Work Text:
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a closeted teenage boy must be in want of a liberal college.
He wasn't an idiot. He knew that college wouldn't be the haven of his dreams, especially when he was going on a sports scholarship. Even the most liberal of campuses would have some bigots. But...
It was better than this.
High school is miserable. Everybody knows this. Eric Bittle is experiencing this first hand. He knows it could be worse-everybody tells him so, but it doesn't mean much when you've had to be released from a locker for the second time this week, and it's only Wednesday.
At least it's senior year. After this year is done, he will never have to see this miserable, backwards town again.
Okay, he will. Because he loves his mother, and Coach, and let's be honest, he does love his home in Georgia. He's just bitter and bruised right now. So, rephrase: soon, he will have minimum contact with close minded, heavy handed football thugs who think that just because they have near on a foot in height on Eric, they can push him around.
He'd kept this in mind when he was applying for college. He'd browsed through lists of most LGBT welcoming colleges (carefully, always when he was home alone, hardly daring to look, to think why this was important to him, and the feelings he carefully didn't examine too closely) and Samwell kept coming up with glowing reviews, feelings of community and acceptance and joy near on pouring out of his computer when he'd investigated.
So he'd applied, sending his form off with shallow breaths and a racing heartbeat, hoping that his parents hadn't heard the unofficial Samwell saying one in four, maybe more, or, at least, that they had no clue what it meant.
Now, he just had to wait to find out if Samwell wanted him as much as he wanted it.
Free from the locker, he heads home, mind carefully focusing solely on what pie he and his mom are going to bake this evening.
Finally home, he checks the mailbox, grabbing the contents and scanning through the assorted envelopes as he walks into the house, breath stuttering to a halt at the official looking envelope with his name on.
Accepted. He'd been accepted to Samwell.
Shock and relief kept him quietly smiling through his parents jubilant congratulations, Mrs Bittle posting numerous pictures to facebook (the acceptance letter, Eric holding the acceptance letter, Coach and Eric holding the acceptance letter...), and his father's manly slap on the shoulder while he swallowed his emotions.
A few days later, a postcard arrived, depicting the Samwell ice rink, with a strangely worded note:
"Looking forward to being part of your narrative
-Johnson."