Chapter Text
Chapter One
The building reeked of cigarettes and pot, plastered on every goddamn smooth surface were all sorts of paintings, sketches, graffiti and whatever else came out of the minds of dirty drugged up kids who called themselves artists. John was surrounded not only by the ominous and slightly psychedelic concrete thoughts of the students, but the kids themselves. They stood stationery against the wall, all of them bleary eyed, glaring down at him, wearing the most ridiculous attires and sporting blue in their hair.
He must've looked like an alien. John Watson: lacrosse co-captain, top student in his year, clean-shaven and wearing recently washed clothes. Next to the hippies he could be God the way he radiated pureness and light. Except they wouldn't worship him, more like try to execute him.
"Hey, pretty boy!" One of them calls, John cringes, nearly doesn't look back, but when he feels something hit his back, he does. The bloke that called him was an average sized brunette. He wore an ugly salmon flower print button down with a hideous hat that he had adorned with various colourful feathers.
"Wanna take a ride tonight?" The skinny boy bravely asks leaving John baffled. John blinks a few times and frowns. The guy only smirks and looks sickly satisfied. He turns to his friends, who peer at John like he's some sick joke, and they all laugh.
"I'm sorry?" John says starting to lose his patience. The longer he stayed in the artists’ side of the campus the filthier he felt.
"Don't pretend you don't know what I mean, you rich boys come here all the time looking for some cock, and I fancy some of yours," he purrs, batting his lashes and biting his lips in a manner that was supposed to be seductive. His friends laugh, one of them having a coughing fit in the midst of it.
John feels his cheeks redden and disgust fill him. The little pricks actually thought that he was interested them. How dare they imply such profanity on him and his friends? It was ridiculous!
"Piss off," John hisses. He doesn't bother snapping at them any longer and walks off with his hands clutched at his sides with his jaw hard. Fucking hippies.
John has his eyes cast low at his feet and his head filled with the pulsating reminder that he was going to be late for practice -again. The distraction keeps him from noticing someone in front of him, whom he almost crashes into. He just slightly bumps into the person, it was nothing really, but he's so full of it with those hipsters and the worry that he might get thrown off the team, which would only revoke his scholarship, that he doesn't bother apologizing and keeps walking.
This did not please the person he bumped into.
"Excuse you," an annoyed voice coming from the person he bumped into snaps. Normally John wouldn't have said anything, but he was late and upset. John turns around, prepared to glare and say something rude, but as soon as his eyes land on the face of the stranger he was instantly intimidated.
This bloke wasn't like the others. Despite that he dressed exactly like them (dark black skinny jeans, a wrinkled deep purple sweater that hung loosely from his thin frame, no shoes), he was different. There was something about him, a certain air of seriousness that made him distinct.
His skin was incredibly pale, even for London and its cloudy demeanor. It stretched on, creamy and smooth, from the tip of his slender fingers, the crisp outlines of his collarbones, to his long neck. John found himself thinking back to Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, convinced this was the description the author had been aiming at when depicting the character.
As if the stranger’s skin wasn't intriguing enough, his eyes were all the more captivating. His eyes were an odd shade. They were blue, but not just blue, hints turquoise, yellow and moss green circled around the pupil as well.
If you stared at them for too long it was like you were drowning in the spiraling smoldering abyss of colors. They were calculating, penetrating and controlled. He could read John, inside and out, through his soul and mind. It was disturbing yet thrilling.
"Sorry," John huffs. He keeps his eyes anywhere but those powerful blue ones.
"That's more like it. Couldn't have you running along with no manners," the stranger replies even though he seemed nothing like someone who had manners.
"Right," is all John can say with those eyes on him. He feels dried out, sucked empty.
He watches the pale stranger look out towards the greying skies, an admiring look on his face. John doesn't really understand what the stranger is obviously finding pretty about the dull sky. Like he'd said earlier, fucking hippies.
"Are you going to just stand there? Your stupid is clogging the air," the stranger snaps suddenly, looking back at John with a disinterested look in his eyes as if John was some bug flying around irking him.
"Oh, I'm sorry for disturbing you. I hope my presence wasn't bothering you," John says sarcastically, his previous anger returning.
"It was actually," the stranger admits in such a genuine and smug way that John wants to wring his neck.
"I'll be on my way then, don't want to disturb the genius," John snaps while spinning on his heel towards his side of the campus, the sane side.
"You there!" The stranger calls out, a light sneer in his voice. John doesn't turn back but keeps his ear alert in case the prick says something worth listening to.
"You should really tell your sister to get help and all, I can tell it bothers you."
John stops. He turns around slowly, eyes cast on the tall stranger. He hoped he'd heard him wrong, surely he couldn't be talking about Harry-
"Send her to alcoholics anonymous or something,” he says smirking down at John, a dismissive look on his face.
"How do you-" John begins to ask, but the stranger has already stopped paying attention to John. He rudely turns away from John and slithers into a dim lit art gallery, closing the door shut behind him.
"Piss off then!" John hisses.
••••••••••••
It's a Wednesday and John is late for practice once again. Last time it was due to the annoying prat he had stumbled into whilst taking a shortcut through the artist’s side of campus, this time it was due to falling asleep. Inevitably John was rather ticked off; John hated being late, lacrosse was all he had. He was dedicated to the sport. It was his only way of getting a scholarship so he could study medicine at the prestigious university he attended.
John barely had any time to grab his uniform out of his locker. Tight on time, he sprinted through the hallway despite it being strictly forbidden, praying to God that there be no one in his way. But of course, his prayers weren't answered. A History professor spotted him dashing towards the field exit and stopped him short in his tracks.
"Watson!" The professor snaps and John groans because he really really was late for practice now.
"Look, I've really got to get to practice, it was the only reason I ran, please-
"Watson this university has a strict code of conduct, precisely on running in indoor corridors-"
“I am honestly sorry, I merely did it due to practice. Sir, I am quite late.”
The professor remains silent. He stares at John accusingly, his lip in a firm line and eyes hard. After what felt like hours, the professor comes to a decision.
“Alright Watson,” John was about to head out to the field, “but you have behavioral observation."
John wants to roll his eyes, but he knows better than to do so. Instead he nods in understanding while grinding his jaw silently. Behavioral observation was about the stupidest thing their university had come up with. It was daft, high school cliché and absolutely pointless. You were required to spend a half hour in an empty room reviewing the entire University guidelines and conduct rules.
Netherless, John was grateful that he didn’t have to follow the professor to his office and get a lecture. Walking at a fast pace he continues to venture towards the field. He was just about to get there, when he heard a moan as he crossed past the field bathroom stalls.
Feeling a natural curiously, John slowed down and angled his neck in the direction of the sound. He expected it to be one of his teammates who had been benched and his girlfriend. John was prepared to do something jokingly to humiliate the couple. What he had not expected was to see the tall pale body of the stranger he had bumped into with his face arranged in deep concentration and deep pleasure as some male bloke sucked him off.
John remained still, frowning at the act, partly shocked and slightly disgusted, but mostly burdened by an odd curiosity to see, to watch; to look at that beautiful pale face, not a trace of control on it as he gets close to letting it all flow and explode.
The noises that came out of him as he came will be permanently branded in John's brain no matter how much he promised himself they would be gone in less than an hour.
"See something you like?" The dark haired bloke sneers and John flees for his life, cheeks red and heart pounding wildly. Which was not from his running.
Fucking little hippie prick.
During practice John is lost, he’s been captured by brain fog, swept in by the memories of the pale skin, intense baby blue eyes and noises that were in no way holy. He found himself being tackled over, attacked, tossing the ball in the wrong direction and being yelled at for his recklessness. It was like he was being sucked in, drowned in a spiraling blue.
"What the fuck Watson?" The coach yells in John's direction as he nearly misses catching the ball.
"What is it, have you gone all soft? Lost in ya’ head?" One of his teammates snickers. John just rolls his eyes. He's not lost, he's trapped, rapped in memories he doesn't want to have.
"Go John! Go John!" A female voice chants as John finally manages to catch the damn ball and try to squirm through the bulking bodies of the other guys. He looks up to see Harry and her friend Clara cheering him on. He smiles at their support and nearly looks away until he sees a hint of baby blue. It's his eyes, the cold eyes that belonged to him alone. They leered at John from the corner of the bench were he sat silently.
At the sight of him, the stranger, dressed in the most ridiculous multicoloured scarf, his hair a curly mess, his appearance obviously lacking hygiene as most hippies do, just sitting there in John's environment as if it was the most natural thing to do, as if he owned the place, as if he was the most important thing there, when he most certainly was not because this was John's side, this was John's world. It irked John to the point where he ground his mouth shut hardly, clenching his jaw and making his temple jump.
He forgot about the sex, forgot about Harry and Clara, about his behavioral observation and concentrated on the blue eyes, the blue eyes that looked at him as if he were some sick limpet, a dreary little piece of slime that wasn't worth him wasting a minute on. He gathered all his annoyance and tore his way through his much bigger muscular team mates until he reached the white net where he put all his force in the throw, making the ball fly out and right through the net.
Cheers fill his ears like glory. His score made his side win. Arms grab him, pat him on the back and lift him in the air. There are chants of him leading them to victory when the game comes, about how he always saves the game.
John feels satisfied. He looks over to where the baby blues had been with a smug smirk, ready to show him that this was his turf, that he was king here, but there's nothing there.