Chapter Text
The Co-captain D-men Reveille (™, patent not yet pending) spits out a rapid guitar riff, the CD alarm and selection of Haus mix CDs randomizing their wake-up soundtrack to Infinity Guitars . It's a good song, a good omen, and Justin feels down to his toes that it's going to be a good day.
He sits up and slides down the ladder with only one foot touching one rung, and nudges Holster's exposed calf with the toes of his other foot. Holster pushes himself slowly to sitting and looks over at Justin, who's already stripping off his low-slung flannel pyjama pants and tugging on fresh boxer-briefs.
"Friday?" Holster asks.
"Friday." Justin smiles back over his shoulder.
They walk to Faber, shoving at each other's shoulders and laughing about the dream Justin had where his toenails got so long they cut through the toes of his skate boots and he got a penalty for tripping an opposing player with one.
"Well, Mr. Ouransi," Holster intones in the put-on voice he uses to portray every uptight ref in every penalty story he ever tells, "Toenails may not be noted as a tripping implement in the rulebook, but you'd be hard pressed to disagree that it falls under officials' discretion."
When Justin takes his shoes and socks off in the changing room and finds that his toenails are a bit on the uncomfortably long side, Holster loses his mind laughing.
"Your brain, man. It knew! Better clip those before the game tonight."
Justin groans in good humor. He feels a new segment of his pregame ritual clicking into place. A toenail check, at the very least. But it doesn't jangle about in the mental box containing his ritual, it fits perfectly, stabilizing everything else he needs to do before a game into a steady amalgamation of checks and balances. The low-level worry he's been holding about the game tonight—about every game he's ever played, if he's honest—dims a bit. Not that he expects that lightening of anxiety to hang around for long, but as they strap on their pads for a lighter, game day practice, he feels content, comfortable, warm.
They cut up the ice and Holster gives a 'swawesome pep talk and they head to class.
The game that night is perfection: they hold up a brick wall in front of Brown's offense, Bitty scores twice in the first period, and Holster scores in the third. Even though the win was already a given, Ransom clutches his fingers at the back of Holster's helmet and slams their faces together with a grin to match Holster's own.
Afterward, Justin lets himself get lost in the party. There's a lot of beer and a substantial amount of tub juice and he's flirting with a short, curvy sophomore from his final chem req and when Run the World comes on the stereo, she gets a little aggressive and kisses him. He kisses her back, and he's never before understood the phrase "she climbed him like a tree", but Marjorie climbs him like a goddamn tree.
Someone calls, "Get it, Jojo," from across the room, and when she tucks her pointed face into his neck with a cute little snort of laughter, Ransom says "Want to take this upstairs?"
She does, and they do, and Holster gives him the thumbs up before they head to the attic for what turns out to be a slightly awkward but very enjoyable hook up. Marjorie doesn't want to fuck, but she's got good hands, and seems to appreciate Ransom's, and when they're done and she's warmly pressed against his chest, he kisses the top of her head.
"Would you want to do that again sometime?" she asks. It's a series of questions wrapped up in one, and Ransom's brain stutter-steps with it. He can't usually find space to imagine anything more with the girls he hooks up with. Not even a repeat arrangement. But she's so chill and frank and real that he doesn't run into that same wall.
"Sure," Justin says, and strokes his clean hand down her back and then back up. They both settle for a little while, and then Marjorie rolls off of him and dips her small fingers into the crumple of clothes on the floor.
"Is your roommate downstairs?" she asks, taking in the two desks, two chairs, two computers.
"Yeah," Justin says, and something feels twisted tight in his stomach as he says it. "My defensive partner, Holster."
"You must really like each other to be rooming together as seniors."
Justin laughs. The thing he wants to say is, He's my best friend. He wants to say it whenever someone implies that it's a weird choice for him and Holster to still be living in each other's pockets after all these years. But it feels juvenile. It feels dismissive and too small and wrong.
What he says instead is, "We're so in sync at this point, it's easier than rooming alone." Which seems enough like a funny hyperbole that people are willing to let it go. Even though it's true , and Justin has been growing a bramble of worries about what happens when he can't live in a shared space with Holster anymore.
"I can't wait to have a single next year," is what Marjorie says in response. "I like Kristin, but I'm an only child. I'm not used to bumping into someone else all the time."
"I have three sisters," Justin says, falling easily into Marjorie's conversational rhythm.
"What I wouldn't have given for a sister when I was seven."
Justin laughs. Marjorie buttons her jeans, then leans over him to pull him into a brief but filthy kiss.
He flings an arm over the side of the bed, digs around for his boxers and pulls them on. Then the post-game, post-orgasmic haze overtakes him. Holster stumbles in eventually, loud and bright and heavy, and Justin budges over to give his roommate space to lay down. He slings his leg over Holster's hip before falling back to sleep .