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“‘Death does not concern us, because as long as we exist, death is not here. And when it does come, we no longer exist,’” Garraty reads from a set of long-wrinkled flashcards, his voice taking on a somewhat robotic tone. “Who said that?”
They had been at this for hours, cramming for their philosophy final, and Olson’s brain was nothing short of mush. “Uh… fuck, I don’t know,” he mutters, bringing a hand up to rub at his temple. “Thucydides?”
Garraty shakes his head, and Olson immediately knows he’s screwed. “Nope, Solon. You’re about two hundred years off, bud.”
“Fuck,” Olson groans, leaning back in Garraty’s desk chair. He lets his arms dangle off the sides, limp as a ragdoll. “I am so fucked.”
“We are so fucked,” Garraty admits, tossing the remaining cards onto the rug and sitting back in the swivel chair at Stebbins’ desk. Fortunately, Stebbins was spending a late night at the library, leaving the room to Garraty to do with as he pleased. “I wouldn’t have gotten that, either.”
Not even two days ago, Olson was certain he had this exam in the bag. That is, until Collie Parker came back from his section’s version with nothing short of horror stories. Now, Olson felt faint, like he was going to be sick from the stress. Chewing gum normally helped him regulate his anxiety, but of course he had to run out of his last pack the day before.
And yet his friends were out partying? While Olson was giving himself an ulcer over this final? If the stress wouldn’t make him sick, the jealousy would. It wasn’t fair.
“We should be out at Thirsty Thursday,” groans Olson, dejected. He starts to pick at the dry skin on the back of his palm. “How come Pete gets to go out on the town without us? I’m the life of the fucking party.”
“So is he,” Garraty retorts with a half-smile. “Listen, we may be completely screwed, but we’ll be even more screwed if we just fuck around tonight.”
“I’m never taking a Friday class ever again.”
“Don’t be like that, it had the best prof,” Garraty argues, and Olson looks at him sourly. He had been the one to recommend this class in the first place— it fulfilled a requirement for his political science major, along with one of Olson’s humanities electives. A win-win in theory, except for the fact that this course was hell on Earth. “It’s fine. We’ll just guess on the identification questions.”
“We can’t! Collie said half the fucking exam is identification,” Olson protests, throwing his hands up in annoyance.
“Oh, come on, you know he was exaggerating. It’s probably more like a third,” Garraty collects a few cards from the carpet and straightens them out in his hands. “Alright. Next one: ‘The unexamined life is not worth living.’”
Olson blinks. For some reason, it comes to him immediately. “Socrates. Obviously.”
“See? You know this stuff, Hank,” Garraty says with a smile, his eyes creasing at the corners. “Stop psyching yourself out. You’re going to be just fine.”
“Well, yeah, I know the easy ones,” Olson picks up an old gum wrapper from the desk and crumples it in his hand. He rolls it back and forth between two fingers inattentively. “He’s not going to ask us about the surface-level stuff. You know him, he’s all abstract, plus Collie said it was awful—”
“Don’t get too worked up about what Collie thinks! Yeah, he’s smart, but you’re letting it get to you!” Garraty argues, but Olson’s staring at the clock now, watching a new number fade in on its digital face. It’s getting late— almost one in the morning— and although he knows he can sleep in, he knows time is ticking. If he doesn’t have it now, will he ever?
Another minute passes by. Twelve forty-nine. His exam is at noon tomorrow, leaving Olson with roughly eleven hours to memorize thousands of years of human thought. Excellent.
Just then, the mechanical latch on the door buzzes, and the lock swings to the side. Garraty straightens up a little. “Stebbins must be home.”
Sure enough, the door kicks open, and Stebbins, looking exhausted, trudges into the room. He slings his bag down by Olson’s feet and climbs straight into bed without directly acknowledging either of them. He opens a book that had been sitting neatly on his nightstand and begins to read.
“Um, hello?” Garraty waves at him pointedly.
“Hello,” Stebbins repeats hesitantly. His eyes fall on Olson, and maybe it’s the stress, or the fact that he hasn’t slept in forever, but to him, it looks like Stebbins’ eyes narrow ever-so-slightly. Then they widen, and Stebbins’ eyes have returned back down to his book. Curtly, he continues: “I thought this would be over with by the time I got back.”
Garraty cocks an eyebrow, almost amused. “Well, it isn’t. Sorry. We still have a final to study for. Thirty percent of our grade.”
Stebbins shrugs, aloof, and goes back to reading. Olson’s gaze lingers on him for a moment, mildly unsettled by how quickly he becomes closed-off. Fucking egomaniac. The world doesn’t stop turning when you enter a room, he thinks.
But his mouth contradicts him: “We can move somewhere else if he doesn’t want me here.”
“He can deal with it,” Garraty mutters, as if Stebbins isn’t laying a maximum of eight feet away. “Don’t worry about him. It’s not personal.”
Something about the way Stebbins looked at him before definitely felt personal, but Olson didn’t think to mention it. “Right,” he breathes out. “So where were we?”
Garraty hands him the stack of flashcards. “Read me a couple. There should be some good general theory ones in there.”
Olson shuffles through the cards, his eye catching on quite a few of them. “Shit, there’s something about Pythagoras on here?”
“The fucking trigonometry guy?” Garraty asks, and Olson nods. “I don’t even remember him being mentioned in class.”
“Me neither,” Olson huffs, squinting down at the messy handwriting on the cards. “Didn’t you make the cards? Why’s it on here?”
“No, I got them from Collie. He said they were helpful.”
“Oh,” Olson snorts, fitting the card back into its place in the stack. “So we’re majorly fucked, then.”
“Yup, now get on with it. We don’t have all night.”
Olson clears his throat and rares to read a card out when Garraty’s phone buzzes: “Shit, it’s Pete.”
Isn’t it a little early for that? Olson thinks. When Pete went out, he usually stayed out. Late.
Garraty brings the phone up to his ear, but doesn’t put it on speaker, so Olson’s attempts at eavesdropping come up fruitless. Garraty doesn’t say much for a while, just murmuring agreements with whatever McVries is saying, but he has a faint smile on his lips. After a moment, he says: “I’m on my way. Love you, too.”
Quickly, he gets up and shrugs on his jacket, grabbing his keys from the top drawer of his desk. He still doesn’t provide any explanation to Olson, who watches him with a puzzled look on his face.
“Everything okay?” Olson asks, mildly frustrated at the lack of information given to him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Garraty says quickly. “Just needs me to walk him and Collie home. I guess the SafeRide isn’t running anymore. Think you’ll be okay here? I wouldn’t want to steal your valuable study time.”
Olson looks awkwardly over at Stebbins, who doesn’t really acknowledge him. But he can’t tell if he’s so absorbed into his book, or if he just doesn’t care.
“I mean…” Olson trails off. “I guess.”
“I won’t be long,” Garraty reassures him, and Olson instantly knows it’s a lie, and he’ll get dragged off somewhere else, but he doesn’t push it. Garraty shoots him a sly, shitty smile. “Stebbins can keep you company.”
That’s what I’m worried about, Olson wants to say. Not that he had anything against Stebbins, he just didn’t know him very well. Still, despite that, Olson found himself drawn to him in a way he couldn’t explain, and that scared him.
Olson worried his bottom lip between his teeth and swallowed. “Alright. Have fun wrangling them.”
“I will,” Garraty grimaced, shrugging his coat over his shoulders. He addresses Stebbins. “See you, man.”
Stebbins gives him a tight smile, mutters a “good luck,” and resumes his reading.
With that, Garraty walks out into the hallway, letting the weighted door float shut behind him with a click.
Olson sat silently at Garraty’s desk for a while, drumming his hands on the surface, willing himself to just focus. Focus, Hank, you’re better than this.
But maybe he wasn’t. He takes a few haphazard notes, copying almost word-for-word from the textbook, before giving up, discarding his old, chewed-at pen and putting his head in his hands.
That’s when he remembers. He always has a secret, emergency stash of weed tucked away in the smallest zip pocket of his backpack. He swore to only bring it out during desperate times, but this was a desperate time. Just a little, he thought. Just enough to calm his nerves.
When he bends over to open up his backpack, he notices Stebbins watching him curiously from behind the pages of his book, but he looks away as quickly as Olson notices it.
He’s in luck, because the joints are pre-rolled, and he picks one, holding it gingerly between two fingers. He fumbles with the lighter for a moment before bringing it to life and cupping the flame with his hand, shielding it from the faint draft coming from the ceiling fan. The paper catches slowly, glowing a dull orange as he draws it to his lips.
The smoke burns a little on the way down, but billows back up in gentle waves. Olson sighs deeply, letting his eyes flutter shut before a low, bitter voice breaks him from his trance.
“Can you at least open a window?” Stebbins drawls, setting his book down in his lap, splayed open with his thumb pressed to its center, keeping his place. “Smells like you’ve set a skunk loose.”
Olson glowers at him, but obliges, moving to the window. He remembers that, at the beginning of the year, he and Baker had accidentally knocked the wire frame out of the center during a drinking game. After Olson figures out how to unlock the damn thing, sliding the thick glass panel up above his head, he can still see it waffled in the grass, slightly rusted, three stories down.
He sits halfway on an oblong ottoman that Garraty likes to keep by the windowsill, leaning his head out into the cool night air. He takes another drag, watching the smoke dissipate the moment it leaves his lips.
“You know, I’d offer you some if you weren’t so rude,” Olson jabs lightly, but the moment he says it, he’s not sure why. Stebbins never seemed like the type of person he’d enjoy getting high with.
“No need. I don’t smoke,” says Stebbins airily, his lips adopting a slight tilt. Proudly, almost, and Olson’s eyebrows knit together, insulted.
“You think you’re better than me or something?” Olson asks. Was this guy for real?
“No,” Stebbins says in that same unbothered tone, one that makes Olson hesitant to believe him. “I just prefer to stay clearheaded. I have things to prepare for, too, you know.”
“I hadn’t realized your brain was such a fragile ecosystem,” Olson bites back, nodding to Stebbins’ book. “Guess we handle stress in different ways. Doesn’t look like you’re studying.”
“God forbid I read for pleasure,” Stebbins deadpans. He pauses, then lets out a soft sigh. He slams his book shut so abruptly that Olson startles, and says: “Fine. Hand it over.”
“What?”
Stebbins swings his legs over the side of the bed, holding out his hand petulantly. “You heard me. Hand it over.”
It takes Olson a second to register what he meant, for whatever reason, but when he does, he gives Stebbins a wide, toothy grin.
“Nuh-uh,” Olson teases, patting the space next to him. “Come here. I’m not letting you steal it from me.”
Stebbins sighs again, but obliges, taking a seat on the other side of the ottoman. Olson hands him the joint and Stebbins receives it gingerly. He holds it awkwardly, unsure what to do with it.
“Just between your fingers. It doesn’t really matter how,” Olson guides his hands, pinching the joint between his thumb and pointer finger. “Like that.”
Stebbins holds it for a moment, staring down the bridge of his nose at it, so Olson continues. “And then you inhale.”
“I know that,” Stebbins snaps, but he gets a little hasty and puts the joint to his lips, breathing it in rapidly. His other hand flies up to his mouth as he enters a coughing fit, doubled over in front of Olson.
“Jesus, take your time,” Olson pats him on the back a few times like the action would expel the cough from him. “Don’t hack up a fucking lung.”
Stebbins glowers at him through his coughs, sitting back up and taking a deep breath before he tries again. He takes another drag, inhaling deeply, and this time, he’s successful. He breathes a nice, healthy amount of smoke out the window, silver under the moonlight, and looks towards Olson in his periphery, a nearly-proud expression on his face.
“There you go,” Olson smiles. “That wasn’t so bad.”
“I’m a fast learner.” Something glints in Stebbins’ eye when he says it. Confident, like his usual demeanor, but with an added flair that Olson can’t quite figure out.
Olson huffs out a laugh, feigning frustration, and watches Stebbins take another drag, more comfortably. Olson leans back against the windowsill, a smile on his face. He’s starting to feel it now, but his leg still bounces restlessly against the faux hardwood floor, his fingers tapping a nonsensical rhythm on the window.
He stares out at the streetlights, his vision going slightly foggy. From exhaustion, he figured, but Stebbins’ voice breaks him from his trance.
“Do you always get like that?”
“Like what?” Olson’s head whips back around, and he raises an eyebrow.
Stebbins nods his head in the direction of Olson’s leg. “You look nervous.”
Olson shrugs, placing a hand on his leg in an attempt to dull its restlessness. “I don’t like being bad at things,” he admits. “So, yeah, it does make me nervous.”
“Me neither,” Stebbins agrees. He hands the joint back to Olson. “But you’re probably not as bad as you think.”
“You weren’t here when Ray was quizzing me,” Olson huffs out a laugh in disbelief. “It was abysmal.”
Stebbins watches him, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. “You’re exhausting.”
Olson takes a drag, letting the smoke pass through his lips, only thinly parted. “Oh, fuck off.”
“It’s true.” The joint passes between them again, and Stebbins doesn’t cough, the cloud leaving his lips healthy and practiced. “See? Fast learner.”
Olson rolls his eyes, smiling despite himself. They sit in silence for a while, broken only by the gentle sound of breathing. It’s not necessarily an awkward silence, but it feels too empty. After a few more rounds of passing the joint back and forth, Stebbins extinguishes it against the wall. It leaves a mark, which Stebbins rubs away with his thumb, and moves like he’s going to toss the half-used joint out the window.
“Wait! What are you doing?” Olson grabs his hand, stopping him.
“What, aren’t we done?” Stebbins looks at him, perplexed.
“Sure, for now, but it’s still perfectly good,” Olson snatches it back from him, tapping off the excess ash, and sets it down on the windowsill. “I can get another use out of this. Don’t be fucking wasteful, man.”
“Sorry,” says Stebbins, looking almost embarrassed. He looks back out the window, down at the scattered dots walking by. The streetlights below are blurred slightly, once a stark orange against the night sky.
Fuck, Olson thinks. Was that a little too rude? But what did he care? It’s not like Stebbins had ever gone out of his way to be kind to him.
The silence returns— awkward this time— that is, until Olson is struck by a question: “You said you’re a perfectionist, too. You get nervous, Stebbins?”
Stebbins hesitates, the corners of his eyes tinged with red, but they’re wide open. He doesn’t look tired. “Not nervous, no,” he shifts slightly in his seat. “Say, I’m feeling kind of… fluffy. Is that normal?”
Olson laughs a little and nods. He was sure his own eyes were thoroughly bloodshot by now. “Yeah. Don’t worry. It’s a little weird the first time,” he says, instinctively reaching forward as if to brush something from Stebbins’ shoulder, but nothing’s there. “If not nerves, then what?”
Stebbins doesn’t answer immediately, only stares at Olson, but it doesn’t seem like they’re making eye contact; more like Stebbins is watching the mole on the bridge of Olson’s nose. “My dad,” he says, after a while, “doesn’t do average.”
“What do you mean?” In that moment, Olson realizes that he doesn’t really know anything about Stebbins at all. Of course they all came from different states— Olson had never even met Baker’s parents because of it— but Stebbins had never even talked about his home life.
“He doesn’t yell or anything. Just doesn’t pay attention to me. We’re not no-contact, but we might as well be,” Stebbins avoids looking at him, his expression growing tight. His lips are pursed, cheeks flushed, eyebrows taut. His eyes look more vacant now, Olson thinks, but Stebbins can’t be any more high than him. “I keep thinking that if I’m the best in the room, things could be different.”
“But you are. And they won’t be,” Olson finishes, keeping his voice gentle. Stebbins shakes his head, just once, and looks back up at him. It would be unsettling if Olson didn’t feel so bad for him. Stupidly, he says: “So that’s why you have such a massive stick up your ass.”
He regrets it the minute he says it, but fortunately, Stebbins laughs. It’s not cold and detached like usual; a rich, genuine sound that Olson has never heard come from him before.
When he comes off his laughter, Stebbins says: “I do not have a stick up my ass.”
Olson only shrugs in response, unsure of how far he’s willing to poke the bear. “You kind of do.”
“I do not,” Stebbins argues, almost petulantly. “I’m just my father’s son, at the end of the day.”
“What about your mother?” Olson pries, hoping to lighten the subject. “Are you close?”
Stebbins sighs. “No. She was so upset when my father left her that she might as well not even be there at all. It’s like talking to a ghost.”
Fuck, what a total backfire. For a moment, Olson doesn’t quite know how to respond, but finally, he says: “Oh. Well, for what it’s worth, I don’t think you come off like you have anyone to impress. You’ve always seemed really self-assured.”
Stebbins’ voice takes on a different temper, one that Olson fails to place. His face gives away no more secrets, remote and indecipherable. “Maybe that’s because I’ve already impressed you.”
It didn’t come off like Stebbins’ standard arrogance, at least not in Olson’s opinion. Maybe that was so jarring. He couldn’t help but be plagued by the idea that Stebbins was flirting with him. All he can do is choke out a response: “Maybe.”
It wasn’t a lie. Stebbins was smug. Stebbins was vain. He was stubborn, he was a collection of all the things Olson wanted to improve about himself. So why did he find himself enthralled, almost? Fascinated?
“Now it’s your turn,” Stebbins says, bumping his knee against Olson’s. Olson jolts at the sudden contact. “Why are you such a perfectionist?”
Olson sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying it slightly. “It’s not that serious,” he mumbles. “I was a middle child. You know how it is.”
“I don’t,” Stebbins says plainly, but there’s a spark of curiosity behind his eyes. “I don’t have any full siblings.”
“Oh,” Olson hesitates, trying to decide on the best way to explain it. “Well, my older sister’s the model child, and my brother’s the baby, so I’m kind of just there.”
Stebbins pauses, taking it in. His eyelids flutter briefly, and for a moment, Olson feels like he can read his mind. But Stebbins comes right out and says it: “You’re ignored, too.”
He’s not being judgmental, for once— of this, Olson is certain— but the bluntness of his delivery is all too jarring.
“I think that’s a little harsh,” Olson says. “But I’ve had to make more of an effort to get my parents’ attention.”
“Is that why you can’t seem to shut up to save your life?” Stebbins asks, the hint of a smile on his lips.
“Maybe,” Olson concedes, biting his lower lip. But his brain is too foggy to think about it. Maybe Stebbins was making a good point, or maybe it was just a surface-level one. Either way, he made it sound more profound than it was.
Something about the way Stebbins watches him is a little more unsettling than usual. He can almost feel Stebbins’ eyes tracing his face, and the feeling is soft, feather-like. He could almost relax into it if the weed didn’t naturally make him more on-edge. But Stebbins has never looked at him like that before, at least not that Olson had ever noticed.
“It’s funny,” says Stebbins at last. He taps his long, slender fingers methodically on the wall behind him. “How we arrive at the same location with different vehicles.”
Olson looks over at him, eyes weary. “The fuck are you talking about?”
“We aren’t that different,” Stebbins says, a lazy smile on his face. He bumps Olson’s knee with his own. “I used to think that we were.”
“Me, too,” Olson blinks, running a nervous hand through his hair. It comes back slightly sweaty. “I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t quite sure what he was apologizing for. Maybe it was a condolence for Stebbins’ parents being inattentive, or for the realization that maybe they were more similar than they thought. Olson wouldn’t want to be compared to himself, and he figured someone as self-satisfied as Stebbins wouldn’t, either.
But Stebbins only leans back, the grin fading slightly. He doesn’t question it, though, keeping his eyes trained on Olson’s face, his line of sight outlining his features. Olson feels weirdly self-conscious about it; was there something on his face? He rubs nervously at his cheek, wiping away imaginary dirt.
“What can you tell me about Pythagoras, Olson?” Stebbins asks, seemingly out of nowhere.
“What?”
“The trigonometry guy,” Stebbins repeats in the same tone Garraty had used earlier. So he had been listening, Olson thinks. Well, it was his space, too. He couldn’t blame a guy for eavesdropping on a conversation that took place six feet away from him.
“Right,” Olson says, trailing off. And that’s relevant how? he wanted to ask. Instead, he goes: “I think the whole a-squared plus b-squared equals c-squared thing is all I could tell you. Sorry.”
“That’s alright,” Stebbins shrugs, finally looking away. Olson heaves a sigh of relief, feeling scrutinized under that glare. “He wasn’t just a mathematician, you know.”
“Oh?”
“I mean, he was a philosopher, as you’ve probably noticed,” says Stebbins. “He was an astronomer, too. But maybe Baker’s more the type to know that. Pythagoras proposed the spherical earth. You know what else he did?”
“I think I’ve made it pretty fucking clear I don’t,” Olson stated incredulously. His mind was too hazy to process half of what Stebbins was even saying, let alone rattle off facts about Pythagoras.
But Stebbins continues, practically ignoring Olson: “He identified Venus. That wouldn’t be on your test, though.”
Stebbins looks back at him out of his periphery, his expression almost coy, and Olson has no idea what to make of any of it. That is, until he lowers his head and notices how Stebbins’ knee is still pressed against his own. He keeps his head down for a moment longer before looking back up at Stebbins anxiously.
Stebbins’ left eyebrow quirks upwards, acknowledging him, and a slow, smug smile spreads across his face. That’s when it hits Olson. Oh.
Olson was more than familiar with the planets, and by extension, Roman mythology. He’d taken Latin all through high school just so he could brag about it. He knew what Venus represented, deciphering the code Stebbins seemed to speak in: love and sensuality. And now, Olson was entirely certain that Stebbins was making a move on him.
Olson’s lips part slightly and he wets his lips, suddenly becoming hyperaware of how dry his mouth has become. Freezing up, he cycles the thought over and over in his head: Stebbins was hitting on him. And Olson didn’t hate the idea of it.
It hadn’t occurred to him that Stebbins’ smirk was just him testing the waters, gauging him. And normally, Olson would get all flustered, but it wasn’t his first rodeo; he knew he was more confident when he was high. And now, that confidence just might be his downfall. His Vesuvius.
Without thinking, he leans forward and presses his lips to Stebbins’. Stebbins startles, like he wasn’t certain Olson would actually do anything, but quickly relaxes against him, placing his hands on either side of Olson’s face.
It was slow, experimental at first. Not at all like how Olson would’ve imagined kissing Stebbins to be like. He’d expected something a lot more assertive, but Stebbins felt pliable in his hands.
So Olson figured he’d push further, letting his tongue trace the curve of Stebbins’ lower lip. He tasted sweet— fruity, almost, and Olson liked it. He really liked it. To his elation, Stebbins’ lips parted, allowing Olson to deepen the kiss.
He doesn’t get much further, though, pulling back as the realization of what’s really happening hits him. The first thing he notices is the mischievous glimmer in Stebbins’, followed by thin color rushing to his face. At the sight, Olson’s chest felt impossibly tight, his pulse drumming in his ears.
“It would be really funny if it did end up on the exam,” he jokes, hoping to get a laugh out of Stebbins. To his pleasure, it does.
“You’re such an idiot,” Stebbins murmurs, but there’s no real bite to it. Slowly, teasingly, Stebbins leans in again, brushing his lips against Olson’s jawline before trailing upward to meet him again. Olson’s immediately drawn to the taste of that same sweet flavor, and he wonders briefly if Stebbins had just been enjoying some candy or gum, or if it was just him.
As if pulled by a magnet, Olson’s hands find Stebbins’ waist, working just barely beneath the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t push it up any further, but his thumb brushes the bare skin on Stebbins’ hip, causing him to shudder.
In return, Stebbins’ hands slide from Olson’s cheeks to tangling in his hair. He doesn’t tug, but Olson has to consciously hold back a whimper at the feeling. He wouldn’t embarrass himself in front of Stebbins, not so soon.
He couldn’t let him know how much he was enjoying this.
Olson breaks the kiss to pepper kisses down Stebbins’ neck, towards his collarbone, and Stebbins lets out a small gasp in surprise, fingers tightening in Olson’s hair. Face pressed to the crevice where Stebbins’ neck met his collar, Olson looks up with wide eyes: “May I?”
Stebbins nods, breathless, as Olson begins to bite and suck at one particular spot, determined to leave a mark.
Stebbins shivers under Olson’s lips, a soft groan escaping him despite the effort to stay composed, just as Olson darts his tongue out to circle the spot. His hands tug at Olson’s hair, pulling him closer, commanding him without speech. Every brush of lips, every press of his teeth, somehow Olson knew that’s precisely what Stebbins wanted.
Olson breaks away again, just enough to whisper against Stebbins’ skin: “I could do this all day.” He keeps his voice mellow, teasing, but Stebbins only hums blissfully in response. Olson looks up through his lashes and notices that Stebbins has opened his eyes, too, peering down at him. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” Stebbins smiles languidly, his eyes appearing droopy, blonde hair a messy halo surrounding his head. “It’s just not easy to talk to most people.”
“Yeah?” Olson smiles against his neck, pushing the fabric of Stebbins’ sweater out of the way.
“It’s not like that with you,” Stebbins says. “I used to think it was. But it isn’t.”
Olson pulls his face back just enough to study his face, his pointer finger absentmindedly winding itself in the hem of Stebbins’ shirt. It was oddly serene, and Olson’s brought back to the first time he ever got high. It had taken everything in him not to vomit, he was shaking so hard. But if he hadn’t just gotten high with Stebbins, he doesn’t think he’d be able to tell he was high at all, save for the reddening around the corners of his eyes.
He’s staring. Embarrassment hits Olson quickly, and he knows he has to say something. Stebbins is expecting him to. Quick, Olson. Anything.
“I do talk a lot,” Olson settles on, eventually. And stupidly, he thinks, but he couldn’t come up with anything else on the spot.
Stebbins smiles softly, almost dorky, and mutters out: “That’s true.” He leans back, leaving Olson disappointed at the loss of contact, and he’s about to complain when the door’s electric lock buzzes and clicks. Stebbins’ head snaps up quickly. “Garraty.”
Olson’s slower to look at the door. Sure enough, Ray Garraty kicks it open, supporting McVries’ well-toned body with both hands. It’s heavy, and looks like it takes a little effort, but he steps through with a heaving breath before noticing Stebbins and Olson sitting near the windowsill.
“Hey guys,” Garraty barely spares them a glance— thank God— as he ushers McVries into the room, eager to get him in bed. Olson can’t get a word out before he starts talking again: “We dropped off Collie on the way. It looks like it’s been a long night and, Hank, we should probably move to—” he finishes helping McVries into his bed, plants a kiss on his forehead, and turns around. “Are you fucking high?”
“Yeah,” Olson admits, running a hand down his face, over his eyes and nose. “I meant it, man, I’m so stressed about tomorrow. Spare the motherfucking lecture.”
“No, I didn’t mean you,” Garraty waves him off and gestures to Stebbins. “You got Stebbins high? Look at him.”
“I’m my own person,” Stebbins says, crossing his arms over his chest. In Garraty’s defense, he looked like he’d been run over by a truck, only in part due to how Olson had been devouring him just moments before. “I got myself high.”
“Sure,” Garraty looks at him suspiciously. “Well, we can have that conversation tomorrow. After our final. Which you’re totally going to fail, by the way.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Olson groans and looks over at Stebbins nervously. He stares back, a curious look on his face, while Garraty starts to rummage through his dresser drawers.
For a moment Stebbins just watches him, his expression undecipherable. Then he takes a deep breath, like he’s come to some private, resolute decision.
“I’ve got the munchies,” Stebbins announces, standing abruptly and extending a hand to him. “Want to hit the vending machine, Henry?”
Olson places a hand on his stomach, a grin spreading on his lips. “More than anything.”