Chapter Text
The clock is ticking, his professor is droning, and George would rather be anywhere else in the entire world. He has never been one to care much for the political sciences- there’s too much of a grey area, too many variables, and never one definitive right answer. His cheek sits in his palm as he halfheartedly looks out the window at the swirling leaves on the sidewalk. That’s why I’m in STEM, he thinks to himself, the whole point was to avoid classes like this. American politics are impossible. It’s only about two fifteen, but it felt like at least four or five. Fall has a way of tilting the usual passage of days off kilter, but today was just dragging on forever. George simply wanted to get out of this useless class, get back to his dorm, code for an assignment he had due soon and sleep.
He pulled his phone from his back pocket and checked his notifications silently in his lap. A missed call from one of his friends back in England, and a reminder to drink water. Not like he expected there to be much more, but he was still a little disappointed.
It’s your own fault, stupid. That’s what you get for being an introvert.
George locks his phone and slips it back into his pocket, leaning back in his seat. Surveying the room he sees that for the most part, everyone else is as disinterested in this lecture as he is. Someone towards the back is slumped over their desk, and right as he’s about to look away there’s a rattling snore. A few of his classmates giggle, and their professor calls out the student’s name- it’s something that George doesn’t quite catch, and they- he- bolts up groggily and makes a questioning noise.
“If you had a good grade in this class sleeping during lecture would be one thing, but where you’re standing as of now, I can’t say I recommend it.”
George has a moment of being holier than thou and smugly thinks about his own grade. As much as he can’t stand this class, he at least knows it’s required to graduate and acknowledges its importance to his education.
“Sorry about that,” His classmate says, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away from the front of the room. He only seems somewhat bothered by the call out.
The next forty-five minutes of lecture are entirely uneventful. As the old clock in the back of the room hits three small sounds begin to pop up, soon making a chorus of shuffling as pens, laptops, and notebooks are quickly put away. George definitely doesn’t hesitate, either. A few people are already standing, milling by their seats with bags over their shoulders, but the droning voice of their professor won’t stop.
“Now, I mentioned at the beginning of this class that you will be doing partner projects for your midterms,”
A collective sigh.
“…And I know we’re still a couple of weeks away, but it never hurts to start early.” There is a cheap folding table by the door, and it’s there that he sets a plastic bowl.
“On your way out grab a paper. They’re numbered, as you could’ve already guessed, and your partner will be who you match with. Before there are any questions, no, I am not willing to do trading or switching. Use this as an opportunity to make some new connections…you might just be surprised at the friends you could make. Class dismissed, and I’ll see you all again the day after tomorrow.”
George picks a cuticle anxiously as he heads to the door, joining the line of his fellow students by the exit. Once he gets to the bowl he doesn’t hesitate, plucking the first paper his fingers brush against on top of the pile. It’s when he gets into the hallway that he feels the missing hesitation.
There are friends mourning their lack of partnership, a couple girls fake crying, someone is yelling, “Where’s thirteen? Anyone have thirteen?” while waving their tiny slip in the air like a stranded sailor. He doesn’t have any desire to cooperate on something he knows he’d do better on alone, but, alas. George takes a breath, looks around once more, and unfolds his piece. Five. He tries to call out his number gently, just a couple of times, only to end up leaning against the wall looking lost. A few minutes pass and instead of an unorganized cluster now the hall is filled with mostly pairs, and George is starting to think there must have been a mistake. He wouldn’t be too surprised if there was, it may as well have been just his luck.
“Hey, what’s your number?”
George startles and looks to his right. There stands the sleeping boy looking at him expectantly, just about eye level, if not an inch or so shorter. He has just a bit of facial hair and is wearing a jean jacket, black name-brand sweatpants, and scuffed checkered shoes.
“Five,” George answers curtly. “Yours?”
“Five,” He grins, “I guess that means we’re partners. What’s your name again?”
“George, yours?” There’s a small sinking feeling in his stomach. Great, so it won’t be a team effort, George thinks. It’ll be me working my ass off with this guy piggybacking the credit.
“Sapnap. It’s nice to meet you, George. Officially, I guess. I think I remember talking to you for a sec the first day of classes.”
He raises an eyebrow. “S..Sapnap?” The word slowly falls out of his mouth, as though he’s eaten something unpleasant. That’s why he hadn’t caught it when their professor said it earlier. It sounded like gibberish. “What’s your real name?”
Without missing a beat, as though he’s had this talk many times before, Sapnap answers, “That is my name.”
That leaves an awkward lull, a moment of silence and staring. George decides not to question it further, the conversation has already gotten too uncomfortable for his liking. Luckily, the other picks up the verbal slack.
“When’s your next class? If you want to hang out I can buy lunch, it’s no trouble.”
George thinks for a moment. It might not be too bad- socializing, that is. He’d only transferred at the beginning of the fall semester, that of which was only relatively recently, and has had yet to establish a social circle. He knows it’d be good for him, he really does, but other people can be more trouble than they’re worth. They disappoint, they have expectations, they judge…and he isn’t sure about his compatibility with someone who, at first glance, appears to have zero work ethic. He’s ambitious, he knows what he wants. Can this guy say the same?
At the same time, though, the thought of having to interact with Sapnap on and off for two-some weeks without any common ground makes George’s skin crawl. The brief pause in their dialogue a minute ago made him feel gross enough.
He checks the time on his phone and resigns.
“Yeah, I’m suppose I’m free. What did you have in mind?”
*
As it turns out, Sapnap isn’t such bad company.
They sit in the underfunded cafeteria, bonding over mediocre campus food talking for longer than either likely intended to. George learns that he likes video games too and even codes some in his free time. He isn’t too shabby at it, either, for being mostly self-taught. Sapnap is a classics major, half Greek, and as one could’ve guessed, has a terrible sleep schedule.
“I would’ve never guessed someone from America would care about something like that. So why did you pick classics?” George asks, picking at the small puddle of ketchup on his plate with a french fry. “You seem like you have a knack for technology. I bet you’d land a job pretty easily after graduation if you did computer science.”
“I worry that if it was all I ever did I’d get burnt out,” He answers around a mouthful of his burger. “My parents wanted me to go to school one way or another, so I figured I’d pick something easy. It’s my heritage and stuff, too, sort of. It also leaves me with lots of free time. I have a band with some of my friends, I can code, I can sleep almost whenever I want. Classics ain’t so bad.”
“A band?”
“I was hoping you’d ask,” Sapnap says, looking very pleased with himself. “We call ourselves Criminals of the State.” Proudly he shakes his open palms for a dramatic effect. George snorts. “That sounds like a garage band if I’ve ever heard of one.”
Sapnap, who now looks as though George said to go fuck himself, places a hand over his heart. “We’re the best ‘garage band’ ever, thank you very much. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. You haven’t even heard us play. Besides, do you get to say you’re in a band?”
With a roll of his eyes, George shoves a couple of fries into his mouth. “No, I guess I can’t. I know a little bit of piano, though, if that counts for anything. Took lessons on and off when I was younger. What do you play?”
“Bass. The hottest person in a band always plays the bass, don’t you know?” He laughs at the dismay on George’s face before smacking his left hand down on the table in realization. “Hey, you know what? Wilbur is from England, too! I can’t believe I didn’t think of that sooner. I bet you guys would get along great, he might help you feel less out of your element or whatever. I think he said he was from bright town?”
“Bright town…?” George mirrors, “Could you mean Brighton?”
“Yes, yes! I think that’s it. Our drummer spent a little bit of time there when he was a kid, too. That’s not quite the same thing, but it’s something, at least.”
“I had a really close American friend in middle school and early high school that lived in England for a few years. I haven’t thought about him in a long time. When he moved away I’m not sure what happened, but I never heard from him again. We did everything together, got into a lot of trouble,” George chuckles under his breath. “He was probably my best friend.”
“Shit,” Sapnap says, “I’m sorry about that dude. I know these guys probably won’t be quite the same, but I can ask them if you can come to our next practice, I’m sure they’d be okay with it. What do you say?”
George can’t help but take a moment to reel from the suddenness of his newly found friendship. Sapnap had known him less than a day and was willing to go out of his way to introduce him to his other friends in an attempt to make him feel more comfortable. It was probably the most kindness he’d received from someone else in a long time, as well as a surprisingly considerate action from someone he had initially assumed would be a pain in his ass. Guilt simmers in the back of George’s mind. Would he do that if this were the other way around?
“I don’t want you to feel obliged to do any of this,” He finally responds, god forbid if you’re doing this out of pity. Sapnap practically cuts him off.
“I’ll shoot our group chat a text as soon as I get back to my room,” He says definitively. “I hope you’re free tomorrow night.”
Something tells George that Sapnap isn’t going to take no for an answer. Not without a hassle, at least.
What have I gotten myself into?
“I think I can make it work.”
“Glad I could convince you. Hey, if Wilbur likes you he might even ask you to join. Our keyboard player quit just the other day, funny enough. He said it was creative differences, or something.” Sapnap makes quotes in the air with his fingers, his lips turning down in disappointment. “I thought that was just something they used in movies for the drama.”
George scoffs. “There’s no way I’d be able to keep up with a band. Like I said, I only knew a bit of piano. It isn’t like I kept at it for years straight…and I can only kind of read sheet music.”
“I don’t think that’s a big turn off or anything. It’s about the feeling, anyways. Even if you can read sheet music, if you don’t play with love it doesn’t matter.”
“Pretty wise words for someone that probably only knows how to play the line for Seven Nation Army,” He teases. The comment lands him a chip to the face.
“You’ll see tomorrow,” Sapnap promises, “The vibes speak for themselves.”
They talk some more about music, about growing up in such different places, about some fond childhood memories. The slate grey overcast sky begins to turn pastels of orange and purple, the thinning clouds parting with the wind as the sun begins to set. Eventually they trade phone numbers, toss their trash, and begin the trek back to the dorm buildings in the brisk autumn air. As it turns out, they both live in the same hall, just on different floors.
“I’ll be seeing you, five o’clock sharp,” Sapnap calls, walking backwards away from the elevator. “You better be ready on time!” He nearly trips, shoe skidding on the grey carpet, and George has to stifle his laughter.
“I will, I will,” He waves as the other disappears down the hallway. George presses the button with the little up arrow, only a few seconds passing from when it lights up to the elevator opening with a ding. The inside walls are made of pale wood, and a metal bar approximately hip high runs around the sides. The light faintly flickers as George climbs up the floors, just another looming reminder of where the school’s budget definitely doesn’t go. The small security camera in the front right corner of the ceiling stares back at him, and if he squints, he can see a distorted version of his reflection.
For one reason or another, seeing himself here, right now, unsettles him.
The door opens with the same ding as before, and George jumps. Three people trickle into the elevator as he slides out, flushing and hoping they didn’t notice. Quickly he walks straight past nine doors, left past six, and on the seventh he tugs his keys out from his backpack.
“Home sweet home,” He says to himself, opening the door to the room he shares with no one.
It’s quiet, just how he likes it, and as expected, everything is just as he left it in the morning. His navy blue sheets are tussled and crinkled, highlighters scattered about his desk among a couple of open textbooks. A pile of dirty laundry sits by the bathroom door. The plastic blinds that shelter him from light were drawn open, for once, bathing the dorm in a warm glow. George drops his bag by the foot of his bed and rests his hands on the windowsill, looking at the city below from the tenth floor. Everything is still, and there’s a feeling in his gut that says to take a mental snapshot of this moment. If he was asked why, he wasn’t sure how he would answer.
Once the feeling subsides, George goes about his evening just as he had daydreamed about in class. Hunched up in his desk chair, sitting in boxers and a t-shirt, he finishes his upcoming coding assignment and proceeds to get started on his next one. Time flies by without his acknowledgement and once he starts to yawn, his phone says it’s midnight. His room is dark, solely illuminated by the light of his monitor, blinds now shut and blocking out the full moon.
He allows one more hour to tick by before deciding to get into bed. As George shuts off his computer he pats it, feeling its warmth, praising it for a job well done. By muscle memory he makes his way into his bed in the dark, groping around the blankets for his phone charger and plugging it in. An unseen message lights up his screen.
Sapnap??? Polsci:
im glad we got paired together, youre pretty cool
quiet and kind of mysterious but cool
see u tomorrow, prepare yourself >:)
George isn’t quite sure how to respond, so he leaves it, resolving to answer in the morning and say he was already asleep. He double checks that his alarm for the morning is set, stuffs his phone under his pillow, and shuts his eyes.
He doesn’t sleep for shit.
When morning eventually, painstakingly arrives, George is left awake before his alarm even has the chance to drag him from slumber. He’s sprawled out in his small bed, sheets tangled around his leg, pillow on the floor. Regrettably, he forces himself up to use the bathroom, and as he’s washing his hands afterwards a forlorn feeling settles within him. It must have been a dream he had in the few moments of sleep he did get, he decides, but he can’t remember a thing about it. George crawls back into bed in an effort to get at least an hour of sleep, but the next time he opens his eyes, it’s four thirty p.m..
“Oh, fuck,” He groans, dragging his hands down his face. Being the overachieving student he was George wasn’t too worried about accidentally missing class, but it was the principle of it that bothered him. Staggering out of bed for the second time that day he quickly turns on his computer, emailing his professors and apologizing for his absence. Once that’s taken care of he starts working on being more presentable; brushes his teeth, splashes some water on his face, gets dressed. In perfect tandem to George throwing his sweatshirt on there’s a knock at the door. He grabs his keys, then turns the handle.
“Hey mamas,” Sapnap says coyly, leaning in the doorframe, spinning his own lanyard around a pointed finger. “You ready for the best musical experience of your life?”
*
The drive to Wilbur’s house was only about fifteen minutes, but bantering with Sapnap made the drive go by faster. George’s comments were primarily about the state of the other’s car- on one hand he only had so much room to talk, he didn’t even have his own license, but on the other, the damn thing felt like it was ready to fall apart each time Sapnap hit the gas.
“It adds character,” He huffed, “Don’t talk about my baby like that.”
“I thought your bass was your baby?”
“I can have more than one baby, and I love them both, thank you very much.”
Sapnap accelerates as the stop light turns green and George holds on to his door.
“We’re almost there, you’re fine. She hasn’t given out on me yet.”
Thankfully, they only had to go a couple more blocks before pulling into the driveway of a quaint beige and white one-story. Next to them was another car, but the second one was parked on the curb. As Sapnap and George hopped out and got ready to go inside, the former almost read George’s mind.
“Our drummer lives here too, they’re roommates. Wilbur does have a job, but it isn’t so good that he can rent on his own.” George nods, and Sapnap opens the front door like he may as well live there, too.
Music fills the living room. It could be faintly heard from outside as well, but it’s a fair margin louder inside. Feeling very out of his element George more or less tiptoes around, taking in the organized clutter of the house as he’s lead towards the garage. Drums, guitar, and only lyrics he can somewhat understand fill his ears. As they reach the garage door it becomes incredibly loud, the last bits of muffled air being broken apart like glass as Sapnap opens it.
“You guys started without me, huh?” He announces his entrance, and the noise dies down, feedback from an amp and the faint ringing of symbols hanging in the air.
“You took too long,” A voice answers.
“We’re hardly five minutes over, please,” Sapnap quips back. “Hey, George, get in here.”
George obeys, slowly stepping into the garage. The male at the mic immediately goes into George’s periphery as his eyes follow the tangles of cords on the floor to the drums, and then, the person sitting behind them.
He’s well built, skin slightly tanned, freckles across his cheeks. In the sub-par lighting of the garage his hair looks brown, and George’s eyes are met with green ones, staring right through him. His breath catches in his throat, and Sapnap clears his. He had been trying to talk, but George couldn’t hear.
Familiarity rises from his core, into his throat, flaring out in surprise on his own pale face. He feels about half ready to choke, and his fingers begin to tremble. The amp feedback rings in his ears.
“George? George, hey, are you in there?” Sapnap tries.
“George,” The drummer says, lacking the harassing tone he had when addressing Sapnap. It’s earnest, shocked, relieved, and something else George can't quite place.
“Clay,” He answers, the name slipping out of him as if he were dying and it were his last breath. “It’s really you.”