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It’s nearing 3AM — the morning before his 8AM lecture, mind you — when Grian resolves to blow up the entire world, maybe. Like, a tiny section of it, at least. Some uninhabited space where it’ll inevitably have an effect on the ecosystem later, but he won’t have to stress about it in the moment. Or, you know, his next door neighbor’s room.
The semester had started off fine, is the thing. Maybe it was because he was staying up until ungodly hours to do homework anyway, or maybe he was just passing out out of sheer exhaustion, or maybe he just blocked out the sound mentally— it doesn’t matter. The point is, he had slept fine the first few weeks of the semester — when he did sleep, anyway — and he mostly managed to not feel like death during the day. It may or may not have involved an inadvisable amount of caffeine and one single heart attack scare, but it worked.
And then the sounds started.
It was a gradual thing in the beginning. Faint enough he was only able to make it out if he really tried, and he didn’t often care enough to do so, instead straight up ignoring it in favor of, you know, actually sleeping. But slowly, the noise — a strange sort of scratching sound, coming from the wall right next to his bed, which only made the whole thing worse — grew louder and louder and more annoying than ever.
Nothing about it is consistent, either. It’s not something he can blame on faulty wiring, even though god knows his dorm has enough of that that he could use it as an excuse if he wanted, or any other sort of mechanical issue. He’d suspected mice or something at first, honestly, but that feels like a bit of a stretch even for him, and there would probably be other sounds to accompany it if it were. Plus, he’s pretty sure he’s heard meowing on the other side of the wall. He has his suspicions already.
Grian sighs. He’s never met his neighbor — never even seen them, for that matter, even briefly in the hallway. He doesn’t really want their first impression of him to be half asleep and pissed off at three in the morning, even if some of his friends would argue that he’s not much different during normal hours.
Just as he closes his eyes, hoping against all odds he might be able to rest for a moment, another scratch sounds, long and dragged out and, quite frankly, kind of excessive. Dramatic. Says something about a person.
…He’s making assumptions about a person based on what might or might not be their cat. This is the point he’s reached.
Reluctantly, he sits up, turns on the lamp on his desk-nightstand-combination, drags a textbook into his lap. If he’s not going to get any sleep, he might as well be somewhat productive about it. Even if he scrubs at his eyes blearily, hardly able to make out the text on the pages, much less process it. It might just make a terrible little soup up in his brain instead of anything legible.
He’ll talk to his neighbor tomorrow, he decides, right before he flops forward over his book and succumbs to half-sleep.
Surprising absolutely nobody, Grian does not, in fact, talk to his neighbor tomorrow. In all reality, he is a complete zombie the next day, barely able to stay awake during his lectures, much less during dinner with his friend group haphazardly shoved together. Mumbo sends him concerned glances whenever he thinks Grian isn’t looking. Joel indirectly says he looks like shit about four times in fifteen minutes. Pearl directly says he looks like shit and rolls her eyes in amusement when he grumbles about his terrible night.
Beyond that, though, no one really grills him on how quiet he is, or why he looks like he’s about to fall face first into his bowl of probably-maybe-hopefully pasta. He zones in enough to eat his food properly and to hear the conversation around him — some debate about the sandwiches at their on-campus cafe that gets derailed the moment Jimmy refers to shredded cheese as cheese confetti — without having to really process it.
It’s… nice, in that strange sort of way hanging around his friends always feels, bright and warm and hopeful. He watches Lizzie elbow Jimmy playfully as she laughs, notices Joel watching the same thing with a sappy smile he’ll definitely deny if asked, shares a look with Pearl as they both clearly determine they’ll be teasing him for it later. He leans over to Mumbo, mutters that he’s fine, really, just tired, stop looking like you’re going to have a heart attack. It’s a tall order for his friend, he knows, but Mumbo does look at least three percent further from having an aneurysm.
It’s almost enough to make Grian forget about his neighbor issue. Almost.
He passes out hardly ten minutes after he gets back to his room, legs hanging off the side of his bed as he sprawls out on his back. Sleep comes easily, now that he’s so exhausted, and it— it starts restful, if nothing else, but it’s also so early that he blinks awake when it’s still pitch black. Moonlight creeps in through his blinds, slants across the floor, and he sits up and stares at the wall in a delirious haze. His phone rests on the bed next to him, and when he squints at the too-bright screen he finds that it’s just about midnight. Not terrible, but definitely disorienting.
Probably not worth it to fall back asleep yet, though. Despite his issues the night prior, Grian feels miraculously— well, not completely well rested, but something nearing it. Less like actual, physical death. He’s not exactly tired, is the point, and he doesn’t have anything in particular going on the next day, so he can afford to stay up a little longer. Just until he gets tired again.
At least, that’s the plan. But just as he’s pulling a book from his shelf — some superhero type novel Mumbo had loaned him, one he isn’t super invested in but something that might exhaust him sooner — it starts again. That stupid cursed scratching sound. He blinks, narrows his eyes, but it doesn’t come back immediately, so he lets it slide.
This ends up being his first mistake. His second is not investing in earplugs sooner, or maybe not picking a more interesting book, or even not requesting a room change earlier in the semester. They’re nearing midterms. It might be a little late now.
It doesn’t matter what the next bullet point in Grian’s laundry list of mistakes that have led him to this point is. All he knows is that somewhere between the fifth and eighth page of his book, a sound not unlike a bed squeaking begins, and he absolutely does not want to unpack that one. He doesn’t really care one way or the other if his neighbor’s getting it on or whatever, but he doesn’t want to hear about it.
Except… there’s no other sound that follows. Just a quick, shifting sound, and then silence, similar to the scratching. A quiet, almost imperceptible murmuring reverberates through the wall, followed by a straight up meow, which. Okay. Sure. That’s one way to confirm Grian’s suspicions. Is that even allowed? Can they have pets in the dorm? Is his neighbor some sort of cat smuggling criminal?
He’s not going to go meet his neighbor for the first time ever on the (pretty solid, actually) chance they’re housing a possibly illegal cat. He’s not. Except he’s also already dragging himself out of bed, shuffling around his room in search of his slippers that apparently got tossed across the floor at some point, staring in his mirror at the bags under his eyes that look more like bruises by now.
It’s fine. It’s fine! He’s just going to go ask them to keep it down, and he’s going to be so polite about it, because if he’s nice enough he might get to see the cat that may or may not but likely does exist. That’s all. It doesn’t matter that polite and nice are not always words people use to describe Grian, especially around midnight. It’s literally fine.
With that mini crisis out of the way, Grian pushes his door open — carefully, quietly, because it’s late and everything in this dorm is loud enough as it is — and takes the three steps down the hall that carry him to his neighbor’s door. This is about the time he realizes this might be a very stupid idea, because most people are asleep at this time of night, and just because he’s heard things doesn’t mean his neighbor was aware of said things.
It’s… technically a Friday, though, and Friday classes are mostly a myth, right? No one has real responsibilities those days. Nothing that can’t be rearranged, or powered through. It’s what Grian’s been doing the past few days— weeks, even. Surely his neighbor can suck it up for one day.
He nods, satisfied, to his nonexistent audience, and knocks on the door. It echoes in the silent hall, which he feels a little bad for until the door in front of him swings open and— oh. Okay. Well then.
Grian truly had no idea what to expect from his neighbor. The only things he knew about them were the strange sounds coming from their room and the fact they either never left their room or just had a completely opposite schedule of his own. He’d formed an idea, sure, and it wasn’t exactly a glowing review, but that wasn’t his fault. Maybe they should try being quieter. Or less of a recluse. He is aware that his own hermit tendencies and his friends’ having to physically drag him out of his room some days make him a hypocrite. Sue him.
Needless to say, he is woefully unprepared to deal with the man in front of him, leaning against the doorframe in a way that’s almost flirtatious if it weren’t for his death grip on the door, like he needs it to stand. His hair — long, brown, pulled into some sort of braid in the back — somehow shines in the awful dorm lighting. He looks surprised, though not displeased, to see Grian there.
Also, he’s shirtless.
Grian is not entirely convinced he’s not still asleep.
“Well, hello there!” the man says, like this is a completely normal interaction. Maybe it is for him. What does Grian know. “What can I do for you?”
“Um,” Grian says brilliantly. Eyes up, he scolds himself, except up isn’t much better because up is sparkling green eyes and lips tugging into a faintly amused smirk and he kind of hopes his neighbor hasn’t been getting it on in the off chance he could maybe get in there. Or— what? Hang on. Normal thoughts happening here. “Right. Yeah.”
He winces. So much for a good first impression. “Can I start over?”
The man shrugs, unfazed. He holds out the hand that isn’t about to break his door, smile widening into something brighter, almost enough to drown out the overhead light in his room. “Scar Goodtimes, at your service!”
“Grian,” he returns, taking Scar’s hand.
He doesn’t comment on the aptitude of the name, the scars littering the man’s face. And arms. And— you get it. It’s not not out of politeness — yeah, yeah, social faux pas and all that, sure — but it’s more because he’s focused on the way Scar’s hand feels around his, warm and calloused.
He coughs, realizing he’s been holding onto their weird sort-of handshake for a little too long, and pulls his hand back, feeling his face prickle with heat. “I’m living next door,” he clarifies, so he doesn’t seem like some kind of creep, showing up at midnight unannounced.
Somehow, Scar seems to light up even more at this. “So you’re the elusive neighbor I’ve been told I have but haven’t ever seen. I was starting to think you were a vampire!” He turns to head back into his room, but pauses halfway, looks over his shoulder to meet Grian’s eyes. “Lovely name, by the way. Fitting.”
And then he winks. Like that’s just a thing he does. Normally.
It’s fine! Grian’s on a mission, and he won’t be swayed by base level flirting. Certainly not. He feels incredibly normal right now.
“Thanks,” he says dryly. “Picked it out myself.”
Scar laughs at that, full and bright and a little raspy, and Grian… smirks. He doesn’t smile. He definitely doesn’t get some sort of fluttering feeling in his chest at the sound. He’s just tired. That’s all.
Somehow, Grian lets Scar talk him into entering the room properly, taking a seat in the man’s desk chair, lounging about like they’ve been friends for years, like it isn’t only getting later and later. The overhead light beams directly into Grian’s skull, dagger-like and aching, and he must look a little too put off by it because Scar quietly turns off the main light and turns on a desk lamp.
God. Why does his neighbor have to be hot and nice? How is he supposed to be upset now?
“So, Grian,” Scar says, sitting back on his bed, “what brings you around this time of night?”
He doesn’t sound upset, only curious, but Grian winces anyway, because, well. He hasn’t exactly made a great first impression, even if Scar doesn’t seem very thrown off by it — quite the opposite, if he’s to be so bold — and he doesn’t really want to do anything to change that. But he’d also like to sleep, and Scar seems to be the only person who can fix that.
“Do you have a cat?” he asks, which is maybe not the ideal way to start that thought, actually, but fuck it, they’re diving into the deep end. Apparently.
If Scar’s thrown by the non-sequitur, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, his eyes seem to sparkle in excitement, grin shifting into something more genuine as he twists to the side to showcase a gray-white furry blob. The blob lifts its head, blinks at Grian for a second, and then lowers its head, evidently unimpressed. Grian’s a little offended, honestly. Great that he hasn’t been hallucinating the cat, though.
“C’mon, Jellie, we have guests,” Scar mutters to the cat, like they’re in on some sort of secret, but when he doesn’t get whatever response he was evidently expecting, he grins back up at Grian. “This is Jellie, my ESA and the real owner of this place, honestly.”
“ESA?” Grian echoes, like an idiot, then makes a face at the way that sounds. He just can’t help making a fool of himself, apparently. “I mean— that’s cool. That they let you do that.”
He sounds insane. These are not sentences that fully awake people say. It doesn’t exactly help that Scar’s grin has shifted into something else, something crooked in its nervousness. He doesn’t feel great about that one.
But Scar just shrugs. “Mostly to help with…” he gestures vaguely at his lower body.
Things click in Grian’s mind — the death grip on the door, the cane leaned up in a corner of the room, which honestly should’ve been a bigger giveaway, really — and he nods, hoping he seems as unbothered as he feels. If the relief that seems to flash through Scar’s eyes is any indication, he succeeds for once.
“The insomnia, too,” Scar continues. His smile turns sly, conspiratorial, and he leans forward like his next words are top secret information. Grian finds himself inexplicably drawn in. “Honestly, though, it’s half an excuse just to have her with me here. She’s a menace. Spoiled and darling, but a menace.”
The fondness in his voice is palpable. Grian feels very bad for the turn this conversation is going to have to take. And also, totally unrelated, a little irrationally jealous of a cat. Has anyone ever spoken about him that way?
Not that it, like, matters or anything. Not that his half awake brain latches a little too hard on the way Scar says darling. Nothing like that.
He’s nowhere near this sappy usually. He blames the sleep deprivation.
Despite that, Grian snorts, feeling his lips curl into something like a smile. “So I’ve heard,” he says. And then, more deadpan, “Loudly. From my room. At three in the morning.”
Scar frowns, not necessarily at Grian but more at the floor, at the situation, and then over at Jellie, who looks up at him with all the disgruntlement a cat can possibly muster. Which is a lot, it turns out. “You’re not supposed to be disturbing the neighbors, Jellie! The very fine people around here” — he takes a moment here to wink at Grian, which is super cool and normal and not stomach twisting or anything — “need to sleep at night! I can’t have them thinking I’m some sort of harle— shar— charle—”
“Charlatan,” Grian supplies automatically, and then scrunches his nose. “Harlot? I really don’t think anyone thought that.”
He neglects to mention the part where he had, very briefly, thought that. He does not have enough energy in his body to begin to consider— any of that. There’s about one braincell bouncing around in his skull right now, and it’s entirely focused on ignoring the glint in Scar’s eyes and the fact he’s still inexplicably shirtless. This is a normal interaction to be having at midnight.
“Has she been bothering you, though?” Scar asks, and there’s still a smile seemingly permanently etched on his face but he seems more concerned, now, almost nervous again. “I can—”
“It’s fine,” Grian says, even though it isn’t, actually, and he’s incredibly tired, actually. “I mean, it’s kind of hard to sleep, sometimes, and—” a yawn cuts him off, like the exhaustion is finally catching up to him properly, only helping to sell his point. “And it doesn’t, y’know, help with the early lectures. But— I get it. She’s just doing her job. It’s fine. I’ll just… invest in earplugs or whatever.”
It seems like a perfect solution, and he isn’t even really that mad about it anymore — right now, anyway, who knows how that’ll change later. For some reason, though, Scar doesn’t seem to agree, eyes widening as he waves his hands almost frantically.
“No, no, don’t worry about all that!” he says. “I didn’t realize you could hear it, I’ll make sure she stays quiet—”
“And take away her job?” Grian says, smile tugging at his lips again. Scar blinks like he hadn’t expected the reassurance. Had Grian come on a little too strong? Oops. “She’s a working woman, Scar, you can’t ruin that for her.”
There’s a moment of silence, and Grian worries he’s overstepped, read the situation wrong, something. But then Scar relaxes, smirk painting itself back on his face, and he moves toward the edge of the bed, closer to the desk. Closer to Grian. There’s still an island of flooring between them, but it feels a little like the walls are closing in. In, like, a good way.
It’s daunting, having all this attention on him at once. Somehow, though, it isn’t quite uncomfortable. A strange sort of effect. He can’t say he minds it.
“Of course,” Scar agrees easily, like this is something they do, like they haven’t only known each other hardly twenty minutes. “She’s the real breadwinner here, honestly. A saint, paying for my tuition.”
Grian tsks, biting back a laugh as he shakes his head. “Giving up her own education for yours. A shame.”
Scar gasps, mock affronted. “A worthy sacrifice, I’d say!”
None of it is all that funny. Not enough to justify the squawk of a laugh Grian lets out, far too loud for the hour, ironically enough, but that doesn’t stop him, apparently. He feels— not bad, not really, but… awkward, maybe, right up until Scar laughs along with him, and it feels less weird. It’s not quite hysterical, but probably verging on it, but it doesn’t even feel like it matters.
The fit doesn’t last long, not enough to even count as such. But it feels strangely right, in a way Grian doesn’t really want to examine, in general and especially this time of night. He hardly knows Scar. This doesn’t have to mean anything.
If he wants it to? That doesn’t matter right now.
“Grian,” Scar says, a gleam in his eye Grian can’t quite read, “let me make it up to you.”
Grian blinks. Flushes, just barely, feeling his face burn. “That’s— I mean—” he scrambles, because Scar’s still leaning forward, still fucking shirtless, and this feels a lot like drowning probably does. “It’s not that big of a deal—”
It sort of is. It’s kind of the entire reason he’s here. He’s never claimed to be entirely truthful.
“No, no, seriously!” Scar sounds earnest, strangely enough, and, well, Grian wouldn’t exactly mind having a favor owed. “Are you free tomorrow? Or— today, now, I guess. Say… around one?”
Grian raises an eyebrow. “Do you ask out every guy who shows up at your room at night?”
“Only the interesting ones,” Scar returns, with another goddamn wink. “One-thirty, then? Down at the cafe in the Jupiter building?”
Jupiter’s Jukebox — affectionately referred to as JJ or JuJu by more or less the entire student population — is the… premier might be too strong of a word, but it is the most popular spot on campus. There’s probably better places off campus — cheaper, too — but it’s not terrible, and Grian won’t be the first or the last exhausted college student to admit he’s spent probably a little too much time there.
Plus, coffee he presumably doesn’t have to pay for? Score.
“One-thirty,” Grian agrees with a tilt of his head.
The grin on his face fades as he realizes this is probably the time he should head out, maybe get actual sleep, for once. Part of him, tucked somewhere deep down that he’s only really acknowledging because of the late hour, doesn’t want to leave, wants to keep this moment alive, burning like a candle. But he is exhausted, and despite the spark in Scar’s eyes it’s obvious he is, too, and they should both sleep, probably. It’s not like they won’t see each other soon enough.
It’s not like they’re very far, after all.
Grian starts to stand, stilted as he stops, glances up and over. “I should go,” he says, almost apologetic but not entirely, now that the idea of actually sleeping has occurred to him. “Catch up on all that beauty sleep, y’know?”
“Not that you need it,” Scar says, and it’s a joke, it’s so obviously a joke, but that doesn’t stop the stupid little fluttering feeling in Grian’s chest. He sighs, though, like he’s sad Grian’s leaving, which is… a strange sort of feeling. He’s not very used to being missed. “I should probably get settled, too. For Jellie, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Grian teases from where he’s moved to linger in the doorway.
Neither of them move, for a moment, like they’re waiting for the other to break first, to leave, to speak. Like neither of them really want this to end. But it has to, as all good things — and baffling, beautifully confusing midnight moments — do, and Grian opens the door as Scar moves to, presumably, actually sleep.
He pauses, looks up at Grian, one corner of his mouth lifting hopefully. “Tomorrow?”
“You know where to find me,” Grian promises, and shuts the door behind him.
So. Things he knows about his neighbor: he does have a cat, he doesn’t know what shirts are, and he might be the most confusing person on the planet.
Surely Scar isn’t actually flirting. Not with Grian, anyway. That’s not some sort of self deprecation, as much as some people would probably argue, it’s just a fact. Whether or not he wanted it to be flirting, well… that’s another matter entirely. And one that isn’t relevant right now, thank you very much.
No, the only thing that’s relevant right now is the way Grian throws the door to his room open, kicks his slippers off, and flops down face first on his bed. He takes a moment to set his glasses on his desk, readjust himself, but once he lies down properly, sleep comes practically in an instant.
Without anything to keep him up, Grian dreams of green eyes and crooked grins, and he’ll deny it until the day he dies.