It was Saturday afternoon.
The dorm was quiet for once. Sunlight poured in through the window, spilling across the carpet like a warm sigh. Julian sat cross-legged on the floor with his laptop open, camera equipment scattered haphazardly around him like pieces of an unsolvable puzzle. His brows were furrowed, lips pressed tight in concentration—or panic.
Thomas sat on the bed, legs crossed neatly, back straight, watching him from above his book. He hadn't said much, just the occasional sigh every time Julian cursed under his breath.
Julian groaned for the fifth time in twenty minutes. "This is it. This is how I die. Drowned in footage I don't know how to use and ideas I don't know how to film."
"You're exaggerating," Thomas said dryly, flipping a page.
"No. I'm spiraling." Julian dropped onto his back, arms sprawled wide. "There's a difference."
Thomas glanced over the edge of the book. "Have you even written a script?"
Julian blinked up at the ceiling. "…No."
Thomas lowered the book, resting it on his lap. "Then maybe start there."
"Genius." Julian sat up dramatically. "And what would I even write about? What documentary topic screams, 'I'm smart and passionate but also not completely losing my mind'?"
Thomas shrugged. "You like art."
"That's too vague. It needs to be meaningful, memorable. It needs to say something."
Thomas looked at him for a long beat, then said quietly, "Then say something real."
Julian blinked.
Thomas continued, eyes still on him. "Pick something that matters to you. Even if it's small."
Julian stared at him for a moment, something soft flickering behind his usual dramatic mask. "You… actually give decent advice sometimes."
"I regret saying anything now."
Julian grinned, leaning forward and grabbing his notebook. "No, no, it's too late. You're involved now. You're emotionally implicated in this project."
Thomas frowned. "I'm not."
"You are," Julian said with a dramatic scribble. "You're my muse now. Sit still, look brooding."
Thomas rolled his eyes. "You're impossible."
"And yet," Julian said sweetly, "you're still here."
Thomas didn't answer. But he didn't leave either.
Julian tapped his pen against his lip, muttering to himself. "Maybe I can do something about emotional contrast. The quiet between people. The space between words."
Thomas looked up. "What does that even mean?"
"I don't know," Julian admitted, laughing softly. "But it sounds artsy."
There was a beat of silence between them, the kind that felt oddly full. Then Julian peeked up at Thomas again, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Hey."
Thomas met his eyes. "What."
"Thanks," Julian said, voice quieter now, more sincere. "For helping. Even if you're doing it with your usual cold heart and deadpan tone."
Thomas held his gaze, then finally muttered, "Shut up and write."
Julian grinned wider, turning back to his notes. "See? You do care."
Thomas looked away, opening his book again. But his page didn't turn for a while.
And in the hush of the room, filled only by Julian's quiet pen scratches and the distant hum of the world outside, something unspoken rested easy between them.
Not quite closeness.
But the beginning of it.