THE RULES OF DATING

disclaimer: we all know.

ratings/warnings: T/M; more than likely of a mature/nsfw nature.

a/n: i just wanna write snk fic. snk drabbles & one-shots, a collection of first dates. repeated pairings, diff. scenarios. will take prompts. fluff & smut & everything in between. may or may not actually refer to dating "rules." may or may not abuse songs/lyrics that make me want to write scenes of cute or going at it like rabbits. maybe they'll connect. maybe they won't. also, acceptable canon ages (like Levi's "30-ish") are intact. others fast-forwarded to college years.


RULE #2

DON'T GET DRUNK AND MAKE OUT WITH YOUR COLLEGE ROOMMATE.


Freshman year, three years ago.

Jean gave up on football.

In all honesty, it had been a pastime in high school. Something to satisfy the old man, to fatten up his reputation, to look good on a college app. Why yes, I do have a Letterman, and a class ring, but being drafted was never part of any plans for the future at all.

In juxtaposition with a football scholarship, a degree in journalism seemed weak and minuscule. But leadership on the field was not Jean's forte; he was much more comfortable on the sidelines, or behind the curtain. His dad said journalism was a slimeball's turf, full of slander and manipulation and reverse psychology. Journalism was for the weak according to Mr. Kirschtein, former scat back and now insurance broker, who married his class's valedictorian and never failed to express his disappointment that Jean didn't paint his face for all his Super Bowl parties. Weak. Weak to sit on your butt and tell stories about the world, rather than have people write stories about you.

But most of the time, Jean felt like the words he wrote were ten times more powerful than the words he spoke, so why not?

"I'm Marco," said baby face with the freckles, sitting cross-legged on his bed on his side of the room, with all his things unpacked and almost put away already.

Jean stood in the doorway with his bags falling off his shoulders, evaluating the situation. He always evaluated the situation. Sometimes he evaluated the situation for far too long and missed out on being involved in the situation at all. It was the curse of being a writer.

Marco. Swim team. Adidas snap pants. Geeky striped sweater. Looked like the kind of mensch who never skipped out on flossing his teeth, and always combed his hair after a shower, and never left his laundry on the floor, and put his books on the shelf in alphabetical order (because he did), and could never watch a movie like Pulp Fiction because he was far too detached from that particular realm of broken morality.

"Uh, hi," Jean managed to stutter out, throwing his bags on his bed.

"Are you Brad?" Marco asked, eyes trained on Jean.

"No. Brad's down the hall. We switched rooms last-second because he wanted to dorm up with one of his buddies and I figured, hey, I'm with a stranger either way, so what the fuck does it matter?"

Marco's smile looked a little confused, like he wasn't sure how to process Jean. Good. Arm's distance. That was the safest. Jean had learned as much.

"So, what then?" Jean grunted, raking a hand through his hair and turning to his new roommate. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it to the desk chair. "Are we gonna separate our sides with duct tape, or just trust each other to respect the magic line?"

Marco blinked. He looked down at the center of the room, then back up at Jean with that same pinched smile. A look like he was far beyond the bitterness of youth. It made Jean feel stupid. Awesome.

"I don't see a line," Marco countered charitably, and Jean felt even stupider for being the tyrant. Cool.

"Have you seen 'Pulp Fiction?'" Jean grunted.

"Yes."

"Oh. I guessed wrong."

"Hurry and put up your band posters and stuff. I wanna see if we have any similar tastes."

Jean flopped down amongst his bags and frowned at Marco over his duffel. Maybe the kid was nervous to be sharing a room with a stranger, too. It was kind of cool, not being in a dormitory, but in one of those houses-turned-shared-living-space within walking distance of the campus. Nice little two-bedroom bungalow, basement rec room and laundry, house leader with the loft to himself upstairs. Maybe Marco would lose his baby face before sophomore year, and he could be a great wingman. "I doubt it. But okay."

"I won't bother you." Marco shrugged. He fiddled with the corner of his blanket. Was Jean making him nervous? Wicked. He was such a social tool. "We don't have to be friends just because we're roommates. You have to let me know, though, because honestly? I like making friends, especially with someone I'll be sleeping in the same room with."

Jean bristled. God, he felt like such a dick. He buried his face for a moment, ashamed of his poor first impression. It was just that they were complete opposites in that regard. Marco liked making friends; Jean struggled to hold onto his friends.

Something shifted inside. Something like being homesick, but not. Something like being lonely, but not. Something that had to do with change, in a good way. Whatever it was, Jean wasn't sure. Maybe it didn't even have a name, or a definition, or a prerequisite, or a precedent. It just happe ned—click. Like that. And felt nice. He relaxed.

"I listen to a lot of alt rock," Marco confessed. "Three Doors Down, The Fray, Nickelback…"

"Oh fuck, you listen to Nickelback?" Jean snorted, peeking at Marco over his shoulder. Marco's smile faltered. He seemed to catch on that Jean was making fun of him. But at the same time, he seemed to understand it wasn't a real jab. Jean sighed, rolling over onto his elbow.

"Your choice in music sucks," he declared, "but we can still be friends."

Marco grinned and it was like the sun breaking free of the clouds.


Freshman year, three years ago.

The first incident was Homecoming.

It was glittery cheerleaders in spanks and school sweatshirts and guys trying to roll keggers up front stoops galore, Husky pride and traffic congestion. Cops crashed ragers and frat houses kept awake sleepy residential neighborhoods blocks down. In some corners of the U-District, it felt as bad as Broadway during Pride. In some dorms, however, nobody gave a shit about the football game. It was just another excuse to party. And everyone was too distracted by Sasha and Christa offering up lap dances over Circle of Death downstairs in the rec room to know what went on in the room Marco and Jean shared.

Just past midnight. Jean hadn't been this sloshed since—God, the first or second party he'd ever been to, when he'd been a fucking lightweight.

"That's your Letterman from high school?" Marco asked, swinging back and forth in the swivel desk chair. "Looks nice."

"Makes me look like a fucking prep," Jean argued around a snicker.

"What were you?"

"Running back."

"Why'd you quit?"

"It was just a high school thing."

Marco smiled that dorky friendly smile of his, the one he flashed when he didn't have much else to dissuade Jean's worst tempers. Jean saw it a lot on the mornings he had class way too early, and Marco was sitting in the breakfast nook all dimples and freckles over his cereal. I know there's more to the story than that, that smile said, but Marco never pried. That was a good friend. One day they'd know everything about each other. But not yet.

"My dad hates I gave it up," Jean grunted, flopping down on Marco's bed. "He thinks I could've done something with it. But, like—why do something you're not passionate about? That's a waste of life. But hey, if writing fails me, I guess I'll just be a boxer or something. Healthy outlets and all, right?"

Marco laughed. His eyes were glossy. He'd tossed back as many as Jean, but Jean had the feeling Marco held his beer a lot better. How did that work?

"Your feet are on my pillow…" Marco complained.

"So?"

"It's fine, I'll flip it over later."

"Problem solving."

"Can I try it on?"

Jean perked. He shielded a tiny burp against the back of his hand, cocking a brow. "What?"

Marco stopped swinging back and forth. The smile was gone. He peered at Jean from the desk chair gravely. "Your Letterman."

Jean sat up, dropping his feet off the side of the bed. "Why?"

"I never got one in school."

"Sure, whatever. It's just a fucking jacket. There's nothing cool about it. I don't even know why you wanna…"

Jean didn't know why Marco wanted to try it on. But he did know that he really liked the way Marco looked in it. His Letterman. On Marco.

The sleeves danced at Marco's wrists; they were too short. Marco was just a bit taller. But he still looked like a girlfriend, actually, that innocent cliché where the boyfriend hands over his Letterman to a sweetheart complaining of the cold.

And Jean thought he wore that cliché just as well as he wore his Letterman.

Thump. Jean's mouth was dry suddenly. His heart sank and then swiftly leapt again, fluttering below his throat. What the hell, why was he getting nervous? His face was on fire—and not because of the booze, either. He knew the difference between alcohol's heat and the heat of a crush.

The worst part wasn't even that Marco didn't notice. (It was a good thing, he figured, that Marco didn't notice, because he was staring like a lovesick idiot.) Marco just stood there in the middle of the room, eyes hooded and glazed, cheeks flushed from drinking, and he held out his arms like he found the length of the sleeves funny, and he adjusted the collar, and he turned and snuck a glance at the mirror in the corner like he was modeling in secret.

No, the worst part was the smile Marco offered after.

He turned around and caught Jean staring, and one corner of his mouth perked in a tiny, dry, weary smile, like he knew instantly that Jean had fallen for him, and he absolutely pitied him for it. Because of reputation. Because of restrictions. Because of society. Because he didn't even have to ask to know Jean swung that way. Because they hadn't even been friends for three months and Marco could already see right to the core of Jean's insecurities and secrets. Because he knew Jean's love came with baggage but he was willing to carry it.

And that saintly smile was the most beautiful thing Jean had ever seen in his life.

Surprisingly enough, Marco didn't taste like alcohol. His tongue was a little cold, but it wasn't too bad. And when he sat down beside Jean on his bed, the mattress squeaked. And when Jean fumbled to cup his warm freckled face in his hands and keep their mouths together, tentative parting of lips, shy brush of tongue, twitch of the knees where they tangled together at the edge of the bed, Marco mirrored the action, so gently and so carefully sliding his fingertips up Jean's throat, thumbs settling gingerly near his ears. Exploring the feel. Memorizing.

The bed squeaked again when Marco leaned forward and Jean blamed being drunk for the way he acquiesced and pulled Marco down on top of him without a second thought. It was weird, smelling himself when he kissed Marco because of his Letterman. God, he'd pegged Marco a virgin, but—well, just because someone was a virgin didn't mean they couldn't kiss, right?

"Jean… I thought you were cute the moment you walked in, but I figured you had a girlfriend or would get a girlfriend or…"

"Are you kidding me? I can't get a girl. I'm a total bonehead."

"Can't get a girl or don't want a girl?"

"Right now, I fucking want you…"

Pop of the lips, don't forget to swallow so you don't drool on him, slick tempting heat. Marco tasted so good. Smelled so good. The way their mouths fit seemed like a puzzle finding its missing piece, and when Jean ran his fingertips up under the Letterman, under Marco's T-shirt, Marco's skin was fever-hot and Jean's head spun. He felt a little melty inside.

The lingering buzz of the kisses burned on his mouth, searing the feel into his nerves to summon for scrutiny later. If he even braved scrutiny. The weight of Marco curled up in the crook of his arm was the most perfect heat he'd ever felt—no high school fuckbuddy or sweetheart could compare. This was distinctly different. This was somehow new. This was…real. Plastered or not.

Laughter and shouts echoed from the basement. Cop sirens wailed by somewhere outside and a few streets up. Marco shifted. His sigh tickled Jean's ear. His voice was tiny and hesitant. "If you're not gay, it's fine—we don't have to talk about it tomorrow, or ever—"

"No, I don't label myself, okay? Just—shut up—if we don't talk about it, we won't feel required to justify it. That's what someone pretty smart about it all told me once and you know what, it's true."

It was kind of nice.

To understand each other, anyway. To understand it was an accident. To not feel your masculinity threatened. To feel so warm and content, and natural. There was another one of those subtle clicks inside, and Jean didn't even question it this time. He had a feeling it was something good. Something very, very good, far enough away from his judgmental father now that he didn't have to pretend. Didn't have to hide. Didn't have to keep secrets. Didn't have to feel obligated to question himself or analyze the way he felt.

Can't get a girl or don't want a girl?

Oh, Marco. Asking questions like he already knew the answers.

The music from downstairs vibrated up through the vents. Pop and hip hop had given way to sentimental rock. Pretty soon the party would dissolve into choruses of "I love you, man!"

Jean hummed to the echo of the song. It was one of his favorites. You gotta promise not to stop when I say when… Oops. His fingers were swirling idly in Marco's hair.

He didn't stop.

Marco fell asleep in his Letterman.


To be continued.