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The first time Isaac comes home with Scott during sophomore year, he brings along a six-pack of Budweiser, because shitty American wannabe-beer is better than no beer when you’re both still nineteen. They drink it on Scott’s terrible, lumpy couch while playing Halo on the Xbox – which is the nicest thing in the apartment – and when it’s all gone (after not very long at all) they keep on shooting aliens until Scott declares Isaac a butthole for hogging the machine gun on the back of the Warthog and starts attacking him with the cushions.
Three days later is the second time Isaac comes home with Scott; he brings ten bucks and the number of that awesome Chinese place around the corner, and they order twenty dollars’ worth of wonton soup and chicken fried rice, pick it up, then retreat into the apartment for the remainder of the night. Somewhere around midnight they fold out that terrible, lumpy sofa into a terrible, lumpy bed because Isaac doesn’t want to walk all the way across campus to his apartment in the cold rain. They end up sprawled across it, some movie playing on the television, and Scott’s head winds up propped against Isaac’s ribcage, shifting with each breath, and they talk and talk and talk about nothing worth repeating.
The third time, they stumble in the door drunk and laughing and leaning on each other in the name of staying upright.
It’s mid-October before Scott comes home with Isaac during sophomore year, and it’s not like Isaac’s hiding bodies or anything; he just would rather hang out in Scott’s apartment than his own because it’s a little bit bigger and just a tad nicer. Isaac has a better sofa, though, even if it doesn’t turn into a bed. And here Scott is, standing in the doorway with a box of pizza in one hand and his Bio textbook in the other, and he doesn’t look out of place in the slightest, because they’re college students, and this is a college-student apartment, and there is no way for Scott not to fit in like he belongs.
It’s November and Isaac’s birthday when they’re playing footsie under the table in the library while Isaac tries to study Mythology and Scott should be working on his Sociology paper, and the librarian is starting to give them ‘quit giggling or get out’ looks, when Scott full-on freezes. “It’s your birthday,” he says.
“Genius.” Isaac traps one of Scott’s ankles between his own.
“You’re twenty. Two-zero. That’s big. We should, you know, do something.”
“Something?”
“Yeah,” Scott mutters. “Something.” And as if that’s some sort of cue, he’s leaning over the table to kiss Isaac, like a present or a promise or a taste of something more.
It’s soft and sweet and Isaac… Isaac doesn’t mind. Scott’s a nice kisser. He can feel a grin hooking into the corners of his mouth, teasing them upwards when Scott rocks back, chewing on his lower lip and anxious about having done everything right, so helplessly eager he’s like an oversized puppy that falls all over itself with its desire to please.
“Was that okay?” Scott’s asking. “I don’t want – you have to tell me if that wasn’t okay.”
Isaac very deliberately reaches under the table and yanks the sneaker off the foot that he has caught between his shins. “Have you always been this dumb?” And then he runs.
They’re onto the lawn outside before Scott catches up and tackles him into the yellowed and dying grass. Then there is rolling and scrabbling and curses that sound more like endearments before Scott wrenches the shoe from Isaac’s grasp, tangles his free hand in Isaac’s hair and holds him there, kisses him again, breathless, with a laugh on his lips; “You bastard” huffed into Isaac’s mouth in the fondest of tones.
Running footsteps follow them out: the third-floor librarian is filming them on her phone.
And that’s not the end of it, of course. Isaac is in Scott’s apartment again that night, on his terrible, lumpy couch, picking at onion rings and burgers between rounds of mindless violence, and there is no difference at all, really, except for after. After is when the TV is turned off and the various wrappers get shoved aside and Scott throws an arm around Isaac’s neck and Isaac leans his head onto Scott’s shoulder, breathing in the vanilla-and-detergent plainness of his sweatshirt, and then they fall asleep that way. When Isaac wakes up with a crick in his neck and Scott’s sleepy breaths ruffling his hair, he really isn’t bothered at all.
Days later, they’re having falafel pitas, and Scott gets hummus on his chin, and Isaac is laughing at him, so Scott does the reasonable thing (or so it seems, since he’s also three shitty American wannabe-beers down) and grabs the hem of Isaac’s shirt and uses that to wipe it off, because neither of them remembered to bring napkins.
Once he’s that close, with Isaac’s hand dragging ever-so-casually through his hair, it’s easiest to just go with the impulse and press his mouth to the warm flesh now available. When Isaac’s breath stutters and jumps and the hand in Scott’s hair flexes tight, he takes that as permission to proceed.
They never break stride.
There are new things that are learned in a sudden whirl of nights: the cut of Isaac’s ribs, the exact tremor of Scott’s heart when he’s being fucked, the arched bow of Isaac’s spine in dim lamplight, and the fine art of how, exactly, one keeps him from stealing all the pillows in his sleep.
There is no clear-cut declaration of romantic intent; they do not move in together; they do not attach pet names or petty nothings to their comments. Isaac still throws pillows at Scott’s head when he cheats, and but now Scott knows that he’s more ticklish along his sides than behind his knees. And if Scott insists on buying Isaac a coffeemaker for New Year’s, well, it’s not like he was going to make it through the rest of his life without one, anyway.
In return, Isaac gives him a key.
It’s not cohabitation. It’s so Isaac doesn’t have to get out of bed to let him back in when he runs down to the bakery as soon as it opens to get them croissants fresh from the oven. And when Scott does the same, mere days later? Well, he’s going to lose his key sooner or later. Isaac’s more trustworthy than Ralf the Puker (don’t ask), who lives next door.
Scott keeps inviting him for holidays because he thinks it’s cruel to leave Isaac alone in his apartment when everyone else is with family. Isaac has Scott programmed in at the top of his speed dial because, should an emergency arise, you probably want someone whose mother is a nurse and who is going to vet school there to help, right? Scott learns Isaac’s favorite pizza topping (bacon), ice cream flavor (dulce de leche), and kind of M&M (peanut butter) because half of college is eating junk food. Isaac teaches Scott to smoke weed via blowbacks because that’s practically part of the curriculum. He finds out how Isaac’s mother died because, if you get drunk with a person enough times, you start telling each other the really gritty tales from your backstory. And he starts expecting it to be Isaac when his phone rings – instead of Stiles or his mother – because, while Isaac would prefer face-to-face encounters, he’s still more comfortable talking than texting.
On a Saturday in May, just an hour or two past noon, they’re lying in bed in Scott’s apartment when the balance shifts. Isaac rolls over, halfway on top of Scott, and folds his arms over Scott’s ribcage, then rests his chin atop them. “You really are an idiot,” he declares.
Scott’s forehead wrinkles up. “What’d I do?”
Isaac gives him a Look (capitalization intentional), all raised eyebrows and hooked smiles and ‘really, Scott, really?’ projected with his gaze. “Exactly.”
“I don’t get it.” Scott frowns. “You can’t insult me if I don’t know what you’re insulting me about.”
“I just did.” Isaac lifts one hand to card it through Scott’s hair, biting his lower lip as he grins at Scott’s disgruntled expression. “You’re cute.”
“I don’t…”
“And stupid. Very stupid.” Shifting his weight back, Isaac comes up to his knees, still leaning over Scott with one hand in his hair. He kisses him – soft, then hard, once Scott slides a palm down his spine and groans into it. “Dumb bastard,” he growls against the line of Scott’s jaw.
Scott tries to kiss him again, but Isaac is rocking back up on his knees, still grinning.
“What would you do if I left right now?” he asks. “If I just ran out the door and didn’t come back?”
Staring up, confused as all hell, Scott says, “I’d follow you.”
Isaac’s face lights up when he throws his head back to laugh.
“Was that – is that…?”
“That’s good.” Isaac curls back down over Scott, kissing him softly. “That’s good,” he repeats.
That night, they get a half-pepperoni, half-bacon pizza, and Scott triumphs at Halo, and then they fall asleep while watching Forrest Gump, Isaac’s head resting in the crook of Scott’s shoulder once again, as Lieutenant Dan braces against the top of Jenny’s mast and screams for God to come on out for a showdown.
The first time Isaac comes home with Scott during sophomore year, he brings along a six-pack of shitty American wannabe-beer. The last time he comes home with Scott during sophomore year, he doesn’t even have that, but he spends two nights in the apartment anyway, and after that, he never really leaves.
That December, Melissa McCall puts him on the New Years card.