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It’s the hair. It’s definitely the hair.
Cecil tries not to stare, he really does, but that’s easier said than carried out when he’s stuck behind some god of silken locks. And oh, when he turns just slightly to the left… Now it’s worse. It’s infinitely worse. This asshole; he’s hot, unreasonably so. Take me, I’m yours, Cecil does not say.
He thinks it, though. He thinks it with all the intensity of a brushfire.
The guy reaches over the grocery-lined conveyor belt, his fingers lingering above a shelf of gum. As he studies the selection, Cecil studies him—the little curls spilling over his forehead, the pearl stud in his earlobe, the hipster-thick frames of his glasses. The contrast of skin against pristine white labcoat. It’s too much; he’s too much. Cecil forces his gaze away.
And now he’s staring at this guy’s hands.
To be fair, they’re enchanting, as enchanting as the rest of him—strong-looking and dark, speckled with scars. His fingers pry free a pack of lavender gum, and Cecil admires the curve of his knuckles, the tidy edges of his fingernails. Cecil would love to hold those hands, to examine them more closely at his leisure. He could spend hours describing them, he thinks. Maybe he will, the next time he’s writing.
He shakes his head; he’s being weird. Cecil knows he’s weird, but he needs to stop before someone else notices. Most people don’t take kindly to creepy stares from total strangers.
As the conveyor moves forward, Cecil concentrates on putting down a divider, unloading the meager contents of his basket. He doesn’t have much, just the study-essentials: coffee, granola bars, jerky, a soda. The guy ahead of him has a similar selection. Well, minus the jerky. Plus carrots and apples. But he does have a soda, the same brand and everything. Cecil almost yelps at the label.
“Hey!” he says, surprised into speech, “my name’s Cecil! That’s my name!” A nanosecond later, his brain catches up, flooding his cheeks with mortified heat. “I mean. Your Coke. Your Coke has my name on it.”
The guy glances back; his smile is amazing. He’s got the straightest teeth Cecil’s ever seen. “What, mine?” he says, looking down again. The pads of his fingers brush against plastic.
“Yeah,” says Cecil. There’s a rasp in his voice. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, uh. Sorry. I guess that was weird.”
“Nah,” says the guy. The cashier starts to ring up his items; he fishes a wallet from his faded jeans. “You too, huh? The study food, I mean.”
“Oh, um, yeah. I’ve got finals through Friday.”
The guy grins. “Me, too. My roommate’s done Tuesday; I totally hate him.”
“Mine’s out after Monday. Can’t come soon enough.”
When he laughs, the guy crinkles the corners of his eyes, his brown irises sparkling behind his glasses. He swipes his card without breaking their gaze. “Been there before. Roommate from hell?”
“Pretty much,” Cecil says, but he grins nonetheless. That smile is infectious. Especially when the guy grabs his bag of groceries but makes no attempt at a hasty retreat. Cecil forces his voice to maintain a normal pitch. “I’m Cecil,” he says, offering a hand. “Which you may or may not have noticed already.”
The guy takes his hand and shakes briefly, still smiling. His skin is cool and slightly rough; Cecil lets go with the greatest reluctance.
“Carlos,” he says. “Good to meet you, Cecil.”
A faint, bell-high laugh breaks into their focus; mirrored, they swivel to face the cashier. She stifles her giggles behind her long fingers. “Sorry,” she says, twirling her hand as though to shoo the laughter behind her. “Not to interrupt; it’s just your name. I mean, jeez, it’s like a fanfic or something.”
“Huh?” says Cecil, like the hard-hitting journalism major he is.
In response, the cashier scans his last item, then hands it to Carlos, the label facing up.
“Oh!” Carlos laughs. “Your Coke has my name.”
“No way!”
“Yes way.”
“That is balls-crazy weird!”
The cashier snorts through a fresh wave of giggles, and Carlos huffs a faint, surprised chuckle. Cecil can’t quite find the will to be embarrassed, not with the way Carlos elbows him gently, pressing the Coke into Cecil’s hands. “We need a picture,” Carlos says.
The cashier counts out Cecil’s change. “I’ll take it,” she says, “but you have to promise to drink those together. The universe basically commanded you to hang out.”
Carlos shrugs and hands over his phone. “Well, I mean, if the universe says so. A scientist never questions the universe.” He pauses, brow furrowing, then scrubs at his hair. “Except for all the time, I guess.”
Cecil grins and throws an arm around Carlos, holding his Coke out for the camera. Carlos plucks his soda from the bag, then mimics Cecil, leaning into the frame. The cashier taps the touchscreen twice. “Awesome,” she says. “Like, what are the odds?”
“Highly unlikely,” Carlos says. “Thanks, uh…”
“Dana.”
Cecil beams. “Thanks, Dana.”
Dana hands back the phone, then points at them both. “I mean it! You’ve gotta drink those together.” She winks at Cecil; his stomach flips. “And if you end up married, invite me to the wedding!”
Carlos flashes a dazzling smile; Cecil tries not to swoon at the sight. Dana waves before turning to greet the next customer. As they hit the sidewalk, to Cecil’s delight, Carlos falls into step beside him. Go big or go home, Cecil thinks, breathing deep.
“Well, I don’t know about weddings,” says Cecil, “but I thought I’d stop at the Union for coffee. If you wanted to join me? Possibly? Maybe?” He clears his throat and something tickles; desperately, he tries to force back a cough.
“I thought we were having soda together.”
Cecil blushes. “Oh, uh. Well. We could do that.”
“But then,” Carlos muses, tapping his chin, “if we had coffee now, we could postpone the sodas. Which would give me an excuse to see you again.” He smiles, and everything about him is perfect, and Cecil—gods help him—falls in love instantly.
“Yes,” Cecil gushes. “I approve of this plan.”
Carlos exhales dramatically, bumping their shoulders, his labcoat fluttering as he moves. “Thank Rosalind Franklin. I couldn’t tell if that was smooth or pathetic.”
“Definitely smooth. Way smoother than me. Like, seriously, I opened with ‘my name’s on your Coke.’”
Carlos laughs; it makes Cecil’s heart feel all fluttery. “I’m glad it was. I thought you were cute.”
Regardless of things like logic or gravity, Cecil could swear that his feet leave the ground. “I was totally staring. I thought you were, too.”
Together, they make their way across campus, two bottles of Coke gurgling between them.