Chapter Text
Ryan thinks a lot about the cute boy that lives next–door in his campus apartment building. When he first brought his stuff up on move–in day, he caught a glimpse of his neighbours bringing up their own belongings; namely the scrawny–looking boy carrying his stuff up in a cardboard box, looking like he would topple over if a draft blew through the corridor. Ryan remembers thinking, belatedly, that he could have offered to help him carry his stuff in. He regrets that mistake every moment his mind strays to tousled brown hair and those wide brown eyes. Not that Ryan thinks about him often.
He only thinks about him when he's picking out clothes to wear to his classes or to the gym. He thinks about him when he makes his coffee in the morning. He thinks about him in his lectures when his hand starts to cramp from note-taking and he lets his mind stray from statics.
It’s not like that was the one instance Ryan saw him. Occasionally, they leave the house at the same time, and Ryan indulges himself with staring as long as he possibly can. God must revel in his misery, because his neighbour never takes the elevator when he does. But he doesn't care that much. Really.
Ryan doesn't think about him when he throws on a tank top in the morning, nor when he's drumming his fingers against the counter while he waits for the toaster to spit out his breakfast.
He does think of him when his roommate, Hunter, steps out wearing the same University of Sydney hoodie that Ryan had noticed his neighbor wearing last week.
“Morning,” Hunter nods, grabbing a mug out from one of the cupboards.
“Morning.”
“You're coming with me and Izzie tonight, yeah?” He asks.
“I might,” Ryan shrugs, earning him a light shove. He laughs, elbowing his roommate back. “Fuck off, of course I am.”
“Good. You’ve done fuck all since we've been here. Live some, fuckwit,” Hunter snorts.
“Shut up, cunt, I'm not tryna fail out and go back to Bandee, alright?” Ryan huffs. It's the truth; mostly. The other part he refuses to admit is that he doubts his neighbor would be at those parties. He'd never voice that out loud, though, because just knowing that he’s thought about it leaves Ryan's ears burning.
Whatever. It's been three months and not once has he actually spoken with his neighbor. Maybe they'll never speak. He can come to terms with that eventually, he's sure of it.
His toast finally pops out with a tinny ding! and more burnt edges than he'd like. He eats it smothered in raspberry jam anyway, shoves his house keys into his back pocket, and heads off to his nine AM class.
The rest of the day drones on listlessly as Ryan makes it through his three hour lecture and an hour–long workout. He gets back to his apartment early in the afternoon, tired and sweaty and hungry. As he fishes his keys out of his pocket, the door next to him opens and out walks Pretty Boy Neighbour.
He’s carrying a sheaf of paper that looks impossibly thick, with sticky tabs and neon post-it’s flaying out throughout the stack. He has headphones on, so he doesn’t acknowledge Ryan’s presence at all. Ryan absorbs the view for the few seconds that he can get away with without being a creep, and watches his neighbour turn and drop one of the loose sheets.
Ryan pauses. Waits a beat. Pretty Boy Neighbour doesn’t turn around. Ryan picks up the sheet of paper.
“Hey,” he calls. No response. The elevator’s opened at the end of the hall. Pretty Boy Neighbour steps in.
Ryan could slide it under his apartment door, a small voice chimes in his head. Ryan doesn’t listen. He glances down at the paper— it’s sheet music, he realizes— folds it up, and steps inside his own apartment.
It’s only after he’s showered, safe in the comfort of his own bedroom, that he sits down on the edge of his bed and opens the sheet of paper. The staff is handdrawn, the treble clef’s swirls drawn in shaky pen. There’s notes crossed out and re-written, the paper thick in spots where he clearly applied white–out multiple times, and lyrics written under the staff that received the same treatment. Ryan reads the lyrics over slowly.
“chimney swift that finds me, be my keeper, silhouette of the cedar”
He reads it over again a few times, eyes scanning over the handwriting, trying to burn all of it onto the forefront of his mind.
The bedroom door swings open. Ryan shoves the paper under his pillow. Hunter stands in the doorway, leaning against the wall in a summery button–up.
“You ever heard of knocking, dickhead?” Ryan hisses. He ignores how warm his face feels.
“Stop jerking your shit, we’re going over to Izzie’s and pregaming at hers,” Hunter declares, resulting in Ryan lobbing a pillow at him. He just grins. “We are getting fucking hammered tonight.”
Ryan returns the smile, standing up, the paper tucked safely under the pillow and the back of his mind.
— ♬ —
A terrible techno–trance mix blasts on speakers far too bass–boosted for the size of the house that Ryan is in for it to be enjoyable, let alone legible. He can feel his skull rattle so hard he’s sure that he’ll get a concussion at some point.
Hunter has long since abandoned Ryan, flitting off into the crowd not even an hour after they got there, leaving Ryan standing in the kitchen nursing his fourth (fifth?) beer of the night. He feels delightedly buzzed, the obscene bass tickling his bones quite nicely now. He’s not technically fulfilling the initially agreed upon plan— Hunter had declared that nobody was allowed to go home until they were going back to get laid— but his tongue feels so heavy in his mouth that he doesn’t even want to think of talking to anyone else, and someone walks through with short brown hair and his mind immediately runs toward Pretty Boy Neighbour.
He frowns at that, because now Pretty Boy Neighbour is the only thing on his mind, and Pretty Boy Neighbour isn’t here. His stomach twirls and he screws his eyes shut, but that doesn’t help either because all he can picture behind the backs of his eyelids are Pretty Boy Neighbour’s pretty boy face, and his lips, and how the few words Ryan’s heard him say roll so nicely off his tongue, and he imagines him saying other things, doing other things, touching things, so he pries his eyes open because the last place he wants to pop a boner in is some stranger’s kitchen.
He needs air.
Ryan makes his way into the backyard which was nearly empty of people, thankfully, and allowed himself to drop down onto the closest bit of furniture he could find. He lets his head fall back and shuts his eyes for a moment. Pretty Boy Neighbour’s face flashes through his mind and he forces his eyes back open, and clearly he’s absolutely plastered because he looks to his left and Pretty Boy Neighbour is sitting right next to him! On this couch! Smoking! Pretty Boy Neighbour! Ryan feels his pulse quicken and he’s so absolutely giddy, he’s over the fucking moon right now.
“What?” Pretty Boy Neighbour sputters out. He’s looking at Ryan now, but he’s got a weird expression on his face? Did Ryan say something out loud? Fuck. Ryan said something out loud. And now he’s staring at Pretty Boy Neighbour’s face because fucking hell, he can stare, and he realizes he’s been silent this whole time and he can’t quite remember what was voiced what remained a thought.
“We’re neighbours,” is what Ryan decides to blurt. “I live next door. In 415, end of the hall. Darlington House.” He adds helpfully.
“Oh, right! I thought I recognized you,” Pretty Boy Neighbor hums, and he’s looking at Ryan the same way you’d look at a stray or an odd child, but Ryan ignores that because he’s looking at him.
“I’m Naim, Naim Reid.” Naim! Pretty Boy Neighbour just introduced himself! Ryan’s making more progress tonight than he has in the past three months!
“Ryan. Uh, Whelan. Nice to finally meet ya, neighbour,” Ryan grins.
Naim nods. “Are you drunk?”
Ryan tilts his head. “Do I smell it?”
“Like straight piss, yeah,” he snorts, playfully shoving Ryan back. The sound tickles Ryan’s ears. “You fucking reek, cunt.”
“Fuck off. It was, like, four stubbies,” Ryan grins. “What’re you doing here, then? Don’t reckon I’ve ever seen you out in parties like this.”
“Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just saying that I’d remember seein’ a face like this,” the words roll out of Ryan’s mouth with ease.
“Yeah, alright dickhead,” Naim huffs. “So, what’s your major?”
Ryan racks his brains trying to remember that bit of information. “Civil engineering,” he manages. “What about you?”
“I’m majoring in music performance,” Naim says. “So, y’know, different campuses and everything, technically. I’ve gotta bus over an hour earlier in the mornings ‘cause of traffic, and stuff.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, it’s over at the symposium, near The Rocks? It’s real nice.” He takes a drag from his blunt.
Ryan just nods along. “So ya make your own shit, then?” He asks, eyes trained on Naim’s lips. “Like, music, and all that?”
“Sort of. None of it’s good yet.” Naim shrugs.
“Get outta here! I bet it’s proper good shit.” Ryan insists. His thoughts drift to the piece of sheet music shoved under his pillow. Maybe now would be a good time to mention it.
The words that leave his mouth instead are, “I’m expecting a personal concert once you’ve made something good, yeah?”
“Fuck off, personal concert?” Naim laughs. He reclines back into the plush cushion of the couch.
“I’m dead serious, cunt,” Ryan says, starting to giggle himself. Then a wave of nausea hits him like a truck. Like his stomach’s trying to claw out of itself and up his throat, mid–laugh. So he turns and giggle–vomits over the other end of the couch.
“Holy shit—” Naim jerks back, and Ryan curses himself for it. He’s probably blown everything.
Ryan continues his retching for the next few minutes before his body deems his digestive track sufficiently cleared, and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. He cringes at the stickiness and is just thankful that he didn’t vomit all over himself.
He’s sure, then, that Naim would leave soon so that he wouldn’t have to deal with Ryan’s pathetic ass. But he doesn’t. Instead, he snubs his blunt out on the ground and grabs Ryan’s arm to guide him up— though it’s more to set him into motion than to actually pull him off the couch— and carefully leads him through the crowd to the bathroom. Naim sits on the toilet cover as Ryan tries his best to rid his mouth of the lingering acidic taste. The music is muffled but the bass still makes his head throb. They just stay there for a bit. It’s ridiculous, the whole situation. This isn’t how Ryan imagined his first interaction with his neighbour— with Naim— would go.
He clears his throat then, “Thanks for coming with,” Ryan says, voice hoarse.
“It’d be kind of a dick move to leave you sitting in your own throw–up.” Naim shrugs.
“Fuck off, I didn’t throw up on myself, dickhead,” Ryan scoffs. It makes Naim laugh.
“Right, cause spilling your guts on half the fuckin’ couch is better?” He snorts. Ryan flips him off.
“Careful, cunt,” Ryan warns, turning to face Naim fully now. The idea pops in his head and he stumbles a little, hand coming up to cover his face. “I might—” He leans over Naim and groans dramatically, bursting into giggles when Naim lets out a noise, shoving Ryan.
“Fuck you, cunt,” Naim swears, chest heaving.
“Aw, no need to get your panties in a twist, mate,” Ryan titters. “I wouldn’t barf on you, seriously.”
“You’re a dickhead.” Naim hisses. Ryan shrugs; Naim’s hot when he’s pissed like this, and he wasn’t expecting it to be so easy to rile him up.
“You’re the one here with me still,” Ryan grins. “But I do think I’ll head out now. Not exactly looking for more trouble tonight, y’know?”
“By yourself?” Naim asks.
Hopefully not, Ryan thinks to himself. “You worried about me, Naim?” He says instead.
“Considering you barfed your lunch up ten minutes ago, yeah. Did you come here alone?”
Ryan shakes his head. “Came with my roommate and his sister.” He pauses. “You?”
“My friends dragged me out today, but it’s not my type of party,” Naim responds. “I was gonna leave soon anyway.” He adds. Ryan perks up at that.
“Right.” He nods slowly.
“I don’t trust you by yourself,” Naim snorts. “I’ll head back with you.”
Ryan feels fucking blessed.
So they leave the party, Naim once again dragging Ryan through the mass of people like a puppy on a leash. Except he doesn’t let go of Ryan’s hand when they leave the house. Or when they get on the bus back to campus. Or when they reach their building. Hope flickers in Ryan’s chest for a brief moment before he reminds himself that it’s because he’s still very much drunk, and he very much has not been walking straight since they left the couch. Whatever. A win is a win.
They finally reach their dorms, and Ryan realizes a beat too late that it means the night is over and, consequentially, his time with Naim has run out.
“Thanks for babysittin’ me tonight,” Ryan jokes, fishing his keys out of his pockets.
Naim chuckles at that. “It’s whatever, mate. Next time don’t spew your shit everywhere, yeah?”
Ryan huffs. He jams his keys into his door’s lock and gives Naim’s shoulder a shove. “G’night, cunt.” He laughs.
Naim just shakes his head and watches Ryan step in and close the door. Ryan stays there for a minute. Waits. Listens to the sound of Naim opening his own door and his footsteps entering. Only then does he exhale fully, letting his head knock back against the door.
What a fucking night.
It’s when Ryan finally strips out of all his clothes—save for his boxers— and drops down like a corpse onto his bed that his phone buzzes. He squints at the brightness, before grinning down at the notification.
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He taps the follow back button and knocks the fuck out.