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Being good at school isn’t all that makes a person. You’ll get there eventually. You’re just not applying yourself enough.
Jake’s heard it all, believe me. The thing is, learning in his major, Philosophy, is a theoretical experience. It’s not something you can put your hands on, not something tangible you can touch and feel for yourself. It is purely theoretical – and the hardest thing they’ve done so far is the morality of murder. It feels like he’s just hit a brick wall driving seventy miles an hour, and he might as well have with how it stopped him in his tracks. Because obviously, you cannot test the morality of murder hands on.
No matter how many times he turns it over in his head like a stone at the beach, he can’t bring himself to toss it into the water. And it only hurts more when Jane tells him he’s not trying hard enough, because he is. Excluding classes, he’s left his dorm a scant three times for the past week they’ve been working on the unit, and that was to stock up food that he could put into his minifridge and eat cold as he buried himself in yet another book.
It’s this he’s doing when the clock ticks seven-thirty pm on Friday night. He’s got a cold chicken tender in one hand and a pencil in the other when a knock sounds on his door. He’s determined to ignore it, and he takes a bite of the chicken tender and a sip of his coffee as he stares down at his blank notebook. For a moment, he thinks the person’s gone away, but then the sound of a palm banging on the wooden door echoes through the room, and he finally decides to answer. He stands up, stretching as a series of pops come from his back, and trudges over to the door, opening it with a force.
There in front of the door is a friend of his, Roxy Lalonde, and she’s got that look on her face that makes him think, Uh-oh. “Roxy, what on Earth-”
He doesn’t have a chance to finish his sentence before she flounces in, settling down on his bed with a flourish. Jake is too astounded by her audacity to do anything but dumbly close the door behind her and sit down in his desk chair. “Jakey,” she starts, twisting her hands in her lap, “Janey and I are running an inten- intervention.” A nervous giggle escapes her.
“Bloody hell, did Jane put you up to this?” he finally gets out.
Roxy shakes her head. “No, no! We came up with this together.” Her hands twist faster. “And we’ve decided that you, Jakey, have been working too hard! Janey and I are gonna take you to that frat party on the other side of campus.”
His stomach sinks. Frat party? “And why should I bally well do that?” he asks, raising a brow. If there’s one thing Jake detests more than theoreticals, it’s frat parties.
“Because, silly, you need to unwind!” Another giggle. Jake wonders faintly if she even knows she’s doing it. “And also… a hot triple major is gonna be there.”
He turns the descriptor over in his head a couple times, but nothing seems to ring a bell. “Is this chap a friend of yours?”
“Kinda,” she says. She suddenly looks about twice as uncomfortable. “I know him. He’s good at everything. I heard he’s some kinda prodigy. He’s so smart,” her eyes flash, as if this is some kind of conversational tripwire, “and he’s also tryin’ to make a couple extra bucks.”
The pieces begin to come together in Jake’s head. He sees where this is going, but not in the direction she thinks it’s going. “Do you suppose he’s looking for a willing student to tutor?”
And this is how Jake ends up standing in the corner of a room at nine pm in the campus’s most infamous frat house, clutching a red Solo cup like it’s a lifeline. It’s loud, so loud he can scarcely hear his own rhythmic humming. Hmm-hmm. Hmm-hmm. His regret only mounts by the minute, and he’s just starting to tense his muscles to unfreeze himself and get the hell out of dodge when someone sidles up to him. Jake doesn’t turn his head to meet his gaze, but he can tell he’s staring at him.
“Hey.” His voice has… a strange quality to it. Lilting, almost like a song. “Hidin’ in the corner, huh?”
“Not- sorry, do excuse me, what did you say?”
The stranger points to his full, plush lips, and Jake squints at them through his dirty glasses lenses. “Let’s get somewhere quieter.”
With not-minimal effort, Jake forces a nod, and the stranger responds in kind with a nod of his own. His hand wraps around Jake’s, and it’s rough and calloused, but his fingers are slim and his palm narrow.
The stranger leads him out of the room, easily navigating their way through the crowd (is the crowd parting for him, or is he good at pushing his way through? Jake wonders) and out into the cool night air. The stranger seats himself on the sticky porch swing, and Jake stands uncomfortably in front of it.
“Sit,” he implores, and Jake slowly lowers himself to sit on it. His stomach turns at the tackiness of the bench, but he’s not about to embarrass himself in front of this new person.
In the dim streetlights and the porch light, it’s much easier to see the details of his face. His cut cheekbones, his sharp jaw, his aquiline nose… and Jake doesn’t know which is more striking, his pointed shades or his platinum hair.
“Dirk Strider.” The stranger - Dirk - holds out his hand. “He/him. Zeta Mu Psi. Name, pronouns?”
Frat name. Frat boy. He glances towards the door, at the metal letters beside it, and sure enough, those are the letters by the door. He turns his head back to that striking face, and is greeted with a raised eyebrow.
It is then he realizes he hasn’t introduced himself. “Ja- Jake. English. Er, he/him works. Why do you ask?”
Dirk shrugs nonchalantly. “Got in the habit after transitioning. I pass well enough, but it sets a precedent.”
Jake nods sharply, avoiding his eyes. He’s reminded of when Roxy complained about not passing, and he hasn’t understood it then, but it makes more sense to him now that he’s seeing someone who does. He never would have known if Dirk hadn’t told him. “I suppose it… never occurred to me, any of it. I wasn’t- I was born a man, yes, but I suppose I have never felt it. A man, that is to say. It’s much like- well, there’s a hole in my mind where my gender should be. Just nothing, I say.”
Dirk nods. “I get that. Believe me, I get that.” Thankfully, there’s no more talk of gender. Frankly, Jake has enough to unpack without thinking harder about what he really feels. “Major?”
“Philosophy.” He twists the red plastic cup in his hand.
He nods, stretching out his legs and resting them on the table in front of them. “I’m in Theoretical Math, CompSci and Robotics. You didn’t strike me as a Philo kinda guy.”
Suddenly, he remembers Roxy’s words about a hot triple major. Well, Dirk suddenly fits the bill. “Well, you would be correct. I’m dreadful at it. To tell you the truth, chum, I’m on the verge of bloody quitting it all.”
Dirk raises a brow. “Why would you do that?”
“I just…” Jake gives him a helpless look. “I don’t- the theoreticals. I don’t bally well know how to wrap my noggin around them. I daresay everyone else is moving on without me, and I’m stuck in place.” The words begin to roll, begin to snowball faster and faster. “Everything is going too damn fast, and everyone says I’m just not quick enough, but I don’t know how to be anything else. I wish they would- just slow down a little. They all seem so cheesed off whenever I ask for- for help.” His breath comes quickly in his chest as his vision blurs, and his voice freezes up in that way it does when things are too much. Suddenly, the smell of alcohol and weed smoke is so much louder, and the stickiness of the bench is overwhelming, the only thing he can focus on.
Suddenly, he’s aware that Dirk is looking right at him, and he feels so scrutinized, even though he can’t see his eyes. It’s not helping. “You okay?”
Jake feels as though he’s trapped in ice. He’s shaking like a leaf, staring at the beer sloshing in his red cup with the tremble of his hands. He can’t form words, can’t think, can’t speak, can’t breathe. He needs to get off the bench, off, off, off-
“Hey.” Dirk’s voice cuts through everything like a hot knife through butter, and he inhales shakily. “Five things you can see.”
He chokes on the word. “W-What?”
“Gimme five things you can see. If you can’t say ‘em, list ‘em in your head.”
Jake gasps like a fish for air, but blinks away the tears. They run down his cheeks, but right now he doesn’t care. “I see-” His eyes land on the tree outside, swaying in the wind. “I see- the tree. Over there.”
“Good.”
The silence prompts him, and his eyes find a green T-shirt hanging from the door. “Green T-shirt.”
“Yep, that’s there.”
“The- The streetlights.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The ring of keys by the door.” His breathing is evening out, slowly but surely.
“Yep.”
“And- and you. I can see you.” His eyes fix on Dirk’s (when did he remove his shades?) .
“That’s good.” Dirk smiles, and it feels like a crack in the overwhelming darkness. “Four things you can touch now.”
“The-” A giggle escapes, and it feels involuntary, but not fake. “The blasted sticky bench.”
“Yeah, this bench is pretty sticky, huh?” His chuckle is smooth, low and resonates through Jake like ripples in a pond.
“My cup. The table.” He reaches out to touch the table where Dirk’s feet are resting. “And your hand.” He reaches out again, still shaking slightly, to brush against his hand.
Dirk doesn’t move his hand away from Jake’s touch. “You’re doing awesome. Three things you can hear.”
Jake inhales, trembling and hesitant, then exhales. “The tree rustling in the wind. The music coming from- from the blasted party I didn’t even want to attend. And… and your voice.”
“If it makes you feel better, I didn’t want to come either.” Dirk chuckles again. “You’re almost done. Two things you can smell.”
“The- The smoke from the party. The wind.” His breathing is almost completely even by now.
“One more thing. One thing you can taste.” Dirk smiles again.
He clicks his tongue, feeling out his mouth. “Beer.”
“Good. Damn, that was quick.” Dirk’s grin feels like the sun. “You did good, man.”
“Where… did you learn that?” Jake asks, gazing at him.
Dirk turns back to the street. “My bro has autism. Diagnosed when he was three. He has a lot of panic attacks and the like. I got really good at talking people down.”
Jake nods, and turns towards the street. “Dirk,” he starts.
“Yeah?”
“...I don’t suppose you’re looking for someone to tutor?”