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Steve doesn’t make the football team. He wasn’t actually expecting to make the team, exactly, hadn’t pinned all his hopes and dreams and aspirations on it or anything, but it still sucks. It sucks even more when he’s been in his room for less than five minutes before his roommate says, “Oh, hey, I saw you at football tryouts. Better luck next year, huh?”
Tony is an asshole. He’s not a jock, but he hangs out with the team—or, more specifically, the cheerleaders. He’s smart, but he never studies, and he doesn’t go to class if he can help it. They’re in the same advanced placement track, and it’s far enough in the year that their teachers have already stopped calling his name during roll.
“I didn’t really want it anyway,” Steve says, dropping his backpack on the floor by his bed and pillowing his hoodie behind him instead of reaching the few feet to get his actual pillow. He’s depressed. He’s pretty sure he’s got a cold coming on from being out in the cold for so long and his knee hurts from where he’d tripped during the try-outs wide suicide drills. It hasn’t been a good day, and it’s not even noon.
“On the plus side,” Tony says, leaning against his desk and kicking his feet against Steve’s chair. “At least you don’t have to hang out with those assholes at parties.”
Steve groans, rolling over onto his front and attempting asphyxiation by cotton. He’s pretty sure pressing his face into a balled up piece of fabric isn’t actually going to kill him, but he’s going to give it the old college try.
Tony keeps kicking his chair, his purple Chucks making a thumping beat against the plastic. He starts humming along to the disjointed beat, and the part of Steve that’s not humiliated and mad and bummed thinks it’s kind of ironically hilarious. Of course Tony could find a way to enjoy himself at his roommate’s distress. Of course.
“You are one of those assholes,” he mutters. “And I have to see you all the time.” Tony stops humming, but he doesn’t leave, and until he falls asleep, Steve has the distinct impression Tony’s watching him.
- -
Lakeview Prep is the annoying older step-sister of all other prep-schools. Charming and beautifully untouchable, it boasts green, rolling hills, smiling students, and actual lake-front property. Almost every room on campus has a view. The worst thing about that charming, beautiful older sister, though, is that she’s so damn nice, so of course there’s a commendable scholarship program, too.
For the low, low price of selling your soul to the library and hitting the books nearly every night, you too can join Lakeview’s prestigious elite, or at least that’s what Steve was told when he signed up. He’s in his third year, third in their class, and one of the many students that actually spends his time studying.
Tony is actually the anomaly, but Tony’s father is one of Lakeview’s greatest benefactors, so he doesn’t get any shit for it. He’s supposed to be a senior, but being the son of someone who built a library, cafeteria and dormitories doesn’t actually excuse a student from taking his final exams. Tony at fourteen had chosen Cannes in the springtime with foreign exchange student Colette. Tony at nineteen probably regrets the decision.
Steve regrets it, anyway.
“Thank you for just telling me that story again,” Steve says from his bed, trapped on all corners by notes on the French revolution. “Colette and your sexcapades don’t actually have anything to do with Robspierre. I know for sure. I checked.”
Tony curls his fingers round the attempt at a goatee at his chin and smiles benevolently. Steve hates him more than anyone he’s ever met in his life. “It was an experience,” he says. “One I’ll treasure. Colette was a special woman.”
Steve snorts into his books, rolling up his knees. His stomach rumbles, but he ignores it in favor of turning to his flashcards instead. “Colette probably appreciated the Chlamydia,” he says, and wonders whether grabbing his iPod to drown out Tony’s voice is actually worth disrupting the delicate balance of his notes.
Classes have only been in session for a month.
“Hey, hey,” Tony says, pushing off of his bed and yawning. When he stretches, his shirts ride up, and Steve can just make out the cuts on his hips. He turns back to his notes. “Colette was a very nice girl.”
Steve snorts, and says, “But you’re not a very nice boy,” even though he really didn’t mean to continue the conversation.
Tony smirks, slinking toward Steve’s side of the room with the kind of smile that should look ridiculous on someone that skinny. Steve shuts his eyes, expecting it and preparing for the worst. He hasn’t gotten all of his notes out of the way when Tony falls onto his bed, but he’s rescued enough of them.
“I’m going to the library,” he says, shoving Tony with his knee and climbing over him.
“I heard your stomach rumble,” Tony says when Steve’s almost at the door, stuffing his shoes on without socks. “I thought we could get dinner.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “I have to study,” he says. They’ve been inside for hours. It’s not like Tony’s blind, although that would explain a few things. “Um, obviously.”
“You’ll do fine,” Tony says, straightening up and pulling one of Steve’s notebooks from under him. “Don’t you think you’ve studied enough?”
Steve rolls his eyes. “I really don’t,” he says, hand on the door. “Maybe later or whatever.”
His stomach does this weird swooping thing when Tony says, “I’ll hold you to that,” but he ignores it.
- -
Steve does fine on his French Revolution exam. He does fine on his Pre-Calculus exam, on his Comparative English Classics exam and on his German exam (though it had been easier than all of the others). By the time Thanksgiving break rolls around, he’s examed out. If possible, he’d like to never see another book in his life, but the likelihood of that is pretty improbable, considering he has over a year of school left, and then college, where, presumably, there will be even more books.
And to think, Steve used to look forward to college. Not anymore.
Tony’s not in their room at all on Monday, only sparingly on Tuesday, and by the time Wednesday rolls around, Steve’s resigned himself to the fact that they probably won’t see each other until after the holiday. He’s pretty okay with the idea until he climbs the last set of stairs to their floor and sees him leaning against the wall by their door, sucking on a cigarette.
“Uh, hey,” Steve says, eyeing him warily. He unlocks the door, dropping his bag to the floor and taking the three steps to his bed before collapsing. He doesn’t even bother kicking off his shoes. “What’s up,” he mumbles, not even bothering to turn his face away from his sheets. They’re rumpled from use, but he doesn’t even care. He could fall asleep like this, fully-clothed and not have a single problem with it. Maybe he’ll stay like this all weekend. It sounds like an amazing prospect.
When Tony hasn’t spoken in a full minute, Steve hazards a look up, surprised to see him still standing in the doorway. He looks ridiculous with his patchwork goatee and unlit cigarette, his Chucks almost vibrantly purple.
“What’s up, man?” Steve asks. He doesn’t push himself into a sitting position, but it’s not like Tony hasn’t seen him worse.
“Um,” Tony says, stalling. He looks uncomfortable. In the three years they’ve known each other, Steve’s seen that happen maybe one time.
“Um,” Steve mimics.
Tony closes his eyes. “Do you want to come home? With me. For the holiday.”
Steve stares at him sideways. He’s not quite sure how long it’s been since he blinked. “Um,” he repeats again, probably sounding like an idiot. “Um, what?”
Tony waves his hand around, like that can possibly encapsulate everything he means. Through gritted teeth, he says, “I would like it if you came home with me. For Thanksgiving.”
“I thought your folks were in Florence,” Steve says finally, instead of peering around the room in case someone else is hiding there.
Tony shrugs. “They are.”
Steve considers this. “I mean. I thought you were going with them. To Florence.” It’s a sentence that sounds like it makes sense in his head, but probably doesn’t in reality. Steve’s stomach is twisted into about fifty different knots.
“Yes, well,” Tony says, twisting his hands together and taking a couple of steps into the room. He looks nervous, still—he looks nervous, and it takes Steve a minute, but it dawns on him that that nervousness is about this, this moment, and he gets nervous too. “Maria makes a delightful dinner. Sometimes her children join us. Little John has a daughter. She’s three. I think you’d like her.”
Steve’s pretty accustomed to feeling like an idiot at Lakeview—around Tony specifically—but those were petty grievances compared to this. He clears his throat in case his voice cracks again and says, “You want me to come home with you to meet—you want me to—” he’s stuttering, but he can’t help it.
Tony drops down to a crouch. He leans forward, pressing his hand to Steve’s shoulder. “I want you to,” he says.