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Cameron knew since the moment he stepped through the threshold of his dorm room and heard the endless barrage of complaints from his newfound roommate about his presence that the two of them were not friends, and likely never would be, if either of them had any say in the matter. First impressions were apparently important when it came to convincing Charlie not to terrorize you for the year, and no one had elected to inform him of this until after he'd already gotten on the other's bad side and cemented his spot at number one on his shit-list.
Despite his efforts to weasel his way into the group's affairs, by January, he still hadn't made any tangible progress in getting the other off his back; if anything, it seemed he made it…worse, somehow?
It came to be after Neil's play, when any time he would try to extend an olive branch and momentarily quash the tension, Charlie would retaliate by calling him a fink or a square, and he would end up with his face buried back in his homework and his ego vaguely bruised. After a certain point, Cameron resigned himself to quietly doing homework at study groups and keeping his head down at society meetings, if not simply skipping them altogether. If any of the others noticed his absence, they never let it show, and he certainly didn't want to bring it up.
Neither of them ever mentioned his disappearance, either, though after the lights went out after curfew, and Charlie slinked towards the door, Cameron could barely make out his silhouette as he lingered in the doorway, hesitant to leave. He would roll over with his face to the wall, and the other boy knew what that meant; it was a weak way of saying he wasn't going, without manning up to admit it. Cameron was prone to beating around the bush, and Charlie didn't seem to care enough to call him out on it, unless it was in the form of a snide jab during dinner or a cleverly crafted insult at their study group.
It was much easier, he thinks, to avoid attending their little meetings when he actually fell ill, bound to his bed and only addressing Charlie with pathetic sniffles, when he wasn't sleeping the long Friday away. It was a flimsy excuse, sure, but an excuse nonetheless. Anything was better than admitting he stopped showing up to meetings because of his own lack of dignity.
All that is to say, when Charlie snagged him by the arm and yanked him out of bed Saturday night, muttering, "Put a jacket on, we're leaving soon," Cameron wasn't sure what to do with himself. He watched as, much to his horror, Charlie let go of his elbow and rifled through his own dresser, snagging a worn, old sweater and tossing it his direction.
"This isn't mine." He squinted at Charlie's face through the dark room, lit up only by a small lamp— likely to avoid alerting staff.
"Astute observation, Holmes. Do you need me to teach you how to put a shirt on next?"
"Why are you handing me a sweater that isn't mine?" Through his own bleary vision, Cameron could see Charlie drag a hand down his face. In his mind, it was quite a large leap to go from the silent treatment to sharing clothes like that was something they did.
"Must you question all my good deeds? Can't I just be nice for a change?"
"I'm not putting it on if you don't tell me why I need to. Did you spill flour you stole from the kitchen down the collar, or something?"
Charlie yanks one of his hands out of his jacket pockets and uses it to lightly shove against Cameron's chest, before groaning out, "I'm capable of being nice, too, y'know."
Cameron's face scrunches up in confusion, barely visible with Charlie's frame obstructing the light, as they both stare in complete silence. His hands tighten around the soft, woven cloth, and he rubs his thumb over the stitching like he's investigating the material for any sign of a trick. He doesn't find what he's looking for, and distantly, it seems like Charlie does.
The boy in front of him grins, practically barking out, "What? You don't think I am?"
He claps a hand over the other's mouth, pointedly ignoring the way he can feel him huffing out a laugh beneath his palm, "I didn't say that, and keep your voice down! Someone could hear you, for God's sake."
Peeling Cameron's hand off his mouth, he softly whispered, "You always complain about how freezing the cave is, 'figured you finally got tired of it and decided to ditch us." He pauses, jamming his finger into the fabric clutched against the other's chest, "And you aren't getting off that easy, so, ergo, warmer clothes. Problem solved."
"That's not— Whatever, fine, I'll meet you in Neil's room, just give me a minute to get ready."
"Aye, aye, Captain… Actually, on second thought, you and Keating can't both be—"
"Leave!"
—
Crushed between the wall of the cave and the stiff line of Charlie's side, Cameron didn't know if his inability to breathe came from the heavy smoke inhalation, his blocked nose, or something else entirely. Charlie was busying himself with a very important debate about the intricacies of smuggling food from the kitchen into the floorboards, bantering back and forth with Neil and insisting to the other guys listening that it was crucial to discuss.
It, namely, was not.
Cameron could feel his eyelids drooping, lulled into near slumber by the droning voices and the warmth of the room around him, or maybe just the heat from Charlie's arm around his shoulder. It was a noticeable weight on his back for the entire night up until that point, as he continuously rubbed circles into his arm, or swayed dramatically against him when Neil disagreed with his flawless points. The stark contrast between his sneering remarks from the weeks before and the gentle way he practically cocooned Cameron into the wall didn't go unnoticed in his mind, even if most of his nerve endings were slow to send anything to his head.
He was unsure of many things in his life, such as his wavering dedication to his school beliefs or his future career plans, but he was currently most confused about Charlie's strange tendency to send mixed messages on a whim.
It was a bit difficult to be confused, however, when there was a thick layer of smog blanketing his brain, effectively blocking any intelligent thought from being produced. If he were less drowsy, he might point out the voice in the back of his head— that sounded suspiciously like Charlie, claiming he never had intelligent thoughts anyway.
If he were less drowsy, he might question why there's a voice in his head at all that sounds like Charlie.
Cameron resigned himself to the fact that he was going to fall asleep long before then, finding it hilarious to imagine Charlie's face when he realized his debate was so boring the other boy conked out; he just wasn't expecting it to be so soon.
He blinked in and out, ignoring the cave spinning in his vision, too focused on the position he found himself in, and the fingers carding through his hair meticulously. Voices faded in and out of his register, and it didn't take him long to notice the jacket lying over his back, or the ache in his side from being angled over someone's leg. In the hazy glow of the warm light in the cave, Cameron elected that sometimes it was better not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and to just pretend he didn't notice what was happening; not that he really knew what was happening to begin with, but that wasn't the point. He could hear gentle tunes, likely from their busted-up radio, though he couldn't hear the details of them, much if at all.
His favorite activity when he skipped out on meetings was borrowing Meeks and Pitts's handmade radio and studying to the dulcet tones of old jazz, and whatever else came over the radio waves; he was sure to return it to exactly where he found it every time, deciding he didn't want to get hounded for something harmless, anyway. The signal was terrible in the dorm rooms, only really fading in and out, but the weak connection to the outside world was nice; it was something real.
Usually, he was stuck with something Elvis, but on occasion, it was a smoother, more romantic song, one that he was thoroughly inexperienced with. Cameron knew that some people were simply better at writing about things he couldn't understand, take Todd, for example; that guy could bring you near to tears with a poem he whipped up in ten minutes flat. He envied that ability, the ability to make people feel shellshocked, in awe, just from your words.
He liked it when it was a smoother, more romantic song, more jazzy than pop, because the saxophone reminded him of something, or someone. If Todd had the writing ability, and Neil had to ability to put those words to performance, Charlie could bring you to your knees with a low-effort riff, and it was so unfair. They all had to ability to create something new, something raw, and Cameron was stuck in place, rigid and wound up, like he might explode any minute from the ache. Maybe that was his issue with the meetings; it all boiled down to his own inadequacy once again, like it usually did.
It was difficult to continue down this train of thought when his spiral kept getting stunted by the soft tugging at the nape of his neck, and this was seriously going to become an issue soon. There was only so long Cameron could pretend like he wasn't there. Hell, that was the reason he stopped coming to meetings to begin with!
Neil's voice was the first one he could hear clearly enough to make out fully, "Is he still asleep?"
"No idea, guess we'll find out soon enough," Charlie practically crooned, teasing the other— for what, Cameron didn't know. If he had to take a guess, the two roommates were probably canoodling in the corner again, much to his dismay.
He didn't have a problem with the fact that they were both guys, despite what the others would probably assume, and what would probably make sense for the time; he just disliked the reminder that it was so simple for someone to barge their way into the group and get love for it. Todd wasn't to blame for it, but it still vaguely stung regardless.
They were like two sides of the same coin, both dragged into the group's shenanigans by virtue of being randomly selected as a roommate, but Todd was easier to get along with, less shackled down by responsibilities, and Cameron was the one no one wanted to deal with. It made sense, he supposes, that Todd was the only one he really talked to in a manner that wasn't vaguely derogatory, which was surprising considering he was the one with the most valid reason to be mean.
"He looks like a stiff!"
Cameron's jokes always seemed to fall flat when it came to ribbing, likely because everyone he knew seemed to take it at face value, but in Todd's case, it was completely fair to be irritated by the remark. He got lucky that the boy was so forgiving, but he thinks he gets it anyway, the tendency to forgive immediately to avoid conflict. Charlie was the exact opposite, quick to jump the gun and throw fists before talking it out, which was a bit tragic when they shared a room. That fact, paired with the lack of a brain-to-mouth filter, led to several demerits on his record in the past, and it didn't seem like he was getting any better at watching what he said.
"I'm hoping it's like a feral cat situation, maybe he'll chill the fuck out if we're nicer to him, y'know?"
Sorry? Was Charlie Dalton trying to fucking domesticate him? Is that why he was practically being caressed like an animal in his lap right now? A different voice perked up, Meeks, he thinks, and laughs, "I hope he's secretly awake and he heard that."
"Are you kidding? It's funnier if he is awake, then he's just letting me do this, that's infinitely better blackmail than anything I said."
Oh shit. Cameron didn't think about that. It was weird if he was awake, wasn't it? It was definitely weird; he could tell that even through the thick film over his motor functions, that much was apparent. Cameron had no dignity left at this point, and it was somehow getting worse the longer he lay there, trying not to twitch every time Charlie's nails caught on his scalp. Despite the jacket draped over his body, the several layers, and the heat building beneath his skin, he still had to resist the urge to shake like a leaf from the glacial Vermont temperatures.
"Besides, I think he's sick anyway; he could sleep through a fire alarm and not know it ever happened."
Another voice—Pitts, he thinks, snorts, and says, "Right, keep telling yourself that."
"I'm serious, he's inconsolable when he's sick, we'd know if he was awake because he wouldn't stop complaining about it." Charlie snickers, but notably doesn't stop raking his fingers back and forth. Cameron thinks he might throw up, and this time, he was sure it wasn't from the sickness.
"You sound like an anguished husband, y'know. Did you two elope and not tell us?" Neil jests, and quietly, he can hear Todd giggle along with him. Cameron was happy for them, really, he was, but they were a little insufferable recently.
He cracks his eyes open on instinct, ready to glare directly at Neil, before remembering that he was certainly not supposed to hear any of this. To his horror, Neil makes direct eye contact with him and bursts into boisterous laughter, leaning against Todd like a lifeline, who also chuckles upon seeing what made him crack. Meeks, Pitts, and he assumes, also Charlie, all look at each other in unbridled confusion before Neil bites his lip to conceal his laugh and elbows Meeks, pointing straight at Cameron. Apparently, Charlie was more oblivious than he previously thought, because he seemed to assume Neil was making fun of him.
"What? I'm not humoring you with a response, dork."
Pitts leans over towards Meeks, stage-whispering, "Do we tell him?"
"What are we hiding from me now?" Charlie halts his relentless fidgeting, much to Cameron's disappointment, though he wouldn't admit to that, and glares at Neil.
"Someone finally decided to join the party," Neil beams, winking.
"If you mean him, he's been awake for like ten minutes solid and this isn't news." Cameron bolts up, nearly colliding with Charlie's head, before the dizziness gets to him and he nearly falls over. Charlie flattens his hand on his chest and pushes him back down, forcefully, but not roughly. "Relax, you'll eat it on the concrete if you try and go anywhere."
Neil cackles, almost incredulously, and exclaims, "He's been awake? How could you even tell?"
"He breathes weird."
Cameron, who accepted his fate and continued to lie over Charlie's legs, groaned, "I do not breathe weird, what?"
"You absolutely breathe weird, you like, hold your breath for fifteen seconds and then wheeze like a death rattle for no reason."
"I'm sick?"
"Well, yeah, but you hold your breath normally anyway, it's weird, dude."
—
Cameron wasn't a rulebreaker by nature; he knew that, his friends knew that, and everyone he met could tell. However, on the weekends, when the clock turned slowly and the only sound that could be heard from the dorms was the whirring breeze, he frequently found himself at one of the many windows overlooking the courtyard. There was something cathartic about cracking one of the windows and tracing the fog on the glass, watching the clouds shroud the moon, and hiding behind a corner when he thought a footstep echoed across the halls.
While bound to his bed and sniffling loud enough to alert Nolan from across the school, there wasn't much of a chance he could make it down the hall, let alone to the windows he usually sat near. Lying in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, and ignoring the pit in his stomach that cemented over the course of the meeting, he wanted nothing more than to exhale fog over the windowpanes and trace simple shapes into the condensation. Unfortunately, while he slept relatively deeply, Charlie was a snob about the slightest noise or light, rendering the idea of sneaking out completely useless. He knew this as a fact, from the many times he tried to leave earlier in the mornings to get the shower to himself, and Charlie muttered several expletives his way, throwing a pillow that wasn't his across the room and breaking the coat hook.
"I can hear you thinking from here. Go to sleep." Charlie mumbled through yawns, smothering his own face in his pillow.
Cameron rolled over, glaring at him through the darkness, though he's sure he can't see it anyway, "Sorry, it's a bit hard to sleep when you can't breathe."
"You seemed to get by just fine earlier—"
"That's different." The second worst aspect of living with Charlie had to be his stubborn disposition and his inability to let a conversation die out. He almost thinks it might be easier to smother his face with the pillow and pass out from lack of oxygen, rather than have this conversation with the other.
"How is it different? You were on a hard rock in a loud, well-lit cave. Surely, this is easier."
"You know what I mean, you might be an idiot, but you're not that dumb," he frowns, "Just drop it, go to bed." It was humiliating to even think of admitting that the touch was probably what pulled him deep into the trenches of sleep, what kept knocking him out every time he crawled his way out. Maybe Charlie had that effect on people, or maybe Cameron was just a weak man at heart, or he just really needed a nap; it was up for interpretation.
He could hear the smile on Charlie's face when he softly said, "No… I don't think I do," he sits up, "Y'think you could explain it to me?" At that, Cameron rolled back over, shuffling the blankets over himself until he was effectively wrapped like a sandwich.
"Y'know, for someone who attends society meetings weekly, you sure hate seizing the day."
Cameron hides his face in his pillow as he speaks through a muffled layer, "Oh, please. I'm just there, so I don't rat on you for sneaking out. We both know that."
He can hear the distant creaking of wood, followed by the sound of padding feet behind him, before a hand shoves his back, and he hears a quiet, 'Move over.' So, he slides over, and Charlie settles into his bed, still sitting up, but shuffles under the same blanket; Cameron keeps his back to him.
"I think…" He put a hand on the other's shoulder, rolling him so he was facing his body, before finally sliding down into a lying position, "I think we both know if I didn't want you there, you wouldn't be there."
Squinting, Cameron hums in questioning, staring at Charlie's face, which was only a startling few inches away from his own, in the frighteningly small twin bed. His hair was stuck up from the pillow they were against, and he was practically glowing with something, whether it be from elation or something more evil, he couldn't really tell. He seemed surprisingly calm about their current positions, despite the growing concerns of sickness being spread.
"Come on, be honest with yourself," he lightly punches the other's shoulder, "If I wanted you out, you would be able to tell, right?"
"You made it pretty clear…" Silence stretches over the room, as Charlie searches his face for something, once again, and like before, Cameron could tell he found what he was looking for. He watches as Charlie bursts out into giggles, hiding his face in the pillow, before pausing and staring at him in disbelief. "Are you serious? You're messing with me, right? How do I make it so clear, exactly?"
"I mean— Well, you insult me every time we talk."
"I called Neil a drama queen theater freak two days ago." He grins, "I've made fun of Meeks for his radio craftsmanship on more than one occasion."
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. You just make it so easy, truly a home run every time."
Cameron shoves him, nearly knocking him off the bed if not for the other's hands that shot out and grabbed at his shoulders, "Shut up. Oh my god."
The lulls in conversation were comfortable, yet charged, likely due to the fact that when they weren't talking, they had no excuse for the proximity, or the way Charlie kept raking his eyes over Cameron's face. It was very distracting, and it's thoroughly embarrassing that the only way his dignity was preserved was by turning away to sneeze, briefly, ignoring the way Charlie snorted and declared, "Gross."
The momentary silence after that was quickly interrupted by Charlie's desire to make fun of him, "Y'know, even when you're disgustingly sick, you're unfortunately very endearing."
"Pardon?"
"The sickly flush really brings out your freckles, and the wicked sneezes really add to your allure; it's truly romantic."
Cameron raises both his hands in warning, "I will shove you off the bed, knock it off, Dalton."
Charlie immediately takes the bait, stalking up on his arms like he was about to jump the other, snagging the pillow out from under his head and raising it in his own warning, "Dalton? After I showered you in compliments? The nerve of some people."
He definitely should have ducked and avoided the blow from a stiff Welton pillow, and he definitely should have raised his arms in protest; anything, except sit there staring at Charlie, illuminated in the light seeping in from the windows, practically shaking with glee at the prospect of breaking yet another rule.
Maybe it was because of his, quite frankly, wrecked dignity that he reached his hand up towards the pillow, and warned Charlie that Nolan would definitely hear them, before he snatched the thing out of his hands and smacked him square in the face with it. The look on Charlie's face when he realized Cameron was playing along with it made the entire idea of Nolan potentially busting them for rule-breaking somehow enticing; he thinks, if Charlie made that face every time he broke a Welton rule, he might be inclined to do it more often.
Drunk on peer approval and a little bit of adrenaline, Cameron barely noticed the small voice that came out of the other boy, "If I'm reading this wrong, just like… punch me in the face, or something, okay?"
The words barely had time to process, bouncing helplessly around his skull, before two shaky hands came up to the collar of his pajama shirt and yanked him forward, clashing their noses together slightly as Charlie kissed him. As a hand snaked its way up the back of his neck, Cameron suddenly snapped back into the reality that, yes, Charlie fucking Dalton was kissing him, and he didn't know what to do with his hands, or his arms, or any part of his body, and he was embarrassing himself, and—
They disconnected, Cameron pathetically following after the other, as Charlie whispered, "Do you not wanna kiss me, or do you just not know what to do?"
"What— I don't… Yeah, I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Oh, actually, well, yeah, that makes sense," He smiles, pushing Cameron back and forth by his collar, "Plus, this angle sucks anyway, c'mere." He snags him back down, angling his head up this time, and slotting into place like he was meant to be there. And he was right, this angle was so much better; his hands fumbled around before they landed on Charlie's waist, and everything clicked. Charlie was practically licking into his mouth, and he couldn't find it in himself to be put off by it, because he was running his hand down the back of his neck, and his other hand snaked up his shirt, and it all felt so right.
When they finally broke apart for the second time, Charlie relentlessly attacked his face with a barrage of kisses, snorting when Cameron told him to, 'leave my freckles alone, you freak." They laughed against each other, swaying in the middle of their dark room, before Cameron loudly exclaimed, "Oh shit!" and clapped a hand over his mouth.
"What, you alright?"
Cameron sniffles, lightly shoving the other boy away from him, "Charlie, I'm still sick, there's no way you won't be too."
He snickers, grabbing Cameron by the shoulders and shaking him gently, "We live together, this is a small price to pay to see you rebelling."
"I'm not rebelling."
"I'll make a rule-breaker out of you yet, Cameron. Mark my words." He punctuates his sentence with a flourish of his finger, pointing directly to his heart.
"I'm sure you will, Charlie. Keep dreaming."
When they awoke the next morning, with Charlie, incidentally, not being in his own bed, to the sound of several sets of shoes padding against the creaky floorboards, and the sound of Charlie Dalton sneezing into his arm as he berates Neil for waking him up before eleven am, Cameron can't say he regrets sucking the marrow out of life, for once.