Archive of Our Own

As far as Neal was concerned, working in a dining hall was a pretty good choice when it came to work-study jobs. Sure, it only paid $4.50 an hour, but so did all of the other positions that would hire a freshman with no experience beyond bagging groceries, and seeing behind the scenes of how the food arrived from the suppliers wasn't always the most appetizing thing but Neal wasn't picky. After a lifetime of reduced-price school lunches and macaroni and cheese with tuna and peas, the dining hall food seemed pretty good. One upside to working in food service was that he got to supplement his bare-bones meal plan with extra meals that nobody bothered to record, and he could fill the mini-fridge in his dorm room with all of the just-expired food he could scrounge. His roommate worked at the library and could get fines removed, so Neal didn't mind sharing his free food.

The other upside was getting to watch people, to see them settling into habits--the groups that ate together, the people who ate alone, the ones who ate the same thing every day and the ones who ate their way through the usual offerings. His favorite person to watch was a senior, a jock baseball player who was tall with broad shoulders and a face that Neal just wanted to touch. He didn't have a chance, obviously. No skinny freshman in a hair net would ever have a chance with a guy like that, even if he hadn't had pretty girls hanging around him at every meal. But Neal let himself watch the baseball player because it wasn't stalking if he was just doing his job, right?

The team was still in training, the season not started up yet, but Neal dug up copies of the student newspaper from the previous spring and found out his name--Peter Burke. Peter Burke, who called out one of his teammates on his habit of bullying the girl who worked the sandwich station most days. Peter Burke who ate the same thing for dinner almost every day: two burgers, a salad with just lettuce and cucumbers, soft-serve ice cream that looked like dog shit and two cups of soda. Peter Burke who, according last year's sports columns, was sure to be a major-league star after he graduated.

So Neal wasn't ashamed of his crush, and if he thought about Peter when he took a shower, if he thought about showering with Peter, washing the sweat off of his body and tasting traces of it on his neck, that was his own business.

Neal's shift started at 4pm, well before the usual influx of students in search of dinner, but the dining hall was open so there would usually be some stragglers or early-birds, often a table or two filled with study groups who were just hitting the soda machines rather than getting any food. When he saw the tall guy with a sling on his right arm and a tray awkwardly balanced in his left hand, Neal thought, that's not going to end well, but he didn't want to impose so he focused on his task of loading fresh vegetables into the salad bar.

When he heard the crash--the combined sound of plastic, metal, stoneware, food and drink hitting the floor in one big mess--Neal grabbed a mop and headed over to clean up. What he found when he got there was Peter Burke, his face pale, pained and embarrassed, standing by the counter in front of the drink machine with his eyes closed.

"Hey, are you okay?" Cleaning up the food could wait until he was sure that six-foot-two of bone and muscle wasn't about to follow it to the floor.

"Fine. I'm fine," Peter bit out. "I just--" he leaned his hip against the counter and slumped. "My shoulder's screwed up and the pills make me feel weird, and I know I'm supposed to take them with food. I thought I could carry everything with my left hand but apparently I'm completely useless rather than just halfway."

Neal looked around, and for once Peter was alone--no buddies, no girls. "It's okay," he said, then walked around Peter and the mess on the floor to get to the soda machine. He filled a glass with ice and Sprite and held it out for Peter to take. "Go sit down, and I'll bring you a new tray after I clean this up."

Peter looked down at the mess and grimaced. "I'm sorry about that. If you give me a minute I can--"

"It's my job. Don't worry about it."

Peter nodded and accepted the drink before trudging off to the dining area. The mess wasn't even that bad--the dishes were almost unbreakable and the hamburger buns had absorbed half of the spilled soda so Neal just put the trash and the dishes where they belonged and mopped up the rest. He put together a tray with two burgers, a salad, a dish of ice cream and another soda then walked it out to where Peter sat at a table by himself. He put the tray down on the table then sat without waiting for an invitation.

Peter pulled the tray around to face him and examined it for a moment before looking back up at Neal. "How did you know this is what I eat?"

"I cleaned it up off the floor, remember?" Neal shrugged, not eager to look like a weirdo stalker.

"Right. Thanks for this. I mean, I know table service isn't exactly part of the meal plan."

"I get paid the same $4.50 an hour no matter what I do, and it looked like you were having a hard time."

Peter nodded sullenly and took a bite of one of his burgers. "My damn shoulder," he mumbled around the food in his mouth, then swallowed. "Sorry, manners, I know."

"What happened to your shoulder?"

"It's all messed up. I'm a pitcher, you know? No good without my shoulder, and now I probably blew it out before I even got to play my senior year." He blinked and looked down at his burger. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do. And I don't know why I'm telling you this. Don't even know your name."

"I'm Neal," Neal said, feeling that dumb, persistent thrill of not being Danny anymore. "And maybe you're telling me because I'm here."

"Funny how the doctor told me I couldn't play anymore and suddenly everybody disappears like I've got tuberculosis or something."

"People suck sometimes." Neal didn't know what else to say, and then he heard his boss clearing her voice behind him. "Oh man, I'm really sorry but I have to go. Are you going to be okay to get back to your dorm?"

Peter nodded. "Thanks. I mean it."

With a reluctant look back at the dejected baseball player, Neal walked away.

~~~

Neal dropped his head into his hands and groaned. Somebody from another table shushed him, and Neal groaned again but more quietly. He liked the relative privacy of the stacks in the old part of the library, which had oppressively low ceilings and not quite enough light, but balanced out those negatives with study tables that were like restaurant booths with the tables, dividers and attached benches made of heavy, dark, waxy wood. On the other hand, Neal was far from the only person camped out in the old stacks, and the stress of studying for mid-terms made everybody more irritable than usual.

Neal wasn't used to worrying about grades. In high school he'd occasionally had to put in a little more work when it came to math and the more mathematically-inclined sciences, but most subjects came to him easily enough and he was able to charm his way out of the odd late assignment or missed test. Now that he was in college, the stakes were so much higher, and his charm got him nowhere, especially when it came to the TA for his statistics class. Neal had done well in all of his first semester classes, no grades lower than a B+, but now in his second semester he felt like he was struggling simply to pass statistics, and it wasn't okay. Failure was, quite literally, not an option.

Getting out of St. Louis and going to college had been Neal's--Danny's--dream for as long as he could remember, and he'd worked hard to put together an art portfolio that would get him accepted into a good program. When he learned the truth about his family, about his father, Ellen had arranged a meeting for him with the U.S. Marshals, and he'd been scared to death but he asked for what he wanted. He'd walked out of that meeting with the promise of a new identity and help paying for college. When he left St. Louis, he left behind with his mother the illusion of safety he'd had growing up. If Neal didn't keep his GPA up he'd lose his scholarship money, he'd lose his loans, he'd lose every hope he had for the future.

Neal was studying art because it was his passion and his talent but he was studying business too because he had to be able to support himself. He was determined that the rest of his life wouldn't be like his childhood, and now statistics was standing in the way of that. Rationally, Neal knew that his grades were high enough that even if he barely passed the class he wouldn't lose his good academic standing, but the idea of being that close to the edge was unacceptable. So he was going over and over his textbook and memorizing the contents but he still didn't really understand, and without that understanding he'd never be able to do more than tread water in the class. The professor barely spoke English and the TA barely gave a damn, and Neal didn't have money to pay a private tutor.

In a moment of defeat, Neal put his head down on his book, his hands over his aching head and groaned, irritable neighbors be damned.

"You okay?"

Neal heard some guy talking nearby, but he figured it had nothing to do with him so he kept his eyes closed and hid in the nice, math-free darkness.

"Hey, you okay?"

The voice came with a hand on Neal's arm this time, so Neal sat up and opened his eyes, blinking at the sight of Peter Burke standing next to his table. "Uh, hi. Yeah, thanks."

"Hey, it's you." Peter smiled, and Neal felt the warmth of his crush kindling into something hotter. "Neal, right? From the dining hall?"

"That's me, yeah. I haven't seen you around in a while."

Peter nodded. "I had to change my schedule around." He tilted his head, looking at Neal's books, then gestured at the bench across from Neal. "Mind if I sit?"

"Sure, yeah." Neal looked at Peter as he sat down and tried to figure out what was different about him. The sling was gone, though Peter was still holding his arm a little bit close to his body. It was the clothes, Neal thought--Peter was dressed in a well-fitted button-down and jeans with boots rather than the baggy athletic gear Neal had seen him in before. There was something else, something more ineffable, but Neal couldn't quite figure out what it was.

Peter steepled his fingers then relaxed them and let his hands lay flat on the table. "Thanks for helping me out that day. I was kind of screwed up." Peter shook his head. "In more ways than one."

"You're welcome. You needed help, and I didn't mind." And it was a chance to talk to my unattainable crush, Neal didn't say, though Peter didn't seem quite so unattainable now.

"Speaking of needing help, you look like you're having trouble with that. STAT101?"

Neal nodded. "It just doesn't make sense to me. I think I'm doomed."

"I can try and help if you want. I've got a minor in math, just a few classes short of a double major." Peter shrugged, like it was no big deal.

"Really? I mean--"

"What did you think, that I'm some dumb jock who was majoring in baseball? My dad made me promise to do at least as well in school as I did on the field, and I guess I'm glad he did." Peter grimaced briefly, but he looked only a little rueful, not nearly as upset as he'd been the last time Neal talked to him.

"So there's no way for you to play again? That really sucks."

"I could try, but I could also end up with permanent nerve damage, and it's just not worth it to me. Anyway, there are some upsides."

"Like what?"

Peter looked down and shrugged. "I like being honest with people, but I didn't want to cause any trouble for my coach or my team so I kept some things under the radar."

"Like what?" Neal felt like there was some big thing he was supposed to be understanding, but he didn't. And then he saw where Peter was staring--at his wrist, at the new-looking black leather bracelet he had there. The black leather bracelet with seven simple beads--the rainbow. "Oh," Neal breathed.

Peter nodded. "Like your necklace, kind of."

Neal wore it so often that he'd almost forgotten about it, but the necklace was one of the first things he bought after he left home. Danny had lived in hiding, Neal wasn't going to be like that. It was a silver chain with a rainbow of interlocking metal rings that sat at the base of his throat, and after several months it felt like a part of his body. He reached up and touched the rings, but he didn't know what to say.

"So, this isn't helping you with your studying. Can I come over and take a look at what you're working on?"

"Please! I swear I'm not an idiot but this is just giving me a headache."

"I never thought you were an idiot." Peter stood then sat down on the edge of Neal's bench and slid in until his left shoulder bumped into Neal's right. "So let me see where you're at." Peter looked at Neal's syllabus and notes, at his book and at the two quizzes he'd barely passed.

"Hopeless?" Neal asked, struggling to keep his focus on statistics when he could smell Peter's cologne, something like cedar with a hint of spice, and feel his warmth.

"No, not at all. I think you're just looking at a couple things backwards. See, if you look at it like this--" Peter broke down one of the problems Neal had been struggling with and sketched out his process of solving it. "--then it makes a lot more sense, right?"

Neal stared. The basic foundation of the class that he'd been struggling with for several weeks suddenly made sense. It clicked into place in his brain, and he could see how to solve another problem that had been eluding him. "Oh my god. And so, it would work like this?" He picked up his pencil and started writing, and there was no way to do it without moving even closer into Peter's space.

"Exactly. See, maybe you should be a math major."

"No way, but I didn't think I was even going to pass this class, and now it all makes sense. I wish I could go back and take those quizzes again."

"The quizzes won't make much of a difference once you do well on the midterm. And I think you will."

Neal grinned up at Peter. "What can I do to make this up to you?"

Peter smiled softly then tipped his head down and kissed Neal. It was a gentle kiss, an invitation as his lips rested lightly against Neal's. Neal inhaled sharply through his nose--a concentrated dose of Peter's cologne and Peter's own smell--then twisted himself to a better angle and kissed Peter back, slipping his tongue in to touch the slick hardness of Peter's teeth and then the soft warmth of his mouth. Neal felt the strong curve of Peter's good arm around his back, but he needed more, needed to be closer. He shifted his hips and with the squeal of wood moving a few inches across linoleum he straddled Peter's lap, his body between Peter's chest and the table.

Somebody shushed them, but Neal didn't care. The tall bench backs protected them from view unless somebody came to stand next to the table, and considering that they were keeping all of their clothes on Neal knew that other students did far worse. (He tried not to think about the one time he'd found a used condom under a table in the stacks; that was just wrong.) Peter's hand was on his ass, Neal's hands were in Peter's spiky-soft hair, and he could feel the hard length of Peter's denim-covered cock against his own.

The thought suddenly occurred to Neal that he didn't want it to be like this, he didn't want to come in his pants in the library stacks, not with a guy like Peter. "Stop," he said on a needy, gasping breath, then twisted away to kneel on the bench next to Peter.

Peter blinked, looking dazed and flushed and perfect. "Why? What?"

"Not here," he whispered.

"I have a single," Peter said, and those were some of the best four words Neal had ever heard.

Neal swept his books and papers into his backpack then followed Peter at a fast walk out of the building and a few blocks through campus to the apartment-style dorm building where Peter had a small single bedroom in a shared suite. It still only had a single bed, but it sure as hell beat Neal's economy triple where he was crammed in with a film student who was obsessed with 80s horror movies and another guy who barely spoke but who came with an amplifier as big as a full-size fridge. The door to Peter's bedroom closed and locked, and if any of his suitemates were home Neal hadn't noticed them.

They both managed to wait until the door was closed behind them to unzip their pants, but the luxury of time ended there. Neal dropped to his knees, tugged down Peter's jeans, and quickly rolled on the condom Peter held in front of his face. He pulled Peter's cock into his mouth and hummed in satisfaction. The angle was messed up, and Peter was big enough to almost choke him, but Neal didn't care. He needed that weight on his tongue and that taste in the back of his mouth, the feeling of Peter's pulse racing inside of him. Neal fisted his own cock where it bobbed out above his unzipped fly, but he was so close even before he touched himself.

Neal tried to take his time, tried to draw it out, but he felt Peter's hips twitching, felt Peter so close to coming, and then Peter's hand was in his hair scraping arcs of sensation across his scalp. He worked Peter's cock until he heard him gasp and then pushed himself over the edge and they fell together--figuratively, into the pounding wave of orgasm, and literally, to the scratchy industrial carpet on Peter's floor.

Neal came back to himself to the feeling of Peter's hand petting the back of his head and he squirmed until he was a little more comfortable, his head pillowed on the sweaty cotton covering Peter's muscular chest. He let sound of Peter's heartbeat lull him into sleep.