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Evan Kelmp is afraid. He’s not usually afraid, not anymore, more jaded and apathetic than anything else, because he makes the effort— not that it’s needed, because people keep fucking leaving anyway— to stay away from other living things, but now he’s in a dorm room with more people than he’s been around in years, three of which are people who like him , people who are friendly and kind and obliviously, naively, generously patient with him. His hands are shaking and he has a nasty taste in his mouth and it’s the middle of the night and he can’t sleep. He’s in a proper bed, has a pillow under his head that isn’t nearly as likely to have bugs crawling on it, has a nice blanket over him, and yet he cannot sleep.
His stomach churns, not with the usual unrelenting hunger that creeps up on him, but with pure anxiety. He feels sick, and guilty that he’s made what he believes to be friends— they say they’re all three of them his best friends, like there’s competition— and that he’s already made such an awful impression on them.
But Evan, he imagines anyone else would say to him, if they say that they’re your best friends, why do you think you’ve made an awful impression on them?
Perhaps, he would say back, in a tone not unlike the way he spoke about the pig’s head and sending Digsby to somewhere that was explicitly not hell, because he has lashed out at them already and made animals puke blood like they always seem to and, even more compellingly, everything good that has ever happened to him, the number of which he could count on one hand, has ended in blood, in gore and guts and blood, in tragedy, at his hands, red-handed, blood smeared on his cheek, red, red, red, stomach-churning guilt and —
“Evan?”
He flinches, snapping out of his internal spiral and being slightly shocked at how loud the voices in his head can seem at times like these. Jammer is sitting up in the bottom bunk opposite his own, rubbing his eye tiredly. Evan’s chest feels tight; saying any of that out loud does not make a good case for him in front of all of these new folks.
“You good, man? Like… need anything, or?” His voice is low, slightly rough from sleep but also whispered as not to wake their housemates.
There’s a long pause. Evan Kelmp does not know the last time he was “good”, at least before meeting his three friends. His three best friends.
“Yeah. I, uh… I— Yeah. I’m fine— good.” He says, not even convincing enough for the half-asleep athlete across from him. Jammer reluctantly shuffles out of bed, moving to stand beside Evan, who scoots back on his mattress out of an instinctual fear that he will hurt him.
“Can I sit?” Jammer asks, and Evan knows very well that he will respect whatever answer he gives, because this group seems to be very good about boundaries— other than Dream, but only at certain times? He can’t seem to figure her out yet, and he’s not sure he will. Regardless, he knows that Jammer will not sit if Evan doesn’t want him to.
“Sure.” He finds himself saying anyway, despite the way his hands tremble and his blood feels hot.
Jammer takes a seat at Evan’s feet, or where they would be if he didn’t have his knees hugged to his chest.
“What’s goin’ on, man?” Jammer mumbles, ducking his head so it doesn’t hit the bars between Evan’s bunk and Dream’s. “I know you’re always kinda… like this, no offense, but seems like something’s up.”
“Well, uh,” Evan starts, and then pauses for a long while. “Saying ‘no offense’ doesn’t mean the thing you say isn’t offensive, first of all, but I know you… mean well, so. So, I, uh. None taken, I suppose. But I’m really… okay. It’s fine, nothing that I want you to… ” He trails off.
What doesn’t he want? He doesn’t want Jammer to know about it, because it’ll make him afraid, because it’ll make him want to stop talking to Evan, but… that’s not it. He’s afraid. His friends don’t seem to be afraid of him, Evan is the only scared one. A coward until the end. Stop. Self-deprecation can resume once you get through this conversation.
He doesn’t want Jammer to know because… he’ll be worried. They all would be. They all care about him already, they’re all concerned and nervous about his well-being, and he doesn’t know how to confront that because he hasn’t spoken to anyone in months (years?) and now he’s crying. He’s put his hand to his forehead to cover it up and he’s gotten good at being quiet but he’s crying and Jammer’s hand is on his knee and he flinches away and Jammer just sits. The bed doesn’t shift, he doesn’t shy away from Evan, but he just sits there.
Evan’s eyes are puffy by the time he looks at Jammer again, still shaking despite himself, and he apologizes under his breath.
“Listen, you don’t have to tell me what’s goin’ on, I can tell that’s not your vibe, but I’m here if you need me, alright? Just… right next to you, ‘cause this school is fuckin’ crazy.” It makes Evan laugh, soft and a little breathless, and it shocks him.
“Yeah. It is, uh. Thanks, Jammer. Feels great to know someone’s there.” He gives himself the gift of another short silence. “You can say no, I, uh, I know boundaries are very important to everyone, including myself, and consent is really important for people to know about and be aware of, so you can definitely say no and I’ll respect that, but— this is embarrassing, fuck— could I… hug you, maybe? Would that be alright?”
“Uh… yeah, sure, why not? You didn’t seem too cool about the whole touching thing, but if you wanna, that’s cool.”
“I do. If that’s okay.”
“Evan. Just hug me before you talk yourself out of the damn thing.”
Evan shuffles over, blankets falling to the side, and lets himself be held by someone. This is very much not something that should have been verbalized or asked for, he remembers from learning about masculinity and socialization between men. But after becoming acutely aware of just how touch-starved he is, he feels alright admitting that it feels wonderful to be touched.