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teamfreeawesome · 9 years

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College!AU enemies-to-lovers for sidlook, for her birthday (though really, so, so, so late omfg). I hope you like it, babe. It’s not quite what I had imagined (for one, I suspect it probably needs to be longer to allow for proper character development but OH WELL), but hopefully it’s still fun and full of feelings ;)

Warnings for boys being dicks to each other, a distinct lack of communication, and unhealthy relationships (at least at the start).

There’s an autumnal warmth to the air, September sliding slowly into October, and it feels like summer is dying. Sticky fingers and ice cream make way for fallen leaves and the soft warmth of twined fingers as fireworks crack overhead. Kris likes it. There’s something smoky about autumn, the heating clicking into gear as chill winds its way into bones - and Kris can taste whisky in the air.

Autumn softens the blow of impending winter with a curling gentleness that sinks into the campus grounds, fingertips of wind just starting to feel icy. It’s muffled, crinkly and quiet beneath feet, until suddenly there is noise. The wind picks up, a scarf unwinds, stolen by a chilly current of air, and suddenly the world rings with laughter. Voices combine, and Kris can taste the delight in the sound; a shriek of joy like only the cold can carry.

It’s nice.

A week later, and the sun rises like something angry, red-hot and burning through the shitty curtains in Kris’ dorm room. Smelling faintly of weed, the previous occupants having left even the mattresses pungent and stained, the curtains cling to the rail precariously. They hang at an angle, the pole swinging away from the window frame like somebody had tried to yank the curtains down entirely, and the gap between the glass and the material is just wide enough to allow the morning sun to slide like a brand across Kris’ face.

Blinking wetly, the bright light stinging at his oversensitive pupils, Kris scowls. He’s never been a morning person anyway, but after a night out he’s even less inclined to enjoy the mid-morning sunshine. His skin feels tight and prickly, and he swallows around the foul, heavy taste of sleep-thick alcohol in his mouth. Across the room, the other bed looks rumpled in the dim, curtain-obscured light. Empty of anything but a discarded pair of boxers and one particularly grubby looking sock, Kris spares a second for relief at the absence of Marc, before his blood rushes, angry and painful, to throb viciously at his temples.

Curling inwards with a groan, Kris rolls over, stomach lurching alarmingly, and presses his face into the soft give of his pillow.

He hates drinking.

Autumn slides into winter, and there’s something about the way the cold slips under bones, fingers of chill that make Kris shiver beneath the covers, that inspires nostalgia. He curls up on his mattress, bed-socks soft and warm over his toes and wind-flushed hands cradling his coffee mug as he lets the wash of memories slide over him as it snows outside.

It hurts to remember the first time he met Marc. It hadn’t even gone badly, is the thing. It was just afterwards. Afterwards, with hurt creeping painfully up the back of Kris’ throat, scraping nastily at the soft flesh of him. Just. Afterwards.

The thing is, he’d been so excited, back then. There had been anticipation fizzing in his gut and excitement pulling at the corners of his mouth at the prospect of meeting his new roommate. Behind him, the corridor a long stretch, his parents had been laughing, something sweet tangled in the threads of their conversation. Beneath his hands, the door had been cold, and as he’d pushed it open, a nervous kind of warmth kicking in his belly, Kris had taken a deep breath and hoped.

Marc had smiled, too, when they first met. Kris had been happy.

Ha.

Hatred slides over thick snow, and it crunches beneath both their feet now. Kris doesn’t really know what it’s about, anymore. If he ever really did. See, it was never really about one thing. Their animosity had grown, branches twisting around their aggression, until there was nothing but irritation spilling out into the room.

And now, they’re here. Stuck.

They wake up, they breathe, and they hate each other.

Kris hates Marc so much that sometimes it feels like all he can taste is spite, bitter and ugly on his tongue as it congeals in his mouth. He glares at Marc, anger roiling loudly in his gut, and he wants to scream.

(He hates that he feels like this).

When it comes down to it, their animosity stems from everything and nothing at the same time.

It stems from Marc’s inability to understand why Kris might want to study instead of party, music and alcohol flowing around him until Kris is nearly swaying with how tired he is.

It stems from the way that Kris spreads his shit around the room, underwear and wet towels and coffee mugs littering every surface until Marc is nearly spitting with how angry he is.

(Really, though, it’s about –

Incompatibility).

It doesn’t help that they have sex.

They fuck, sometimes, usually when they’re tired and bored and horny. One of them will crawl into the other’s bed, the warmth under the covers like treasure in the chill of their room - and in those moments, they share something almost like affection.

Sometimes, Kris will get a hand on Marc’s dick, and Marc’s soft gasp sounds enormous and loud in the quiet of their shared space. Other times, Marc will slide down the bed and suck Kris so deep it feels like there’s nothing but wet heat for miles. Mostly, though, it’s sort of desperate. Sounds spilling from their mouths, they rut against each other, and in the seconds and minutes they move against each other, they might even like each other a little bit.

(That doesn’t mean they talk about it afterwards, though).

Kris wants to like Marc, is the thing. He’s nice, when he’s not talking to Kris, and kind of cute, too. Sometimes, when his chest is heaving and there’s come cooling on his belly, Kris thinks about holding Marc’s hand.

In his head, their palms meet and fingers twine, and there’s something like affection in Marc’s gaze. In reality, Marc slides out of bed without meeting Kris’ eyes, and all Kris is left with is warm sheets and an ache in his chest.

It’s February, and one of Marc’s friends vomits on Kris’ bed.

Kris loses it. He yells, and it tastes like despair in his mouth.

“You’re useless,” he howls, kicking at the frame of his bed in frustration. “You’re not even going to clean this up, are you? I bet you were pleased it was on my bed.”

Across from him, Marc flushes.

“That’s rich coming from you,” he spits, voice shaking angrily. “Like you ever fucking clean anything.”

“At least I’m actually going to come out of here with a degree,” Kris says, and his voice shakes with everything he shouldn’t say. “All you’re going to have are debts and regrets.”

Marc goes pale, something like fear sliding across his face, before his expression closes off.

“Yeah,” he says, low with anger. “Well, at least I’m going to have friends. Unfortunately for you, being an asshole seems to be a permanent condition. And your blowjob technique is shit.”

The slam of the door as Marc storms out sounds like an ending.

Kris throws a sock at the door.

It’s unsatisfying.

Marc’s bed is almost always empty now.

There’s something about the space left behind which is hollow, the bed a mess of rumpled sheets. At the foot, the duvet clings precariously to the edge of the mattress, and there’s something about the clinging sense of hurried abandonment that makes something clench, cold and awful, in the pit of Kris’ stomach.

He misses him.

A month, and dawn is just barely breaking. Kris watches as Marc slides out of bed.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it sounds so loud after the silence of before. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of the things that I did.”

Marc sighs, shoulders hunching as he meets Kris’ eyes.

“Yeah,” he says as he exhales. “Yeah. I probably shouldn’t have let Beau vomit on your bed. And I guess I’m kind of sorry about the stuff I said, too.”

“I miss you,” Kris says, blinking as the words tumble out of his mouth. “I spent so long hating you, but - now I miss you.”

“Yeah,” Marc says, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

There’s a spring morning, and Marc comes into the room with coffee. It’s sweet and hot and just the way Kris likes it.

He sips at it, the rush of caffeine sliding like a bolt under his veins - and in those seconds, Marc’s eyes soft over his body, it feels like the start of something new.

They apologise properly, and it tastes like relief.

It’s awkward and Kris knows he’s blushing, but it’s like they’ve realised that without the months of enmity they’ve been cultivating, they actually have the capacity to like each other.

Marc’s funny, and when he smiles, Kris’ stomach twists with something like hope.

“You’re sweet,” Marc says, cake dangling off his fork as his cheeks flush. “Shit. I didn’t mean to say that.”

There’s something like butterflies fluttering in Kris’ gut, and he grins, heat creeping up his neck.

“You’re cute,” he offers - and there’s a second where their eyes meet, gazes catching, when Kris thinks the world could catch fire and he wouldn’t see anything but the way want looks on Marc’s face.

“I like you,” someone says, and in that moment, it could be either of them.

Between them, now, it feels there’s nothing but fondness building under ribs.

It’s almost summer, heat just starting to simmer under the wind, and Kris wakes up in Marc’s bed. He’d crawled there after a late night at the library, the warmth of it calling to him when Marc had pulled back the covers with a smile. It had been a sweet offer, and Kris had taken it with a tired grin and a fondness in his chest. Now, blinking awake next to him, Marc looks sleep-rumpled and sweet, and in that second, Kris wants nothing except to kiss him.

One elbow under him, he gently brushes a lock of hair away from Marc’s face, gaze caught on his mouth and eyes and the way he looks up at Kris like he’s found something. Like he wants Kris to kiss him. He feels like he’s swaying, and every breath he pulls into his lungs sounds so overwhelming loud that he thinks the whole campus could hear. Leaning in, mouth dry, he hovers – and there’s a second where they’re so close that Kris can feel the way they’re sharing air, breath warm over lips.

The fire alarm sounds suddenly, though, startling them both into pulling back. Eyes catching, blushes starting to creep over cheeks, they laugh.

“Toast, d’you reckon?” Kris asks, slumping back against the pillow.

“Microwave popcorn,” Marc says, sliding out of bed. “Beau’s, probably.”

“True,” Kris agrees, pushing himself up to follow Marc towards the door. “So, so true.”

He actually quite likes Beau, now the vomit on his bed is just a memory, but he can’t cook for shit.

Marc kisses Kris for the first time like it means something on a Thursday afternoon, music thumping somewhere down the hallway. It’s soft and sweet, and so lovely that Kris can’t breathe.

Next to them, the curtains drag against the floor, the rail almost completely broken now - and as the sun streams in, Kris feels nothing but happy.

#teamfreeawesomefic #sidlook #WHAT EVEN IS THIS

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