tight coil of his stomach is excitement rather than anxiety. “I would like you to– to come with us.”

When Kirin keeps staring at him like he can’t quite believe it, like Will is some strange, beautiful creature he’s never seen before, Will clears his throat quietly. “It– and, well. Parvis really would sulk for the whole evening,” he says, truthfully – he’s seen it before, Parvis sulking when Will’s said he can’t go out, or when some guy called Martyn on his philosophy course cancels on their plans together. It’s not a pretty sight.

Kirin laughs, a little breathlessly, and pulls his eyes away from Will’s face at last. “That he would,” he agrees, easily, shaking his head a little. “Parvis is… quite something.”

“Mmm.” Will nods, turning his own eyes down to his lap now that the tension is gone. He’s still not sure he feels like eating, but he picks at his sandwich nonetheless, tugging a corner of crust off and pulling at it until it’s little more than crumbs – before jumping when he feels a hand touch his. Kirin’s fingers brush tentatively over his knuckles, warm and calloused, and Will shivers.

Will rubs a hand across his forehead, shrugging half-heartedly in an attempt to dislodge Parvis and sighing when it doesn’t work. “I can’t,” he says, quietly, staring at the lines of black type across his computer screen until they blur into squiggles. “I’ve got lectures at nine tomorrow morning, and– and even if I were willing to skip them–” Which, although he hates to admit it, he almost would be, just to see Kirin’s smile again, hear the way Parvis laughs when he’s half-drunk and buzzing manic from the heavy beat of the music. “–this assignment is due in at midnight. I can’t. Just– stop.”

“Assignments,” says Parvis, with a dismissive wave of his hand, pressing his face against Strife’s neck and doing something that can only be described as nuzzling. “I keep forgetting you actually have to do work. Advantages of being a first year, baby!” He laughs, pulling away, teeth flashing white in an over-wide grin. “Our grades this year only count for five percent of our degree. Ah, freedom feels so good.”

Grumbling under his breath, and trying to ignore the way his hands have curled into fists at the feel of Parvis’ laughter against his throat, Will grabs a bit of scrap paper off the corner of his desk. He balls it up, thoroughly tossing it at Parvis’ head. It misses by a mile, hits the wall rather than Parvis, but Parvis ducks nonetheless and just laughs harder. “Get outta here,” says Will, despairingly, shaking his head. “Go on, shoo. Go enjoy your freedom.” He pauses for a moment, chews on his lip. “…Say hi to Kirin for me.”

Parvis shoots him a mock-salute from the doorway, eyes glittering beneath barely-noticeable circles of dark eyeliner. “Aye-aye, Cap’n. Will do!” he agrees cheerfully. “Enjoy being a nerd, or whatever.” He stumbles out the room, letting the door swing shut behind him.

A moment later, there’s a click at the flat door opens, a thump as it closes, and then Parvis is gone.

Sighing quietly, Will turns back to his laptop and piles of paper, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. It’s not jealousy that makes his jaw ache with how hard he’s clenching it, he tells himself. Definitely not. Not regret that’s making his insides turn slow, unsettling backflips.

He ignores it, all of it, and forces his eyes to focus on the screen. There’s another thousand words to written in the next few hours, after all, and he has no idea what he’s going to say for at least half of them.

By the time Parvis gets back at some time past one in the morning, Strife has a completed paper handed in, a second assignment due in on Saturday half-finished, a far clearer desk than before, and a headache throbbing at his temples. He hits the save icon in the top-left of the window, and then again, because he’s tired and it never hurts to be thorough, before closing the window.

Caffeine this close to bed really isn’t a good idea, but there’s no way he’s going to get to sleep without something to ease the pounding in his head. Warm, weak tea and a couple of ibuprofen should do it, so he hauls himself out of his chair and stretches – wincing when his back clicks in three different places, and something in his shoulder grinds unpleasantly as he rotates it – before padding barefoot out into the corridor and down towards their communal kitchen.

He’s barely made it two steps before the door to their little corridor rattles, and drunken singing floats through from the outside. It’s the kind that’s less actual singing, and more mumbling interspersed by an occasional, sharp rise in volume as the singer actually remembers the words.

“Mmmnmn parts to love! Or so mnmn,” goes the song, or at least this drunken rendition of this, and Will snorts as he recognises it as one of Parvis’ band’s. He can’t remember the name of it – can’t remember the name of most of them, really, he’s gotten into plenty of arguments with Parvis about how awful their titling skills are – but he remembers Parvis playing it earlier in the year, when it was still warm enough to be outside.

He’d been sat on the small, scrubby patch of grass outside the student union café, Will remembers, hair in his eyes as he hunched over a battered acoustic guitar. Tongue between his teeth in concentration, fingers plucking carefully at the strings, he’d only noticed Will approaching when he’d sat down next to him. He’d started singing, then, glancing sideways at Will from under the mess that was his fringe and grinning, eyes dancing, and if Will didn’t know better he’d have said Parvis was looking for approval…

“Mmm part that you lose- somethin’ mmmm receive!” The door rattles again, and then thumps, pulling Will out of the memory with a start. “Striiiiiife?” It’s the distinctive cry of a drunk Parvis, and Will sighs, rubbing at one eye socket with the heel of his palm as the noise makes his headache spike. “Strifey, I’ve forgotten my keys! Let me in!”

The moment Will opens the door, Parvis comes toppling in – he was evidently leaning against it, and the sudden lack of support makes him stumble and almost fall before he rights himself. “Strifey!” he says, delightedly, when he notices Will, eyes lighting up. His eyeliner has smudged a little, and he’s wearing lipgloss that Will’s sure he wasn’t wearing when he left, but otherwise looks far too composed to have gone clubbing. “Hello.”

“Morning, Parvis,” says Will, quietly, smiling crookedly at him. Despite the low throbbing at the base of his skull, he can’t help but be amused by the almost puppy-ish expression of happiness on Parvis’ face. “Did you have a good evening with Kirin?”

Parvis sways a little, before catching himself, taking a few stumbling steps forward and kicking the door shut behind him. The steps bring him close enough that Will can see the way his dark eyes are glittering in the low, yellowish light of the corridor, the way it makes his lipgloss shine. “Would have been better with you there,” he says, a little mournfully. “But– yeah. Yeah. It was good. We just– we decided to just stick to the bar. Had some drinks. Talked. It was good.”

He takes another step forward, close enough Will could count his eyelashes if he were so inclined, crowding into Will’s personal space, an odd intensity in his eyes. “Would’ve been better with you.”

This close, Will is painfully aware of where every inch of his body is in relation to Parvis’, of how he can feel Parvis’ breath on his cheek. He smells heavily of copper and vodka and sugar and something else, aftershave Strife vaguely remembers but can’t quite place, sandalwood and patchouli and a hint of citrus. He’s still cold from the outside, the bare skin of his arms cool where it presses against Will, and it’s enough to make Will shiver – from the chill of it, from the contact, from how close Parvis is.

“That’s– that’s good,” manages Will, looking up at Parvis. He’s not sure why he isn’t just stepping backwards, putting some space between them, other than the fact that his lungs have stopped working and his skin’s prickling all over, crawling static between them. His legs aren’t listening to him, all of a sudden. “I’m– glad. That you had a good time.”

Parvis sways again where he stands, leans into Will and grabs at his waist for support – and, suddenly, Will knows. He knows what’s going to happen a split-second before it does, a kind of premonition that leaves him frozen like a deer in the headlights, powerless to stop it.

“Yeah…” murmurs Parvis, quietly, eyes huge and bright under his smudged eyeliner, lips shiny and half-parted as he exhales slowly. “Me too.” And Will should pull away, he really should, it would be so easy to step back, but he doesn’t– and Parvis leans in, and then–

For the shortest moment, everything slots into place – the planets align, the sun rises, the world stops turning, and a thousand other awful metaphors that don’t even come close to describing how right it feels. Pressed chest to chest, Parvis’ arm curled around his waist, soft lips against his… it’s not so different, really, from all the nights they’ve shared a bed, not so different from Parvis curled into him in sleep and breathing against his skin. Kissing him like this, in the quiet space of time past midnight, his lower lip caught lightly between Parvis’ teeth as Parvis kisses like he’s trying to devour him, feels like a natural extension.

It takes all of a heartbeat for Will to come to his senses and push Parvis away, stumbling backwards with a gasp and scrubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand.

His fingers can’t seem to get rid of the taste, the copper-sweetness of Parvis on his lips, nor the way the pit of his stomach feels hot and molten. “What the fuck–” he snaps, because anger is easier than confusion, than trying to process whatever this is. “Parvis–”

Parvis stumbles back a step from the force of the shove, wide-eyed and lost, before his expression crumples into something dark and angry. “…Well,” he says, the word alcohol-thick and exhaustion-slurred. There’s still an edge to it, though, hurt and amusement and something oddly bitter. “Well. That’s your answer, then, isn’t it?”

He barks out a sharp noise that only technically qualifies as a laugh, drags a hand through the sweat-spiked mess of his hair, and takes a stumbling step back. Will makes an aborted movement forward, reaching out a hand – and then curls back in on himself when Parvis steps away again.

“That’s your fucking answer!” shouts Parvis, arms spread wide like Will’s splayed him open, crucified him, and he just keeps stumbling backwards. “You wanted to know what’d happen if you kissed me? Well, there’s your answer, William fucking Strife, and it’s that you wouldn’t! Because you’re a fucking coward.”

The anger slips off Will’s face in the space between heartbeats, and the noise he makes in the back of this throat is low, involuntary, wounded. It sounds a little like he’s been stabbed. “P– Parvis–”

Parvis barely seems to notice, shoulders shaking and hands curled into fists where they’re his arms are still held open. “You’re a fucking ice queen up there in that goddamn tower of yours with the door barred shut,” he snarls, voice climbing in volume with every word. “And you wonder why no one comes and knocks on the fucking door any more? This–” He gestures at his own face, at the way his lipgloss has been smeared across his cheek by the drag of Will’s lips, and his eyes look so huge and dark and hurt that Will feels like he might drown on them. “This is fucking why!”

“Shut up,” says Will – and now it’s his turn to step back, one arm wrapped almost protectively around his stomach. He feels sick. “Shut– shut up, Parvis.”

Stumbling back again, lurching sideways against his own door, Parvis shakes his head. “I’m right,” he says, quieter this time, something like resignation laced through every syllable – though the words themselves are barbed, sharp and hooked and catching in the soft spaces of Will’s heart. “Just because you don’t want to hear it doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Before Will can say anything in response, he’s gone, shoved his way into his room through the perpetually-open door and shut it behind him. In the sudden silence, Will hears the click of the lock and the faint thump of what he assumes is Parvis collapsing into bed.

Just like that, he’s alone in the corridor.

He knows how this will end – how Parvis will stumble into the kitchen tomorrow morning while Will’s making breakfast, hung over and apologetic. How he’ll say, “Uh, so, about last night–”, and how Will will cut across him, tell him it doesn’t matter, that he’s forgotten it already. How everything will go right back to normal again, or as close to normal as it ever gets with Parvis around.

The thought makes him feel somewhere between sick and dizzy. He wraps arms around himself, fingers clutching at his sides like he might fall apart without the pressure holding him together, and closes his eyes as he fights the urge to just sink to the floor where he stands.

“Um.” Will turns around, sees Xephos’ sleep-ruffled hair and bleary eyes peering at him through the gap between the door and doorframe of his room. “Everything okay out here?” From the hesitant look on his face, he’s probably very well aware that it isn’t – they likely woke him up with their shouting, Will realises, and feels a stab of cold guilt in the pit of his stomach to match the nausea that’s settled heavily there.

“Yes,” he says, because what else is there to say. “Yes, everything’s fine.” He forces a smile onto his face, and can’t quite meet Xephos’ eyes. “Sorry for waking you up. I think– think Parvis had a little too much to drink.”

“Doesn’t he always?” asks Xephos, a faint smile on his face, and in that second Will thinks he might love the other man a little for accepting his shoddy lie without question, despite the fact he must have heard every word of the argument. “He always talks a load of rubbish when he’s drunk, too.”

It’s a transparent attempt at comfort. Will sighs, scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms in a moment of weakness and realises suddenly how badly his hands are shaking. “I– yeah,” he says – because chin up, put on a strong face, play the game. All those little euphemisms for keep smiling while your heart is breaking, and somehow he never noticed that’s what they meant before. “Yes. I know.”

Xephos doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t try and stop Will when Will fumbles with the lock to his room, manages to twist the key and push his way inside, shoving the door shut behind him. Waiting, Xephos listens for the familiar click of the lock.

He sighs quietly when it doesn’t come, drags a hand through his sleep-mussed hair and presses his forehead against the doorframe.

Inside his room, Will barely manages to make it across the room before he’s collapsing face-first into the bed, gasping for breath against the pillow as he wraps his arms around it and squeezes and squeezes like he can crush the life out of it. Like he can make it stay by merit of just holding it down. Like it’s Parvis.

His phone buzzes against his hip and he pulls it out of his pocket, angrily thumbs the screen on and half-hopes it’s Parvis texting to apologise just so he can carefully construct some viciously passive-aggressive reply. It’s not. The words you need more friends glow accusingly at him from the top of the screen.

[you need more friends] did parvis get home okay ??

He stares at it for a long thirty seconds, feels the anger and jealousy rise hot and sickening in his stomach. It’s irrational. He knows it’s irrational – but he can’t help the way it rises up to strangle him, and his fingers are typing out a reply and hitting send before he can stop them.

[Strife] fuck off

He watches the green bar scroll across the top of his screen and waits for it to finish sending. When it’s done, he switches the phone off, throws it across the room at the chair in the corner with a lack of care that he’d never usually allow himself. It hits the chair with a thump, bounces, and by some miracle of chance doesn’t fall off.