Chapter Text
This was a new beginning. That’s what his Meemaw had told him, rheumy eyes filled with tears that refused to fall as he packed his battered suitcase.
But the tears never fell, because his Meemaw was a ‘tough old bird’, such a cliché, but those were her own words, and Gary would quicker slit his own throat than disagree with anything she ever said.
So if she said that college was a new beginning, then that’s what it was going to be. It was halfway across the country, with enough ivy in its pedigree, that no one from his podunk backwater town could spell its name, far less find themselves in attendance.
So no one there would know Gary, know how fucking weird he was, how his brain ran so fast, that his mouth spew shit in an effort to catch up, how there was almost never an intrusive thought that he didn’t let the world know.
That he was so fucking lonely, and just wanted to make friends, but he was such a fuckup he couldn’t even do that right, so he made sure that no one liked him, before they found out how broken he was.
Self fulfilling prophecy, or whatever it was they called it.
But it didn’t matter, because this was a new beginning, and a new Gary Barkovitch.
His Meemaw had said it. And that made it so.
***********************
Maybe his Meemaw was an idiot. She’d barely finished second grade and here was Gary taking her word as gospel.
He looked at the group of girls booking it across the quad in an effort to escape his, frankly disconcerting attempt to introduce himself, and decided that, yeah, his Meemaw was a fucking dumb hokel, and wrong to boot, and Gary would never change, he was the same awkward off putting piece of shit that he always was and always would be and why why did he think it would be different? He was so dumb, so stupid, so weird–
He raised his hand to slap his face, just to stop the spiraling thoughts, but before he could administer the head clearing blow, a voice chimed in.
“That was brave as hell man.” The southern accent was thick and musical. Gary lowered his hand and turned to the voice. It belonged to a lanky boy, with rich dark skin, who looked like he should be on a photo shoot somewhere, instead of slumming it with regular folks.
“Introducing yourself to senior girls just like that? You got balls of steel man.” The guy stood and yep, he definitely belonged on a runway somewhere in a European country. He stuck out a hand and Gary noticed that his nails were well manicured.
“Art Baker,” the guy said “Religious Studies with a minor in Philosophy.” Gary stared and the offered hand. What kind of person talked about someone’s balls on first meeting them? Was he some kind of qu– Gary stopped that train of thought with some effort.
New Gary.
He grasped Art’s hand, feeling a frisson of despair at his teeth-damaged nails, the pinky still a bit reddish brown at the corners. He prayed Art didn’t notice, but when he chanced a glance up at Art, he seemed perfectly relaxed, his lips curled up slightly.
Seconds ticked by, and Art’s eyebrows pulled together a little bit. Gary stared, and wondered how Art got his skin to be so smooth, he should ask, the stress of everything had Gary breaking out like he was fourteen again.
“And you are?” Art asked, bemusement clear, and Gary physically flinched and yanked his hand from Art’s grip.
“Holy shit, I’m such a fuckin’ retard, I’m Gary, Gary Barkovitch,” he wiped his hand on his jean clad thigh, then had the horrifying thought that Art might think he was wiping his touch off. He wasn’t, he was a nervous twitchy kid, who had grown up into a more nervous, twitchier man.
“Hey, I wasn’t like wiping the black away or nothin’ I’m just–” Art held up a hand cutting Gary off in mid spiral, here it was, Art would laugh a little, at Gary of course, and turn away and walk off, not fast like the girls, but slow, so each step would reverberate with his failure.
“It’s cool man–you seem a little high strung.” And Art made it seem like a fact of life, like saying that Gary was blonde, or white, like it was just a part of who he was and not something that rendered him instantly undesirable.
“Some of my friends are high strung, actually my best friend is a certified nutcase, so it’s fine.” He laughed and it was kind, not sharp and pointy like the laughs normally directed Gary’s way.
And the relief that Gary felt was so sudden, and so huge, that the corner of his eyes pricked with tears.
Gary coughed to dispel some of the emotion. “Yeah, I’m a nervous dude.” An understatement bordering on satire, but Art just smiled.
“I’m doing a BA in Fine Arts, I–I want to be a photographer,” Gary gestured to the camera hanging around his neck. “Actually, that’s what I’d asked those girls. If they wanted me to take their picture.”
Art shook his head wryly. “Balls of steel man.” And this time it sounded like a compliment. Just then his phone chimed, and he glanced at it. He tsked and looked back up at Gary. “I’m actually going to hang out with said basket cases, I don’t know if you wanted to tag along? We’re all freshmen, so at least there’s that.”
Gary’s blood thundered in his ears. His eyes scanned Art's face, looking for some hint of duplicity, but he couldn’t find any, which was kind of amazing, cause Gary could find the asshole in anyone, but Art just stood there, loose limbed, relaxed and expectant. If this was some sort of prank, Art had a masterful poker face.
“Um sure,” Gary said, hitching the straps in his backpack tighter. Art grinned and started across the quad, and Gary scrambled after him.
“Say Art, you said you’re doing religious studies? You gonna be some kind of priest?”
Art laughed, and Gary allowed himself to be buoyed on the wave of shared laughter as he followed him.
*****************
By the time they got to Art’s friends, Gary was as relaxed as he had ever been in another person's presence save his Meemaw. Art was the exact contrast of Gary, kind where Gary was mean, soft where Gary was sharp, gentle where he was hard. He grew up in Louisiana, with his Grandmother, or ‘Grandmaw’ as Art said it, and when Gary bashfully mentioned growing up with his Meemaw, Art had cheerfully slapped his back, in shared brotherhood Gary supposed.
That was another thing with Art, he had an easy physicality, that Gary would be deathly jealous of, if Art wasn’t so fucking kind. On the three minute walk, Art had doled out two shoulder bumps, the aforementioned back slap, and an actual push, in response to some shitty joke Gary had made.
When they finally approached the group of about eight boys, Gary was warm with some unnameable feeling, and a little bit in love with Art. Though not like in a queer way, he wasn’t a fag or nothing.
“Fellas,” Art said, voice loud and confident, “This here’s Gary Barkovitch. I just met him across the quad. He’s good people.”
Eight pairs of eyes turned towards him, and Gary froze. If hearing Art refer to him as good people wasn’t enough to stop him in his tracks, being under the scrutiny of so many eyes did the trick. He fidgeted under the observation, and he felt words bubbling up his throat and out his mouth.
“Me and Art are part of the Meemaw club,” he said and was met with blank stares, though Art chuckled softly next to him. Gary was thunderstruck to realize that he now had an inside joke with someone.
Holy shit, his Meemaw had been right. He could wait to call her and tell her.
“The fucks a Meemaw?” A tiny Asian guy with a blue cap asked, and Gary’s joy curdled in his mouth leaving a bitter taste in its wake. The boy who asked was soft and cute, though his eyes were kind of sharp and mean and Gary decided that he hated him. Some of the boys laughed at the question, and Gary’s shoulders rounded and he kicked at the grass.
“Well I’m sorry you grew up in a cave and never knew the love of a grandmother.” He mumbled, and there was more laughter, a bit louder and it wasn’t prickly and cut at him and some of the tension in Gary’s shoulders loosened.
“Is that why you’re such a little shit sometimes Hank?” Art asked, voice light, “Cause your Meemaw never kissed you goodnight?” The laughter swelled as Hank sputtered.
“Hey, what the fuck? Of course I gotta grandma, I’m not a heathen,” Hank pouted, which made him look absolutely adorable, which Gary ignored spitefully, “ I just never heard the term Meemaw before, sue me.”
“That’s cause you’re uncultured,” another guy offered. He was black with the softest eyes Gary had ever seen. His father would have called them faggot eyes. He was comfortably leaned against a ginger boy with a crooked smile, and Gary guessed that his father was right.
“West Virginia?” The guy guessed and Gary nodded, this guy made him feel uncomfortable too, he had an underlying confidence, that named him the leader, that Gary normally associated with letterman jackets and being shoved into lockers that made his hackles rise. The leader of the pack guy stood, and Gary noted his muscular frame, strong jean clad thighs, and bulging biceps, in his sleeveless t-shirt.
Yeah an athlete for sure, though his handsome face was marred by a scar down one side, and Gary had to bite his tongue to stop himself from making some kind of horror movie reference.
“Peter McVries, but you can call me Pete.” The guy said and placed his hand out. Gary looked at it wearily.
“Gary Barkovitch,” he said, but didn’t shake Pete’s hand. Gary expected some kind of outburst, but Pete just shrugged and introduced everyone.
Hank Olsen, the smartass Asian kid, Chemical Engineering, a bit of a cliche.
William, call him William at your own risk ‘Billy’ Stebbins, another jock type, tall, and with a stick up his ass, transposed from the halls of Gary’s school and straight here, Poli Sci.
Richard Harkness, a ridiculously good looking guy with an unfortunate stutter, journalism major.
Ray Garraty, the ginger Pete had leaning on, big, friendly, warm, he gave Gary the same feeling Art had, also Poli Sci
Pete was doing English with a minor in music, which surprised Gary a bit, that was an un-jockish major for sure.
Pete cleared his throat. “And this is Collie Parker. Mechanical Engineering.”
Gary glanced over to where Pete gestured and his breath stuck in his throat. Collie Parker’s face was all sharp angles, high cheekbones, and thick eyebrows, curtained by long glossy black hair. His face was serious and unsmiling and as his eyes scanned over Gary, he felt seen, measured, and as Collie’s eyes looked away, found to be underwhelming. He was worse than Stebbins, and Pete combined, where they projected indifference, in Collie he read disdain, and he did what he always did when he felt rejected.
He made it fucking worse.
“What kinda name is Collie? Your mom was part of the Kennel club? She should have just named you Lassie and be done with it.”
Collie frowned, then rolled his eyes. “Whatever Cobain.” He said, voice deep and gravelly. Electricity shot through Gary’s stomach. His mind was starting to scream at him, which was normally a sign that he was about to do his most socially destructive acts.
“Kurt Cobain? That’s racially profiling you know, just because I’m white and blonde and my hair’s kinda long? That rude as fuck man, that’s like if I call you dances with wolves or some shit.”
Collie stood, and fear and something else trickled down Gary’s spine. Collie was strong and tall, taller than Pete though not as tall as Stebbins, definitely taller than Gary, and stronger too. A strength that looked like it was built from doing things, not just lifting heavy stuff at a gym. Gary pictured him cutting firewood and his face grew warm.
“What the fuck you said to me?” Collie growled, and Gary raised his hands.
“Hey man, I’m just showing you how racial profiling is wrong. I hope you learned your lesson.”
Collie looked at him for a beat, then another, the scoffed “Asshole,” before retaking his seat.
“Balls of steel,” Art murmured again, and the tension left Gary’s body so suddenly that his knees shook a little. He looked around at the group, who had varying looks, ranging from shock, Ray to introspection, Pete.
He laughed a little too loud, even to his own ears and tried not to flinch.
“How’s that for an introduction, huh?” He said, projecting all the geniality he could muster in his voice.
“We’re about to be the best of friends.”
***********
They were not the best of friends, but they were friends, after a fashion and going from zero to five and a half felt like a feast of riches to Gary.
Pete merely put up with him because Ray liked him, so he still counted. The half was Stebbins, who eyed Gary with a hint of weariness, and was taciturn on his best day, but he didn’t actually spit on him or anything so Gary took it as a win.
Collie Parker hated him, and the hate warmed something low and deep in Gary’s stomach, that he didn’t look at too closely lest it drive him mad. Gary was his worst self with Collie, needling and rude, and he couldn’t help it, he couldn’t stop. He knew that he should reign it in, because it would inevitably lose him everything he had gained, but when Collie's eyes raked over him hotly, he felt more real than he had ever felt before.
So he had friends and a friend group, and he couldn’t keep the tears from his voice as he told his Meemaw. She had just hummed, really playing up her wise old lady shtick, and told him she wasn’t surprised at all.
“We’re going to a party tonight. My first college party, Meemaw.” He was trying to sound nonchalant, but by the way Meemaw snorted, he knew he failed.
“That’s nice Gary, have fun, but make sure to keep your studies top priority,” she hummed. “And try not to drink too much, us Barkovitches don’t do too well with an abundance of liquor.”
Gary nodded, though she couldn’t see him, anything that lowered his inhibitions was detrimental, he would need to be careful.
He took long enough getting ready, that he heard the ghost of his father’s voice calling him a ‘fucking girly ass’, but he clench his jaw and pushed through. And by the time Ray and Art were knocking on his dorm room door, he was satisfied with how he looked. The whistles as he excited made his face feel warm and his stomach light. He had on his best shirt and a pretty nice pair of Levi’s that Meemaw had used her disability to get him.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without that camera around your neck,” Art teased, and Gary shoved at him playfully.
“ I know right,” Ray continued, “And your hair, it looks so–lush, who knew you owned a brush Barko, you’re giving Collie competition for most luxurious mane tonight.”
Hearing Collie’s name made Gary’s stomach flip, so he frowned, and Ray sighed.
“Can y'all not fight tonight? You two are always at each other’s throats, don’t you get tired?” Ray looked hopeful, and Gary wanted to make him happy but he couldn’t quite muster it.
“He started it,” he said petulantly, and Art huffed out a laugh while poking him in the chest.
“Now that is a lie from the pit of hell, Gary Barkovitch, you called him a dog when you first met him.”
“It was a joke,” Gary said, the explanation sounding weak, even to his own ears.
“Whatever, just no fighting tonight, go hook up with some hot girls or something.” Ray said.
“You say it like it’s easy, not all of us found our soulmates when we were sixteen.” Art teased.
That was another thing, Ray and Pete were a couple, capital C, Gary could believe that he was hanging out with honest to goodness queer people, he was sure his father was rolling with shame in hell. But they were, and it was simultaneously mind blowing and jealousy inducing how casual and somehow extremely intense they were with each other, the first time they had kissed in front of Gary, his ears and face had gone red, and Hank had teased him for like three days about being a prude. And he wasn’t, not really, but to see people so comfortable in their sexuality, was something he’d never experienced.
To avoid Ray’s sad puppy eyes he promised him that he would leave Collie in peace, though he knew it was most likely a lie, and they headed to the party.
As they entered the frat house the music was loud enough to even drown out the most strident voices in Gary’s head, Harkness was the first to find them and he shoved a red cup into Gary’s hand and guided them to where the group was. Art gravitated to Hank, and Ray plopped itself into Pete’s lap like a big dog who thought he was a lap dog, and Gary hid his smile in a sip of his drink.
He felt someone watching him, and scanned the area. When his eyes met Collie’s, he took another sip of his drink, a bigger one this time to curb his urge to fidget. Collie was sprawled on a bean bag, fingers loose around the rim of his solo cup, hair cascading down his shoulders in shiny waves. He looked relaxed and dangerous, and something in Gary’s head screamed at him to run.
To fight. To throw himself against the big sharpness that was Collie and see how he fared, how much he would bleed. He took a third sip, and was dismayed to see the white bottom of the cup.
Too much Gary, too much too fast.
Collie just stared, a small smile on his face, no doubt fucking amused at how much of a fucking basket case Gary was. His gaze scanned Gary from head to toe, and he left a trail of fire everywhere his eyes skimmed.
When his eyes finally met Gary’s again, he tilted his head back in greeting and lifted his cup minutely. Gary’s heart thudded in his chest and his brain scrambled against his skull, as he tried to figure out a way to react with something, anything, that looked even remotely normal. He bared his teeth and shoved his middle finger in the air.
Fucking nailed it.
Gary’s eyes ran over Collie’s face hungrily, waiting for the inevitable negative response. Waiting for him to furrow that strong brow, sneer, roll his eyes, give him something to feed that hungry slobbering thing inside of him that gorged himself on any attention he could get. Was it his fault that negative energy was easier to generate?
Well yes, but fuck that.
But instead, one side of Collie’s mouth twitched up, and Gary’s heart slammed his ribcage hard enough to rattle. Collie kept his gaze and stood up slowly. He managed to have a type of grace in this too, like he did in all things, which made Gary seethe. Who the fuck got out of a beanbag chair so easily?
Collie Parker did, Collie Parker who was now stalking towards him slowly, and Gary clenched his teeth in an attempt to prevent himself from stepping back, though the wall behind him gave him almost no space to run anyway. Collie stopped in front of Gary, body entirely too close, pushing heat like a furnace. The hairs on the back of Gary’s arms stood up and he hissed.
“What the fuck you staring at huh? I always knew you were some kinda fa–”
Collie raised a large hand, slow and inexorable and wrapped his hand around the back of Gary’s neck. Gary could feel the heat of his fingers, the whorl of his callouses and all Gary’s brain could scream in this moment was
His hands can almost touch at the front, what the fuck.
Collie shook him a little, firmly but not enough to hurt or anything, and pulled Gary in a little closer.
“Why you always so mean huh? You’re like a feral cat, always clawing and spitting and hissing.” He shook Gary again, and something unfurled, deep and low in his stomach, butterflies made of lava maybe. He pushed against Collie with his free hand, but the big fucker didn’t move. Gary really needed to hit the gym more. Or hit the gym at all.
“Is that why you’re currently scruffing me motherfucker? Because you think I’m some kinda cat?”
Collie blinked slowly and raised his cup to his lips. “Huh, I guess I am, aren’t I, so you’re a cat then.” His breath was a mix of mint, and something slightly sour and he gave Gary a wide, goofy smile, and–
Oh, Collie was drunk.
“My Ma has cats,” Collie continued conversationally, as if he wasn’t tilting Gary’s world on its axis. “Most times, they just want some petting,” he leaned in close and the heat of his breath wafted over Gary’s ear. “You want some petting Barko?”
Gary gasped, he couldn’t help it, and tried to pull back a little, to make some space, to get Collie’s sandalwood scent out his nostrils, to be able to think for fucks sake. But Collie held him in place. His fingers pulled back slightly, and Gary nearly sagged with relief, but Collie just trailed his fingers up his neck, along each knob at the top of his spine, and sunk all five of his fingers into the hair at the back of Gary’s skull. Gary’s back arched, and a sound bubbled out of him that he clenched his jaw to stifle. But a something of it must’ve escaped, and since Collie was close enough to smell what the fuck he had for dinner, so of course he heard it.
“See,” he said, voice deep and slurring slightly, “Just need a little petting.” He sifted his fingers though Gary’s hair and examined the strands with a focus that only the very shit faced drunk can achieve.
“Your hair looks real pretty tonight Gary,” Collie informed him. And oh fuck this is the first time Collie’s ever said his name Gary reckoned, normally it’s just a litany of ‘bastards’, ‘assholes’, and if the stars aligned right ‘Barkovitch’. But Gary? Never in a million years, Gary wondered feverishly if he was dreaming.
Collie brought the hair tangled on his fingers to his nose and sniffed, and Gary was horrified to feel the lava butterflies in his stomach coalesce and decide to become arousal.
“Smells pretty too,” Collie slurred, and reinserted his hand back into Gary’s hair. He pulled back, only enough to look Gary dead in his face, close enough that their breaths kissed, and mumbled pretty one more time.
Gary’s cock twitched in his pants, and that was fucking it. He pressed against Collie’s chest and shoved, and thank the Gods of intoxication or whatever, because Collie actually stumbled a few steps back.
Gary’s face was hot. And he just knew it was that splotchy, ugly pink it got whenever he got embarrassed, or flustered, or, as he’d just learned, turned on.
Collie was messing with him, fucking with him, and Gary wanted to scream. Collie thought he was some kinda, some kinda, oh fuck Gary didn’t know, queer or something and was trying to get him flustered and confused so he could laugh at Gary behind his back with the guys.
A part of Gary, deep down and very, very quiet protested this deduction, but it was being slowly drowned out by the screaming in his head.
“Hey fuck you Parker, fuck you, you think I’m a fag like you? I’m no fag!” That last bit was shouted directly into Collie’s face, and he looked so surprised, eyes wide, mouth in a moue, that a laugh was torn out of Gary, but it was all jagged and screechy, and Gary raised a hand and slapped himself in the face, once, twice. He raised a shaking finger to Collie’s face.
“Fuck you, Fuck you Parker.” He said, though this time it was soft and shaky, and barely heard over the music, turned on his heel and ran away.