Chapter Text
The humidity of a Boston September always felt like a personal insult. Mikey Morgan adjusted the strap of his leather satchel, feeling the weight of his Nikon and a thick C++ programming manual dig into his shoulder. His long black hair was already sticking to the back of his neck, and he’d definitely made a mistake wearing this oversized flannel over a vintage band tee.
He checked his printed schedule again. Intro to Sociocultural Anthropology. Stone Science Building.
He wasn't an Anthro major. He was Computer Science with a Criminal Justice minor, but he’d convinced himself the class might help with his game design projects. If he wanted to build immersive worlds, he needed to understand how actual human cultures formed. Plus, his mom had been on his case about “broadening his horizons” beyond a terminal window.
Mikey pushed into the lecture hall, finding a seat near the middle. He was barely settled when a guy slid into the desk right next to him.
The first thing Mikey noticed was the sweater vest. It was a dizzying argyle pattern that looked like it belonged to a grandfather, not a freshman. The guy had sharp features, black hair, and silver earrings shaped like human eyes that caught the dim light of the hall. He looked like he’d spent his entire summer reading in a library and was ready to tell you exactly why your favorite book was actually a literary mess.
The guy glanced at Mikey’s satchel, then at Mikey’s hair, his nose wrinkling just a fraction of a millimeter.
“The 90s ended two years ago,” the stranger said, his voice smooth but laced with an unbearable academic arrogance. “In case you missed the memo.”
Mikey stiffened, his grip tightening on his bag. “And the 50s ended fifty years ago, but here you are dressed like a retired geography teacher.”
The guy’s eyebrows shot up behind his glasses. He looked surprised, then strangely delighted. He didn't look away. He stared Mikey down with a gaze that felt like a challenge. “I’m Odin. I suggest you remember that.”
“I'm Mikey,” he replied, skipping the ‘Michael’ his mom used when she was lecturing him. “And don't hold your breath.”
The tension was broken by a student stepping up to the podium. She had short hair that had been dyed a vibrant red, clashing spectacularly with a bright blue Hawaiian shirt.
“Morning, everyone,” she chirped. “I’m Annie Dreadwell. I’m a senior here and your TA for the semester. Professor Jones is out today, so you get me.”
Annie’s eyes scanned the room, landing on the two of them. Her face lit up with a look of pure, unadulterated mischief.
“Oh, no way,” Annie said, leaning against the podium and pointing directly at the guy in the vest. “Ody? You actually made it to class on time? I thought you'd be lost in the library archives by now.”
Ody groaned, sinking slightly into his seat. “Hello, Annie. Please try to maintain some level of professional decorum.”
Annie turned to the rest of the class, grinning. “Everyone, this is my cousin, Ody. He was the smartest kid in his high school and he will absolutely try to prove he’s the smartest kid in this room, too.” Her eyes shifted to Mikey. “And you! You’re already arguing with him. I like you. What's your name?”
“Mikey,” he said, the name Ody sticking in his brain. It was a lot less intimidating than Odin, which made it a much better weapon.
“Well, Mikey,” Annie said, crossing her arms over her Hawaiian shirt. “Good luck. You're going to need it with this one.”
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After class, the campus was a chaotic swarm of students for the annual club fair. Mikey tried to navigate the sea of flyers, his satchel bumping against his hip. He didn't really care about clubs, but a line on a resume about “extracurricular leadership” wouldn't hurt a future game dev.
He found himself stopped in front of a booth draped in a dark navy cloth. A woman was sitting behind it, looking like she had stepped out of a 19th-century study. She had brown hair, glasses, and a crisp white button-down under a dark blazer. She was currently reading a book in Latin, looking completely unbothered by the noise around her.
“Is this the Debate Team?” Mikey asked.
The woman looked up, her expression serious and straight to the point. Her British accent was sharp. “It is. I am Agnes Mortenson. Are you here to join, or are you just loitering, Michael?”
Mikey froze, his brow furrowing. “It's Mikey. And... how do you know my name? I haven't even signed anything yet.”
Agnes didn't blink. “Annie describes people with terrifying accuracy. Long hair, camera bag, and an ‘appalling’ sense of fashion. It wasn't a difficult deduction.”
“My fashion is fine,” Mikey muttered, though he felt a weird flush of heat in his cheeks.
“You’re already behind, Michael,” a familiar, smug voice drawled from behind him.
Mikey spun around. Ody was standing there, clutching a stack of pamphlets from the History department. He looked Mikey up and down, a challenge in his eyes. “I was just coming to sign up. I assumed you'd be off joining the robotics club or something equally... predictable.”
“I have a Criminal Justice minor, Ody,” Mikey snapped, relishing the way Ody's jaw tightened at the nickname. “I can dismantle an argument faster than you can pick out a sweater vest.”
Agnes watched them, her sharp eyes darting between the two freshmen. A very small, very faint smile touched her lips, the kind of smile a scientist might give a particularly interesting specimen.
“Annie told me about you two,” Agnes said. “She said you were both insufferable.” She slid two sign-up sheets across the table. “If you want to prove who’s superior, do it in the circuit, not in front of my booth. Odin, Michael, sign here. We meet on Tuesday nights. Don't be late.”
“Mikey,” he corrected again, though Agnes was already ignoring him. He grabbed the pen and scribbled his name in aggressive, messy ink. Ody did the same, his handwriting perfectly slanted and precise.
“See you Tuesday, Mikey,” Ody said, hovering just an inch closer than necessary. “Try to bring an actual argument. Not just an attitude.”
He walked away, and Mikey was left standing there, his heart hammering in a way that felt suspiciously like a fight-or-flight response. He looked at Agnes, who was already back to her Latin book.
“He's the worst,” Mikey muttered.
“He's your partner for the introductory round,” Agnes said without looking up. “The ‘worst’ is usually a good place to start. Now move along, you're blocking the path.”
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Mikey shouldered his bag and headed for the dorms, already pulling his Nokia out of his pocket to call Christine. He needed to tell her about the absolute nightmare in a sweater vest he was now forced to work with.
Mikey made it back to his dorm room, kicked the door shut with the rubber toe of his black Converse, and immediately flopped onto the twin XL bed. The plastic-wrapped mattress crinkled loudly under his weight. He scrolled through his contacts until he hit Christine.
He’d known Christine Xu since they were kids. Back in high school, everyone had assumed they were the “it” couple, right up until their senior year spring break trip. Between the smell of cheap sunscreen and the sound of arcade games, Christine had finally sat him down and come out as a lesbian. It had been a messy, tearful forty-eight hours, but after a month of awkward silence, they’d somehow come out the other side as better friends than they’d ever been as a couple.
She was at Boston College now, just a few miles away, but she felt like a lifeline to a version of Mikey that wasn't currently being dismantled by a guy in a sweater vest. Christine was the kind of person who always looked energetic and put together; while Mikey looked like he’d been dragged through a thrift store backwards, Christine had an effortless style, favoring cute, coordinated outfits and keeping her brown hair perfectly styled. She was energetic, kind, and the only person who could tell Mikey he was being an idiot without him getting defensive. Usually.
She picked up on the second ring.
“Mikey! How’s the city life across the river?” Her voice was high-energy, and he could hear the muffled sounds of a dorm lounge in the background.
“I’ve met my nemesis, Chris. It took exactly one day,” Mikey groaned, staring up at the popcorn ceiling. “I’m dropping out. I’ll just go be a professional photographer. Or a hermit. Maybe a hermit photographer.”
“Dramatic much? It’s been, like, six hours,” she laughed. “Who is it? A professor? A roommate?”
“His name is Odin,” Mikey said, emphasizing the name like it was a curse word. “But his cousin, our Anthro TA, Annie, calls him Ody. He wears sweater vests, Christine. In September. And he has these silver earrings shaped like eyes that feel like they’re judging me while he’s talking.”
“Wait, Ody? That’s kind of a cute nickname,” Christine teased. “What did he do? Did he steal your seat?”
“He insulted my flannel! And then he acted like he was the only person in the room who’d ever read a book. He’s a History and English double major, so he thinks he’s some kind of intellectual god. He has this way of looking at me... like I’m a bug he’s about to dissect.”
Mikey sat up, his long black hair falling over his face. He pushed it back irritably, his scuffed Converse squeaking against the linoleum floor. “And the worst part is, I ran into him again at the club fair. Now I’m stuck as his partner for the Debate Team. The captain, this girl Agnes who looks like she lives in a library, already assigned us together. She knew my name before I even said it because Annie told her about my ‘appalling’ fashion sense.”
“Oh, Mikey,” Christine said, and he could practically hear the smirk on her face. “You’re in so much trouble.”
“What? No, I’m not. I’m going to crush him. I’m going to be the best partner he’s ever had just to prove I’m better than him, and then I’m going to make him admit he was wrong about my flannel.”
“You’re doing the thing again,” she said softly.
“What thing?”
“The ‘digging yourself into a hole’ thing. You’re already obsessed with this guy. You’ve talked about him for five minutes and we haven't even talked about your actual classes.”
Mikey felt that familiar heat crawl up his neck. “I am not obsessed! I’m competitive. There’s a difference. He’s the one who started it with the memo about the 90s.”
“Whatever you say, Mikey. Just try not to fall in love with him by midterms, okay? I don't want to have to buy a bridesmaid dress for a debate tournament.”
“I’m hanging up now,” Mikey snapped, though he couldn't help a small smile. “I’ll see you this weekend? I need to show you the photos I took today.”
“Of the campus or of Ody?”
“Goodbye, Christine!”
He pressed the end-call button and tossed the phone onto his pillow. He reached into his satchel and pulled out his camera, scrolling through the digital previews. He stopped on the photo he’d taken in the lecture hall.
It was just an empty chair and a blurred corner of an argyle vest in the edge of the frame. Mikey stared at it for a long second, his thumb hovering over the delete button.
He didn't press it.
Instead, he shoved the camera back into his bag and pulled out his C++ textbook. He had a lot of work to do if he was going to outshine a guy who probably studied Latin for fun.