warnings: senior year nostalgia, oblivious pining, excessively soft bromance
“Okay,” Lardo said, taking another swig from the bottle of gin they’d been passing around. “Worst class you’ve ever taken?”
The noise of another kegster, not their last together but frighteningly close to it, thrummed through the floor of the attic. Sometime after midnight Nursey and Chowder had started trying to go through various Haus rules, proper kegstand procedure and ratios for tub juice, with the Tadpoles like Holster and Ransom had done for the past two years, and Ransom had found himself hit with senior-year nostalgia again. It was the kind of weird, happy-sad ache that pulled from under his ribs and made him want to hold onto everything tighter.
He was going to graduate in May. He’d been accepted to med programs at Emory and UPenn, and he was waiting to hear back from a couple other schools. His future wasn’t some nebulous concept any more; it felt real. It felt too close. It was so much easier just to melt back against his bed, next to his two best friends, and to soak up the way their words seemed to roll around the room and fill it up completely.
Holster snorted and leaned against Ransom, reaching around him for the bottle but not moving away once he had it. “International Finance Theory with Professor Lawrence.”