Chapter Text
There was something horribly wrong with Fluixon.
If you stripped him of his skin, tore the flesh off his body, and ripped his bones apart, you would find nothing but a deep-seated hatred.
Festing up for longer than he’s been sentient, his anger infected everything it touched— his family, his friends, even acquaintances found themselves under the influence of his wraith.
And he knew. He knew that he was bad, and that he should isolate himself in order to protect them, but… alongside hatred, Fluixon was also very selfish. He did not wish to be alone all his life. He did not want to spend his days staring into the sun, knowing that was the only warmth he’ll ever receive.
Two horrible traits whirlpooled into one person. What could go wrong?
A lot of things, apparently.
Presently, it got him into a lackluster, unknown state university on the other side of the country.
It wasn’t even private.
The old Victorian architecture was nice enough— with towering cathedrals of brick and portals of glass spun between iron frames. Long blankets of grass covered the space between buildings, their influence spreading to the poorly maintained sidewalks, making the winding desire paths the better option of travel. Large sycamores scattered throughout it, their branches bushing dark shingles as they cast shadows upon the ground below. Intersections were replaced with roundabouts, and in the night, only the soft, warm glow of the street lamps provided any comfort in the otherwise haunted place.
But wedged between the fantastic mortar, there were a lot of flaws. The ceilings had hard water stains that stank of mold if you were too tall. God’s garden of education was filled with weeds; the flowers only in bloom for a few weeks in April despite the constant allergy epidemic that seemed to strike the school every spring semester. The dorm rooms were too crowded, and it never snowed unless climate change decided otherwise. The university was downtown next to malls and restaurants, which meant traffic was always a pain. At least everything was within walking distance.
That’s if you didn’t get run over while very legally crossing the street.
Fluixon threw a string of profanities at a silver Corolla as it hard-braked mere inches from where he stood on a perfectly legal crosswalk. The driver was an unfamiliar face— to be honest, most people were— so when they threw up their middle finger, Fluixon wasn’t that offended. In fact, he returned the favor.
Then he scurried off the street as the Toyota started honking.
His judgment might’ve perpetually been clouded by anger, but he wasn’t stupid. At least not enough to be a victim of road rage.
Instead, he made his way to the little bakery in the outdoor outlet a block away from campus. He was meeting the few people he could actually remember the names of in this place: the Chess Club.
It was not that he particularly enjoyed chess itself— it was one of the many trivial things Elanulo insisted he be proficient at— but for the company. Chess players tended to be on the more intellectual side, and anyone less than would annoy Fluixon to no bounds.
The little door chime rang as Fluixon entered the hole-in-the-wall bakery that the posh president of the club insisted they hold meetings instead of the campus library— which at least a dozen other clubs would also be hosting meetings every day.
It had a cozy enough atmosphere, with worn leather seats and English Oak tables. The wallpaper was an ornate pink thing, framed by an almost excessive amount of wooden pillars and crown molding. Vintage lamps poured warm light into the areas that the large windows could not reach. What Fluixon assumed was faux velvet framed the panes and the little bar table that lay against it. An L-shaped counter encased the staff area, with a purple-haired woman manning the register. Her name was Suzukae, if he remembered correctly.
“Flux!” Thomas, the first person Fluixon had considered a friend in this place, waved him over. The club was crammed into the farthest corner of the bakery, tables covered in checkered boards and fallen pawns. “Come watch the New Kid.”
The New Kid was Seraphim’s— the publicist of the club—younger sibling, who was still in high school yet somehow was better than eighty percent of the university chess players. No one knew his name because he was too edgy to tell anyone, and Seraphim thought it was hilarious, so everyone just called him the New Kid.
Currently, he was obliterating a freshman named Hvyrotation, who was clutching his blonde hair with such ferocity that Fluixon feared he might promote hair loss. The New Kid had him in a rather embarrassing check, and with no rooks to cast to, it seemed as if he was fighting a losing battle.
“…said there would be a Westhelm party this Friday. Do you think Schpood and Sitzkrieg are finally going to duke it out?” A voice came from beside the New Kid. It was Snowbird, a comedic guy who was quite popular around the school for being an editor for the university newspaper. He had the humor of a toddler but was secretly very bright. But he sucked at chess. Fluixon didn’t even know why he was here.
“Probably not,” Thomas scrutinized the board as Rotation’s shaky hand inched his king away from the brigade of bishops. “Maybe a passive-aggressive game of beer pong between Mykonos and Westhelm, but nothing more than that.”
“I’ll bet you a fifty that they’re secretly queer for each other,” Seraphim melted onto her brother's shoulder, smug as the New Kid checked Rotation for the seventh time.
“You’re just salty about Jophiel getting with Schpood,” Gotoga rolled his eyes. He was the top swimmer at the school who somehow managed to balance that on top of an engineering major and being decent at chess—he’d beaten Fluixon nine out of the thirty-one times they’ve played— to everyone’s astonishment. Fluixon thought he could’ve gone places had he not been stuck in this nowhere city. “You guys dated in high school, and now you’re juniors in college. Get over her.”
“Says the guy who's still obsessed with Pokémon Go,” Seraphim snapped back. There was no snide to their remarks, just absentminded banter that seemed to linger whenever the Chess Club convened. “I think that’s checkmate.” She observed when Rotation’s King got wedged between a bishop and a knight.
Rotation looked like he was about to combust.
“Flux,” Snowbird tapped his shoulder while Rotation threw a tantrum. “Come play a game with me.”
Fluixon followed him to the table beside the one the New Kid and Hvyrotation were playing at. The board was already set, and Snowbird slid comfortably onto White’s side.
How convenient.
It wasn’t often that anyone asked him to play with them anymore. After he joined three months ago, they’d been ecstatic about the new member— which came few and far between— but after a few dozen games with each of the members, it became clear that Fluixon was simply on a different level of chess mastery. To their 1600s, he was a 2000.
So they stopped asking him to play to save their egos, not that Fluixon minded. He was mostly just there for the company.
Snowbird started with a friendly enough Vienna Gambit, which Fluixon countered immediately to keep the odds even.
“You’re looking for a place to stay, right?” Snowbird suddenly asked as he pushed his knight forward. His tone was casual, but there was a slight insistence to it, as if he was stating and not questioning.
“Yes.” Fluixon had been looking for another flat now that his six-month lease was coming to an end. It had started in May after he’d moved straight out of getting his transfer accepted. The place was nice, but I bit too big for him. It reminded him of the empty mansion back in Snow, where the only room that felt lived in was Crow’s prayer room.
So he’d been looking for smaller apartments. Maybe a loft apartment that was one big space he could decorate to his heart's content. Maybe a small one-bedroom one bathroom with only enough space to fit a loveseat. The possibilities were endless when you had unlimited money.
“I have this friend named Saparata Theria. His roommate Kanukei is moving out, and he’s looking for a new one. Wonder if you were interested.” Snowbird continued, unfazed as Fluixon effortlessly knocked down his last rook.
Fluixon raised a brow. “You do know I don’t need a roommate, right? I could own an entire apartment complex if I wanted to.”
“Yeah,” Snowbird’s pawns danced around, wasting moves that could’ve been played better. He was obviously doing it on purpose. “But Saps is really desperate, and I told him I knew a guy.”
“You knew a guy?” Fluixon checked him with little resistance. “Shouldn’t give him false hope.”
“Please?” Snowbird knocked his king down and forfeited the match. It was clear he had no intention to win at all. “I owe this guy like my first seven children. I can also get you into that Westhelm party this week… y’know, to return the favor.”
Fluixon feigned pondering it. It’s not like he was against the idea; roommating could be a fun change from the lifeless rooms he’s used to, and that Westhelm party did sound promising… but he was a prick, so there was no way he was skipping this opportunity to make Snowbird piss his pants. “Just that? I’d have to stay with this Saparata for at least a month. Do you know what can happen in a month?”
Snowbird groaned. The other members of the club were starting to gather because they were like moths to a flame when it came to drama, and Snowbird always meant drama. “What’s happening in a month?” The nosiest of them all, Rotation, butted in.
“Nothing!” Snowbird swatted Rotation away. “Saps is a nice guy; he won’t bite you. Look, like you said, it’s only a month! If you hate him by the end of it, you can just move out.”
“I don’t know…” Fluixon was just being an asshole about it at that point. The more he thought about it, the more open he was to a roommate. Having another body in his space—as long as they cleaned up after themself and had a good enough aesthetic— would be a nice change. And if Snowbird, who was very opinionated and judgmental—in the best way— was singing his praise, then this Saparata had to be an okay guy.
“I’ll give you that fat stalagmite that you've always had an obsession with.” Snowbird bartered, getting desperate now. Fluixon wondered how someone like Snowbird could get so deep in debt with someone. He wasn’t the type to ask people for favors unless he had already thought of a way to reimburse them.
“The one you got from your high school auction?” It wasn’t anything of value, a little cluster of pointy rocks on a wooden stand. But Fluixon had the habit of poking it whenever he visited Snowbird’s and Thomas’s place. Snowbird must’ve picked up on that. Vigilant guy.
“Yeah, that one,” Snowbird nodded. He leaned back into his chair, the legs screeching against the hardwood floors when his weight pushed it back. “So please? It’s just for one month. A singular month!”
“Come on man,” Thomas leaned on the backrest of Fluixon’s chair, examining the chessboard. He was probably the most invested in the game out of all of them— being president and all. “He’s going to start meowing at you if you don’t give in.”
Snowbird scowled at Thomas in response. The latter ignored it.
Fluixon crunched up his face in disgust. Maybe that would be the nail in the coffin. “Fine. I’ll consider it after I’ve blacked out at Westhelm. You can give me a tour of the place this weekend, and I’ll see if it’s good enough.”
“It won’t be good enough.” Rotation somehow got his hands on a sweet roll. He chewed obnoxiously while he talked. “Fluixon’s a little too pretentious to be living in a college dorm room.”
“It’s outside campus,” Snowbird pulled out his phone, tapping aggressively. “In the apartment complex next to that French Kiss place on Ninth.” He displayed his phone, which had Google Maps pulled up, showing the Acropolis Apartments. The Google images displayed a sandy, almost Roman architecture, with columns that reached for the skies and large expanses of windows. Leafage splattered into the stucco—probably unintentional yet surprisingly tasteful.
“That’s pretty sick,” the New Kid hummed from his spot next to Rotation. Somehow, all seven of them had cramped into the space of one table for two, each sliding into a spot like a piece in a puzzle.
“It’s really nice,” Snowbird advertised, putting his communications major to use. It was working on the others, undoubtedly, as they scrolled through the complex’s reviews and virtual tours with the interest of first-time home buyers. “Saps has a huge balcony that we managed to put a few chairs on. Really nice sunset too since he’s on the seventh floor.”
Maybe it was working on Fluixon too.
“No more spoilers!” Fluixon said at last, pushing Snowbird's phone away from him, knocking over his queen in the process. “I already agreed to look at it, no need to be pushy.”
“I’m not pushy,” Snowbird huffed, scandalized. “I gotta call Saps though. He’ll be really happy about this.” With that, he pushed his way out of the little penguin huddle the club managed to form around their table and exited the building. Fluixon watched as he lifted his phone to his ear outside the window.
There was silence for a moment when the rest of his company stared at him, curious mischief playing on their faces. He might be doomed. The grandfather clock ticking in the background might’ve been a metaphor for the timer on his life ending.
“Was this a good idea?” He genuinely asked the rest of them. He’d heard of horror stories surrounding rooming with strangers. How most of them ended up ruining the concept of roommates forever. It was scary to think about— having a stupid, messy, irresponsible, selfish roommate— but Snowbird wouldn’t have put him to it if he knew Fluixon would get an immediate ick from Saparata. He had good social smarts like that.
“I’ve met Saps,” Seraphim hummed from her spot on the table adjacent. “He’s good friends with Jophiel. Pretty jockey guy. Think he’s in track or something.”
“Is he nice?” Thomas asked for Fluixon. “Better not be one of those people who call people NARPs because we have actual majors.” Thomas hated sports. He was one of those strictly academic students who would never touch a ball even if it killed him. There was supposedly some history behind that, but Fluixon didn’t know it.
“He’s friendly..?” Seraphim hesitated. “Not very extroverted, but if you talk to him, he won’t turn you away. Jophiel said he was very enthusiastic once you got to know him.”
“It’s always about Jophiel…” Gotoga muttered into his phone, slouching in the chair next to Seraphim.
“You’re playing Pokémon TCG.” She flicked his forehead. “Shut up.”
“Well, if he’s friends with Jophiel, he has to be a keeper,” Thomas rolled a white king between his fingers, pensive. “She’s the best judge of character I know.”
“She’s dating Schpood.” Rotation countered. “Anyone who associates themselves with Schpood is unstable.”
Schpood was probably the most infamous person on campus. He was the President of the Westhelm Fraternity. It was known for hosting the loudest, the wildest, the most drugged up parties in the Westhelm Citadel, the Frat House, where Schpood would rain cheap beer from the sprinklers— he got one of the frat members, Wubba, to install them so instead of going to the pipes, separate tubes led it to a cellar that they filled with cheap beer. Or so Fluixon had been told— and love life miracles happened.
“This is true,” Thomas admitted. “But they say love is blind.”
“Or maybe Jophiel just has a type,” Fluixon risked a glance at Seraphim. She didn’t bother looking at him, instead braiding the New Kid’s short, ashy hair into tiny spikes atop his head. It made him look more alternative than he already was, but also very silly. He had a little grumble on his face that showed his displeasure, but also the fact that he could not challenge his sister.
They sat in silence after that, Gotoga on his phone, Seraphim braiding the New Kid’s hair, Thomas leaving to go order another cup of tea from Suzukae, and Fluixon thinking. He was always thinking— like his mind was a typhoon that could not bear to rest. Even in his sleep, his dreams were filled with thoughts and feelings. It was exhausting most times, but he knew to be grateful, for some idiots didn’t even possess an inner monologue.
He wondered what having a roommate would be like. Back at his old house,e there wasn’t anything like it. His siblings were always away on whatever extracurricular Elanulo sent them on, and both his parents were away doing adult things. The closest thing he’d had to a roommate was the cleaners and cooks that visited every day— and even then, the only interaction he had with them were polite greetings or asking him how he wanted this and that.
How would they divide chores? Expenses? Decide who’s friends could come over at what time, and what they were having for dinner? It all seemed rather domestic, to live with someone on equal footing with you. And Fluixon’s life had never had that domesticity. Since he was a child, all his memories were rather professional, even with his own family.
The bell chimed as Snowbird reentered the establishment, his cheeks lightly flushed from the fall weather. “He’s very excited to meet you.” He told Fluixon quickly.
“That would be a first.” Thomas also arrived back from the register, a teacup in hand. Painted beneath the glaze were gold accents with pink little bunnies. Very unfitting to be in Thomas’s possession.
Snowbird almost elbowed him, but when he saw the cup, he smartly didn’t. “Well, Saps is coming to Westhelm on Friday, too, so hopefully you guys can meet there before the house tour.”
“Oh great.” Fluixon cheered sarcastically. “I’m going to give my first impression drunk out of my mind.”
“Well, on the upside, he’ll also probably be drunk.” Snowbird chirped, ever the optimist. “He does have a pretty high tolerance, though… maybe not.”
“You’re fucked,” Rotation grinned, already imagining Fluixon’s demise. “Forget the tour— this guy won’t ever want to see you again!”
Fluixon squinted at him. “Okay, freshman. You aren’t even legally allowed to be at these parties, yet I keep seeing you there.”
Rotation did not have a comeback for that one.
The Chess Club—excluding the New Kid, who was in high school, and Seraphim, who was dressing up with her girls— all gathered in Fluixon’s flat to prepare for the party. Only because it was the biggest. All the rest of them lived on campus, where the rooms were three Thomases wide at best.
Fluixon examined himself in the full-body mirror. Dressing up for Frat parties was mostly for the girls and the hardcore gays, neither of which was Fluixon. Instead of wearing mesh shirts and sequins, he wore a simple band t-shirt—with a design intricate enough that it looked objectively cool— and the trusty dark-wash jeans. His black prosthetic glove extended about an inch above his elbow. He was glad he didn’t choose the skin colored ones, because those looked uncanny. Now he just looked slightly germaphobic.
He looked like your average edgy kid, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
“Flux!” Rotation called from the bathroom. “Come here if you want eyeliner!”
Fluixon walked in on Rotation leaning over Gotoga, who was sitting on the toilet, trying to keep his eyes open while Rotation stabbed his waterline with pencil eyeliner. The scene was almost funny.
“Did you redye your hair?” Fluixon asked as he rummaged through the vanity drawers, looking for concealer to hide the rings around his eyes.
“Yeah.” Gotoga was wearing a thin, oversized black tank top which had armholes so large you could basically see the entirety of his torso from the side. His jeans were a slightly lighter wash, much to Fluixon’s disapproval.
“Does it look okay?” He itched his vibrant blue hair, a little self-conscious.
“It’s great,” Fluixon hummed as he found his concealer, which was almost white in color. He dabbed some underneath his eyes, spreading it around with his pinky like a primate. He needed to clean his brushes.
“Stop moving!” Rotation smacked Gotoga’s hand away from his scalp. He was wearing his signature leather jacket that made him look like a greaser from the sixties. His platinum hair was held out of his face by the sunglasses propped on his head, acting as a pseudo headband. His denim was dark, thankfully.
Fluixon was very opinionated on many things. The color of jeans was one of those things. Light-wash was for the lightweights and weird, homophobic people. Dark-wash meant you were cultured.
“Are you almost done?” Fluixon finishes poking the makeup under his eye. He smudged some Chapstick on his cracked lips, too, just in case. “I need that eyeliner.”
“Tell Gotoga to stop crying then!” Rotation huffed. “He looks like Taylor Swift in Blank Space.”
Fluixon glanced over. Gotoga did in fact look like he’d already been to the party, with streaks of black running down his face that were half-heartedly wiped away by Rotation. His skin was a little red from the smudging.
“Maybe if you weren’t trying to lobotomize me!” Gotoga yelped, flinching backwards on the toilet. “Dude, you’re poking my pupil with that thing! I’m gonna get pink eye!”
“What’s happening here?” Thomas peeked his head in. His hair was lightly gelled into a subtle side part, his makeup already done. He looked pretentious with that hairstyle, but Fluixon guessed side parts make everyone look like that.
“Gotoga’s being a wuss.” Rotation gritted as he manually pried the other’s eye open. There was genuine fear in that eye; it quivered like a flame on a wick.
“They’re being gay,” Fluixon corrected, scooting over so that Thomas could see the mirror. Upon further inspection, he was wearing a purple camp shirt—only the third button was fastened— as well as some ashy jeans that pooled at his ankles. He should hem those. The party started an hour ago. We should head out in five if we want to be on the fashionable side of late.” He observed, tapping his phone to check the time.
“I’m ready whenever you are.” Thomas shrugged, carefully tucking a loose hair back into the rest of it. “Sera said she was already at the pregame with Swysh.”
“Already?” Rotation seemed to have given up on Gotoga, tossing the eyeliner to Fluixon as he swiped some makeup wipes, scrubbing the remnants of Gotoga’s Blank Space Era. “We have to get there before she challenges Gabory to a fencing duel.”
“She’d win,” Fluixon snorted, leaning close to the mirror—enough that the glass fogged with his breath— as he applied black to his bottom waterline. “Isn’t Seraphim training fencing on an Olympic level?”
“She’s such a tryhard,” Thomas laughed, stealing Fluixon’s chapstick to ungracefully rub it on his lips. Fluixon could’ve sworn he put it on his entire chin. “Chess and fencing? How posh can you get?”
“Didn’t you use to golf?” Gotoga raised a brow, pushing Rotation away from him. There was still a little darkness on his lower eyelid, but it looked intentional enough. “That’s the most rich white guy sport ever.”
“That was my dad,” Thomas corrected, insulted. “Also, I’m the brownest person here, you sickly Victorian children.”
Fluixon frowned. He was the palest person here. Standing next to Thomas, he practically looked like a ghost. His dark hair and sharp features did nothing to quell his ill complexion. He didn’t know how it happened, though; both Elanulo and Crow were people of color. Maybe the secret white colonizers got to their youngest child.
“Okay… well, we still all play chess, which is notoriously a rich people's pastime, so you’re still white-washed as fuck,” Rotation stated matter-of-factly, pushing his sunglasses onto his face, platinum hair falling over his eyes. “And we’re ready, if Flux isn’t planning on doing full drag today.”
Fluixon dropped the liner in the sink, cap somewhere on the rim of the bathtub. He’d deal with it tomorrow after his hangover lessened. “I’m done! I'm done. Let’s get going.”
“Thomas’s car, right?” Gotoga rubbed his eyes, poor guy. “Since we’re responsible enough to call an Uber home.”
“What?” Thomas hissed, his head whipping towards Gotoga as if he was cursing eight generations of his family. “I’m not leaving my baby at Westhelm! She’ll be keyed!”
“No one’s going to bother that piece of junk.” Gotoga huffed, crossing his arms as the four of them made their way across the apartment. “Not since the time Auxileon found your weird fucksaw contraption.”
“For the last time, it was my engineering project!” Thomas elbowed him, annoyed. “You know this. We had the same professor.”
“Are we talking about the fucksaw?” Snowbird asked from where he was nursing a drink in Fluixon’s kitchen. He was the only one who didn’t do makeup, but he made up for it by outdressing all of them. Presently, he had a white Oxford—unbuttoned down to his navel— and big black jeans with an embroidered ocean on the cuffs. Fluixon really needed to ask this man where he did his shopping, because his fashion taste was immaculate.
“It was not a fucksaw!” Thomas yelled obscenely, throwing his hands in the air. “I don’t even know why I bother with you guys anymore.”
Fluixon was rather confused about this whole Auxileon fucksaw engineering project fiasco, but it was rather entertaining to see Thomas lose his head. “Context, please?”
“I forgot you were a newgen,” Rotation snorted from beside him, somehow acquiring his own cup of cheap beer. Fluixon didn’t know how to feel about letting an eighteen-year-old drink in his house, but Rotation would probably throw the glass at him if he said anything. “Apparently, this guy— Auxileon— broke Thomas’s van’s window to try to steal stuff but found Thomas’s engineering project in the back, which he thought was a sex machine.”
Hilarious.
“The rumors that spread before Aux got suspended were legendary.” Snowbird grinned, taking a swig of whatever neat alcohol he stole from Fluixon’s fridge. “It was on the front page of that week's paper.”
“Because of you!” Thomas stole the glass, downing the entire thing in one swallow. “I know you wrote that page! And now we only have six members in the Chess club.” He slammed the now-empty thing on the counter with a force that echoed off the walls. Six members! There used to be thirty.”
“What about the New Kid?” Fluixon tilted his head, leaning an arm on Rotation’s shoulder.
“He’s in high school! Can’t even properly sign up.” Thomas glared at all of them as a whole as if they were a collection of knick-knacks he’d gathered into the Chess Club that wasn’t really about chess anyway. “And Bird can't play for the life of him, so we’re basically down to five-and-a-half members.”
“Okay, Chud,” Snowbird snatched his cup back, placing it in the sink like a considerate guest. How nice. Fluixon’s used to Rotation leaving everything everywhere. “Be grateful I’m even here.”
“‘Be grateful I’m even here,’” Thomas mocked in a higher octave, brushing past Snowbird on the way to the door. “Shut your goofy ass up man. We have no time to be listening to you saying chud every other word.”
“Chud is a very versatile word, perhaps even the greatest of all time,” Snowbird retorted unironically. How was this man an executive editor for their campus newspaper? Were they just lacking in literate members in the journalism club? “And it describes you quite well.”
Thomas didn’t grace that with a response as he slipped on his sneakers in the doorway, everyone else following his lead like baby ducks.
Fluixon neatly double-knotted his Docs as the others shoved on their shoes— all varying amounts of scuffed and worn. Fluixon’s were three years old, and he had to say, they were still in very good condition. Especially compared to Gotoga’s very sad-looking blue Converse.
Well, anything was in better condition than those Converse.
“We are going in Thomas’s car, though,” Rotation asked as he bunny-eared his boots. What a child. “Right?”
“Yes, fine,” Thomas gave up. If his car got keyed tonight, all of them would never hear the end of it, but now he was willing to drive them so long as no one brought up his engineering project. “We’ll take my car.”
“Let’s go!” Snowbird high-fived Gotoga in their successful manipulation. “I call shotgun!”
“You can’t call shotgun until the car is in view.”
“Says who?”
“Says the rules!” Gotoga tutted, shaking his head like a disapproving parent. The rest joined him like a hive mind, all shaking their heads at Snowbird in tandem.
“And me, the driver.” Thomas crossed his arms after he stood up. “Not after you reminded me that you were the one to write that page on my project.”
“The week was boring, all right?” Snowbird accepted Fluixon’s hand to pull himself up. “Also, now you’re immensely popular. So it technically is a positive thing.”
“Infamous is a better word for it,” Thomas grumbled. “Everyone quit the chess club this year, and even though the rumor was cleared up, people still ask me about it.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, this is my first time hearing about it,” Fluixon shrugged as they all filed out of his apartment. He fumbled with his keys. Not the Porsche key… not the storage unit key… not the other storage unit key either. Why did he have so many keys again?
“See, now even Flux knows! And he’s been here for three months.” Thomas groaned from behind him. There was a little scuffling as Fluixon finally pushed the correct key into his apartment door. It was probably Thomas giving Snowbird a noogie or something equally immature.
“I’ve been here for three months, too,” Rotation raised a brow. “Is my opinion just not important enough to you?”
“No,” Thomas scoffed as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re a freshman, of course, I don’t care.”
Rotation seemed to deflate a little at that, even though they all knew—or at least Fluixon hoped they knew— that Thomas was joking. Rotation might’ve been the youngest after the New Kid, but he was still highly valued around here.
The five guys crammed into the stairwell, Snowbird and Rotation making small talk that Gotoga occasionally quipped in for, but Fluixon drowned out. It was probably just gossip, which would involve names that Fluixon wasn’t familiar with. Not that he minded. He knew all the people he cared to know—the small circle of friends in the Chess Club and a few popular kids that hosted parties he could get drunk at— and knowing too many people meant being known, which wasn’t something he really wanted anyway.
Thomas is beside him, scrolling on his phone pensively. He was texting someone with an Android, based on the green in Fluixon’s peripheral. He doesn’t bother trying to take a glance at the contents of the messages, though. One good thing about Fluixon is that he’s the least nosy person ever. The less he knows, the better.
They waddle out into the desolate parting lot that surrounds Fluixon’s apartment building. Fluixon never knew why it was so empty all the time, but it made parking easier, so he didn’t complain.
Thomas’s car was a nice enough red Lincoln Hoffman. Luxury enough for an upper-middle-class guy like Thomas, but not quite as fancy as Fluixon’s customly wrapped purple Porsche. At least it had seven seats.
“Shotgun!” Gotoga grinned, now that the vehicle was actually in view. He trotted ahead of the group towards the passenger door like an eager child rushing to an ice cream truck. Thomas begrudgingly got out his keys to unlock the car when Gotoga would not stop pulling on the door handle.
“I want the back row.” Fluixon staked his claim next. “All to myself.” He pushed Snowbird—with a lot of effort— out of the way as he climbed into the farthest line of seats, wedging himself between the two middle seats. Damon, that made him feel fat. Who could actually squeeze comfortably through there?
It was worth it, in the end. To have three brown leather seats all to himself was better than any slow-reclining shit they had in front. Four cup holders, two AC vents, and two windows all to himself. The only downside was the small seatbelt buckles between the seats, preventing him from lying down comfortably. But Thomas would kill him if he didn’t have a seatbelt anyway. At least he got to manspread really wide.
The ride to the pregame was pretty silent other than the background noise of the soft fingerstyle guitar Thomas had playing on the aux alongside the Instagram reels that Rotation had blasting from his phone. Fluixon himself scrolled on Twitter—he was never calling it X— because that’s where all the celebrity drama is. And Fluixon loved drama that had nothing to do with him.
He liked a post of Cynikka studying volcanoes along the Java Trench. It was mostly pictures of the volcanoes themselves, but there was one selfie of Cynikka and her fellow researchers near the end of the dump. Fluixon needed to visit his older sibling sometime— they were his siblings, no matter what Elanulo said.
It’s a rather short trip— as everything near the university was close together— and in a matter of ten minutes, they’re shuffling out of the car towards the southern dormitory.
“It’s at Cass’,” Thomas reminded them as he locked his car. Fluixon vaguely remembered the Junior student council president. Cass was a very opinionated but passionate girl who spent a lot of her time volunteering or at Model UN, and if she didn’t seem to hate his guts, Fluixon thinks they could’ve been very good friends. At least she let him into her pregame. That had to count for something.
“Will Micro be there?” Rotation asked innocently. Everyone knew that Micro Spr and his friends—Banana, Neptune, and Panzer— were all drug dealers working for an unnamed cartel from Canada, or at least that’s what the rumors exaggerated. They sold the good stuff, and that was enough for Fluixon.
“Yeah. He’s right with Cass and Cirian, so probably.” Thomas confirmed nonchalantly as if he wasn’t currently in a talking stage with him. It was very obvious to everyone but Thomas that Micro was making subtle innuendos at him every time they met. “But don’t get stoned before we reach Westhelm.” He warned like a responsible parent.
The five of them squeezed into the elevator leading to the eighth floor, Rotation whistling a tune from the campus band Yggdrasil Aggregate. Hopefully, they’d be playing live music at Westhelm since Schpood and Lundin were close.
“Oh yeah,” Snowbird interrupted Rotation right before the chorus. Fluixon was both grateful and a little disappointed. “Saps is gonna be here. Maybe want to make a first impression before getting high out of your mind.”
“I’ll make a note.” Fluixon had stashed the entire ‘roommate’ situation in the back of his mind because of the party, but now a shallow dread seeped into his head. He didn’t know why he was scared; in fact, he was a little excited to move in with someone—not that he’d tell anyone that— but he guessed it was the meeting-new-people-who-could-potentially-ruin-your-life-in-one-month aspect of it all that made him a little jumpy. He was sure it would all be fine.
It would be fine.
The elevator rocked as it came to a stop, the metal doors screeching open to reveal an endless white hallway, the only color being the occasional wooden door. Fluixon was the last to exit—on account of him being the first to enter— and followed the rest of them towards Cass’s dorm.
This specific floor was a gender-inclusive dormitory, in which boys and girls—and everything in between— could room together. Cass shared a room with Cirian, who was a very optimistic guy who led the DnD club, which had a lot of members. Fluixon didn’t know how he managed that many people, and also was in Fluixon’s History. They were less than friendly after that one group project that left their grades almost a letter below.
It was Cirian’s fault. He wanted to focus their presentation on the Cilician Pirates instead of the entire Roman Empire, as the Rubric required.
But none of that was stopping Fluixon from going to their pregame. Not Cass, not Cirian. Or their other two roommates that Fluixon didn’t care to remember the names of.
They stepped into the college suite, where a multitude of people had already arrived. Micro and his gang were there—thank goodness— as well as Seraphim and her friend Swysh, who sat at the small, circular table next to the window, chatting with Therin—One of Cass’s other roommates, his memory supplied— over a few seltzers, a mess of empty cans already rolling around on the floor.
In the kitchenette, Cass nursed a glass of beer while talking animatedly at—not to, but at— this white-haired guy and blonde girl. Did the guy have albinism? He was deathly pale, even paler than Fluixon.
“Hey, that’s Saps,” Snowbird nudged him, waving to the albino. Saparata gave him a crooked grin, raising his beer bottle as a toast. “This is Fluixon. The guy I was telling you about.”
“Nice to meet you,” Fluixon nodded at him, a little awkward. It was always weird to meet new people— hell, the only reason he met the Chess Club was that it was filled with a bunch of freakishly extroverted people who were desperate for more members at orientation. He was just glad they were smart enough—and funny enough— to make him stick around.
“Likewise,” Saparata sounded like he had a sore throat. Very soft, almost gravelly voice. It wasn’t horrible. “You wanted a tour on Saturday, right? Could we move it to Sunday? I get really bad hangovers.”
Maybe that was a good idea. “Sure.”
Fluixon edged away before Cass could glare at him any longer, leaving Snowbird to socialize with these randoms. He made his way towards Micro, who was currently courting Thomas.
“…and I was thinking next Saturday?” Micro was slowly inching closer to Thomas, who was just staring at Micro like a deer in headlights. He was so in love.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Fluixon coughed as he stepped into their little circle. “But do you have anything for me, Micro?”
Micro didn’t even glance at him as he dug around in his hoodie pocket, tossing a small bag at Fluixon without breaking eye contact with Thomas, who was slowly getting pushed against the wall. It was hilarious to see five-foot-eleven Thomas getting cornered by five-seven Micro. “Take this and shoo, bro. You’re ruining my moment.”
Fluixon obliged. Maybe having Thomas around wasn’t so bad. He made a good distraction so that Micro would give him free grub. Usually, he’d be charged at least a hundred for that.
He backtracked into one of the bedrooms, obviously Cirian’s, based on the huge pirate flag on the farthest wall. The other person’s side was organized enough that Fluixon couldn’t really tell who it belonged to. He sat on their bed anyway.
There were five little pills in the bag, each a different color. Upon further inspection, there were little leaves pressed into the compacted powder. Canadian. It was probably MDMA. Figures.
Fluixon stared at the bag for a minute, scrutinizing it for a moment before eventually getting up from the bed. The fentanyl won’t test itself. Even if Micro was a pretty well-known, reliable dealer, Fluixon wasn’t taking any chances.
He made his way back into the shared space, smoothly maneuvering between circles of gossip until he reached the kitchenette. Snowbird was less than sober, leaning on the island as he talked to Saparata.
“… and I was like ‘whoa buddy! You can’t go around saying things like that to him. He’s taken— by me,’” He snorted into his can of beer. Embarrassing.
“Do you have a crown cap?” Fluixon interrupted, talking to Saparata. Snowbird was far too tipsy to provide him anything useful, borderline kissing the counter with how low he’d sunk. Maybe they didn’t even need to go to Westhelm. Maybe this pregame was enough for Snowbird to get wasted.
“Uhm,” Saparata dug into the front pockets of his grey cargo pants until a Blue Moon cap materialized in his pale hand. He was very pale—almost unnaturally so. While you could argue Fluixon’s skin was a pale beige, Sapartaa’s bordered pure ivory, the color of bones. It was as if he were already dead. “There you go.”
Fluixon accepted the cap easily, propping Snowbird’s elbows up to save him from his embarrassing position of bending over the porcelain. He needed the people he associated with to have at least some semblance of dignity. “Thank you.” He said to Saparata before disappearing again.
He forwent the bedroom this time, instead making his way to the restroom, which was thankfully unoccupied. Fluixon did not want to have a repeat of his previous pregame, where he found two hormonal students rutting against each other. It was… traumatizing to say the least.
He locked the door behind him carefully. Although everyone did drugs—because it was college— Fluixon still found himself prideful enough not to do it in front of other people. Especially when he was Fent testing. For some reason, there was a sort of stigma around being careful in college party culture, and Fluixon would not be shamed by some random stoners.
He gently extracted one of the pills from the bag, crushing it into the counter with his wrist before gently sweeping it into the bottle cap. A few drops of water were added to the makeshift bowl, and then Fluixon stirred it a little with a toothpick he found in a tub underneath the sink. Dealing with drugs was almost as precious as his chemistry labs, and that was saying something.
While Fluixon waited for the results to come in after he stuck the test strip in, he sat on the closed toilet, once again finding his way back to Twitter.
Twitter was god.
Not Elon Musk though. Hated that guy.
By the time two and a half minutes had passed, Fluixon had learned about Imperial buying another no-name company, new baby chicks being born on someone’s farm, and that everyone had that one friend—Gotoga— that was secretly a mermaid.
Overall, very fruitful doom scrolling session.
Fluixon examined the two red lines on the strip, wondering why his pull was pregnant before remembering that’s not how Fentanyl worked. Was he already high? He swore he hadn't taken one before he tested them. That would be counterproductive.
Whatever. Fluixon exited the restroom inconspicuously, blending into the crowd of people that was starting to form in the dorm. They had about fifteen minutes before they could fashionably arrive at Westhelm—taking into account the drive time— so that meant it was about time to start lassoing together the Chess Club before they all forgot they existed. Dumbasses.
Thomas was still preoccupied with Micro—who Fluixon didn’t dare to get on the bad side of— so he made a detour towards Rotation, who was slumming it on the loveseat with this girl named Grey. She was very present to be around, but Fluixon feared that Rotation was a bad influence on her.
“Pick up time,” Fluixon clapped in his face, talking slow as if Rotation was a kindergartener. “Go fetch Snowbird. He’s in the kitchen.”
“It’s time already?” Grey asked in that awestruck tone she always seemed to have. “I have to go find Magic.”
The loveseat emptied as both Grey and Rotation left in search of their friends. Fluixon considered sitting down and making Rotation scurry around and be the messenger boy, but Fluixon was a kind man, so instead he went to drag Gotoga away from ProGamerDude’s collection of Yu-Gi-Oh cards, which he and the latter were genuinely contemplating.
“Gotoga, stop nerding out and let’s get going,” Fluixon whined when physically prying Gotoga off the table wasn’t working. This fatass. “Don’t you want to meet AWobbuffet? You guys can do your little card trading shmack.”
“Is he really going to be there?” Gotoga finally looked away from the cards. “Isn’t he with the Covenant?”
“The Covenant wants to watch Schpood and Sitzkrieg fight.” Fluixon rolled his eyes. “Everyone wants to see Schpood and Sitzkrieg fight.” He hauled Gotoga onto his feet with a lot of effort.
“They’re not going to fight.” Gotoga snorted, the smell of cheap alcohol wafting from his mouth. “They’re the presidents of frat houses. Their licenses would be taken away.”
“Okay…” Fluixon opened the door for Gotoga like the gentleman that he was. Snowbird and Rotation had already left, and he didn’t want to deal with Thomas now. He had stolen his keys when they first entered the dorm—thank you, pickpocketing lessons in Italy— and he was sober—for now— so they had a safe ride to the party. Everything was working out. “So they’ll have really aggressive games of beer pong and pool until one of them surrenders.”
Gotoga scoffed, but a smile slowly crept up his face. “This party is going to be so buns.”
The party was amazing.
Fluixon had taken the Ecstasy after hopping into the car, and now it was finally taking effect.
The mirror disco balls that seemed to be everywhere reflected the actual sun into his eyes, refracting off his contacts to create little rainbows that danced around him. It looked magical in a way that only a drugged-up fantasy could, and Fluixon was all for it
The rest of his company was scattered throughout the Frat house, and while Fluixon had fun watching the Westhelm V Mykonos game of Boom Cup, it got less and less entertaining as the competitiveness of it all faded into slow drunkness. He needed to find a friend.
Fluixon’s search was slow and tedious. Every face he saw was an unrecognizable blur, and everyone’s voice overlapped into one big excited whisper in his ear. The one distinguishable sound was the familiar gush of liquid being poured into red Solo cups, so Fluixon made his way over there.
“Can you get me something with vodka?” Fluixon’s voice was surprisingly clear to his own foggy brain. He somehow managed to push his way to the kitchen, where a guy named Remy—if Fluixon’s spotty memory was correct— manned the bar.
“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that if you want anything other than jungle juice,” Fluixon could barely understand this man’s accent. Was it French? He sounded like he was squeaking at him.
“Uhm.” Fluixon got distracted by the crack in the floor tile. It was shaped like a star. One of those four-sided sparkle-ish ones. “Cap Codder? What was that song called again? Vodka Cranberry?”
“Right up,” Remy replied with what Fluixon assumed was feigned enthusiasm. It was hard to tell with both his fuzzy mind and Remy’s accent. He was right—he always was— because a cup filled with a smelly sanguine liquid appeared before him shortly after.
“Thanks,” Fluixon was walking away as he said it, the pop music blasting off the speakers drowning out the appreciation. He made his way across the dance floor, where neon lights shone from above and below, causing the rainbows in his vision to intensify. It was both great and horrible at the same time, and Fluixon had to squint in order to see through the colorful haze. “Micro?” He asked a random person in front of him who looked blobby enough to be Micro. “Why aren’t you with Thomas?”
“Not Micro,” the person turned around. It was Saparata. Huh. Didn’t he meet this guy like five hours ago? “Flux, you look pretty bad.”
“I feel great, actually.” Fluixon never looked bad. In fact, he was feeling great. On top of the moon, you could say. Like that one cow. “What are you doing?” He asked just to have an excuse to stick around. He felt grounded around Saparata for some reason. Probably because he was a familiar face.
“Just hanging around,” Saparata blinked at him. He had really nice eyes. They were this pinkish-grey that made it look like he could see your soul. A worse version of the blue-eyed stare. “Flux— you’re wobbling.”
Fluixon was not wobbling, but maybe that’s because Saparata grabbed his shoulders to steady him. His hands were warm, even through the high-quality material of Fluixon’s T-shirt. “I need to lie down.” He realized a little too late.
“I think that’s a good idea!” Saparata smiled awkwardly. He has really nice lips. They were thin, but not too thin. Very pink too, like cotton candy. Fluixon hadn’t had cotton candy since… since a long time ago. “Let’s go find a room upstairs.”
“Aren’t there gonna be like… people having sex up there?” Fluixon asked as Saparata dragged him through the crowd of people dancing. He catches a glimpse of Seraphim talking to Jophiel with a thin line of tears trailing down her face. Probably begging her to get together again.
“There has to be one empty room.” Saparata seemed to be trying to convince himself rather than Fluixon. Or maybe he just wasn’t very convincing. “Can you walk by yourself?”
“I’m not a toddler.” Fluixon ripped his hand away from Saparata’s, insulted. He barely knew this guy, so why was he treating him like a manchild? Fluixon was perfectly capable, thank you very much. “I can fucking walk.”
“Okay—“ Saparata put his hands up, half-yelling above the loud pop music overhead. “My bad. That came out wrong. Let’s just- can we get you upstairs?”
“I can get myself upstairs.” Fluixon corrected, now defensive. He wasn’t going to take this level of disrespect from this— this white ass blob looking thing. He was pretty to look at, though.
Fluixon dusted invisible dust off his jeans, straightening up. His vision immediately went fuzzy, but he ignored it. Sure, he was a little high, but that didn’t mean he was totally immobilized. He wasn’t helpless.
He took a step.
“Maybe not.” Saparata muttered when Fluixon fell into him. This was very embarrassing. Maybe he would actually have to renew his fuck ass lease to his fuck ass apartment. Saparata definitely would not want to ever interact with him again after this.
“M’sorry,” Fluixon muttered as Saparata resteadied him. He thought he could do it; he really did. How long had it been since he’d taken the MDMA? Four hours? Five? It’s probably wearing off by now, leaving Fluixon with nothing but a puddle of drowsiness.
“It’s fine,” Saparata gave him a few hurried pats on the back. It was almost cute how he didn’t know how to comfort Fluixon. Not that he needed it, though. He was just a mopey drunk. “Let’s get you to a bed.”
Saparata half-guided, half-carried Fluixon away from the dance floor, leading him to the stairwell. His hands were warm and soft, but a little clammy.
“You aren’t trying to take advantage of me, are you?” Fluixon realized a little too late as Saparata started to pull him up the stairs. It was a really hard endeavor, and Fluixon was more trying to stall climbing than trying to prevent Saparata from sleeping with him. He was good-looking enough that Fluixon would consider it a win. If he could make it up these goddamn stairs.
“What?” Saparata’s grip faltered, and Fluixon almost tumbled down and into hell. “No! I’m not trying to- “ he paused as if saying it would make it a reality. “I’m not like that.”
“Sure you aren’t,” Fluixon huffed as Saparata got him to a small landing. He pressed against the wall, refusing to move even if Saparata tried dragging him. He needed a break. “Look at me! Made in God’s fucking image-“ he gestured to himself. “For all you know, I could be Jesus! Everyone wants a piece of this. Everyone.”
“Just because you’re handsome doesn’t mean-“
“So you think I’m handsome?” Fluixon interrupted, a sense of pride swelling inside him. He didn’t need outside validation, of course, for only insecure people needed that. But sometimes it was nice for people to explicitly compliment you.
“Well-“ Saparata was turning a lovely shade of pink. It was quite fun to provoke him, now that Fluixon was already at it. “I think it's an objective kind of beauty. What was that thing that Madzie told me about? Symmetry is attractive because it shows people that you’re healthy and better suited for reproduction? Not that you’re just handsome because your face is symmetrical-“
Fluixon did not want to learn about the psychology of attraction. Instead, he grabbed the collar of Saparata’s T-shirt and pulled him in.
Saparata froze as he locked lips with him. Fluixon took advantage of his shock to shift their position, slamming Saparata into the wall with a force that vibrated up his arms.
It took a lot of effort to pin him there—Saparata was heavier than he looked—but the sharp little gasp he earned in return was worth it. And never the one to waste opportunities, Fluixon gracefully deepened the kiss, tasting the bitterness of Saparata’s mouth. Gin and tonic?
He didn’t have time to ponder as pain bloomed, sudden and bright. Saparata had bitten his tongue.
Fluixon jerked back on instinct, swearing as the taste of blood flooded his mouth, coppery and hot. His hand flew up, half to shove, half to steady himself. “What the fuck?” he snapped, words thick and slurred, pulse still racing.
“What do you mean, what the fuck?” Saparata inhaled sharply, looking even more winded than Fluixon felt. His breathing came out in short, loud bursts, chest rising too fast. His ears were burning red, the color bleeding into his cheeks. Overwhelmed, probably. He looked—unfortunately—very good like this. Flushed and frazzled and pinned. “You just kissed me!”
Fluixon frowned, genuinely confused. “Did you not like it?” he asked, stepping back in, crowding Saparata against the wall again. Not touching this time. Just close like a subtle threat. Fluixon was an amazing kisser—anyone who breathed the same air as him knew that—and he refused to let Saparata be an anomaly.
“That’s not the point!” Saparata tried to shove him away, palms pressing uselessly against Fluixon’s chest. “You’re drunk! This is- this is like sexual assault!”
Fluixon wasn’t really listening.
Instead, he leaned in again.
The taste of blood mixed with the fading bitterness of alcohol, strangely sweet together, almost ambrosial. It had Fluixon groaning before he could stop himself, the sound spilling into Saparata’s mouth as he pushed him harder into the wall. His hands slid under that stupid, baggy white T-shirt, palms flattening against warm skin, tracing the subtle definition underneath.
“Oh my god,” Saparata moaned, fingers fumbling for Fluixon’s wrists and finding them with a bruising grip. “Why are you so good at—”
Fluixon already knew where that was going. He cut him off by licking along Saparata’s cracked lips, slow and deliberate, before biting down on his bottom lip. The way Saparata shuddered—just a little—was deeply satisfying.
Saparata was not a good kisser. In fact, Fluixon would even go as far as to say he was below average. And while it might’ve been because he was reacting rather than responding, the point still stood.
Normally, that would’ve been enough for Fluixon to lose interest. He hated incompetence; found it unbecoming, unattractive. He would’ve already pulled away, already bored.
But this was different.
He didn’t know how—or why—but it was.
Saparata smelled like the beaches in Miami. Like the soft breeze of a solo vacation, where the only people who talked to you were the staff at the resort. He smelled like a freedom that Fluixon had never experienced before. And he wanted more. Wanted to press closer until the scent drowned out everything else—his pulse, his thoughts, the sharp edge of himself. He wanted to be engulfed in it until his breath left him entirely, until there was nothing left but heat and salt and this impossible calm.
Until he ascended into whatever realm this sweeter angel had fallen from.
Unfortunately, Saparata was not an angel, but a mortal who needed air. They separated with a line of spit and a sharp intake of air, each breathing heavily against the other.
“Flux—“ Saparata said between breaths. His hands slowly guiding Fluixon’s to his hips rather than up his shirt. “We have to stop. Please- I can’t- we can’t do this when we’re both drunk.”
Fluixon huffed, lowering his head into the crook of Saparata’s shoulder. His forehead was sweaty, but neither of them cared at that point. “Do you hate me?” He asked while pressing kisses into the side of Saparata’s neck, leaving a hickey or two for variation.
“No—“ Saparata struggled to say. He was adorable. “No, you’re lovely. It’s just not right. We barely know each other. And you’re high! You taste like Molly.”
“Ecstasy,” Fluixon corrected as Saparata rested a hand on his head, slowly stroking his hair. It was oddly domestic for a loud, obnoxious frat party. Everything outside of their small bubble of space seemed to slow down. “And we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other when we move in together.”
If it were possible, Saparata grew an even darker shade of red. “Why are you saying that so suggestively?” He sputtered, hand gripping Fluixon’s hair suddenly. It wasn’t as painful as it was surprising. “Also, it’s not even a set thing! What if you don’t like the place? What if I don’t want to room with you anymore?”
“So you do hate me,” Fluixon licked a bite mark he placed. “And I think any place is fine as long as you’re there.” He was a very charming person, if he had to say so himself. The only reason he’d not had a partner all this time was the lack of time, despite what all of the Chess Club insists.
Saparata was silent for a moment.
“You sure have a way with words.”
Fluixon grinned into Saparata’s shoulder.