First Morning Tension

Elliot lay awake that night, staring at the cracked ceiling of Room 314. The mattress creaked beneath him, too thin to offer any comfort, and the air carried the faint, sour stench of Bryce's gym bag—sweat and leather mingling in the cramped space. Across the room, Bryce snored, a low, steady rumble that seemed to shake the walls. Elliot pulled his blanket up to his chin, fingers clutching the fabric as if it could shield him from the world. His mind buzzed, too loud with nerves to let him sleep. First days always did this—stirred up things he'd rather keep buried, like the blurry memory of a car crash he couldn't piece together. But he was fine. He had to be.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the memories away, but they flickered anyway—a shadow in a doorway, a voice like broken glass from foster homes that followed. His breath caught, and he snapped his eyes open, forcing himself back to the present. The dorm. The snoring. The faint orange glow of streetlights seeping through the blinds. He was here, not there. No one knew who he'd been. That was the point.

Morning came too soon. Bryce woke with a grunt, rolling out of bed in a faded gray T-shirt that clung to his broad frame, the fabric stretched tight across his shoulders. He yawned, loud and unapologetic, scratching at his buzz cut as he shuffled toward his desk. Elliot, already dressed, sat on his own bed, fumbling with a book to look busy, head down, trying to disappear into the wall. But then Bryce turned, reaching for his water bottle, and Elliot's gaze slipped—just for a second—tracing the way the shirt hugged his back, the casual strength in his movements. Those ocean-blue eyes widened, and a flush crept up his neck, hot and sudden.

Bryce caught it. His green eyes narrowed, pinning Elliot in place. "What're you staring at, Elliot?" he snapped, voice rough with sleep but sharp enough to slice. Inside, though, his mind tripped over itself—those ocean blues, locked on him, had shifted. They'd gone soft, sad, like a wave pulling back from the shore, and it hit him harder than it should've. *Why the hell do they look like that?* he wondered, brow twitching before he shoved the thought down.

Elliot's face burned, and he dropped his gaze to the floor, hands trembling as he gripped the book tighter. "N-nothing," he stammered, voice barely a whisper. "Stupid", he scolded himself silently, heart hammering. "Don't look at him. Don't make that mistake again. He'll figure you out." He kept his eyes down, cursing his slip. No one here knew him—not the old him, not the mess he'd been since the crash took everything. He couldn't let them.

Bryce huffed, masking his unease with a smirk. "Yeah, whatever. Keep your weird shit to yourself." He grabbed his bottle and stomped off, muttering about practice, though those damn eyes lingered in his head, quiet and heavy, as the door slammed behind him.

Elliot stayed frozen until the slam faded, then let out a shaky breath. He grabbed his bag and slipped out, head down as he navigated the campus to his first class. Intro to Lit was a blur—he found a seat in the back, tucked against the wall, and pulled out his sketchpad. His pencil scratched out waves, jagged and restless, while the professor's voice faded into background noise. A girl with purple-streaked hair dropped into the seat beside him—Lila, from orientation. She grinned, leaning over to peek.

"Ocean stuff again, huh?" she said, voice light. "You're quiet as hell, Elliot. What's with you?"

He flinched slightly, then forced a small, shy smile, keeping his eyes on the page. "Just… like drawing, I guess." His voice was soft, hesitant, pushing her curiosity away. She didn't know him—not the kid who'd lost his parents, not the years of silence that followed—and he needed it to stay that way. No cracks, no leaks.

Lila raised an eyebrow, like she wanted to dig, but shrugged instead. "Fair enough. You're odd, but it's cool." She turned back to her notes, and Elliot exhaled, relieved she let it drop.

Across campus, Bryce was a hurricane on the field. He slammed into tackling dummies with a roar, sweat streaking down his face, his teammates whooping and swearing around him. "Callahan, you're a fucking beast!" one yelled, and Bryce flashed a grin, all teeth and bravado. But when a scrawny freshman fumbled a play, he pounced, voice booming, "Get your shit together, idiot!" The kid shrank, and the others laughed—too loud, too brittle.

In the locker room later, a teammate elbowed him, smirking. "Heard you're stuck with that quiet kid in 314. He a freak or what?"

Bryce's jaw tightened. "He's nothing. Stays out of my way." But his tone was too harsh, and when he slammed his locker shut, the clang rang out like a gunshot. Those ocean blues flashed in his mind—shy, then sad, like they were hiding something heavy—and it pissed him off. *What's his deal?* he thought, shaking his head. Not that he cared. He didn't.

Back at the dorm, Elliot was hunched on his bed, a book open in his lap, when Bryce stormed in, sweaty and fuming. He flung his gear down, the thud jolting Elliot's nerves, and growled, "Fucking juniors crowding my space." Elliot kept his head down, eyes glued to the page, barely breathing. "Don't look", he told himself, fingers digging into the book. "Don't give him anything." But then Bryce paused, and Elliot's resolve cracked—his gaze flicked up, just for a heartbeat. Those ocean blues met Bryce's glare, wide and startled, and Bryce's expression faltered—softened, caught by that same quiet sadness again—before he scowled and turned away, slamming a drawer shut with a curse.

Elliot's heart raced as Bryce stomped off. That look—it wasn't just anger. There was something else, something he couldn't place, and it scared him. "Stupid", he scolded himself again, burying his face in his hands. "Don't do that again. Don't let him see anything."