Work Text:
Puddles splashed beneath his feet as he tugged his coat tighter. Sprinting through the wet pavement as he reached nearer to the main entrance of the university. The rain drizzled in a soft spur—only gently touching the earth with its cold splashes, never dropping too harsh.
Sighing with relief as he arrived at the main doors, grateful enough to arrive before the rain could get harsher, he made a beeline towards the hallways—ignoring the wet puddles he made along the way.
Room 101, 102, 103, 104, his eyes traced the room numbers as he mindlessly walked through the halls in his wet coat and messenger bag, slung loose on his shoulder. 105, 106, 107, 10–
CRASH.
Cartoonishly crashing into someone was not what he was looking for. Grian found himself sitting on the floor as the other person across from him was already getting up, picking up his belongings scattered on the ground.
He grimaced at the sensation of sitting on his wet coat, but before he could get up and process what had just happened, a hand was reached out towards him. “Why, hello there,” the man across from him greeted cheerfully.
Grian’s hand brushed his calloused hand before holding onto it firmly. Ignoring the soft blush of embarrassment as the man helped him up. “Sorry,” Grian murmured. “I wasn’t looking where I was goi—.” Awkwardly, he chuckles before cutting himself off with a shriek, “Scar?!”
He gets a proper look at the guy. He's met with long forgotten acorn-brown hair, and emerald green eyes that just screamed with familiarity. “Hey, Grian,” he greets back with ease. “And don’t apologise. It was my fault,” he chuckles. “I was running through the halls a little over the speed limit.” Grian scans his face a little while longer, anxiousness and embarrassment making its way towards his system as he realises he’s been staring.
His face starts to heat up from the awkwardness, but right in time for the doors of Room 109 to open. “Gri? You coming in?” Right. The room. “I gotta go,” he clears his throat while making his way towards the room—muttering a squeaky apology and farewell to his old friend.
After shutting the door as quickly and quietly as possible, he exhales a long-held breath. He’s got to get a grip on his social awkwardness. He feels something drip right on his shoe and, Oh right. The coat. He shrugs it off with ease and hangs it on the coat hanger behind the door before moving his way closer into the room.
The air is fresh with moving boxes, air freshener—windows painted with the streaming drops of rain, and an atmosphere that screams, “university life.” Grian finds his roommate, Jimmy, head in a box as he’s scrambling his way through his things. “Wha’ you up to, Tim?”
“Looking for my phone,” he replies. Brows furrowed in a concentrating state. “Aha!” He raises his arm in victory—holding up his newly found phone.
“That’s a pound to the jar,” Grian sings as he moves a few boxes. Their shared flat isn’t big, yet isn’t small either. It’s just like every other room. Upon entering the flat, you’re met with the lounge and kitchen area. The kitchen already has a bar table with two stools, so a separate dining table is not necessary. The living space consists of a small couch and television screen that they can comfortably lounge in during weekends.
There’s a divider between that and the shared room. Luckily, the room is spacious enough, or else Grian would hate to have kicked Jimmy out to sleep on the couch.
The room has two beds across from each other with separate study desks and wardrobes. Their one bathroom is small, yet good enough to have an outfit change when needed.
This is where he’s spending the rest of his school years. During year one, it wasn’t quite mandatory for first year students to be assigned a flat, but right now, they're second year students.
It’s not gonna be that bad.
“What do we have for dinner?“ Grian asks while unpacking the boxes and sorting out his belongings. (If sorting means throwing clothes to different drawers, then, yes.)
Jimmy groans in frustration, “Nothing. Absolutely nada,” he makes his way outside the room to enter the kitchen—leaving Grian with his thoughts.
How long has it been?
What can he remember of him? Optimistic? Exhilarating? Doting? Cheerful? High School?
He’s snapped out his thoughts when Jimmy re-enters the room, "We should head to the markets,” Jimmy suggests. “Get ‘em while we’re still sane and not ravenous.”
Grian’s stomach rumbles in response, “yeah, sure,” he huffs. He gets up from his bed to get ready to head out. The rain is still gentle, still calm. It’d be better if it wasn’t drizzling at all, but if this is the best you can get during this season; then they'll have to manage.
“By the way,” Jimmy trails as he picks up a bag. “What were you doing with Scar earlier?” He bats an eye towards Grian, whose eyes widen at the mention of earlier.
“Just bumped into him, that’s all,” He shrugs. “S’ been a while, y’know?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jimmy snickers. “Me, him, ‘nd Liz actually shared a few moments together, first year.” He revealed, and with a little over ten words, Grian had the answer to (most of) his questions. “I’m surprised you haven’t bumped into him ‘til now, Gri. Lit and theatre share a buncha classes during first year.” Grian processes this newfound information, and to be honest. He wasn't much of a socialiser back then. “He’s a social guy,” Jimmy concludes.
Before he knows it, they’re outside the building on their way to the markets. He uses their walk on the pavements as a way to appreciate the lovely scenery they were so generously offered.
Walking past the evening’s street lights, traffic lights, and transportation lights had a way of tingling his sight into something abstract. And the plants. The plants have their way of looking majestic during rainy seasons—and gosh. Grian loves the outdoors.
What can he say? He is an outdoor cat.
They arrived back at the room, hands full with bags of groceries. The rain thankfully stopped on their way back, allowing them to have a peaceful walk back to their flat without having to pay for a bus ride in order for the groceries to stay dry. Nevertheless, they simply stock their fridge and cabinets full of the goodies they bought.
Jimmy stopped to check his phone after a notification buzzed through his pocket. “They arranged another one of those catching up thingabobs we do,” Jimmy announced. “With a few extra guests.”
Referring to that “they” is a huge circle of friends that they consider family. Yes. A big circle of mentally unstable friends that have grown thick bonds considered family.
Grian hummed as he finished placing the goods into their correspondent places, “wanna go?” Jimmy asked. The soft noise of the refrigerator followed comfortably along with their chatter.
“What if we don’t tell them and just arrive unannounced?” He playfully suggested as he plotted himself next to Jimmy who was sitting on the stools.
“They're doing a head count. For the food,” He replies. Causing Grian to roll his eyes and groan.
“No fun.”
Jimmy only laughs at this, “I’ll let ‘em know we’re comin’ over.” Grian bemoans and brings a hand to his face at the thought of socialising. Sure, it’s people he knows, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t as draining and difficult.
At least it’s his friends and not just some random social event. They’ll understand his crankiness.
“Does that mean we have to go out again?”
“Hey, at least we don't have to change anymore,” Jimmy suggests. “And we don’t have to make dinner,” his voice pitched higher with the idea. “It’s a win-win.” He got on his feet and proceeded towards their room—Grian can only assume that he’s gonna get some rest before going out again.
Grian considers it—he really does this time. He knows his friends won't force anyone to go if they don't feel like it. The blond decides to grab his bag to retrieve his phone—greeted by a wall of notifications.
Mostly messages from the groupchat, which Jimmy already read out loud to him—and a few new members added. He ignored it. Instead, he looked out the window. It was dark outside, only the small sparks of streetlights were visible.
One of the flaws, and only flaw of being on the ground floor was that he couldn’t open their window at dusk to feel the night breeze on his hair. Sure, they can still open their window, but at the risk of creeps and robbers getting in, not to mention the embarrassment when people walk by them.
Maybe at dawn it’d be fine. Opening the window to watch the sunrise—it would be magical—birds chirping in harmony, the aesthetic of having tea and toast.
His daydreaming was abruptly interrupted by a loud bird’s voice, “Time to go, mate.” Grian groaned louder, but got up to put on a dry coat. The moment they were out of their flat, excitement pulsed through his veins, with a spark of anxiousness.
“What ‘dya think the snacks are, Tim?” He couldn’t help but ask the taller beside him. “Wait,” he stops dead in his tracks. “Where’s the venue?”
“Room 113, Pearl and Gem’s dorm.” He informed Grian who replied with an “oooo.”
The hallway was quiet, only hearing the occasional muffled music coming from the inside of different rooms, and people coming in and out.
Once their walking came to a stop, they were met with a door with a sign, Room 113.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The door creaked open, revealing the abundance of people and livelihood of the room. “C'mon in,” Pearl invited the two over.
The room was packed with people—people they all know quite well. Snacks and drinks gathered across the lounge as people fought over what movies to watch or games to play.
“Oi! Grian! Jimmy!” The two turned to see the voice calling out to them, and only one person has that annoyingly deep-high voice.
“Joel,” Grian greeted back, giving a pat in the back to the brunet. The atmosphere immediately shifted, once foreign and new, to warm and comfortable.
“You've got to meet my roomie,” Joel exclaimed. “He's literally like the funniest person ever, second to me, of course.”
“They didn't let you room with Lizzie?” Jimmy asks.
Joel groans, shoulders slumped slightly as he rolls his eyes. “No,” he huffed. “Stupid policy wouldn't let girls and boys room together. Especially girlfriends and boyfriends.”
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Joel repeated for the next few minutes as more people entered the room. Until… a particular person entered.
The glimpse of a tall, tanned, brunet was hard to ignore. When Grian turned to take a proper view, he was met with the eyes of an emerald. The same familiar ones he saw just earlier.
He wore a brown coat over a fit white tank top that complimented his body quite well. And—
“Scar! Over here!” Joel scooted further, patting the now empty space between him and Grian as he called over the man to sit.
Scar met his gaze, swiftly walking over towards the group in a bubbly walk. “Scar, I believe you haven't met Grian yet.” Joel introduces as Scar plots himself between the two. “Grian, this is Scar. Scar, this is Grian.”
“Now I gotta go. I miss my beautiful, extravagant, wonderful, beautiful wife.” Of course Joel would leave Grian during such an awkward moment.
Everyone's chatting with at least one person or another, leaving Scar and Grian to forcefully talk to each other.
“So, we meet again.” Scar pulls up to comfortably rest his right leg on the lounge as he rests his back further.
“Coincidence,” Grian says. “Sorry about earlier, by the way.” He quickly adds.
“Pfft. No worries about that,” Scar pauses. “What do you study?” He queries the blond. And, gosh. Socialising with someone he once knew? This is gonna be a longggg interview.
Grian was never much of a romantic. Sure the thought of bumping into someone while it was rainy outside sounded like splendid scenery. Straight out of a romcom film—which was exactly the problem. There was nothing unique to it. So he disregards the admiring thought of having a crush and decides making friends is better. Or rekindling old friendships.
“Literature,” He replies with ease as if he’s recited the word a hundred times before. (He probably has.) “How ‘bout you?” He asks back as he grabs a handful of chips from the bowl on the coffee table.
“Theatre,” Scar answers. “The performative kind to be exact, not the musical type.” Grian understandingly hums in response and they fall into a steady conversation. Asking questions back and forth and answering honestly with each one.
Grian learned a whole lot of Scar’s interest not by asking him, but by how he talks about it. That guy sure makes a lot of Disney and Star Wars references. Grian also learned a dramatic part of Scar that just makes him who he is. He doesn’t have this need to hide himself in front of new people which is really inspiring.
They fall into fits of laughter and chatter as they talk about the semester ahead of them, how there’s gonna be a whole lot of Shakespeare this year.
The topic they leaned into the most was how Literature students were gonna be working with Theatre students a whole lot more for the next semesters. Mainly because of Shakespeare and romantic plays outlined throughout the year.
“Lit students writing plays for theatre students to perform?” Grain huffs. At this point of the conversation, the whole group was listening and talking along. “How’s that supposed to work?”
“Well apparently,” Martyn chimes in. “It’s said to be easier for the professors to grade our work—by watching the play, yes. Plus, it’ll be fun collaborative work for all of us to work together.”
“No Shakespeare plays for us though,” added Etho who studied electrical engineering. The shorter man beside him, Bdubs, roughly nudged Etho with his elbow—causing the taller to hiss in an “ouch.”
“You engineering idiots can sign up tomorrow to help with the play props,” Bdubs ordered as he pointed to everyone who weren’t taking Literature nor Theatre.
“Guess I’m the black sheep of the family, huh?” Pitched in Gem, who studied Marine Biology. Pearl cooed at the statement of her roommate to which Gem chuckled. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I want all of us to hang, so I’ll sign up for some production help along with the others tomorrow.”
All his friends working on plays together? What could possibly go wrong? Only everything.
The night faded into a sweet nothing as the group continued talking about academic plans while playing card games. Second year probably takes off weight from his shoulders. He won’t be the same nervous wreck like he used to be during his first year of university. And he won’t have that pressure with graduating after third year.
He has this feeling that his second year of university will be just right.
The weekend swirled way too swiftly. Last thing he remembers, they were playing uno at his best friend’s flat. Next? He’s up early to get ready for the University’s Welcome Orientation. If this wasn’t mandatory, he’d still be asleep right now.
“What’s our schedule for this week?” He grogily asks his roommate who was quite the energised early bird. Jimmy was up way before Grian and has already prepared waffles for breakfast.
“Well, we’ve got the welcome orientation, campus tour, ID card collection for first years, and accommodation induction today. Department slash course induction tomorrow, Library and IT training on Wednesday, health and safety briefing on Thursday, and finally—timetable and module registration on Friday.” Jimmy finalizes after counting each day with his finger.
“Aren’t you supposed to be a morning person? Your name literally means sun,” Jimmy jokes. And hell, Jimmy thinks joking with a cranky, definitely not morning person is funny?
SMACK.
A pillow was thrown to the taller blond’s face in a matter of seconds as Jimmy yelped. “Ironic, isn’t it?” Sarcastically, Grian laughs—finally getting up from bed to get ready for the day.
“This is gonna be such a long, distraughtful week,” Grian groans as he stomps his way towards the kitchen.
It wasn't as early to watch the sunrise, but it was as early as you can hear birds chirping outside the window.
The sun rays reflected from the curtains kissed Grian's face with perfection—truly symbolizing him as the sun.
Grian still thinks it's ironic. His name is a translation of sun, yet he is nowhere near a morning person. He gets cranky at the scorching sun, and is the least happy person under it.
He's nothing like the light.
The day concluded with signing up for extracurricular activities to assist or lead for the school year. The line wasn’t long, their university wasn’t small, yet wasn’t large either. This particular part of the country just didn’t fancy literature.
To be honest, Grian’s family was hesitant when he announced he wanted to take Literature for university. Exclaiming he wanted to become a low-profile journalist and that this was his true life passion—they agreed.
Safe to say that life since then has been doing great. He’s standing here today in his second year of university, along with a few high school friends, and friends he made during the previous school year.
“Pearl!” Grian jumped at the sight of his friend. “Sign up for the student pub with me,” he pleaded with desperate eyes as he squeezed Pearl’s hands tight.
“Bold of you to assume I haven’t signed up already,” the brunette chuckled as Grian laughed along. Gem, who was previously at the line for signing up to help with theatre production scurried along to Pearl.
“Hey, Gri,” Gem said. “Don’t you have a thing for baking?” Grian nodded at the query. “You should take a look over there,” The ginger pointed at a table that labelled, “Cooking & Baking.”
Grian thanked Gem before bidding his farewell to the two and strutted his way towards the table. As he grew closer to his destination, another man arrived from a different direction.
“Grian! Hello! Greetings!”
Grian angled his head just a bit higher to get a proper look at the man. Today, his hair fell in a neat, somewhat majestic way that Grian just couldn’t understand. “Hi, Scar,” Grian replied. “You fancy baking too?” Grian asked as he leaned closer towards the timetable and list of names that signed up for the activity.
“Baking and cooking,” Scar responded as he leaned in closer to view the file as well. In this way, their bodies were side by side—Grian could almost feel the warmth of Scar’s skin—but he froze before he could lean any further. “You?”
“Just baking, I’m not much of a chef,” he awkwardly chuckles at the memories of him burning the seasonings. “Awe,” pitifully, Grian frowned at the paper as he finally moved away from the table.
“What’s wrong?” Scar asks in a voice that Grian can only describe as genuine and concerned.
Grian swore he could feel something flicker in his stomach—a warm, tingling feeling in his gut—but it was something that couldn’t reach his face. “It doesn't quite fit right with my schedule,” he sighs in defeat as he looks down at the ground.
Scar remained silent, instead he placed an arm on Grian’s shoulder, causing the blond to look up. He’s greeted with a sympathetic expression on Scar’s scarred face. He smiles when Grian’s eyes meet his, “if it makes you feel better, it doesn’t fit mine too.”
Grian’s lips curled into a wobbly smile, “I was really looking forward to baking a batch of cookies with a bunch of bakers this year,” he reveals. “Shame.”
“Tell you what,” Scar removes his hand from Grian’s shoulder, making Grian realize how long it’s been there. “Why don’t you come over to my dorm this weekend,” Scar suggests and immediately adds. “And we can both bake something up, how’s that sound?”
“Really?” Grian huffs, but his smile doesn’t falter. “You have the ingredients?” Scar nods. “Sure, why not,” Grian decides. After all, there’s nothing wrong with mingling and getting to go out sometime. Also? He gets to bake? Getting to know Scar was the side plot. Baking is the main show.
Baking with Scar…
The week was resentless as energy was constantly being taken away from Grian's body. Countable orientations regarding the university’s policies and expectations, nothing he didn’t already memorise last year.
Then came the weekend.
Some say it came too fast, some would argue it was too slow. Grian? Time moved in an exceedingly strong pace that no other could catch up on. He wasn't complaining about it, nor was he overjoyed.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Room 119 was blessed by the touch of Grian's signature three knocks. Then the door creaked open, “Grian!” Scar greeted excitedly. “Come in, come in,” he invited the blond over.
Grian stepped into their flat with steady steps, their room was just like any other. The only difference was the unique decorations and that it was on the second floor unlike Grian's.
“Welcome to Magical Mountain,” said Scar enthusiastically. “Joel's out right now, so there's no loud drumming or shouting.” Grian laughed at that.
“How many hang outs has this place been through?” He notes the unavoidable mess of the room as Joel's doing, assuming that Scar wasn't the messy kind.
“None,” he admits. “Apparently when you place two unorganised hooligans in one room, you create a cyclone of mess,” he confesses admittedly.
“Sound's about right,” Grian chuckles. “What d'ya wanna bake?” He asks, now aware of the awkward atmosphere wrapping the two.
“Oh, no, you choose,” Scar immediately replies. “You're the guest after all.” Grian hums as he puts his finger in his chin, animatedly thinking about options.
There are the obvious; cookies or cupcakes. They can go a little unique with muffins or macarons. Or, they can go overboard with a cake.
Apple pie…? No. Grian immediately stops. They should go for the obvious, and the easiest. Cookies. What could possibly go wrong with a batch of cookies?
“I've been craving a bit of cookies recently,” Grian mutters and Scar immediately lights up with the idea.
“What kind?”
“Hm?” Grian hums back.
“Well, there's the obvious chocolate chip cookies,” Scar explains.“But cookies come in many forms.” He starts counting with his fingers with each flavour, “there’s sugar cookies, oatmeal cookies, crinkle cookies, no bake fudge cookies, snickerdoodles, and gosh that's a lot of cookies.”
Grian musters a laugh, “let's do snickerdoodles,” he decides. “Seems simple enough.”
Everything from then fell to quiet focus and small chatter.
“Do you want this chewy or crispy?” Scar asked as he went over and preheated the oven.
“Chewy, duh,” he answered. “Do tell me, Scar. Why have I never seen you last year?” He asks as he grabs a small bowl from the kitchen cabinet.
“You were probably busy with Literary World,” he grabbed a jar of sugar from the top cabinet. “I was busy with stagecraft and acting movements.” He handed Grian the sugar which Grian thanked him for.
“Measuring cups and spoons are in the drawer in front of you,” Scar informed. “What's your favourite colour?” Scar asked curiously. “Oh, and here's the cinnamon.”
Grian acquired the cinnamon that Scar handed, and began stirring the ingredients in the bowl. Three tablespoons of sugar and one tablespoon of cinnamon… “That's an out of the blue sorta question,” Scar shrugged. “Red.”
“What's yours?” Grian asked back.
“Green,” he replied, grabbing a large mixing bowl and whisk to prepare for the next step. “What’s your favourite food?”
“Did you invite me over to bake? Or to conduct an interview?” Grian huffs, but pauses and then replies with, “Snickerdoodles.”
“Bit of both,” Scar mutters. Opening the refrigerator to grab one cup of butter. “You're an interesting guy.” Grian stiffens at the compliment. If it even is one. He immediately shakes away his thoughts before his face could fluster.
Scar poured one and one half cups of sugar with the cup of butter then started beating it gently. “Have you always wanted to take a lit programme?”
Quiet a deep question, Grian would say, but nothing he can't answer.
“I've always had a tongue for literature, I guess,” he murmurs between mixes, then sets it aside when finally ready. “Also a hand for architecture, but,” he trails off. "Literature's my passion, architecture's my hobby, y'know?” Awkwardly, he chuckles.
Scar hums in answer, “same, honestly.” Then instructs Grian to grab two eggs and vanilla from the refrigerator. “Been told I'm a great artist when it comes to engineering, but theatre’s always been my passion.”
Somehow, that newfound information grew the both of them together closer quite strongly.
Until light and fluffy, Scar adds the two eggs one at a time then mixes it along with a teaspoon of vanilla. “How often do you bake?” Grian asks this time.
This time, in a separate bowl, Grian whisks together two and three quarters cups of flour, two teaspoons of cream tartar (highly important), one teaspoon of baking soda, and one fourth teaspoon of salt.
“As much as I can,” Scar replies. “I love baking especially for family members and… loved ones.” The word loved rolled off his tongue smoothly in a low whisper.
“Oh?” Grian perks up as he continues to whisk the ingredients in the bowl. “Do you have a girlfriend?” The question came faster than his thoughts could process.
Before he can apologise for the abruptly personal question, Scar answered. “Heavens, no.” Lightly, he picks up the bowl Grian was whisking at and starts to gradually stir it into the butter mixture until a soft dough forms. “I'm not…”
A small flush of pink crept to Grian’s face. “Me neither,” Grian answers just as Scar pauses. For a hot moment, they don't say anything.
“What're your plans this year?” Scar eagerly inquires. “Like, new school year resolutions.
Grian hums as he thinks about it for a moment, moving to grab a clean tablespoon. “Other than focus and have fun? Nothing. You?”
“Oh, I've got plenty,” Scar excites. “Mostly theatre plays related.”
Once the dough was ready, it was time to shape the cookies. By scooping one tablespoon of dough, rolling it into a ball, then roll in the cinnamon-sugar mixture until coated.
“Well you're gonna have to share them soon,” Grian snickered. “We're gonna be working together a lot.”
As Grian rolls the dough into balls, Scar moves to get a baking sheet then starts placing the dough two inches apart on the prepared pans.
“What's your romantic views?” Scar questions Grian who doesn't think much about the question.
“Hmm,” Grian wonders. “Romantic views, you say,” he pauses his actions to genuinely think about it, while Scar chuckles at it.
“Don't overthink it,” Scar laughs, causing Grian to pause momentarily, taking in the way his laugh flows with the air so enticingly.
“Well, for starters, I'm queer,” Grian laughs along with Scar. “And well, I don't have much views about the topic,” something in Grian's stomach kicked. Maybe it was fluster, maybe a sense of self guilt due to the over sharing he did, or maybe it was the way he feels so comfortable sharing something personal with someone new.
“You've gotta have something,” Scar readies the baking pan and sets it inside the oven—setting the timer for ten minutes. “Maybe preferences?”
“Nah,” Grian grimaces. “Well, if it's love, then it's love.” He leans on the counter, hands crossed.
Scar similarly does so, he leans to the counter sideways, hand supporting his body.
“From a literature student, what is love?”
The question opens Grian's mind in numerous ways. What is love? Hangs just at the edge of his brain, desperate to find an answer, he goes with his heart.
“I guess…” Grian breathes in a handful of air before starting, “Love is a paradox. Love is an answer alone. It's unexplainable, it's incredible, it's…” he's unsure what he wants to say, but Scar gestures for him to continue.
He clenches his fists in concentration, “love is many things, many feelings that come along with it, but those many feelings don't quite level with love.” He lets go of it once Scar's careful, listening gaze met him.
With this encouragement, he continues, “you can try to hide it, dress it in other words; affection, admiration, desire, devotion, but... It never really means love.”
“There are no synonyms for love,” Grian confidently says, “it is the first word, and the last…”
He's met with a second of silence then…
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
“You're fairly poetic,” Scar says. “That was amazing, G,” he compliments.
“Thanks,” Grian murmurs. “Y'know, while we're at the subject of poetry, I feel there's something oddly poetic about these cookies.” He gestures to the cookies baking in the oven. “Like inspiration without idea.”
“Well, I think,” Scar replies. “Desserts come in many forms, flavours, and specialties.” Despite Grian's short attention span, he listens. He truly does. “But it would still taste as sweet.”
“Wait!” Grian yells out. “That reminds me of something…”
Grian starts pacing around the kitchen then stops when the answer hits him like a lightning bolt of realization. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” he whispers quietly like a secret confession but loud enough for Scar to hear.
“Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet,” Scar notes like he's memorised the whole play. Knowing him, he probably has.
Grian smiles warmly at his acknowledgement. “Guess we baked forbidden love cookies,” he jokes and Scar laughs along.
Minutes passed, spent chatting about poetic references and dramatically acting out scenes from famous plays.
Ding!
“Looks soft,” Grian notes as Scar carefully lifts the baking pan out of the oven.
“We're not supposed to fully bake the centre if we want it chewy,” Scar explains. “We should let the cookies sit on the baking sheet for at least two minutes, then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.”
“Alrighty,” Grian replies, smiling heartedly at the warm cookies.
Once the snickerdoodles were finally ready and sprinkled with a tad bit of flour, Grian carefully picked one up and began eating. Once the chewy sweetness of the cookies met his tongue his face lit up as something in his stomach sparked in an instant. Driven by the greedy satisfaction of the taste of the dessert, he sped up with his eating.
“Scar, eat it,” he demands, mouth full with flavour. “It’s so gooooddd,” he bemoans. Scar chuckles then moves to grab a bite, face instantly lighting up in the way Grian’s did as well.
“We did a good job,” Scar grins.
“It’s getting late, I better get going,” Grian guiltily says as Scar hands him a container with five snickerdoodles for Jimmy.
“No worries,” Scar replies, hoping it’d ease the guilty look on Grian’s face. “Joel’s probably on his way back too.”
5:19 P.M. the wristwatch on Grian’s wrist showed. How long have they been hanging out after baking? Scar leads Grian towards the door, ready to see him out and say their farewells. As Grian exited the room—he immediately misses the warmth of the inside and the aroma of the oven.
“Thank you, Scar,” he mutters. “I had fun today,” he admits with a warm smile curling his lips, and soft blush creeping up to his cheeks.
“Thank you too, G,” Scar returns the gesture. “If you’d like, there are many more good times awaiting in the future.” Grian’s smile widened. The thought of more days like this warms his heart, baking and hanging out with… with his friend—it doesn’t fail to brighten up his day.
With their goodbyes and shared sentimental being said, Grian paced his way downstairs and towards his flat. Sunset was near approaching and he planned on watching it from his windows.
He pressed in his keys and turned to unlock the door, revealing the warm room in all its glory. “Timmy?” He called out for his roommate. “I’ve got you something!”
The room still smelt faintly of fresh air freshener, a scent he knows will disappear along with time. Grian too knows all too well that that scent will soon be replaced with something familiar, soft, and known. Changes like these aren't big for him, aren't foreign, aren't unexpected.
“Is it a chicken?” Jimmy yells back as footsteps grow louder towards Grian. He held up the container, showing his roommate who basically beamed with wide eyes.
“Baked up a batch,” Grian smiled as he handed it over to Jimmy. “Thought you’d maybe want some.”
Jimmy, who decided to open the lid a little too fast and shove a piece into his mouth, paused as horror quickly replaced his bubble. “This isn’t poison,” he mutters, then added, “right?”
Grian’s grin only grew wider, he shrugged then swiftly shook his head.
“You’re being awfully nice today,” Jimmy squints his eyes at him. “Who are you and what have you done to my roommate?”
Grian laughs—a whole chest laugh. “The imposter’s havin’ a laugh,” Jimmy jokes more as he swallows. “Seriously though, where’d you get these cookies? They're heaven.”
“Me and Scar baked it.”
“What?“
“What?”
“Sorry, mate, you and Scar baked these?” Jimmy coughs, fist to his chest as if the information was somehow huge.
“Yeah?” Grian raised a brow, “what’s so shocking?”
“Didn't know you two were so close,” Jimmy replied, grabbing another cookie.
Well now you know. Grian wanted to say, but he bit his tongue. “We're getting to know each other more, that's all,” he replies, but it felt like the sentence wasn’t complete. Like he somehow mispronounced a word, or was grammatically incorrect.
There was something missing, it stilled at the tip of his tongue, churned in his gut, and tugged his heart—but he didn’t know what it was. Or did he? He wanted to ask himself.
Was he hiding something from himself? Did he not want to accept what his heart has deeply acknowledged?
“‘Kay,” luckily Jimmy didn’t pry. One syllable. Half a word. Grian analysed how Jimmy moved his mouth as he chewed the food and spat out words, watched the way his expression changed throughout the conversation, and he understood.
If analysing the way his roommate spoke was a test, he would’ve scored a hundred, but if he was tasked to understand his feelings—the professors would ask if everything was okay at home.
The evening was cold, his bed was cold, his heart was… cold. Despite the ongoing heater in the room, everything felt cold. Why? Some may ask, but he didn’t know either.
A few hours ago he was having the time of his life, next… A hole opened in his heart—a pit of emptiness waiting to be fulfilled—and usually he knows what to do at moments like this, but right now? He didn’t.
He hadn’t felt this in forever.
Then it hit him—all at once like paper catching flame.
Despite everything and everyone he has, there’s always one missing piece, not a hole, just a house waiting to become home. He’s felt this long before, a feeling too familiar to forget.
He felt…
Lonely.
Sleep didn't come by easily after. Constant turns left and right—drinking a glass of water—then visits to the bathroom did not help with trying to sleep.
It was a common occurrence of nights before the first day of classes, but this was just downright uncomfortable.
His mind wanders towards the melatonin in his cupboard. Stashed away with the other medicine he keeps. Though he thought he'd start to take it around midway the semester, he still wasn't expecting to take it so soon.
It was unlikely for him to become dependent and rely on the pills, so with much thought—he gathered his courage and got up off bed—making his way towards the kitchen.
His roommate was already fast asleep, and knowing Jimmy, he isn't a light nor deep sleeper. Minor noises like getting up and getting a glass of water won't wake him up, but if careless, it will.
With careful, heavy steps, he arrives face-to-face with the cupboard of just in case medicine.
He grabs the bottle, opening it so forcefully, his palm burns. He takes three tablets, shoves it in his mouth before moving to the fridge—getting a cold drink of water to wash it all away in.
He jumps back to bed not long afterwards—hoping that in 30 minutes or so the effects will kick in—knocking him to sleep. Hopefully.
It doesn't take long before he starts counting jumping sheep, from a hundred to zero, he then drifts to sleep.
So very slowly he does, forgetting the prior thoughts that caused him to stay awake for longer than the past three.
For a moment, he forgot he ever felt lonely. But that doesn't mean he wasn't. Despite the two beating hearts, shared room, separate lives, and cold bed, it all screamed lonely.
And maybe,
Just maybe.
It was better that way.