Chapter Text
Ah yes, college… Am I right?
It’s the season where people set their unrealistic standards for their “golden years.” Most anticipate partying 24/7—getting trashed, hooking up, or whatever drug they can get their hands on—expecting their time there to be easy.
Bullshit.
College isn’t like one of the shows you watch on goddamn TV. It’s a nightmare. It’s hell. It’s like Lucifer giving birth to his child with the first woman… being banished to the fire pits of hell… suffering an eternal damnation.
That sounds strangely familiar.
Meet Second. Or rather, The Second Coming.
(Is his first name really “The” ? Jesus… talk about a lot to live up to.)
He’s a student in the high-pressure, caffeine-fueled trenches of the Art & Design Department, known for two things: a paralyzing sense of perfectionism and a tight-knit group of friends who wouldn't leave him alone if his life depended on it.
It’s not that he hates his course—he’s a god at the whole animation gig, capable of making a stick figure move with more emotion than an Oscar-winning actor.
But as the saying goes, people don't always get what they want. Thinking "logically," he chose the hardest path available: the one where his worth is determined by a critique panel and a flickering progress bar. Fucking idiot.
So here he is: perpetually stuck in the trenches of a 2D animation project.
Second takes every opportunity to complain—practically every single minute—all while staying glued to his tablet.
He’s a professional multitasker; he can bitch about the crushing weight of existence while keyframing a high-octane walk cycle, refusing to waste a single second of productivity.
He’s exhausted, essentially a zombie in class because his professor seems to enjoy watching students suffer. A man who hasn't slept since the late nineties, the professor lives for assigning spontaneous character studies at 4:00 AM.
His group always says the same thing: "You should go out and have some fun!"
No, he can’t. He has deadlines to meet. He has a soul to sell to Adobe.
But apparently, Second is always wrong and they’re always right. That’s how he ended up here. In Green’s dorm. Drinking and playing games. Exactly what he shouldn’t be doing. He’s currently drunk off his arse because even though his projects are screaming for attention, he’s also dangerously close to a total mental collapse.
Sometimes, the only way to stop the screaming in your head is to drown it in cheap lager.
The air in Green’s dorm was thick enough to chew. It was a cocktail of scents that shouldn’t exist in a shared living space: the sharp, metallic tang of cheap local beer, the lingering ghostly aroma of a pepperoni pizza that had been sacrificed hours ago, and the underlying scent of laundry detergent that was losing a losing battle against the smell of four guys crammed into a space meant for two.
Green was usually the "clean" one—the guy who organized his vinyl records by color and actually owned a vacuum. He had that "rich parents core" where his sheets always smelled like lavender and his desk was made of actual mahogany. But tonight? The floor was a minefield of discarded sketches, empty cans, and a stray guitar pick or two.
Second slumped deeper into the beanbag chair, the fabric groaning and shifting under his weight like a dying animal. Every time he blinked, the room seemed to perform a slow, nauseating barrel roll. He felt like he was viewing his life through a dirty fish tank.
Everything was blurred, green-tinted, and slightly underwater.
"Sec, you’re doing it again," a voice cut through the static.
Second tilted his head back, his neck feeling like it was made of overcooked noodles. Standing over him was Yellow.
Now, normally, Yellow was the voice of reason. He was the guy with the 4.0 GPA, the one whose desk was so organized it looked like a surgical suite. He was the resident tech-wizard who could fix a corrupted file in his sleep.
But even with the perfect life, Yellow’s glasses were perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, and his eyes had a glazed, mischievous sheen that spelled absolute trouble.
He wasn't just drunk; he was efficiently drunk.
"Doing... what?" Second slurred, the words feeling like marbles in his mouth.
"The 'I'm-staring-into-the-middle-distance-thinking-about-my-render-times' face," Yellow said, pointing a half-empty bottle at him. He kicked aside a pile of Green’s discarded sheet music and sat down on the edge of a low coffee table, leaning into Second’s personal space.
"You’re boring, Second. You’re an animation prodigy and a total, absolute snooze-fest tonight. It’s killing the vibe.”
"I have... fifty frames... left," Second grumbled, trying to find his phone on the floor.
"Forget the frames," Yellow declared, his voice rising with a sudden, sharp energy. He snatched Second’s phone before the orange-clad student could reach it.
"You need a system reboot. A complete override. You’re too stuck in your own head, so we’re going to let the universe decide your next move."
Two of his friends cheered from across the room.
Green was currently trying to play a guitar riff that he clearly didn't remember the chords to, and Purple was mostly just trying to stack empty cans into a tower that defied the laws of physics.
"Truth... or dare, Sec?" Yellow smirked.
A kid’s game. Yay.
"Truth. Always truth. I don't have the energy for your dares," Second groaned, covering his eyes with his palms.
"Too bad. You’re too drunk to tell the truth properly, so I’m picking for you," Yellow chirped, his thumbs already flying across Second’s phone screen. "I dare you to text a random number. Right now."
"Yellow, give it back—"
"Shh, shh. I’m generating the number," Yellow muttered, his face lit up by the harsh blue light of the screen. "And... there. Now, you’re going to send something stupid. Something flirtatious. Something that’ll make your love life actually move for once."
"Rude," Second muttered. His love life wasn't dead… it was just in a very deep, permanent coma.
He shoved the phone back into Second’s hand.
Second squinted. The screen was a blinding, shimmering mess. The numbers in the contact header seemed to be dancing, swimming in and out of focus like tiny black ants. He could barely tell a '5' from an '8'. The keyboard felt miles away, the buttons shifting every time he tried to aim his thumb.
"I can't... see the keys," Second whispered, his head spinning.
"Type it, Sec. Don't think, just type," Yellow pressured, leaning over his shoulder with a cheeky grin. "Tell them you dropped your jaw when you saw them. Go on. Send it to the void."
He heard Purple laugh like a beast from the corner. “Oh my god! Yellow… He’s definitely going to regret this tomorrow! Put that on his tombstone!”
British prick.
"Type it," Yellow repeated.
With a shaky breath and a prayer to whatever god looked after sleep-deprived art students, Second’s thumb hit the 'Send' arrow. The little whoosh sound effect felt like a gunshot in the quiet room.
He stared at the screen, watching the blue bubble sit there, lonely and ridiculous, against the gray background. He expected nothing. A "Who is this?" at best. A "Blocked" notification at worst. Maybe an automated message saying the number didn't exist.
He didn't expect the three typing dots to appear almost instantly.
What…?
Oh no. Oh, absolutely not.
The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water, momentarily slicing through the alcoholic fog clouding his brain. His heart began to hammer against his ribs, a frantic, rhythmic thumping that he could feel all the way in his throat.
He shouldn't have done this. He knew better. He knew that agreeing to whatever shenanigans his friends cooked up was always a one-way ticket to a disaster of his own making.
"Holy shit!" Green shouted, nearly toppling off the edge of the bed as he craned his neck to see the screen. "The random dude is actually typing back!"
"What? No way! Lemme see!" Purple scrambled over, his feet thudding against the floorboards as he tried to wedge himself between Second and the arm of the beanbag chair.
The three of them became a tangled mess of limbs and loud breathing. The smell of beer and adrenaline was suffocating. Second felt the heat of their bodies pressing in on him, the claustrophobia of the moment making his head spin even faster than the booze did.
"Jesus Christ, let me breathe!" Second hissed, lhe used his elbows to shove the others off. He managed to create a small pocket of space, hunched over his phone like it was a live grenade. "Get back! You’re going to make me drop it!"
Yellow didn't move far, though. He remained perched on the coffee table, a lopsided, triumphant grin on his face. "Don't be a coward, Sec. Read it.”
Second’s eyes refocused on the screen. The three gray dots bounced rhythmically—up, down, up, down—teasing him. Each bounce felt like a taunt.
Who was on the other end? A confused grandmother? A very angry businessman? A serial killer with a GPS tracker?
Then, the dots vanished. A new bubble popped up with a soft, digital ping.
[Unknown]: Bold move, Stranger!!! Usually, people lead with a ‘Hey’ or a ‘Hello’ ٩(＾◡＾)۶
Goodness.
Second stared at the words. The text didn't feel like a bot. It didn't feel like a grumpy stranger. There was a weird, playful energy to the text that caught him off guard.
"He’s funny," Purple whispered, having snuck back into Second's peripheral vision. "Tell him you’re a professional jaw-dropper. Lay it on thick!”
"I’m not telling him that!" Second snapped, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He was suddenly painfully aware of the "Typing..." bubble that would be appearing on the other person’s screen. He was being watched.
"Ask him who he is," Green suggested, reaching out to poke the screen. "See if he’s a student."
"No, wait," Yellow interrupted, his analytical brain firing up despite the intoxication. "Keep the bit going. If you break character now, the dare is a failure. You have to maintain the flirtatious persona for at least three exchanges. Those are the rules."
"Since when are those the rules?!" Second groaned, but his curiosity was beginning to outweigh his panic.
He looked back at the message. The stranger hadn't blocked him. They hadn't told him to fuck off.
With a shaky, drunken breath, Second began to type. He had to squint to make sure he was hitting ‘M’ instead of 'B'.
[Second]: I’m a man of high efficiency. Why waste time on ‘Hello’ when the situation is this dire?
He hit send before he could talk himself out of it.
The response was almost instantaneous.
[Unknown]: Dire, huh? (☉_☉) Well, as a future medical professional (in training!!)
[Unknown]: I feel obligated to help ๑(◕‿◕)๑ Should I recommend a local specialist, or are you just going to keep flirting with a random number while your jaw is on the floor?
"A medical professional?" Purple’s eyes went wide. "Sec, you’re texting a doctor! Or a nurse! Someone with a degree and a stable income!"
"In training," Second corrected, a strange, warm flutter starting in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with the beer. "Probably a freshman or a sophomore."
He looked at the contact name, which still just read as a string of digits. On an impulse he couldn't quite explain, he tapped the 'Edit' button and renamed the contact to: The Void.
Real creative, Second. Real deep.
The room felt like it was shrinking, the heat of three other bodies pressing into Second’s personal space as they crowded around the small, glowing rectangle of his phone.
The air was thick with the scent of fermented hops and the lingering saltiness of the pizza crusts, but all he could focus on was the steady rhythm of his own pulse thumping in his ears.
"The Void," Yellow read aloud over Second's shoulder, his voice thick with drunken amusement. "Poetic. Very on-brand for an art major. I approve."
"Shut up," Second muttered, though there was no real heat in it. He was too busy staring at the screen.
The gray bubbles were back. The stranger—The Void—was typing again. Second found himself holding his breath, his thumb hovering just above the glass. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a very tall building.
This is so weird.
[The Void]: So, Mr. High Efficiency. Since I’ve diagnosed your jaw condition, I think it’s only fair I get a name!! Or should I just save you as ‘The Jawless Wonder’? ( ๑‾̀◡‾́)σ"
"Oh, he’s definitely a Vet-Med or a Nursing student," Green cackled, slapping his knee. "Only people that stressed out have that kind of sass. Tell him your name is ‘The Second Coming.’ Go on, do it. Assert dominance.”
"I am not giving a total stranger my actual name while I'm this hammered," Second said, his fingers fumbling over the delete key as he accidentally typed a string of gibberish. "And I am definitely not calling myself 'The Second Coming' in a text. That’s how you get a restraining order."
"Then give him a nickname," Yellow suggested.
Second bit his lip. His head gave a sharp, painful throb, a reminder that the third beer had been a mistake.
[Second]: You can call me Orange. Keeps things interesting.
[The Void]: Orange, huh? I like it
[The Void]: You can call me Red!! Since we’re doing the color thing!! (˵¯͒〰¯͒˵)
"Red," Second whispered the name to himself. It felt weirdly heavy in his mouth, like a word he’d known his whole life but was only just learning to pronounce. It was a bright name. A loud name.
"Red and Orange," Yellow hummed, leaning back against the coffee table and crossing his arms. The mischief in his eyes hadn't faded, but it had softened into something more contemplative. "Complementary colors. Sort of. Warm tones, at least. The universe has a sense of irony tonight, Sec."
…
Across the campus, in a dorm room that smelled significantly more like cinnamon rolls and antiseptic, the actual Red was sprawled out on his stomach on a twin-sized bed.
His room was a stark contrast to Green’s chaos; his books were stacked in neat, color-coded piles, and a small, plush chicken sat perched on his pillow—wearing a tiny, hand-knitted scarf—sat perched on his pillow like a silent guardian.
Red’s face was flushed, and it wasn't just from the heat of his laptop. He had been halfway through a grueling chapter on avian anatomy, his highlighter poised to bleed through the page of a textbook that cost more than his monthly grocery budget.
He’d expected the buzz of his phone to be his mom asking if he’d eaten his vegetables, or maybe a frantic message from Endie about the 8:00 A.M. quiz. He certainly hadn't expected a pick-up line so cheesy it practically had its own stuffed crust.
Red was the kind of person who wanted to exist beyond the margins—the reliable lab partner, the one who always had an extra pen, the guy who was "nice" and “fun.”
But unfortunately, he spent his days looking at the world through a clinical lens, dissecting the mechanics of life until everything felt like a series of biological clockwork. So he had dulled down.
He didn't expect anyone to like him, let alone seek him out. Usually, when people looked at him, they saw a future vet, not a person worth flirting with.
Blue tells him the opposite though.
But those weren’t real, probably pranks to put on a curse to his failed love life.
Red stared at his phone, a wide, lopsided grin splitting his face, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses.
He looked back at his textbook. The diagram of a pigeon's skeletal structure seemed to mock him. He had a quiz tomorrow that was worth 30% of his grade.
But 'Orange' was... different. Most people who accidentally texted him apologized and vanished. This guy had stayed.
Red felt a surge of uncharacteristic daring. He kicked his legs back and forth, the heels of his feet thumping softly against the mattress.
He bit his lower lip, trying to suppress a giggle that felt too big for his chest, his fingers flying across the screen with a speed that defied his usual careful nature.
[Red]: So, Orange…
[Red]: Are you always this charming to people you’ve never met, or did I just get lucky on a Sunday night? (ꈍ ‸ ꈍ✿)
…
Back in Green's dorm, Second read the message and felt a genuine, lighthearted laugh bubble up in his chest.
The exhaustion was still there, the deadline was still looming, and he was still technically a "fucking idiot" for being here—but for the first time in months, the pressure felt a little lighter.
"He thinks I'm charming," Second told the room at large, his eyes bright.
"He thinks the alcohol is charming," Yellow corrected, though he was smiling too. "But hey, take the win where you can get it."
Second ignored him. He leaned back into the beanbag, the "Three Dots" appearing again before he could even think of a reply.
[Red]: Also, full disclosure: if you’re a 40-year-old serial killer, please tell me now. I have a very busy schedule tomorrow and I’d hate to pencil in a kidnapping if I don't have to. (┳◡┳)
Second snorted, his thumb moving with a bit more confidence now.
[Second]: I’m twenty, a sleep-deprived art student, and currently surrounded by three idiots who are far more dangerous to my sanity than I am to your safety. No kidnappings planned for at least a week :)
[Red]: An art student? I’ll keep my eyes open for any orange-colored disasters on campus. *✧₊✪͡◡ू✪͡
Second’s heart skipped a beat. On campus.
[Second]: Where, exactly?
[Red]: Beacon State University! (✿˶’◡˘) Right?
"He goes here," Second whispered, the soberness finally starting to win the battle against the beer. "He’s a student here."
The room went quiet for a second. He stared at the screen, at the name 'Red' saved in his phone, the reality of it started to sink in. This wasn't just a random number in the void anymore.
This was someone who he most probably walked the same halls with. Someone he might have stood behind in the cafeteria, breathed the same air, and was currently laughing at the same jokes.
"Well," Yellow said, standing up and brushing the pizza crumbs off his jeans. "I think that officially concludes the dare. You sent the text, you got a reply, and you didn't die. Mission accomplished!”
"Is that it?" Green asked, sounding disappointed. "They’re just getting to the good part!"
"Sec needs to sleep," Yellow said, his voice returning to its usual authoritative tone. "And so do the rest of us."
The group slowly dispersed, Green grumbling about having to clean up the cans and Purple wandering off to find his shoes. Second stayed in the beanbag for a moment longer, the phone a warm weight in his hand. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of reluctance to let the conversation go.
He looked at the chat one last time before locking the screen.
[Second]: Yeah, right.
[Second]: Hey, I got to sleep.
[Second]: Talk to you tomorrow.
[Second]: Goodnight, Red.
[The Void]: Sure!!!
[The Void]: Goodnight, Orange!╰(⸝⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝⸝)╯
“Bye guys.”
“See you!”
“Goodnight, everyone.”
Second stood up, sluggish, and his legs feeling less like limbs. The room did a slow, nauseating tilt as he gathered his things—his tablet, his charger, and the lingering sense of regret that usually followed a night at Green’s.
He made his way out of the dorm, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind him and cutting off the muffled sound of Blue’s laughter and the smell of stale pizza.
The walk back to his own building was cold. The night air was sharp, biting at his face and slicing through the alcoholic fog in his brain. The campus was quiet, transformed into a liminal space of shadows and pale orange streetlamps.
The environment slightly sobered him up… or at least, the sudden drop in temperature forced his lungs to remember how to breathe something other than stale oxygen
He looked down at his phone. The screen was still glowing with Red's last message.
He’s on campus, Second couldn’t forget that fact.
Every time he saw a flash of movement in a window or a figure in the distance, he wondered: Is that him? Is he sitting behind that desk right now, studying for his medical quiz?
"Get a grip, Second," he whispered to himself, the sound of his own voice sounding loud in the empty hallway. "You texted a random number. You didn't find your soulmate."
He didn't feel the usual "eternal damnation" of his college existence as he fumbled with his keys.
He felt... expectant.
“Sec?”
“Jesus! You scared me, Cho!”
Second jumped so hard his sneakers squeaked against the linoleum. It felt like his soul had actually exited his physical body, hovering somewhere near the ceiling fans before slamming back into his chest. His heart, already battered by beer and adrenaline, was now doing a frantic tap-dance against his ribs.
Standing in the doorway of their shared kitchenette was Chosen. Or, as he was legally known on his birth certificate: The Chosen One.
Just like Second, he harbored a deep, simmering resentment toward his full name.
Honestly, what had their father been consuming when he filled out those forms?
Green, ever the opportunist, never missed a chance to refer to them as “The The Brothers,” a joke that had stopped being funny approximately five minutes after it was first told.
“My bad, Sec,” Chosen chuckled, though the sound was soft, filtered through the late-night quiet of the dorm.
He looked like the poster child for academic exhaustion. His hair was a mess, his glasses were sliding down his nose, and he had a blue highlighter stain on his thumb that he probably hadn't noticed yet.
He seemed buried in his latest Research Methodology assignment—the kind of work that required three different types of caffeine and a complete disregard for a normal circadian rhythm.
“How was your time with your friends?” Chosen asked, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms.
“Chaotic as ever. I’m tired,” Second sighed, the weight of the night finally catching up to him. The hallway light felt too bright, and the floor felt like it was made of sponges. Every muscle in his body was screaming for a horizontal surface and a complete lack of consciousness.
“Well then, good night. Don't forget to set your alarm for 8:00 A.M.” Chosen reminded him, his voice holding that annoying, responsible edge that Second usually hated but tonight found strangely comforting.
“Night, Cho,” Second muttered, waving a dismissive hand as he stumbled toward his bedroom door.
He didn't know it yet, but as he crawled into his own bed—completely forgetting to even peel off his hoodie or kick his socks off—he was standing on the edge of a massive shift in his life’s animation. He collapsed onto the mattress, the fabric of his bedsheets feeling like a cloud.
The room was dark, save for the faint, rhythmic blinking of his drawing tablet’s charging light
Oh shit, his assignment!
What-fucking-ever.
…
As he drifted into a dreamless, peaceful sleep, his hand stayed curled around his phone, his thumb resting near the screen.