Chapter Text
September 13th, 1999
Most mornings, Brian wakes to a pillow hitting him in the head.
Being perpetually unable to hear his alarm is a habit he’s carried into adulthood, one of those childhood quirks that refused to see itself out with his baby teeth and belief in a higher power. A lasting remnant from the days of sun-soaked summers spent reading at the pier, of scrounging up enough pennies for Del’s and getting dragged into arcades if it meant Peter would step foot in a library.
That’s what makes their friendship. Those kinds of trade-offs, a what’s mine is yours mentality— though Brian doesn’t often find himself wanting what’s Peter’s. Anything he touches usually ends up wrinkled and sticky with beer or sweat within 48 hours. Of course, Peter feels the same way— Brian has been playfully called pretentious since he was old enough to spin his first Sinatra record.
By now, Peter is used to his sleeping in, being on the other end of the pillow. Like most things, it never seems to get under his skin. It’s ironic, Peter says, ‘cause you’ve got your damn stereo headphones in all the time. Cracks wise about him going deaf. In Brian’s opinion, there’s not a lick of irony in getting a hunk of glorified cotton chucked at his head at the crack of dawn. Karma, maybe. But not irony.
The first day of classes isn’t any different– incessant beeping, pillow, incessant beeping, groggily curse out his roommate.
By the time he reorients himself with their cramped dorm, Peter is up, cradling a bowl of Fruity Pebbles between his thighs while he swings his legs off the side of his twin xl.
“Have you ever stopped to think to yourself, ‘hm, a banana might be nice once in a while?’” Brian deadpans, fiddling with their half-deteriorated coffee maker. The machine coughs and sputters a few times before starting.
Peter snorts. There’s a ring of milk on his upper lip. “Nah, ’m not gay. Besides, it’s called Fruity Pebbles for a reason— these ain’t just bananas, this is, like, the juggernaut of healthy eating.”
“Right.” He should’ve known it’s too early to try to play wise guy with Peter. “So, Kate Moss, all that fruit gonna give you the energy to get to class on time for once?”
“Oh yeah. This is gonna be our year, buddy. Total success. Chicks from sea to shining sea.” Peter emphasizes with his spoon, flicking milk onto his bed. “And smarty stuff, too, I guess. So my dad lets us come home for Thanksgiving.”
“You've got it all figured out, huh?”
“Figured out— I’ll do you one better. I finally decided on my major.”
“And what’s that?”
Over the past year, Peter has devoted his life to just about every career path there is. If it’s listed in Rhode Island University’s directory, it’s suddenly his calling. Last Brian heard, it was aeronautical engineering. Go figure.
Peter gives him a toothy smile. “Medieval studies.”
“We have that?”
“Oh yeah. We got everything. Look, I’ve got my Monty Python bit ready.” Peter shakes his head and adopts a ridiculous cockney accent. “Oy, I’m King Arthur, and I’m off to find the Holy Grail and break a camera that cost hundreds of dollars! Oh no! I’ve got screwed up teeth on account of all the fluoride getting pumped into my water!” He drops the act and shrugs. “If all else fails, I’ll be one of those Medieval Times guys.”
“Right.”
It’ll be something different within a month. Peter is the epitome of restlessness– unable to be still, to stop for a minute and just breathe, always going, going, going with grandiose ideas and visions for a life he’ll put down faster than he picks up. It’s as insufferable as it is admirable.
Brian thinks the constant deviation would make him mental. He’s got enough screws loose as it is.
“Just leave your jousting equipment at home, alright? We don’t need another broken window.”
Peter grins, which pretty much means I’ll think about it. Brian takes this as answer enough and shifts his attention to this week’s paper.
He makes it halfway through a column about NATO before Peter’s thought of something new to say.
“Didja hear Joe got us into a frat?”
The elusive frat party.
Ever since getting them banned from every fraternity in a fifty-mile radius their freshman year, Peter’s been itching to find them a way back in. Brian couldn’t care less.
Spending the night drinking lukewarm beers and fighting an uphill battle against an already skewed guy-to-girl ratio has never screamed fun to him. He'd rather meet girls somewhere he can hear himself think. Sensitive girls, who are well-read and don't spend every weekend blacked out on someone's lawn.
He ends up playing babysitter half the time, anyway. Not to mention the whole ‘Peter getting them banned from places’ thing.
He looks back down at the Current Events page. “Have fun.”
“C’mon, Brian, don’t leave me hanging.”
“How did Joe manage something like that, anyway?”
Peter snorts. “Told ‘em he was in school to be a cop and he’d have them all arrested for underaged drinking if they don’t let us in.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works.”
“Look–” Peter holds his hands up like he’s under arrest instead of badgering his roommate about nonsense– “no funny business. I’ll be a paragon of obedience and functioning alcoholism.”
“Last time you said that, you snapped four billiards cues in half.”
“Heh. Yeah. Then let’s hope they have darts.”
“You can have fun on your own, you know. Or with Joe and Cleveland.”
“Yeah, but what are you gonna do?”
Brian eyes him. “What I always do?”
“That’s my point— you don’t do nothin’. You bitch and moan and feel sorry for yourself. What I’m promising is fun— booze-and-women fun— and an opportunity for you to get your head out of your ass. Besides, me and you, we got one of them symbolic relationships. It wouldn’t be the same without you there.”
“Symbiotic,” Brian corrects. “And I don’t– I don’t know. I’ll think about it, I guess.”
Peter jumps off his bed immediately, eyes glimmering in a way that has Brian already regretting his consideration.
Peter claps him on the back so hard his coffee sloshes out of its mug and onto his desk. “Sweet. And don’t wear any of your dorky clothes, y’know, none of that Morrissey crap. We gotta be lady killers tonight, like– like those fellas from Scream. Yeah. They knew how to get ‘em, alright.”
“Something tells me you’re getting your synopses mixed up,” Brian mutters.
“No, no,” Peter says, retreating to his cupboard-sized wardrobe. Probably rooting around for an outfit that’ll impress Lois. “Didn’t you see them with all those broads the whole movie? Total chick magnets.”
In one ear, out the other. Brian would swear Peter has no brains in between them, if that didn’t say more about him, on account of their going to the same college. Better to believe his best friend has a little smarts in him, crowded behind all the beer and lowbrow and movie references. Enough to make Brian feel mildly better about himself, anyway.
After finishing his coffee and throwing on a decidedly not-Morrissey outfit, he grabs his messenger bag and trudges past their broken elevator and down five flights of stairs. The damn thing’s been broken since last year, which leads him to question whether or not it's ever worked. It sure made move-in a pain in the ass.
He speeds out the door to make his communications lecture, which he quickly learns will involve a lot of hand-numbing note taking. Half the class was spent trying to decipher the illegible drek scribbled on the chalkboard. To make matters worse, the professor is some British prick who speaks like he’s got a blockage in his throat, which makes the whole communication side of things pretty confusing.
Afterwards, he has a pretty basic creative writing course, the kind of thing he suspects even Peter would be successful in. It’s more of an elective people take to avoid reading Shakespeare or poetry or anything that isn’t Cosmo or Sports Illustrated than a scholarly class worth his time, but that also means he looks more astute by comparison. No complaints there.
He finds a seat next to a gaggle of sorority girls who look like they’ve never seen a book in their life, let alone read one. Let alone wanted to write one.
A girl with wispy blonde bangs smiles at him. “This class is gonna be rad!”
“Uh, yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yeah, it looks real… rad.”
Blondie and her friends giggle and turn away from him. Smooth.
Their professor hurries in, saving Brian from any further embarrassment. Aside from running late, she doesn’t seem to be a complete dimwit or inept, which he takes as a victory and excuse to get a coffee.
Hot n’ Muggy sits close to his dorm building– temptingly so, which means he’s there daily, even when that means paying in pennies. Which are most days.
The bell chimes as he swings the door open and falls in line behind some unfortunate bastard and his clingy parents. He cranes his neck around them to get a good look at the new barista working the register. Today must be his first day; Brian’s never seen him before.
New Guy rings them up leisurely, like the midday rush isn't about to hit and he has all the time in the world. Brian's just out of earshot to pick up on what they're talking about, but it must be the most entertaining thing in the world judging by how engrossed he is in it, leaning against the counter with a lazy smile, conversing with these strangers like he’s known them forever. They laugh and drop a fiver into the tip jar as they finally end their transaction and move along.
“Hey,” Brian’s eyes flicker down to his name tag, “Glenn, can I get a cappuccino to-go?”
The same charm is turned to him. Glenn's tone is bright as he confirms, “Sure thing, can I get you anything else?”
“Just that, thanks.” Brian fishes a few wadded up bills out of his pocket. “You know, I wouldn't consider myself religious, but I'll learn enough Latin to get a coffee out of it.”
Glenn laughs good naturedly. “Cappuccino is an Italian word, but yeah. You have a nice day.”
“What?”
“Cappuccinos. They’re Italian, not Latin. It means small capuchin. Little hood.”
Brian falters. “Oh."
"It's an easy mistake."
He isn't sure what else to say at this point. "Um. I guess you’re probably right.”
Glenn’s smile seems more condescending than it did five seconds ago. Brian can't think of any word to describe him other than sharp— his teeth, his straight, pointed nose, his collarbones that protrude where his collared shirt is unbuttoned. “I am right. Is there something else you need?”
“No, uh, that– that’ll be all.” Brian hurries away to pick up his drink.
Sue him for not knowing everything about Italian culture, for chrissake. They speak Latin in Vatican City, which is practically the same thing. Besides, he’s read Invisible Cities cover to cover and has La Bohème on vinyl— that’s more than anyone in this shitty town can say. He just doesn't happen to know every word in the Italian language. Or much about 18th century friars.
He took French in high school, anyway.
The customer is always right, or whatever it is Cleveland says to get them free food. What kind of douche gets off on correcting people's geographical errors?
The kind he can make fun of with Peter. And that almost makes up for it.
He slams their door so hard it knocks Peter’s Kiss poster off the wall.
Peter looks up from his Scud comic. “Jeez, what’s got you so worked up for?”
Brian sighs as he drops his crossbody on the carpet. It lands with a noise complaint inducing thud– likely their first write-up of many this year. His body follows suit and slumps against the door. “Nothing.”
“C’mon, that’s bull. What’s eatin’ ya? …Damn, I could eat right now. You hungry?”
“I'm fine, thanks. And it’s nothing. New barista’s too big for his apron, rubbed me the wrong way.”
Peter blinks at him. “Like he’s fat?”
“No, you idiot, it’s an expression. He’s a know-it-all.”
“Well, he sounds like a dick.”
“Tell me about it. And he’s got these fucked-up teeth, like, don’t smile so much if your front tooth is chipped.”
“He prolly jacked it up on whatever dick he sucked to get the job."
Brian ignores how nonsensical that is and laughs along with Peter. "Probably. So, did you make it to class on time today?"
"Sure did. And speaking of, I ran into Joe. And have I got somethin’ that’ll make you feel better. Get this– his transfer roommate is twenty-two.”
Brian shrugs. “And?”
“Don’t you know what that means?”
“He’s way too old to be here?”
Peter gives him a rare no-nonsense look. “He can buy us liquor.”
Brian scrambles upright. “Shit, you’re right. And he’s coming to the party?”
“Oh, so now you’re interested?” Peter teases.
“Shut up.”
“‘Course he’s coming. See, what’d I tell you? This is totally our year.”
Brian pauses in consideration. “You think he’ll actually do it?”
“Oh yeah, he ain’t a narc or nothin’. Joe says Quagmire’s super cool.”
“Quagmire? That’s kind of a weird name.” Like something out of one of Peter’s comics, not anything a responsible parent would name their kid by choice.
“That’s what I said. Joe calls him that ‘cause of G.I. Joe or something, I dunno. It's like Joe-ception.”
“What?” Talking with Peter can be like pulling teeth sometimes. “None of what you’re saying makes any sense.”
“Yeah, it does. I think he was in the navy.”
“My God– are you talking about the G.I. bill?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“You know what– never mind. Sure. I’m not explaining that to you right now.”
Peter picks his comic back up, undeterred by any of what Brian said. If he was listening to begin with.
Brian leans his head against the door. “Friday it is.”
September 17th, 1999
By the time Friday rolls around, Brian’s just about crawling out of his skin. He’s been to Hot n’ Muggy every day since classes started with no sign of Glenn. He’s either got awful luck, or imagined the whole exchange under some sort of sleep-deprived caffeine-induced hallucination. Maybe he’s closer to losing it than he thought.
He isn’t sure exactly why he’s hellbent on running into him– maybe it’s an ego thing. A way to prove he’s not completely inept. Then he can forget about the whole thing and move on with his life.
At nine thirty, Cleveland knocks on their door, meaning his time to dwell on things has ended for the time being.
They're supposed to meet up with Joe and Quagmire at the party, which does little to calm Brian’s nerves.
It's not that he’s antisocial, no matter what Peter likes to imply thinking he's being helpful. Brian is perfectly capable of having real, intellectual discussions. The problem is no one around him wants that. A shitty college town like Quahog will never provide him with people worth meeting or conversations worth having— he doesn’t feel like going through the motions with Joe’s roommate, is all.
“Alright,” he says, drumming his hands on his thighs. “Let’s go. Are we ready to go?”
“Jeez, Brian, relax,” Peter calls from their bathroom. The door swings open and he steps out in a criminally unflattering denim-on-denim number. “Does this scream ‘I want you, Lois?’”
“It’s gonna make her scream, alright,” Brian mumbles.
Peter waves a flippant hand at him. “Cleveland?”
Cleveland shrugs.
“Aren’t your people supposed to be good at fashion?”
“Aren’t we supposed to be leaving?” Brian interjects.
“I just wear whatever,” Cleveland answers, tugging at the hem of his tie dye t-shirt. “No fashion shows for me.”
“Right, that’s what I need– confidence. Lois may be richer than me, and hotter than me, and have better connections.” He turns towards the mirror and starts messing with his cowlick.
“...But?” Brian prods.
“Oh yeah. Great ass, too.”
“Not what I meant,” he says, retreating to his bed in annoyance. “You let me know when you’re ready to go to the party you begged me to attend.”
“You’re three drinks into a party we’re not even at yet,” Peter retaliates.
“Beer doesn’t count! You made that rule yourself, dick.”
Peter turns to Cleveland and obnoxiously whispers, “Brian’s just mad because he finally found some guy who’s smarter than him.”
“Yeah, right,” he calls back. “He caught me on a bad day. And I’m not mad about it; I don’t care. Look, are we going or not?”
Cleveland laughs. “Brian, you are too funny.”
Whatever. He knows how to win this one.
“You know, if we wait too long there won’t be any booze left.”
Peter whips his head around the bathroom’s quarter-wall. “What are we waiting for?”
Greek Row is less than a mile from their dorm, which means they’re walking. Which is thrilling.
“I can’t believe no one’s written on our whiteboard yet,” Peter bemoans on their way out.
This sparks a debate with Cleveland about the best color of dry erase marker, which Brian is more than happy to stay out of. By the time they reach Alpha-Douchebag-whatever, the pair has agreed on red, and Brian's counting down the minutes until he can turn around and go home.
“We’re with Joe,” Peter says at the door, straightening his jacket. The jock letting people in looks a little guilty and waves them forward.
“Where is Joe, anyway?” Brian asks, looking around. He doesn’t know what he was expecting— it looks the same as always, floor sticky with beer, groups of guys playing pong while girls sit on the ends of couches and countertops twirling their hair and laughing at jokes that aren’t funny.
“Lighten up, he’s here somewhere.”
“Fine. Let’s find a drink, then.”
"Way ahead of ya."
He shouldn't have underestimated Peter's ability to procure alcohol. There's a beer in his hand the second the words leave his mouth.
Brian wrinkles his nose. “All we drink is beer. I meant–”
“Look, there’s Lois!” Peter shouts.
It'll have to do for now. Brian runs a hand through his hair and heads towards the stained carpet Lois and her friends are sitting on.
“Hey, Donna,” Cleveland says, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek as he joins the girls on the floor.
Donna's face softens upon seeing him. “Hey, handsome.”
They might be the only example of a healthy relationship Brian’s ever seen. It just about makes him sick.
“Lois, uh, you got anyone sittin’ there?” Peter asks, gesturing at the space next to her with his foot. He kicks over her can of Diet Coke in the process. “Ah geez, sorry,” he says, shrugging off his jacket and laying it over the stain. “There. That better?”
She giggles and gestures for Brian to come closer. The huddle the girls have formed on the carpet doesn't exactly leave him with a lot of room, especially with the addition of Peter and Cleveland, so he opts for kneeling behind her awkwardly.
“I’m so baked right now; I don’t even care!” She whisper-shouts in his ear.
He opens his mouth to respond, but she’s already turned back around, engrossed in whatever story Peter has begun telling.
Brian picks at a loose thread on the hem of his sweater. This frat is somehow nastier than any one he’s been in before, as if black mold and torn-up floorboards aren’t disgusting enough. The air in here is stale and sweaty, and he’s pretty sure they walked past a puddle of puke on the way in.
He isn't sure why he does this to himself. Coming to these things is never enjoyable, and all the constant movement and joviality only serves as a reminder of everything he lacks. Sometimes it feels like putting himself out there is more trouble than it's worth, especially when he's surrounded by so many big personalities.
“—And then I says to Brian, ‘why don’t they make yardstick length hotdogs?’, only Brian wasn’t listening, on account of his crying over The Monkees’ breakup, so I told him he’s thirty years too late, and that made him cry harder.”
“Gee, thanks Peter.”
Lois laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Brian, c’mon. That’s funny.” She hits Bonnie’s knee. “Bon, scoot over, let Brian sit with us before he starts crying.”
He shuffles into the space next to her, shoulders slumped in defeat. “You know me.”
It’s hard to stay mad at Lois, not when she's smiling like that. Her cheeks are flushed from the liquor, and she's real, real and beautiful—
—and making out with Peter. Great.
Someone passes him another beer, which he accepts graciously and tries to down as fast as possible. Anything that will make watching their on-again, off-again romance easier to stomach. He’s mentally running through places to toss his empty can when Joe enters his periphery.
“Hey guys, I’d like you to meet my roommate, Quagmire.” Joe gestures to the group. “Quagmire, guys.”
Brian stills. “Oh my God. Glenn?”
Peter pulls away from Lois and looks at Brian like he just said he won the lottery. “No freakin’ way. You didn’t tell me you know Quagmire already!”
“Peter, that– that’s Barista Douche.”
Glenn squints, confused. “I know you?”
“Wh– yes! The other day, you corrected me when I was ordering– which was a mistake anyone could make, by the way– and it was totally uncalled for.”
“Oh, maybe. We get a lot of customers, I don’t know.”
Quagmire begins introducing himself to the group, effectively ending the conversation and getting the last word. Damnnit.
“I don’t believe this,” Brian mutters.
Cleveland slides over to make room for Glenn on the carpet, and the girls are on him in an instant, pestering with a dozen unimportant questions and excuses to touch him.
“Gosh, ladies, you sure are swell,” he says with a laugh, leaning back on his hands like he's used to this sort of attention. Soaking it in like this isn’t a transparent attempt to curry favor with the group.
Brian leans over. “Can you believe this? He’s putting everyone on.”
”You’re right, his teeth are kinda screwed up,” Peter whispers back. “And I can’t believe I’m the one who has to tell you this, but don’t do anything stupid.”
“I’m just saying, what kind of self-respecting guy leaves the top three buttons of his shirt open?”
“Seriously Brian, don’t ruin this for us. I like him. You like him; he’s buying us booze, remember?”
Brian grumbles and sits back on his heels. It's starting to dawn on him that he might be tipsier than everyone else and he should probably shut his mouth before it gets him in trouble.
The show Glenn puts on is impressive; he’ll give him that. He’s emphatically telling a story about ‘the open ocean’ like he’s Ishmael and not a sleaze who’s conned nitwits into hanging on his every word.
It helps that he's something new amongst the never-ending staleness that is Quahog. They’ll get sick of him eventually. And not for nothing, he could use a haircut.
"I'm goin' to get more beers," Peter announces, oblivious to the way his so-called girlfriend has lost all interest in him. He lumbers off in search of the nearest cooler.
Glenn’s in his spot with a hand halfway up Lois’s thigh in five seconds flat.
Brian goes back to picking at the hem of his sweater. It's gonna be a long night.