Third Person's POV.
Life on campus quickly settled into a routine that felt deceptively normal for Gemini, though the foundation of his new situation with Percy was anything but. Days when he wasn't at Percy's place were a familiar mix of lectures and hanging out with Ohio. They'd still grab coffee together, where Ohio would loudly analyze every one of Gemini's interactions with Percy, much to Gemini's amusement.
Gemini continued his part-time job at the Crestwood Greens. The work remained simple, and the wealthy members remained obsessed with him. It was a structured, low-stress routine that balanced out the heavy demands of his major.
They ran into Mark occasionally—usually during lunch hours on the quad. Mark would offer quick tips on how to handle Percy's bossy behavior, a brief acknowledgment of the strange living arrangement, before launching into a loud complaint about an assignment or an even louder, more insistent flirtation with Ohio.
The biggest change, however, was in their social life. Having accepted their physical closeness, Percy seemed to take the next logical step: full social integration. He started bringing Gemini to hang out with his friends. These were not casual gatherings; they were sophisticated, often exclusive events: quiet dinners at high-end restaurants, or late-night study sessions in the faculty lounge reserved for upperclassmen.
Penelope, having caught them in the infamous sofa cuddle, have continued treating Gemini with a warm, sisterly amusement that was surprisingly endearing. She'd tease Percy mercilessly about his "plus-one requirement" but was fiercely protective of Gemini within their social circle.
Cole and Daphne, especially Daphne, were polite but distant. The group knew Percy was rarely this invested in another human being, and their interactions with Gemini were still tinged with curiosity and reservation, clearly wondering about the true nature of the relationship Percy refused to define.
During one study session, while Percy was briefly out of the room, Cole leaned across the table toward Gemini. "So, the question everyone has," Cole murmured, keeping his voice low, "is whether Percy is treating you like an assistant or a fiancé. Because with him, the level of intensity is exactly the same."
Gemini could only manage a flustered shrug, realizing that his quiet acceptance of the physical contact had made him an official mystery within Percy's world. He was still confused about the nature of their relationship, but now, the entire group seemed to be watching, waiting for an answer he didn't have.
How could Gemini provide them with an answer? They weren't dating, they hadn't had any emotional conversations beyond the apology after the fever episode, and Percy still acts like he used to. The only difference is that, they were now physically inseparable.
If Gemini was working on an assignment, Percy would sit so close their thighs touched. If they were watching a movie, Percy's arm would settle behind Gemini's head, his fingers occasionally tracing patterns on Gemini's shoulder. It wasn't sexual; it was simply a demand for proximity—a silent declaration that this was their new, required space.
Gemini couldn't bring himself to ask Percy anything. The questions—Why are you doing this? What are we?—felt too massive, too risky. He was terrified of shaking the delicate equilibrium they'd found. Asking would mean forcing a definition, and a definition might mean an end to the comfortable intimacy. He preferred the confusing, safe closeness to the clarity of a potential rejection.
Instead of initiating a difficult conversation, Gemini simply accepted the physical contact Percy was now very comfortable with. It became his new normal. He found himself leaning into it, too. When they were sharing the large bed, he no longer held his breath or froze up when Percy inevitably shifted closer; he relaxed into the solid, warm presence beside him. The weight of Percy's hand resting on his knee while they talked became less a surprise and more an expected comfort.
One evening, they were reviewing some design drafts together. Percy was explaining a complex structural concept, leaning over Gemini's shoulder. Unconsciously, Gemini leaned back, settling his head against Percy's chest. The action was automatic, the result of weeks of proximity. Percy didn't pause his explanation. He simply tightened his arm across Gemini's chest for a moment—a brief, possessive squeeze—before pointing back to the diagram.
It was an unspoken surrender on Gemini's part: he didn't understand the rules, but he understood the comfort. He had chosen the confusing, silent security of Percy's physical demand over the anxiety of a confrontation. The student who craved structure was now living entirely without it, held together only by the constant, solid support of the third-year student beside him.
What is the worst that can happen?