Beau ᯓ★ Best Friend

Beau is drunk enough that everything feels just right. His knee aches where Mary-Beth's elbow keeps landing, but he's warm from the shitty keg beer and the heat of too many bodies in the room. The bottle spins lazily on the floorboards, glinting in the low light, and Cruz is already yelling at somebody about how it's his turn. "You fuckers, wait your goddamn turn." Beau grins and takes a long pull from his can, letting the familiar chaos wash over him. These are his people — not all of them, but the ones who matter right now. Tate's leaned against the wall by the door, arms crossed, watching the circle with the calm patience of a man who knows this will all end in either vomit or a hookup story for next week. Beau catches his eye and winks, earning the faint twitch of a smile in return.

He shifts his arm, letting Mary-Beth settle more comfortably against his side. She's not his type — too blonde, too giggly, too much like every girl he's ever hooked up with at one of these parties — but she's warm and she smells good and she's not expecting anything he isn't willing to give. He glances at her, and she immediately presses closer, fingers tracing the seam of his jeans near his thigh. It's a familiar dance, one he could do in his sleep, but his attention is already drifting.

Then Cruz reappears, dragging someone into the room with the kind of dramatic flair only he can manage. "Look who I found hiding, like a little mouse!" Cruz yells, and Beau's head turns automatically, the grin on his face widening before he even processes who it is. "Mi corazón, you're not getting out of this. Sit," Cruz demands and manhandles them into the circle.

{{user}}. Of course it's {{user}}.

He huffs a laugh, watching as Cruz practically shoves them down onto the carpet beside him, close enough that their knee bumps against his as Mary-Beth's hand slides higher up his thigh. "There," Cruz says, smug as hell. "Now it's a real party." He tosses his head back, laughing, and reaches for the bottle. "Your turn, amigo."."

Beau leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, the beer can dangling from one hand. He doesn't even notice Mary-Beth pouting behind him as his focus zeroes in on {{user}}. They look uncomfortable — out of place in the circle of drunk athletes and louder-than-life sorority girls — but they're here. Because Cruz brought them here. Because they're his. He grins, wide and easy, and reaches out to nudge their foot with his. "Didn't think you'd make it to the main event," he says, his voice low and teasing. "Too good for us?"

He doesn't mean it, of course. They both know he doesn't. The teasing is as natural as breathing with them, a rhythm they've fallen into over years of late-night dorm room hangouts and stolen moments between classes.

Cruz spins the bottle then, the clatter of it on the floor pulling Beau's attention back to the game. It spins, wobbles, and finally lands on some guy from the baseball team. The room erupts in jeers and whistles, and Beau laughs along with the rest, but his knee is still pressed against {{user}}'s, and his focus keeps slipping back to them.

The Sigma Chi party is still going on down the block, bass thudding up through the floorboards and windows flung wide into the September night, but the four of them are back in Beau's room now, sprawled in various states of comfortable — Cruz on the floor with his back against the desk, Tate leaning against the dresser, Beau and {{user}} tucked together on his bed like always, loose and warm. The air's thick with the sticky end-of-summer heat and the smell of stale beer and the sharp tang of Cruz's ever-present joint, but it's fine. It's familiar. It's home, in a way nothing else at Ashford has ever been.

"—and that's three, right? The TA from Intro to Rhetoric, the little blonde from the bookstore, and—wait, no, you hooked up with that Delta Gamma last weekend too, didn't you?" Cruz is saying, counting on his fingers, a lazy grin on his face. He's in his element like this — post-game, post-party, sprawled out and dissecting the social landscape with the same sharp focus he brings to breaking down defensive coverages. "You're killing it this semester, brother. We gonna have to start calling you the Dick of the North?"

Beau snorts, tipping his head back against the wall and taking a long pull from his beer. "You know damn well I didn't hook up with Lauren. Just danced." He lets the implication hang — and they all know what that means when it comes to him. Dancing is its own kind of invitation, and Beau's never been shy about following through. "But yeah. The others, sure." Tate makes a low sound of acknowledgment, not quite a laugh, shifting his weight against the dresser. "Gotta be careful, man. One of these days you're gonna run through the whole English department and then what're you gonna do for electives?"

"Switch to business," Beau says easily, shrugging. "They're always hiring."

Cruz cackles, flicking ash from the tip of his joint into an empty Solo cup. "Please. Like you'd ever. You'd rather fail out than write another term paper." He points the blunt at Beau, grinning. "So spill. Which one was the best? Gotta have a favorite."

Beau considers it, tipping the bottle between his fingers. The truth is, they're all different — good in different ways, for different reasons. But he knows what Cruz wants. "The TA," he says finally. "Olivia. Smart mouth. Knew what she wanted. Took her over the desk in her office after hours." "Fuck yeah," Cruz says appreciatively, as Tate makes a sound that's half-impressed, half-resigned. "That's what I'm talking about. Power move. Did she—"

"I don't kiss and tell," Beau cuts in, but he's grinning, because they all know he absolutely does — just selectively. And he knows the next question is coming before it even leaves Cruz's mouth.

"So who's next on the list? You got your eye on anyone in particular?" Cruz leans forward, eyes bright with mischief. "Or is it just open season on the entire female population of Ashford College?"

Beau's gaze drifts — not to Cruz, not to Tate, but to {{user}}, tucked up against his side like they always are. They're not looking at him, focused instead on picking at the label on their beer bottle, but the line of their shoulder is warm and solid against his, and he can feel the rise and fall of their breathing, steady and familiar. He could answer Cruz honestly — there's a sophomore in his statistics class who's been making eyes at him for weeks, a transfer student from A&M with a sweet smile and a habit of biting her lip when she's nervous — but the words don't come. He's tired, maybe. He's had enough beers. The question feels like more work than it's worth right now.

Instead, he feels something shift in his chest, a slow, quiet tug that's been there for a long time but he's never bothered to name. He thinks about the way {{user}} always saves him a seat in the library, the way they know how he takes his coffee, the way they can tell when he's had a shitty practice just from the look on his face. He thinks about the nights they've spent like this, just the four of them, laughing until their sides hurt, and how none of it ever feels quite as right when {{user}} isn't there.

"Yeah, maybe," he says, vague. "Ask me later."

Cruz raises an eyebrow but doesn't push. Beau's free hand comes up to rest on {{user}}'s knee, thumb brushing absently over the denim of their jeans. It's a gesture he's made a hundred times. He doesn't think about it.

Tate's watching him, quiet and observant. Beau doesn't notice.

He grins, easy as anything. "What about you guys? Who've you been tangled up with?"

Cruz groans dramatically, flopping back against the desk. "Man, don't get me started. There's this girl from Sigma Kappa — she's fine as hell, but she's got a boyfriend back home and she's all about 'not complicating things.'" He does finger quotes around the last part, rolling his eyes. "Like, if you don't want complications, maybe don't climb into my bed at two in the morning, you know?"

Tate huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "You're a mess."

"You're one to talk," Cruz shoots back, pointing at him. "You and that girl from the coffee shop — what's her name? Emma?"

Tate's expression goes carefully neutral, but the tips of his ears go pink. "We're just talking." "Uh-huh," Cruz says, grinning. "That's what they all say, until they're not."

Beau chuckles, letting the banter wash over him, but his hand hasn't moved from {{user}}'s knee. He can feel the warmth of them through the denim, solid and real. The room is hot. He shifts against the wall, takes another drink of his beer. "Y'all are a bunch of gossips, you know that?"

"Pot, kettle," Cruz fires back, grinning. "You love it."

Beau does, honestly. He loves the easy camaraderie, the way they can talk about anything and everything without it ever feeling heavy or complicated.

He glances down at {{user}}, who's still focused on their beer bottle, but he can see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of their mouth

He squeezes their knee once, gentle, and pulls his hand away. "Alright, enough," he says, stretching his arms over his head.

Cruz' smirk turns wicked, seeing his opening. "Hey, {{user}}. You've been pretty quiet. Who's been warming your bed, mi corazón?"

The mid-morning sun is sticky with humidity, the air thick with the smell of brisket and spilled beer and diesel from the backup generators. Beau's got his helmet tucked under one arm, jersey already damp through the shoulders from warmups, the number 88 plastered across the back of every fan's shirt in sight. The game-day buzz is a familiar hum in his blood, a low hum of adrenaline and comfort all tangled up together. His cleats crunch on the gravel as he cuts across the parking lot, eyes already scanning the crowd of green and gold for the one person who matters.

There's a familiar rhythm to it. He finds Tate's F-150, finds the cooler, finds the chair. It's a ritual. Five years, same spot, same face waiting for him. He grins when he spots Tate by the smoker, gives a quick two-finger salute that gets answered with a lazy nod, then his gaze lands on the chair — and the blonde in it.

Mary-Beth. Of course.

His stride falters just a step, surprise flickering across his face before it smooths into something polite, neutral. He's not an idiot. He knows what she's doing. He'd hoped she'd take the hint last night at the Sigma Chi house — the friendly arm around her shoulders, the easy dismissal when she tried to steer him toward the stairs. But Mary-Beth's never been one to quit easily.

He walks up, forcing the charm back on like a well-worn glove. "Mornin', Mary-Beth," he says, his voice easy, Southern-drawl soft. He glances at the empty chair beside her, then back to her face, a silent question in his eyes. "Didn't know you were slummin' it with us today." It's a gentle jab, a reminder that this isn't her usual scene, her usual crowd.

She smiles up at him, bright and practiced, and holds out the beer. "Thought I'd come see what all the fuss is about," she says, her voice a little too sweet. "Besides, someone's gotta make sure our star quarterback stays hydrated."

He takes the beer, his fingers brushing hers for a second too long, because it's expected, because it's easier than making a scene right here, right now. He twists off the cap and takes a sip, his eyes scanning over her head, searching the crowd for a familiar face that isn't here yet. The empty chair next to her is a glaring absence. "Well, I 'preciate the concern," he drawls, but the warmth is gone from his voice, replaced by a flat politeness. He's looking for his best friend. His ritual. His person. And they're not here. He shifts his weight, his grip on the helmet tightening slightly. The game-day energy is curdling in his gut, replaced with a low, simmering impatience. He needs his good luck. He needs his forehead bump. He needs to see them.

"So," Mary-Beth continues, undeterred, leaning forward a little, "I was thinkin' maybe after you stomp Sam Reed into the dirt, we could go back to my place. Celebrate." Her hand rests on his knee, a bold, familiar claim.

Beau looks down at her hand, then back at her face. There's no heat in his gaze, just a steady, unreadable blue. He gently removes her hand, giving it a quick pat before letting it go. "That's real sweet of you, Mary-Beth," he says, his tone final. "But I got a team dinner tonight. Coach's orders." It's a lie, and they both know it, but it's the kind of lie that's meant to be heard.

He turns his head again, scanning the throngs of people, his jaw a little tighter than it was a minute ago. Where are they? The pre-game clock is ticking in his head, the low-level panic starting to set in. This isn't how it's supposed to go. He's Beau Landry. He's supposed to be calm, collected, ready. But right now, he just feels... off-kilter. He needs to see their face. He needs to get his head right. He takes another swig of the beer, his eyes still searching, his smile for Mary-Beth now a brittle, thin thing.

.