Chapter Text
Grant Wilson, hands down, had the dumbest fucking triggers in the world.
Camping, for one, was a no-go. Frogs and toads filled him with an overwhelming sadness that could quickly turn into dread. The medieval and fantasy genres were a no go, so he could never enjoy Skyrim, Dungeons and Dragons, or watch Lord of the Rings again. Football was fine, but he couldn’t step foot in a stadium.
But the biggest, stupidest, worst fucking trigger was Fortnite.
He was fairly lucky. Fortnite’s popularity died pretty quickly after they returned, and all of his friends stopped playing by highschool. He was exclusively a Fifa and Stardew Valley guy since.
But the Friday of his first ever week of college, he heard the familiar sounds of the startup screen playing from the common room of his dorm. The common room he was currently in, with his headphones on and a copy of Pride and Prejudice out. The sound was turned up, permeating his head phones as some of the other guys laughed and yelled as they started up the game on several laptops and screens. He was facing the large TV on the wall across the room, the stupid, big fucking logo seeming like a goddamn billboard.
Of course they wanted a throwback game. Of course it would be Fortnite. That shit consumed them all for years, it was a fun way to bond.
Except for Grant, of course. Grant, who had been doing so well away from home for the first time. Grant, who didn’t have to lie when his parents checked up on him daily. Grant was social, and found it easy to make friends. Grant Wilson was a normal fucking guy who never killed anyone, let alone want to kill anyone.
He was out of the room before the game even loaded. He knew himself well enough to extract from the situation immediately, but he could still hear it. He could hear the stupid music and everyone laughing and getting excited. Strategizing, talking about who they were going to kill first, how far they’ve ever made it.
It made Grant disgusted, how fucking detached they were from violence. His mind was racing as he tried to calmly make it to his room, but he could clearly hear the first shots ringing out. It was grotesquely comical that it was immediately paired with laughs and cheers. It was gruesome violence, but since it was a cute cartoon game it was fun and cool. Most likely, none of them would actually ever have to kill anyone in real life, and he was certain none of them had done so before.
His head was pounding, and teeth clenched, still trying to control his breathing. He just needed to make it to his room and… And what? Cry? Throw things? His muscles were tense, like he wanted to punch something or break something or… A lot of other worse things. And that instinct made him feel even worse. It was bad enough to have committed violence, but now he craved it. And it was fucking gross. And bad. And he was a bad fucking person for wanting that.
He knew that if he didn’t lash out in that way, the best case scenario was he was going to lie in his bed, stare at the ceiling and have his heartbeat violently until it didn’t, and once again be numb to the world. So far, in his new setting, it had been easy to not be that guy, and be a normal person who felt normal feelings.
Why was the walk to his room so fucking long? How were the shots from that damn army of screen all the way down the hall so fucking loud? All he could hear was shooting and screaming and laughing and the sound of an ax going through flesh while his dad and his friends watched-
He wretched open the door to his room, throwing himself in and slamming it shut. The slam was like a shotgun blast that was followed by silence. Sweet, sweet silence. He hadn’t noticed he wasn’t breathing until now, where he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to focus on grounding himself like that fancy therapist had taught him. He was still facing the door, and pressed his forehead into it, hoping the cool touch of the wood would bring him down. Instead, these quieting techniques only allowed the muffled sounds of the game to slowly bleed into the room, which seemed like a really good metaphor. He pressed his hands to his face, feeling sick, especially knowing exactly what would quiet this whirlwind.
“Uh, hi?”
Grant opened his eyes. Oh, his room had a poster of some Kpop band his roommate liked on the door. This one didn’t. Therefore, this wasn’t his room.
He spun around, feeling his face grow hot. It grew even hotter when he saw the guy lying in the bottom bunk of the room's bed. It was an exact mirror of his own pre-furnished room, except his didn’t have an extremely hot guy in his.
This quieted his mind. Now he was embarrassed for different, normal reasons. This was breaking and entering, right? Grant definitely could have broken the door with that slam, maybe. He absolutely entered. The guy didn’t look mad, mostly confused. A bit worried, maybe. It was hard to focus on his feelings, considering how attractive he was. It was no secret Grant had always had a thing for the stereotypic bad boy type, and this guy was it. He could be in a punk band. He had a litter of piercings, which was cool in its own sense, but even cooler was the amount of tattoos he had trailing up his bare arms. Not a full sleeve, most were fairly small, but more than anyone else his age. Most people here were barely 18, how could a person legally have so many tattoos already? Not all of them looked very professional, to be fair, with some far more intricate and steady than others. Not that it made a difference, a tattoo was a tattoo, which Grant liked, in case that wasn’t clear.
“Everything alright?” He asked again in Grant’s silence.
“How old are you?” Grant blurted out. The guy raised his eyebrows.
“20. Why?” He answered calmly, as if Grant wasn’t being a freak.
“Uh, that’s just a lot of tattoos for a freshman…” Grant explained weakly. Something dripped on his face, and he wiped it, only to realize he had been crying. He quickly tried to rub the moisture off, as if doing so could trick the guy into not realizing his panic attack.
“I made a lot of bad decisions from 15 to 19,” The guy said calmly. His posture relaxed into the bed further, and he studied Grant briefly. Grant figured now would be the time to apologize, leave, and hope one of them died in the next 24 hours so to never see eachother again.
“Can I tell you about each one?” He asked instead.
Grant was not expecting that, like, at all. Was he asking him to stay? Because that sounded like an invitation to stay. It had to be, what else would they do? Facetime from another room?
Oh no, he needed to answer. Of course he wanted to stay, but only if he didn’t be a fucking weirdo and mess this up, which seemed impossible. Impossible not to do, because he was a weirdo. Jesus, this guy was cool. Did he have a tongue piercing? He wasn’t sure, he’d need to see him speak again. Fuck, he still didn’t answer.
The stranger's face didn’t change, nor did he look as if Grant’s silence was strange. Instead, he took the opportunity to scoot over to the edge of the bed, pressed against the wall. He patted the space next to him, not realizing that made things worse.
Did he want Grant to sit there? Lay there, dare he hope? Grant was a big guy, and dorm beds were already narrow. They’d at least be arm to arm. But was that the point? Was he missing something here? Why would this cool, hot guy want Grant Wilson, especially in his current state, to be so close?
“You don’t have to,” The guy clarified, still achingly calm. “But I’d like you too.”
Right to the fucking heart with that one.
Do not fucking blow this for us Said the voice in Grant’s head.
“Yes. I would,” He said, nodding without even a stutter. The guy smiled, not huge but reaching his eyes. It was that beautiful contrast of badass clothing but warm demeanor. Absolutely Grant’s type.
“Do you want to sit here? I can move, we can sit somewhere with more space,” The stranger asked. Grant realized if he wanted to sit with this guy he would have to actually move to sit with him.
“No, no, that’s, um. That’s fine,” He said, swallowing. The guy raised one eyebrow as Grant took that first step.
“Are you just fine with it, or do you want to?” He asked again.
Don’t be a coward.
Grant released his held breath, and walked right to the bed, climbing in before he could get nervous about it. The mattress creaked loudly, and he wondered if they did that on purpose to discourage sex. Not that that was an option tonight, not when he broke into this hot guys room crying.
The guy tried making some more space for him, but there was still no room between them. Unlike Grant, who was stiff as a board, this guy was relaxed. He smelt like cedar, and was wearing pajamas and wet hair. Jesus, he was probably getting ready to sleep until this scene.
He didn’t give Grant the opportunity to be weird. He turned on the reading like that was built into the headboard behind him, holding out his right arm. His skin was tanned from the sun, and it was even more clear the variation in quality of the dozen or so tattoos. The guy pointed to one: A very, very stereotypical heart with MOM written in ribbon wrapped around it. Under it was a date.
“This one's for my mom,” He said, smiling shyly. His voice was much lower now that they were so close.
“I didn’t know people actually got that,” Grant mumbled. The stranger laughed, and the sound reverberated through his chest and through to Grant.
“This was my first legal one, at a legit place. She hates most of them, especially the old ones, but this made her laugh. That’s her birthday at the bottom,” He traced the date with his pointer.
“This one,” The guy continued, moving on to a more crude outline of what he guessed was a coffee bean. The skin under it was raised and scarred, and also had a date. “Is my dumbest. I had just gotten my first job at some coffee shop, and spent my first check on this. Some guy my friend knew had bought a gun and ink and did this in his garage. Fucking got infected immediatly, and I lost the job because I was in the hospital trying not to lose my arm. He was nice enough to put the date, but it’s the wrong month I think,” He explained.
Not thinking, Grant reached out and brushed the raised skin with his hand. It was surprisingly soft, but then again, he hadn’t touched another guy this tenderly in months. He didn’t flinch at all, but grinned. “You should have seen it then. So nasty.”
Grant nodded, ignoring his instinct that he should pull away, this was too intimate. He liked it, but had the nagging guilt that he was somehow making this stranger uncomfortable. As if he hadn’t invited him into his bed- As if he hadn’t said he wanted him in his bed.
Probably platonic, of course.
Well, at least Grant was definitely not slipping into dissociation anytime soon.
“This one,” He said, flipping his arm over to reveal a large, cartoon duck on his bicep, a date from 14 years ago under. “Is for my sister. Nothing too deep. She just likes ducks,” He shrugged.
“They all have dates?” Grant asked, glancing up for a second. The guy caught his gaze, nodding.
“Yeah! I have a pretty bad memory, so it’s convenient to have all the important stuff written down. I don’t tell people the memory part, I just let them think it’s a cool, mysterious thing,” He explained, turning over his arm.
“Why’d you tell me?” Grant asked, looking back down at the arm.
“Oh, I’m luring you into a sense of security, so you can tell me why you're crying.”
Ouch. He said it just as casually as the duck story, but Grant’s face heated up nonetheless.
“Why?” Grant swallowed.
“You’re sad. Maybe I can help,” He shrugged. He kept his arm out, but was focused on Grant. Now that he knew this stranger was a mastermind, he figured this was so Grant had an excuse to look elsewhere. “I’ve seen you around a lot, and you never look super upset.”
“It’s dumb, not worth talking about,” Grant waved a hand dismissevly, even though his throat caught.
“You sure? Seemed pretty upset.”
“It’s weird. You’re going to think it’s weird,” Grant explained, shaking his head nervously. The guy narrowed his eyes briefly.
“I have one of an olive branch, supposed to symbolize peace and shit, that I got when I was real drunk at some party,” He turned his arm over to reveal a simple, shaky drawing of a solid black circle. “Dumbass thought I just meant an olive.”
Grant laughed then, actually laughed, not just his practiced laugh he had gotten so good at. He rubbed his thumb over the stupid little black circle, the size of a quarter, that wasn’t even filled in evenly.
“Now I have a stupid circle on me, forever. I tell myself that it’s a symbol of living with mistakes, and not just a stupid circle,” He explained, laughing himself. He lowered his arm, resting it on his thigh. “Whatever’s up with you can’t be that stupid.”
Shit, he had done it again. Lured Grant right back into that sense of security. It wasn’t hard; The warmth, the jokes, the sweet sound of his voice, and just his aura of calm. The perfect trap was laid, and Grant was more than eager to fall for it.
Fuck it, he was asking for it. Might as well scare him off now before Grant got too attached.
“They’re playing Fortnite,” He started, hesitating to continue. The guy waited patiently for him to continue, the only sound being them breathing.
Don’t be a coward.
“Childhood trauma, PTSD, bad memory… Stuff. With that game,” He stuttered out, far less eloquently than intended. That was nothing, that explained nothing. He had gotten a bad grade in opening up to strangers. He was just about to leave, ashamed, when the guy nodded seriously.
“Makes sense. That would be pretty shitty if my trigger was suddenly blasting all around me,” He said, releasing some of the tension in Grant’s shoulders.
“Yeah!” Grant shouldn’t be this eager about talking about his issues, but he was so relieved that someone just understood. Someone who wasn’t his dad and four actual friends..
“Do you wanna talk about it some more?” The guy asked, lowering his voice.
Grant’s voice was stuck in his throat. He did, but he didn’t. He could, he was given the opportunity too, but he couldn’t. He wanted to tell him the worst parts, but knew it wasn’t normal. Would he still be in this bed if he knew he had a body count?
“This was my first one,” The guy said, taking in Grant’s inner struggle. He pointed to a crude smiley face on his inner wrist, with a much better, fresher date underneath that was of last year. “I was 15, and my best friend stole some tattoo ink, and we gave each other stick-and-pokes with sewing needles. I’m surprised this one didn’t get infected. It’s supposed to be the Nirvana logo. Really creative, I know.”
Grant nodded, but knew he wasn't just saying this to make conversation. “What’s the date for?”
“He died last year. On that day,” He said, calmly, eyes trained on the tattoo, rubbing it softly with his thumb.
“Oh,” Grant said. It sounded painful. Even though Grant’s life sucked, he never had a close person like that ripped away. Even Paedan and Walter were still alive, probably, living a life. He never had someone die, just been the one to kill. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. I miss him, but it was bound to happen to one of us,” He mused, but his voice has a twinge of nervousness. “I’m here now, at least, at the fancy college we said was stupid and full of pretensious assholes. Two years late, but he would have been pissed if I didn’t at least get my shit together. If I died, he would have killed me again in heaven or whatever.”
Grant nodded. This was heavy, and sudden. He knew that this type of conversation wasn’t okay, and there were boundaries that strangers should have. Grant shouldn’t be told about this guy's dead best friend 20 minutes into meeting him. So why didn’t he feel weird?
“When I was a kid, I got in a car accident with some other kids and our dads on the way to a soccer tournament,” He said, spilling out the story as he had rehearsed for his therapists. The one that was enough of the truth to at least give some sense of relief. “We were stuck out there for a while, bad stuff happened… They found us, we were fine. Everyone lived, at least, well not technically, but it’s not- It’s not as bad- Well, no… We’re all still close now, but…” Nope, that was it. It’s not like he could say My friend Nicholas’ dad died but he came back. Grant’s throat began to swell up anyways, and his voice cracked. He was gonna cry if he had to say anything else.
The guy nodded, and threw an arm around Grant’s shoulders, not squeezing.
“That’s really rough. I’m sorry, you don’t have to keep going unless you want to,” He said gently, and Grant couldn’t help but turn his face into his new friend's shirt, hiding his tears into the soft smell of cedar. He felt a hand comb through the back of his hair, which allowed the tears to flow gently without Grant fighting them with his entire being. Shaky breath after shaky breath, he soaked his guy's shirt and clinged to his arm. When was the last time he did something like this? Right before he started getting good at lying to his family and friends? How long ago was that?
“Sorry if I pushed you,” The guy mumbled. Grant shook his head.
“No, no. I’m fine,” He said, which was only partly a lie. Big picture? He wasn’t, probably never would be. Right now? Yeah, he was. He cleared his throat, trying to come back to the present a little. “I, uh, do you do that? Like, often? That’s a lot of revealing so soon into meeting someone?” Which was Grant’s way of asking if he trauma-dumped on strangers, and if Grant was a freak for welcoming it. The guy shrugged.
“Sometimes, but not often. I’m an emotional guy, it’s a good way to weed out people that I think I want to get real close with. I mean, if they can’t handle that, I don’t push. That stuff’s, like, the easier bits.”
“Oh,” Grant said. The wheels started turning in his head.
Want to get real close with. Invitation to the bed. The arm around his shoulder. Welcoming the touching to his skin. I’ve seen you around campus a lot. The oversharing. The listening. It’s like Grant just realized he had cleared every obstacle in a race he didn’t even know he was in. And he really did feel like a fucking winner.
This guy fucking liked him.
“You can go, if you want,” He said in the silence, actually sounding nervous now. This fucking Adonis sounded nervous. Why? Did he think Grant had reason to not be completely into this?
“I’ll stay, if that’s cool. But maybe we can just hang out, and leave the hard bits for later,” Grant said, finally looking up at this guy's face. The stress and nervousness that had developed as silently figured out he wanted then melted away into another small smile. Grant returned it, a genuine smile. It wasn’t everyday you end up cuddling in a hot strangers bed. Wait. Shit.
“Grant Wilson. Nice to meet ya,” And he stuck out his hand. It was awkward and clumsy, given the position, but the guy grabbed it, shaking as much as he could given the limited elbow space. A nice, firm handshake nonetheless. His dad would like him.
“Marco Li,” He said, grinning. Looking directly at him, he did have a tongue piercing. Embarrassingly, he was already imagining ‘Li-Wilson’ painted on a mailbox. That was way too soon, of course, but hey; It worked for Mercedes.
“So,” Marco said, after their hands disconnected and a silence formed. “You know how to play Bridge?”
The absurd randomness of that opener made Grant laugh way too loudly, and he saw Marco’s cheeks and ears tinge pink, despite what seemed to be a restrained smile.
“The card game? No, I don’t.”
“Me neither. But I’m sure we can learn on YouTube,” Grant laughed even harder.
“Why the need to learn Bridge?” Grant asked, reveling in the lighthearted turn of events. Marco grinned.
“It’ll be our thing. Something to do when everything else becomes too much. I bet no one else here plays it,” He explained, a new tinge in his voice that Grant was confident was flirty. Grant nodded.
“Makes sense. I can get a competitive, fair warning,” He said, putting it lightly.
“I’ll manage. Let me grab my laptop,” He said, removing his arm and rolling over Grant dramatically to get off the bed. He could have easily asked him to move, but Grant could tell Marco was good at knowing when it was time to be silly.
Marco grabbed his backpack off his desk, rummaging through it. As he pulled out his thick laptop and power cord, Grant spotted something by the door he hadn’t noticed.
“Is that your skateboard?” He asked, trying to sound casual. Marco looked up at him and back at the board that leaned against the wall.
“Oh, yeah, I’m pretty much always on that thing,” He shrugged.
Yeah, it was definitely all over for Grant now.
---
“What the hell is that?” Grant asked, pointing to Marco’s chest.
“Hm?” Marco hummed, looking down at his chest. He feigned surprise. “Oh, how did that get there?” He asked, out loud, like the new tattoo hand just appeared unexpectedly.
“Very funny,”Grant said, sitting on the bed next to his fiance. Grant had dragged himself out earlier to make some coffee, and Marco decided it was better to let Grant take care of that then get out from under the covers. Marco took the coffee, sipping it and making eye contact, smiling sheepishly.
They were only apart for what? A week after graduation? While he and Daryl took their father-son vacation, Marco had run off and gotten a tattoo of a book on his chest? A pretty large one at that? It had more delicate lining than the other ones, but was left colorless. The wrap was still on, giving his skin a sheen.
“Is it for graduating?” Grant asked, sipping from his own mug. Book Nerd was written on the front, a graduation gift from Lark. That’s what he gets for his degree in Library Science. He was a certified Book Nerd.
“Uh, maybe,” Marco’s voice raised on octave. Grant narrowed his eyes.
“What’s that mean?” He pressed, secretly excited he had backed Marco into this corner. Who’s the cool one now? He noticed something even weirder. “Where’s the date?”
“Well, I mean. That’s the thing,” Marco started, sipping his coffee again like it was an excuse to think of his next move. “It could be my grad date…” Another sip. Grant should probably stop being so serious. “But I was hoping to put our, uh, you know… When we met?” He trailed off, taking in a big nervous breath, studying Grant’s reaction.
First time they met? Him and Marco? But Marco got important dates there. Like his mom’s birthday and each time he got clean (Which, thankfully, only sat at three, and has stayed that way for a while).
“But I wanted to ask you first!” Marco followed up quickly in Grant’s silence. Grant was sure he looked terrified, but couldn’t look away from the ink. “It can be a little invasive to get a tattoo for someone without consent. And this isn’t technically for you yet, although it feels that way, but it doesn’t have to be that way.”
“You got a tattoo for me?” Grant asked, looking up at Marco’s face, who was burning red.
“Well, yeah, it was really out of nowhere. I swear I went in just for my graduation date, but once I got the idea in my head… I’d rather wait on the grad thing. If that’s okay with you.” He said.
“What if we break up?” Grant asked. There were even little pages poing out of the side of the semi-open book. It was a thick book too.
“Uh, I hope we don’t?” Marco’s voice cracked. Oh, damn. Grant was making him uncomfortable. He reached out his hand and covered Marco’s, letting him know whatever he said would be okay. “I don’t plan on it, anyways. But, even if we do, you’ll always be important. A lot changed because of you. Good stuff! All good stuff!” He tacked on hurriedly. Marco looked like he was internally implementing grounding techniques. His breath deepened and he relaxed a little, turning over his hand so he could grip Grant’s. “And no matter what, you’d always be a big part of me.”
Grant stared at the still red skin contrasted by the dark, fresh lines. How’d he miss it until now? Well, it had been dark when Marco had taken off his shirt last night, which made sense. He already had his appointment, if it was supposed to be for graduation. Did he plan on getting it colored in? Grant kinda liked leaving it as line art.
Damn. Marco Li was asking if he could always keep a piece of Grant with him. No, he was asking if he could show he’d always keep a piece of Grant with him.
“Please say something,” Marco said, eyes wide and voice raised.
Fuck, shit, shit.
“Yes! Yes! Yeah, oh my God I’m sorry,” Grant said, shaking his head to bring himself back to Earth. Excitement and color returned to him, and he lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Marco’s neck, pulling him close. He could smell cedar coming off his bare skin, since he stubbornly refused to change body wash this whole time.
I mean, it worked on you, right? He said, even though Grant was positive it was just out of habit. Or, he used to be sure, until now.
Marco let out a shaky, relieved breath that tickled Grant’s neck. He snaked his arms around his fiance’s waist, squeezing tightly to keep him close.
“Good, okay, thank you, thank you. I love you, I love you…” He breathed out, and Grant started crying.
In retrospect, it wasn’t a big deal. Well, it was a huge fucking deal, but c’mon. What had they gone through in four years? Grant told him about what had happened when he was 12. Marco relapsed once. Grant was admitted to emergency psychiatric care once. Grant’s parents split. Marco’s mom remarried. Grant’s parents got back together two years later. Both of them, by some miracle of God, had graduated on time (although that was more due to each other, their classmates, and two very dedicated guidance counselors.) They had gotten engaged yesterday.
What was one drawing compared to all that? It was better than that stupid olive.