Chapter 2 - Study Partners

Fyn: Int. Library, Night

Fyn checks the study table where they're most likely to find Teddy first. When he isn't there, they make a circuit of the lower three levels, checking all their usual spots. Fyn is starting to wonder if they'd been wrong about the student they'd seen, when they loop back around to their first spot and there he is.

He's slumped in the chair opposite where he normally sits, head in his hands, leg jiggling a mile a minute. Fuck, is he actually studying at this time of night? On fucking Halloween? Un-fucking-believable. God, he's such a dork. The wave of fondness is almost overwhelming.

“Excuse me, sir,” Fyn calls when they don't think they can sneak any closer, “the library is closed.”

Teddy jumps a bit more even than Fyn was expecting, nearly standing up. He catches his chair before it knocks over and slaps out at the table with his other hand, spinning on them.

Fyn cackles in delight. “Oh my god, that was, like, an actual jumpscare. Call it payback for ignoring me earlier, you asshole.” Their grin fades as they get closer, and Teddy is still standing motionless, gripping chair and table.

“Hey,” they add, the brazen, overloud tone slipping from their voice as they take in Teddy's face, the state of his clothes, the awkward way he's holding himself. “Hey, Teds. You alright?”

There's something about the way he's looking at them — eyes a bit glassy and lost, like he can't quite make sense of the scene before him. And sure, Fyn is used to him having this sort of pathetic air to him, but this isn't that. Teddy just looks straight up miserable.

"Fyn," Teddy says finally, the name sounding clumsy in his mouth, "what are you— why are you—?" He can't seem to decide on exactly what question he wants to ask so Fyn interpolates for him.

"That Halloween party, remember?" The one Teddy didn't want to come to because he had to study, or because he didn't know anyone, or because he didn't like parties — the excuses are always the same — but Fyn doesn't mention that. "Though I guess you had your own…?"

Teddy makes a choked sound that's almost like laughter, and Fyn's heart hits their toes. They cross the remaining distance so quickly that it feels like they teleported there. That might be the drugs.

“Teddy,” they say, worry taking over. “Fuck. Fuck, what's wrong?”

He just shakes his head, bottom lip quivering between his teeth. He looks like any wrong word here might make him burst into tears — actual, proper tears, not the typical school-related stress kind. Actually, he might have already been crying, his cheeks being blotchy and red.

He sucks in a sharp breath, then chokes out in a rush, "I lost my keys."

“I can–” Fyn begins, intending to offer to help Teddy search. They take in his expression again, the way his tears are ready to brim over any time, the stink of alcohol on his clothes. They check their wrist as if they still wear a watch. Whatever, it's late.

“You wanna come back to mine?” they ask instead. “My roommate's gone, you can take her bed. Or the couch, whatever. We can look for your keys tomorrow?”

The look that he gives them is one of pure, unwavering vulnerability. He looks back behind him, and Fyn can see his brick of a phone plugged into the wall charging. Teddy usually says it’s cheaper, when someone asks about it. Fyn usually makes fun of him for texting like a grandma from it. Now, it only makes them wonder how long he'd been out wandering around with a dead phone like this. The thought makes their stomach churn.

Teddy turns back to them, but he doesn't meet their eyes. "Can I use your shower?" he asks quietly, like he's asking for the most inconceivable thing in the world. They're about to answer yes, of course, idiot, when understanding hits them like an entire set piece crashing down on their head.

Fyn likes the feeling of pieces falling into place, usually. It's satisfying. Usually.

So it's with a sort of sick satisfaction when things start to click-click-click together. Teddy’s tear-blotched face. His disheveled clothes. The way he's holding himself. How drunk he is. The arm around his shoulders, surprisingly familiar, leading him out of the main party. They feel a bit ill, but at the same time everything narrows in. Purpose. Get him outside. Get him safe.

“Course,” they say, nonchalant. They tip their head at Teddy's phone. “Don't forget that now, yeah?”

Teddy moves slowly. He moves like he's having trouble keeping the world upright, or, worse, like he's injured. Fyn has to stop themselves from dashing around the table and grabbing the phone themselves. They bounce on their toes again, impatient to get out of the library, back into the open night air where they can breathe.

They can't ask anymore about it in here. Maybe it's some sort of character bleed from the nun habit, but the silent, looming, shadowed stacks have never felt more like a cathedral to knowledge. This place is holy. The conversation they need to have would soak into this place, taint it for every time they tried to come here in the future. They need to be outside. God. For once, Fyn really doesn't want to be right.

“Ready?” they ask when Teddy has collected his phone, and is staring blankly at the table like he's not sure what he's supposed to do next.

Teddy looks at Fyn. He looks back at the phone in his hand like he’s just remembered it’s there, and finally puts it in his pocket. “Yeah,” he says with a nod. He starts off in the vague direction of the main entrance, leaving Fyn to follow behind.

They put a hand on his shoulder as they walk, just to keep him from straying.

Ext. Library, Main Campus

Fyn keeps up a constant train of chatter as they make their way back out of the library; telling Teddy about their party, the visitors, the poorly conceived seance Quest had planned. When they leave the front doors, Teddy’s step slows. Fyn takes a deep breath of night air, relief filling them. They bump Teddy's shoulder with their own.

“Hey,” they say. He looks at them, briefly. Fyn tries to read his face but it's too dark. They bump his shoulder again, until he makes an exasperated sound, and then they sling their arm around his shoulders. “Hey,” they repeat, serious. They rest their chin on his arm. “Do we need to go to urgent care?”

Teddy blinks dazedly, considering the question, then shakes his head. "I don't…no," he says softly. "'S not— I only had enough for— for 0.11% at most. I think. You probably shouldn't let me drive, though," he says practically, like either of them has a car to drive.

Fyn makes a spluttery little laugh, unable to help themselves, and then they bury their face in Teddy’s arm to muffle their wheezing. They weren't asking about him being drunk, but the response is so typically him that something breaks inside them, just a bit.

“Fuck, babe,” they gasp at last, rubbing their eyes and still shook by an occasional, helpless giggle. “Jesus. Yeah, okay. Okay, just back to my place, then.”

They walk in silence. The air is crisp, a hint of snow already looming. Dry leaves rustle and drift free from the spindling, manicured branches of the deciduous trees on campus. There's an occasional burst of voices and laughter echoing across the quad. Fyn tries to ignore the way Teddy flinches every time that happens.

They take a deep breath, and see their exhale spiral out like fog-machine mist.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” they ask, once the library is out of sight. They keep their eyes on the sidewalk ahead and the shadows at the edges of buildings. They can feel the way Teddy's breathing hitches, the little extra weight he puts into leaning on them.

Teddy starts to shake his head, then pauses. He chews his bottom lip, peeling and cracked on account of his constant chewing, and says, "I smell like beer."

Fyn grimaces. The silence feels a lot worse, now. Fyn takes his arm and locks it with theirs, both to ground him and to keep him upright. He gives them that blank, wide-eyed look that's more like the kicked-puppy expression they know. Skittish, sure, but better than the shell he was before. Fyn sighs and gives his arm a brisk rub.

“Yeah, you do. C’mon.”

Swinging their shoes in one hand and Teddy's arm in the other, they lead the rest of the way to their apartment.

***

Teddy: Int. Fyn’s Apartment, Night

The apartment is blessedly warm and familiar. Teddy stands awkwardly just inside the doorway as Fyn flicks on the light and tosses their heels in a corner. He manages not to flinch when they turn on him, their expression grim.

“Okay, look,” they say. “I know something happened. I'm not asking for details, I just…I need to know if I need to, like. Call the police. Or the hospital, or something. Fuck, even campus security has, like…kits.”

They're not trying to be pushy. They want to know so they can help. Fyn is good at fixing things, at coming up with solutions. Point A to Point B. Teddy is good at spinning around a point until he gets nauseous, like a clump of hair circling a shower drain.

“I'm fine,” Teddy says. “I just drank too much. You don't have to call anyone.”

Fyn opens their mouth, with that stubborn, suspicious set to their face that says they're going to ask him something horribly blunt that he won't be able to deflect, and if they ask him again he's going to tell them or start crying or both.

“Don't,” he says. Their eyes narrow. “Fyn. Don't. Please.”

Fyn looks at him a moment longer before their mouth snaps shut. They look surly. Teddy has the uncomfortable feeling he's disappointed them, somehow. But he can't just– nothing had happened! It was a non-event, and he shouldn't have to talk about it, or think about it.

He just wants a shower. Maybe some water. Bread? Does bread sober you up, or is that an urban myth? He should probably eat something, or he's going to have the world's worst migraine in the morning. Scratch that, he's going to have a migraine period because he'd been crying until his eyes felt raw. Even still, eating something probably wouldn't be a bad idea.

The idea of sitting down to have a meal while he's as dirty and disgusting as he is now is just about as nauseating an idea as having another glass of beer.

He crosses his arms in front of his chest, refusing to meet their gaze. "Look, can I— please, can I just use your shower?" he asks, hoping that his voice doesn't waver as much as it feels it does.

Fyn makes an uncertain noise. Teddy feels desperation welling up in him.

“I-If it's too inconvenient I'll just– I'll call someone else–” he says, voice breaking a bit, but he turns back towards the door to show he's serious. He is serious. He has never felt more desperate for anything than to get out of these clothes and get his skin, get everything, clean.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Fyn hisses, and touches his arm. “No, fuck. Fuck.” They raise their voice a bit, making it clear they're addressing him now. “Of course you can use my shower, I said you could, I–” they scratch at their nun hat, knocking it askew, their face scrunched up in consternation. “Fuck, this is a mess. I was trying to– nevermind. Fuck.”

They take out their cell phone, and for a moment Teddy is certain they're going to call someone– he doesn't know who, but all the options are awful, and for a split, heart-stopping second he thinks they’re somehow going to call Sam. But they only stare at the screen before grimacing again and tossing it to the couch.

“Come on,” they say, padding down the entryway towards the shared bathroom. “One shower, coming right up.” They put their hand out on the wall a couple of times for balance.

Teddy kicks off his sneakers by Fyn's old worn pair of Docs, the wall scuffed where they've obviously taken them off a bit too enthusiastically enough times to leave a mark. He's been to Fyn's apartment briefly a few times, but those were back when they'd had a different roommate, and the furniture is placed in a new, unfamiliar arrangement.

Fyn pushes open the bathroom door and flicks on the light. It's a typical student apartment– cramped, mildewed, the only concession to the fact that it’s made for multiple people the large double sink. The shower curtain is a bright red like a theater curtain, so painfully fitting for them that Teddy almost cracks a smile.

Fyn looks up at him with that same even expression, steady when Teddy feels that one nudge will be enough to topple him sideways. "Do you need new clothes?" they ask, then give him a look up and down. "Yeah, you do. I'll be back."

He watches as they slip from the doorway off to their bedroom, then takes a tentative step inside the bathroom.

The person who looks back at him from the mirror is haggard enough to make him jump. Okay, he can see what Fyn meant now about him looking terrible. Even with the fact that he'd splashed his face in the bathroom sink before Fyn had found him, it's still painfully evident that he'd been crying earlier by the puffy skin of his face. His hair's a mess too, tousled awkwardly to the left side, and the buttons on his lab coat are all in the wrong order. So much for the whole 'learning to like how you look' thing.

Teddy squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath. Shower, he needs to shower. He needs to focus on the task at hand. He sheds his lab coat with veritable ease, grateful that he'd had the forethought to grab the one with snap buttons, folds it sloppily, then sets it on the toilet.

The shirt is…a bit more fumbling — er, okay, a lot. A lot of fumbling. He gets a few buttons through the holes and then spends a solid three minutes working on the next one, grunts in frustration, then goes to try another one further down the line. When that one fails to cooperate with him too, he throws in the towel and makes the snap decision to shove shirt, undershirt, and binder all up over his head in one go, not bothering to wonder if this is a good idea.

Evidently it’s not, as he gets the wad of fabric up to his ears before he gets stuck.

"Okay," Fyn says as they saunter back into the room, "here's your options: Phantom of the Opera shirt, set-building sweatshirt– there's kind of a lot of paint stains, sorry, but the other one is full of sawdust– or pride crop top, if you feel like being ‘leather mommy.’ No comments about my need to do laundry, please. I'm thinking the sweatshirt would fit— oh hell, baby, what'd you do? Here—"

A pair of hands come up and help tug the layers over his ears and up off his head. His glasses nearly come with them, but Fyn carefully plucks them from his nose, folds them, and sets them on the sink. They're close enough where they aren't completely blurry, which also means they're just close enough for it to be a little weird that he's standing there without a shirt. Not for Fyn, probably — they're Fyn — but, well. Teddy can definitely count the number of people he's taken his shirt off for, and at least half of them were at the doctor's office.

He fights the violent instinct to cover himself and instead crosses his arms across his chest.

“Soap’s there,” Fyn says, brushing by him. “Shampoo, conditioner; use whatever you want. Don't worry about if it's my stuff or Claire's, it's not like you're going to use all of it and I can replace it, anyway. Exfoliant, loofa, Korean hand towels, uh– face peel, if you wanna go really crazy with it– yeah! Anything else?”

“Um,” Teddy says, feeling a bit dizzy and more and more anxious to get a moment to himself, “no?”

“Good. Right. Cool. I’ll grab some water for us, and– shit, towels! Um. Yeah, I'm gonna run a load of laundry. Give me that back.” Fyn snatches the clothes back. Teddy watches them helplessly.

“Okay?” he says.

“Be right back.” They give him a huge, bright grin, and then their gaze falls on his chest and sticks there. This time Teddy does cover his chest, taking an automatic step back.

“What?” he asks, trying to sound cold and ending up sounding like an over-defensive teenager instead.

“You sure you don't want to…” Fyn hesitates, then shakes their head. “No. Okay. You’ll tell me if you…you want to go somewhere, yeah? Like. Make any reports. I can borrow a car, we can go whenever.”

“What would I need to report?” Teddy asks weakly. Please don't answer that.

Fyn sighs and shoves their hand through the tangle of orange curls that have escaped from under their nun hood thing.

“Sure,” they concede. “Okay. I'll be right in the living room, shout if you need anything.”

Teddy nods. They leave. He looks in the mirror again, self-conscious, and sees what must have caught Fyn's attention: a smattering of livid hickeys across his chest, some almost purple, a few showing actual teeth marks. He swallows a few times before he manages to tear his eyes away and stumble to the toilet. He dry heaves until he almost wishes he could just vomit and get it over with.

The door creaks.

“Hey, Teds– are you–?”

“I'm fine,” he barks out, throat raw. “D-don’t– don't come in!”

“Right– sorry– I'll just–”

The door creaks again, closing another inch.

He waits until he's certain Fyn isn't going to burst in before getting into the shower and pulling the curtain shut. He strips the rest of the way, tosses his clothes out, and then stares in bleary confusion at the taps. He fumbles with them long enough that he thinks he might actually have to call Fyn back for help, when he manages to hit whatever alchemical pattern it takes to make the shower turn on instead of the tub.

The freezing stream hits him like a spray of tiny needles, and he quickly reaches over and turns the water up all the way. It slowly makes its way through the cycle of being unbearable to tolerable to comfortable to unbearable again, and that's where he leaves it at. Seventy-one degrees celcius is the minimum sanitation temperature. He doesn't think that home showers go up that high, but it feels better to see his skin red and angry wherever the stream hits him.

He stands there for a moment with his eyes closed, trying to force himself to breathe evenly. Then he opens them, and takes one quick, ill-advised glance down at himself.

One, two, five hickeys on his chest. A bruised fingerprint on his hip. An actual, genuine bite mark on his left thigh — and that's the one that apparently does it for him, because he hastily reaches for one of the washcloths and begins scrubbing at himself as if to wipe them away. He's feeling more and more like he's going to be sick above all else. There's no amount of space he can put between himself and his own body, too aware of himself and yet feeling as if he's one wrong move away from crashing out of his own head into the dirty water circling his feet.

Teddy presses his palms to his eyes and counts backwards as he forces himself to breathe. He steps back until his shoulders hit the tile wall, then lets himself slide down it until he's seated on the floor of the shower, letting the nozzle beat its stream into his scalp. He's fine. He's fine, he's not dead, he's alive, he's uninjured, he's fine.

He tries to keep his sniffling quiet, even if it doesn't matter. The roar of the shower drowns out everything.