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Collie thought he'd made a mistake coming here.
The dorm was loud always loud with people yelling down hallways, music bleeding through thin walls, and the constant smell of burnt popcorn and body spray. His roommate was some guy named Gary who'd been immediately hostile for no reason Collie could figure out.
He unpacked slowly that first night while Gary pretended to be asleep on the other side of the room. His guitar went in the corner. A photo of his family mom, dad, two younger sisters all grinning at a beach went on his desk where he could see it.
He missed home already.
Through the wall, he could hear Pete and Ray laughing about something. Normal roommate stuff. The kind of easy friendship Collie had hoped for.
Instead, he got Gary Barkovitch, who'd taken one look at him and decided to be an asshole for sport.
Collie lay in bed staring at the ceiling and wondered if it was too late to request a room change.
The first week was tense.
Barkovitch kept to himself, coming and going at odd hours, barely speaking except to make cutting remarks. But Collie noticed things.
Gary's hands had calluses in weird places not from guitar or sports, but from something else. There was a careful precision in how he moved sometimes, like he was always aware of angles and light.
He flinched at loud noises. When someone dropped a textbook in the hallway, Barkovitch's whole body went rigid for a second before he caught himself.
And he scratched. Constantly. His neck, his arms, picking at his sleeves in the library until Collie wanted to reach over and stop him.
Barkovitch glared at innocent remarks, turned every attempt at conversation into a fight, and looked at Collie like he was waiting for him to do something terrible.
Collie didn't know what to do with any of it.
He ended up in a psychology lecture by accident wrong room, wrong time, but the professor was already talking so Collie slid into a back seat rather than make a scene.
Someone near him whispered that psych was a "useful major" for understanding people. Collie thought about Barkovitch and his constant scratching, his flinching, his anger.
Later, he saw Gary's schedule on their shared desk.
Psychology major.
It didn't fit. Barkovitch seemed like the last person who'd want to study human behavior and vulnerability. But there it was.
"Why psych?" Collie asked one night, trying for casual.
Barkovitch looked up from his laptop, eyes flat. "Because I'm fucked up and might as well understand why."
Then he went back to typing, conversation over.
Collie started noticing more.
Barkovitch rubbed his neck when stressed, the motion almost unconscious. He picked at his sleeves during lectures. When a professor offered help after class, Gary flinched and muttered something about being fine before walking away too fast.
Collie tried small things. Bought extra snacks and left them on Barkovitch's desk. Made jokes about their terrible dining hall food. Invited Gary to group movie nights in the common room.
Barkovitch barely responded. Took the snacks without comment. Ignored the invitations.
But he stopped being quite as hostile. The cutting remarks came less often. Sometimes, late at night, Collie would wake up to find Barkovitch still awake, staring at his laptop screen like it held answers to questions he wouldn't ask.
And Collie couldn't figure out why he kept trying. It wasn't like Barkovitch was friendly, or even grateful. Most people would've given up by now. Hell, Pete had told him to stop wasting his time on "that asshole Barkovitch."
But something about the way Gary moved through the world tense, waiting for the next hit made Collie's chest tight. Like if he stopped trying, Barkovitch would just... disappear into himself completely.
It didn't make sense. Collie didn't even like the guy most of the time.
The nightmare happened three weeks in.
Collie woke to muttering Barkovitch's voice, low and desperate. The words were garbled, but the tone was unmistakable. Pleading. Afraid.
"Barkovitch," Collie said softly, sitting up. "Hey, man, you're dreaming."
Gary jerked awake, breathing hard. For a second, his eyes were wild with panic. Then he saw Collie and his face went blank.
"What the fuck are you looking at?"
"You were having a nightmare."
"Mind your business."
"You sounded"
"I said mind your fucking business!" Barkovitch's voice cracked. His hands went to his neck, scratching.
Collie held up his hands. "Okay. Okay, I'm sorry."
He lay back down and pretended to go back to sleep. But he'd seen the raw fear in Gary's eyes before the anger covered it.
And he couldn't unsee it.
Three Months Later
They'd fallen into something that wasn't quite friendship but wasn't outright hostility either.
Barkovitch still snapped at him regularly. Still told him to fuck off when Collie asked too many questions. Still scratched his neck until it was raw and refused to talk about it.
But he also ate the snacks Collie left. Started making sarcastic comments about their professors that were almost funny. Once, when Collie had the flu, Barkovitch wordlessly shoved a bottle of cold medicine onto his desk before leaving for class.
Collie had stared at it for a full minute, trying to figure out what it meant.
The problem was, he still couldn't figure out why he cared. Barkovitch wasn't nice to him. Barely tolerated him most days. There were plenty of other people Collie could be friends with people who actually seemed to want him around.
But every time he thought about requesting that room change, something stopped him. Maybe it was the way Gary's hands shook sometimes when he thought no one was looking. Maybe it was the careful way he moved, like he was always braced for impact.
Maybe Collie was just stubborn.
Or maybe he was an idiot with a savior complex, like his sister had suggested over the phone.
Everything changed on a Tuesday night.
Barkovitch came back to their room around eleven, and Collie looked up from his homework to see him standing in the doorway bruised lip, torn sleeve, looking like he'd been in a fight.
"Jesus," Collie said, standing up. "What happened?"
"None of your fucking business."
"Barkovitch"
"I said it's none of your business!" But Gary's voice shook, and his hands were trembling as they went to his neck.
Collie stepped closer slowly. "Let me help."
"I don't need your help!"
"You're bleeding."
"So what?"
"So let me"
"Why do you even care?" Barkovitch's voice cracked. "Why can't you just leave me the fuck alone like everyone else?"
And there it was. The question Collie had been asking himself for months.
"I don't know," Collie said honestly. "But I do. So let me help."
Gary stared at him, breathing hard. Then something in him snapped. He threw a punch weak, desperate, more like he was trying to push Collie away than actually hurt him.
Collie caught his wrist easily. "Barkovitch"
And Gary broke.
He dropped to his knees like his legs gave out, hands covering his face, and started crying raw, ashamed sobs that sounded like they were being torn out of him.
"Please don't look at me," Barkovitch choked out. "Please don't fucking look at me."
Collie froze for a heartbeat. Then he dropped down beside Gary, sitting on the floor next to him.
"Okay," Collie said quietly. "Breathe. I've got you."
Barkovitch buried his face against his knees and kept crying. Collie stayed, shoulder to shoulder, not touching but present.
After a while five minutes, maybe ten Gary's breathing started to slow.
"Can you drink some water?" Collie asked, voice practical and low.
Barkovitch nodded without looking up.
Collie grabbed a water bottle from his desk, opened it, handed it over. Gary drank with shaking hands.
"Do you want the lights off?"
Barkovitch nodded again.
Collie turned off the overhead, leaving just his desk lamp on soft, indirect light.
"Better?"
"Yeah," Gary whispered.
They sat in silence. Then, haltingly, Barkovitch started talking.
"There was someone." Gary's voice was flat, mechanical. He stared at the wall, not at Collie. "Back in high school. A teacher."
Collie stayed quiet, waiting.
"He..." Barkovitch's jaw worked. His hands clenched and unclenched. "Something happened. I don't I'm not getting into it."
The words came out clipped. Final. Like a door slamming shut.
"I shoved him. Got away. Told people." Gary's laugh was hollow. "School said I was the problem. That I attacked him. That I was lying about why."
His hands went to his neck, scratching, and Collie could see the way his shoulders had gone rigid, defensive.
"No one believed me," Barkovitch said quietly. "Everyone thought I made it up. That I was just some violent kid looking for attention."
That was it. No details about what happened. No description of the moment. Just the aftermath the accusations, the disbelief, the blame.
Collie's chest felt tight. His hands curled into fists.
"They should have believed you," he said, voice low and fierce.
"Yeah." Gary's laugh was bitter. "Well. They didn't."
Even now, even crying on the floor, Barkovitch couldn't help being an asshole about it. Dismissive. Like it didn't matter anymore.
But Collie could see the way his hands shook. The way he wouldn't meet Collie's eyes.
"You didn't deserve that," Collie said firmly. "Any of it."
"Everyone says that. Doesn't change anything."
"No," Collie agreed. "But it's still true."
Gary didn't respond. Just sat there, scratching at his neck until Collie carefully reached over and covered his hand with his own.
"Don't," Collie said quietly.
Barkovitch tensed. For a second, Collie thought he'd pull away, snap at him, shove him off.
Instead, Gary's fingers slowly uncurled. He didn't pull his hand away.
They sat like that for a long time.
The next morning, Barkovitch was back to being an asshole.
"Stop hovering," he snapped when Collie asked if he wanted to get breakfast together.
"I'm not hovering."
"You're literally standing over me right now."
"I'm standing near my own desk!"
"Well, fuck off anyway."
Collie should've been frustrated. Should've regretted last night, regretted caring at all.
But Barkovitch took the granola bar Collie left on his desk. And when Collie offered to walk with him to class, Gary rolled his eyes but didn't say no.
It was progress. Probably.
Over the next few weeks, things shifted.
Barkovitch was still prickly. Still told Collie to fuck off at least once a day. Still refused to talk about what happened beyond those bare-bones details.
One afternoon, a package arrived. Barkovitch stared at it on his desk like it might explode.
"You gonna open that?" Collie asked from his bed, pretending to read.
"It's from my Meemaw," Gary muttered.
He didn't move for a full minute. Then, slowly, he tore open the box.
Inside was a camera. Not new scratched, worn, obviously used. Barkovitch's hands started shaking the moment he saw it.
Collie sat up. "Barkovitch"
"It's my old one," Gary said, voice tight. "From high school. I told her to throw it away."
"Why'd she send it?"
Barkovitch didn't answer. He just stared at the camera like it was something alive and dangerous.
Then, with shaking hands, he picked it up.
The weight of it was familiar. Wrong and familiar. His thumb found the power button automatically, muscle memory he'd tried to forget.
"You good?" Collie asked quietly.
"No," Gary said. But he didn't put it down.
He turned it over in his hands, examining it like he was seeing it for the first time. There was a crack in the lens cover. Tape holding the battery compartment closed. It had survived whatever he'd done to it after.
"She thinks I should start again," Barkovitch said flatly. "Sent a note and everything. 'Photography was always your gift.'" He laughed, bitter. "Like I can just pick it back up and pretend nothing happened."
"Can you?" Collie asked.
Gary looked at him sharply. "What?"
"Pick it back up. Not pretend nothing happened but do it anyway."
Barkovitch's jaw worked. His hands had stopped shaking, but his grip on the camera was white-knuckled.
"I don't know," he admitted finally.
"You don't have to decide now."
Gary nodded slowly. He set the camera on his desk, careful, like it was made of glass.
He didn't touch it again that night. But he didn't hide it either.
And Collie still couldn't fully explain why he cared. Maybe it was because Barkovitch was brilliant and angry and so determined to push everyone away that it felt like a challenge. Maybe it was because underneath all the hostility, there was something raw and real that Collie wanted to understand.
Or maybe he was just tired of watching Gary tear himself apart and pretend it was fine.
A week later, Collie was waiting outside Barkovitch's psych class like usual.
When the door opened and students started filing out, Gary emerged looking tense shoulders rigid, jaw clenched, hands already going to his neck.
Collie pushed off the wall. "Hey. You good?"
"Fine," Barkovitch bit out.
"You don't look fine."
"Well, I am. Fuck off."
But his hands were shaking as he scratched his neck, and Collie could see the barely controlled anger in his eyes.
"What happened?"
"Nothing. Just" Gary's jaw worked. "Professor said some shit about attention-seeking behavior in trauma survivors. Like people just make shit up for sympathy."
Collie's expression hardened. "Jesus."
"Yeah, well." Barkovitch scratched harder. "Whatever."
Collie reached out carefully, covering Gary's hand with his own to stop the scratching. "Come on. Let's get out of here."
In the hallway, away from the classroom, Barkovitch looked at him. "You didn't have to wait."
"I know."
"So why do you?"
"Because I want to."
Gary's jaw tightened. For a second, Collie thought he'd snap back with something cruel. Instead, Barkovitch just pulled his hand away and kept walking.
But he slowed down enough for Collie to catch up. And when their shoulders bumped, Gary didn't move away.
They started letting physical contact normalize.
Collie would nudge Barkovitch's shoulder when he made a sarcastic comment. Gary would shove him back, but there was no real heat in it.
When Barkovitch started scratching his neck after a loud noise, Collie's hand would slide over to cover it not restraining, just present.
"Stop it," Gary would mutter.
"Make me."
Barkovitch never actually made him stop.
The confession came late one night in the communal kitchen.
They were making tea because neither of them could sleep. Barkovitch was scratching his arm, and Collie reached over and gently pulled his hand away.
"He locked the door," Gary said suddenly. His voice was flat. Empty. "That's all I'm saying about it."
Collie stayed quiet, listening.
"I don't want to talk about what happened. I can't." Barkovitch's hands clenched around his mug. "But after I ran. Told the principal."
His voice was so matter-of-fact it made Collie's stomach turn. Like Gary had practiced saying these exact words, stripped of anything that might make them real.
"They said I was lying. That I was violent. That I attacked him for no reason." Gary stared at the wall. "Doesn't matter. No one believed me."
The way he said it so detached, so rehearsed made it worse somehow. Like he'd told this story so many times to people who didn't care that he'd learned to make it sound like nothing.
"I believe you," Collie said firmly.
Barkovitch looked at him really looked. "Why are you even here? Why do you care?"
And Collie realized he finally had an answer.
"Because you matter to me."
The words hung in the air between them.
Gary's eyes stung. "You're so fucking stupid."
"Maybe."
"Not maybe. Definitely stupid."
But Barkovitch didn't pull away when Collie reached up and brushed a tear from his face.
And when Collie leaned in, Gary kissed him back.
Slow. Grounding. Mutual.
When they broke apart, Barkovitch whispered, "I'm still an asshole."
"Yeah," Collie agreed. "I know."
"And I'm not going to stop being an asshole just because we're whatever this is."
"Wouldn't expect you to."
Gary let out a shaky laugh. "Good. Because I'm not changing."
"Don't want you to."
They stayed in the kitchen until dawn, drinking terrible tea and not talking about feelings because Barkovitch would rather die.
But their shoulders pressed together. And Gary's hand found Collie's.
And that was enough.
They started going public in small ways.
Collie held Barkovitch's hand at lunch in front of the group. Gary introduced Collie as "this idiot I'm stuck with" when Pete asked, but his fingers stayed laced with Collie's.
The guys accepted it without question. Harkness made a joke about them being "disgustingly cute." Barkovitch told him to fuck off. But it was all good-natured.
Gary started carrying his camera again. Small shots at first cracks in the sidewalk, shadows on walls. Then pictures of Collie. Candid ones, when he was laughing or reading or just existing.
"Stop taking pictures of me," Collie said without looking up from his book.
"Make me."
"You're an asshole, Barkovitch."
"And you're photogenic. Shut up."
The camera stopped being a source of trauma and became his again.
One afternoon, they were walking across campus hand in hand. The sun was setting, casting long shadows.
Barkovitch's neck was still marked from scratching it probably always would be. He was still prickly and defensive and told Collie to fuck off at least three times a day.
But his hand was steady in Collie's. And when Collie looked at him, Gary looked back without flinching.
"You good?" Collie asked.
"I'm never good," Barkovitch said flatly. "I'm fucked up and always will be."
"Fair enough."
"But" Gary's jaw worked. "I'm not as bad when you're around."
It wasn't romantic. It wasn't poetic. It was the most Barkovitch thing Collie had ever heard.
"I'll take it," Collie said, grinning.
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
Gary rolled his eyes. But his grip tightened on Collie's hand.
They kept walking, and Barkovitch thought: Maybe I don't have to do this alone.
Maybe safe doesn't have to mean isolated.
Maybe Collie is both.