Elliot Wright x Monroe Astor | What Is This Feeling? Chapter 1 + 2
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Tags Enemies to Lovers, Roommates Who Loathe (Love) Eachother, Inspired by Wicked, Song: What Is This Feeling (Wicked), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting cause movie was set in 98, Sexual Tension, Love/Hate, Banter, Drugs, Sex mentioned, like a lot actually, Monroe Astor is a hoe, Will Astor being best boi and cousin, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Hedonism, Elliot Wright is coked out, Monroe Astor is brat, Monroe Astor-centric, implied catholic guilt, Monroe and Elliot are GELPHIE coded, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Not Beta Read We End Like The Symposium, I lied this is somewhat beta read
Summary:
Monroe Astor has never had a roommate before unless sleeping over after sex counts. Elliot Wright unfortunately has to live with him. Read as one of them tries not to perish from peril or fall deeply for the other. or Elliot & Monroe finally fulfill Glinda & Elphaba's enemies roommates to lovers arc.
Content Rating: Teen and Up.
Wordcount: 7,105
Notes: (Recommend y'all read on ao3 for better reading experience)
Hi, I'm Ace currently in my 'Descendants' writing era. But I'm branching out posting and writing gay shit for other fandoms.
I am finally here to post my 'Glory & Gore' fic. I've been trying to make a work worthy of publishing and I think this one's pretty nice. Writing for G&G was very out of my comfort zone but I injected my Midas Touch to it.
I've been trying to write a MonroeElliot fic since I saw the piano scene in early December. I eventually landed with mixing both of my hyperfixations 'Wikced' (2024) and 'Glory & Gore' (2024) and BAMM!!! This was made. Special thanks to my editor and proofreader who tolerated me ranting about Monroe and Elliot against their will.
If you are reading this on tumblr ahhh thank you!!! Feedback is greatly appreciated and feel free to comment anything. Triggers read the tags above.
Chapter 1: First Day
“Will, you can’t do this to me!” Monroe’s voice rang out dramatically, reverberating off the high ceilings of the dormitory’s common area.
The room, lavishly decorated compared to the other dorms on campus, was quintessentially Astor. It had mahogany paneling, gold accents on the molding, and a tasteful but insistent display of old money.
Monroe paced the space like a tortured poet, one hand on his forehead for dramatic effect, the other clutching the back of a leather armchair as though it was the only thing with a gravitational force.
“Auntie said—”
“Yes, that we were supposed to room together,” Will interjected, sounding resigned, his hand ran through his perfectly coiffed hair—an Astor tell of mild irritation. “But Dad said one of us has to room with one of the scholars. It’s Astor family tradition.”
“Tradition?” Monroe scoffed, throwing his arms out as if the word offended him on principle. “Can’t you just tell your dad that you roomed with said charity case—”
“Monroe, you can’t say that about…” Will paused, glancing down at the email open on his phone. “Sinclair.”
Monroe folded his arms, eyebrows furrowing like a petulant child denied dessert. “Fine. Room with this Sinclair guy. But can’t I at least live alone? A private suite? Surely I’ve earned that much.” His tone was borderline pleading now, carrying an undertone of exasperation that only he could manage to make sound bearable.
“You do realize this isn’t the Hamptons, right?” Will countered, an edge of amusement creeping into his voice. “This is a dormitory.”
“It’s our family’s dorm building. The last name is plastered all over this place!” Monroe retorted as he pointed to the Astor crest etched into the fireplace mantle.
“Exactly. Which is why you’re staying here,” Will said firmly. He tucked his phone away and crossed his arms, channeling his older sibling-energy even though Monroe had him beat by a few months. “You may be older than me, but Mom said I’m in charge.”
Monroe opened his mouth to argue but Will cut him off with a raised hand.
“Before you say anything else, no, you cannot live off-campus. My parents would track you down and drag you back here.”
“Can I at least—”
“No, you cannot convert the common room into your private suite,” Will interrupted, barely suppressing a smirk. “It’s either you stay in the Astor building or move to other housing, which probably means more roommates. So don’t be dramatic.”
“You’re the dramatic one,” Monroe shot back, his tone dripping with indignation. “You should have enrolled in a theater arts program instead of whatever boring degree you’re pursuing.”
Will rolled his eyes, adjusting the cuffs of his pressed shirt with an air of practiced patience. “Well, if I had, who would take over the family business?”
“Well, I didn’t convince anyone to let me study music theory. I just refused to apply for anything else.” The ebony-haired teen said this with pride like it was some grand act of rebellion.
Monroe’s impractical pursuit of music theory was tolerated only because, as Will had put it once, What’s the point of being rich if you can’t indulge in hobbies that will never pay the bills? That didn’t stop their relatives from complaining about it at every family gathering, though.
“God, why does this have to be so hard?”
“Cous, we haven’t even started classes yet,” Will pointed out. “Come on, let’s go grab our stuff and settle in. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Fine. But if this Sinclair guy is a slob who snores, or listens to bad music, I promise I’m moving back in with you. Family tradition be damned.”
“Duly noted,” Will replied, his lips twitching into a small, knowing smile as he led the way out of the room.
As much as Monroe’s dramatics could be exhausting, Will couldn’t help but feel protective of his cousin. Monroe had always been a little too soft for their world of tailored suits and cutthroat business deals.
The Astor family’s business empire, Astor & Co., had its hands in everything from finance to backing high-end fashion designers and art galleries. Will was already being groomed to take over, while Monroe’s future in the family enterprise was… unclear, to put it generously.
For now, Will was content to keep an eye on his cousin and make sure he didn’t self-destruct before midterms.
As they walked through the halls of the Astor Dormitory, Monroe couldn’t help but glance at his reflection in the polished windows. He ran a hand through his perfectly coiffed curls, adjusting his posture. If he was going to be forced to room with some random stranger, he might as well make a good first impression.
“I still think I should get a private suite,” Monroe muttered under his breath.
Will didn’t bother turning around. “Let it go, Monroe.”
“Never,” Monroe shot back, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. Despite his protests, he knew Will was right. He always was.
Monroe Astor was starting to think maybe this wasn’t going to be as terrible as he thought. What were the odds? Maybe his roommate was a no-show, and he’d have the room to himself. His own little kingdom in the middle of Kingsbridge College. Private, quiet, untouched. Perfect.
Except, of course, for the fact that the lock was stubborn as hell. He jiggled the key multiple times, huffing dramatically before realizing something. The door wasn’t locked.
It was already open.
His new home was, admittedly, a step up from the cramped dorms he'd feared. The room was spacious, with white paneling that lent a modern touch to the classic architecture, and the lighting was warm—almost candlelit-like, with a soft golden glow that reflected off the polished floors.
He strode in, deciding immediately on the left side of the room. It had the best view, the city skyline stretching out beyond the window, with the faint buzz of life below. It would be the perfect spot for his piano once it arrived.
Monroe was lost in the music as he began unloading his luggage. Bag after bag, suitcase after suitcase. If the floor started groaning under the weight of his overpacking, he didn’t notice. Headphones in place, he bopped along to some classic 60s rock.
He was lost in his world, imagining how he’d decorate the room, when—
“ Astor? ”
A voice cut through his haze, punctuated by a snap of fingers in front of his face.
“ Aghh! ” Monroe let out a shriek that echoed down the hall, no doubt alarming Will, who was unpacking two doors away. He yanked his headphones back to his neck as if the voice had physically touched him. “Jesus Christ, I didn’t see you there!” he breathed, his heart pounding.
Leaning casually against the doorframe was a guy about his height, pale as moonlight and sporting a mustache that seemed more ironic than intentional. He wore a chunky brown sweater that looked brand new but smelled faintly of weed and… something else Monroe couldn’t quite place. Bad decisions, perhaps.
“What am I? A ghost?” the guy quipped, his voice low and dry, one eyebrow arched like he’d been amused by Monroe’s shriek.
“You’re as pale as one,” Monroe shot back, regaining his composure. “You could’ve knocked.”
“I did.” The guy rolled his eyes but he looked vaguely amused. “You were too busy… doing that.” He gestured vaguely at the headphones still dangling from Monroe’s neck.
“Oh.” Monroe straightened himself, “What are you doing here, anyway? What do you want?” The shorter boy asked, sounding more accusatory than curious.
The guy didn’t flinch at Monroe’s sharp tone. Instead, he smirked—a slow, infuriating kind of smirk. “If your last name is Astor, that means you’re my roommate.”
Monroe froze, his stomach dropping. “Oh.”
Oh. Oh no.
At that moment, he wanted to die. Or better yet, lock himself in a convent and commit to a life of prayer and solitude. The level of assholery he’d just displayed to someone he was about to live with was beyond unacceptable.
“You’re Wright?” Monroe asked, his voice quieter now, tinged with disbelief.
“No,” the guy said flatly. “I’m wrong.”
Monroe blinked, his jaw tightening. “I’m being serious here.”
“Weird last name, but I won’t judge,” the other man teased, his infuriatingly sly smile lighting up his face. Monroe wasn’t amused one bit.
“I—” Monroe was about to respond when the guy added, “Pipe down. I was joking. Seems like you’re not the joking type,” the guy said, sliding his hands into his sweater pockets.
Monroe’s nostrils flared as the guy extended a hand lazily, “I’m Elliot Wright. As in Edgar Wright, if you’ve got taste.” Monroe has seen Edgar Wright films but he doesn’t give a fuck who that is.
Monroe stared at the hand for a second longer than necessary before shaking it reluctantly. “Monroe Astor. As in Marilyn Monroe.”
Elliot snorted. “Makes sense.”
Monroe stepped aside, gesturing awkwardly toward the room. “Well… help yourself. More of my stuff will be arriving soon.”
Elliot stepped in and immediately froze, his eyes widening as he took in the sheer amount of luggage scattered across the room. “ More ?” he echoed, as if he hadn’t heard him right. “
Monroe shrugged, entirely unfazed. “I pack light.”
Elliot blinked, utterly breathless, but decided not to comment. Instead, he moved toward the right side of the room, tossing his duffel bag on the bed and plopping down his suitcase with a sort of ease that made Monroe's brow twitch.
Trying to lighten the mood, Monroe leaned against his bedpost and asked, “So, Elliot… I take it you’re into the whole ‘starving artist’ thing?”
Elliot gave him a look, unamused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, you know,” Monroe said, trying for a charming grin. “The whole... sweater, weed smell, tortured soul thing you’ve got going on. You strike me as a creative type who doesn’t care about material things. Let me guess, you’re a musician? Or… a poet?”
Elliot’s eyes narrowed, his smirk fading into something colder. “I like all of those things,” he said flatly, his tone making it clear he wasn’t amused by the observation.
“Well, that’s cool! I’m a hedonist myself, so I get it,” Monroe replied, brushing off the tension with a laugh. “I mean, we’ve all got our vices, right? Yours just happens to be…” He made a vague gesture, as though trying to find the right word. “…Substances.”
Elliot stiffened, his jaw tightening. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his gaze hardening into something unreadable. Then, in a clipped tone, he said, “Right. Substances. Sure.”
The atmosphere in the room shifted palpably. Elliot turned away, rifling through his duffel bag, clearly shutting down whatever conversation Monroe had been trying to have.
Monroe frowned, watching him in confusion. He hadn’t meant anything by it. Why was Elliot reacting like that?
“You know, it’s not a big deal,” Monroe offered, attempting to smooth things over. “Everyone’s got their thing, right? No judgment here.”
Elliot didn’t look up, his voice sharp. “Cool. Thanks.”
Monroe felt a pang of irritation. What the hell was his problem? But instead of pressing the issue, he let it drop, though the unease lingered like the smell of cigarettes that would soon become synonymous with their shared space.
“You said what to him?” Will exclaimed, his fork paused halfway into his mouth, a piece of medium-rare steak speared on the end.
Monroe waved him off, stabbing at his roasted potatoes with exaggerated nonchalance. “It’s not that bad.” He chewed with a smugness that suggested he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else.
Will set his fork down with a clatter, leaning forward like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “You essentially called him —” He lowered his voice but emphasized the words, “a junkie —, casually, as if you were saying hello.”
Monroe shrugged. “It’s not like I meant it seriously. People say stuff like that all the time.”
Will leaned back in his chair, giving his cousin a withering look. “Good luck living with him after that little Freudian slip. You’ve officially made it weird.”
“Can’t I just move away from the…” Monroe dropped his voice to a whisper, glancing around like Elliot Wright himself might materialize out of thin air. “ Alleged drug dealer? ”
Will arched an eyebrow, reaching for his water glass. “There are no more rooms open. The entire floor is occupied. Everyone else seems to be capable of cohabiting without offending their roommates.”
“This floorplan sucks ass.”
Will sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely concealed amusement. “Monroe, you can’t just casually insult our deceased grandfather over dorm layouts.”
Monroe shrugged. “Doesn’t stop me from hating the building. Or him. Honestly, for all I care, he can die in a ditch.”
“ He’s already passed, ” Will pointed out, biting back a laugh.
“And yet I’m still annoyed,”
Will shook his head, amused despite himself. Their grandfather had built the dormitory decades ago, though he’d always had a particular disdain for Monroe, claiming he lacked focus and a shred of discipline. On the other hand, he adored Will, much to Monroe’s enduring irritation.
“This is ludicrous.”
“You’re ludicrous,” Monroe shot back petulantly before changing the subject with the grace of a socialite dodging scandal. “How’s your new roomie?”
Will hesitated, glancing down at his plate and cutting into his steak as though it were suddenly fascinating. His voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s a senior.”
Monroe’s fork paused mid-air. “Why are you whispering?”
Will glanced around the restaurant like he expected his new roommate to materialize out of thin air. “I don’t know. I feel like he’ll hear me or something.”
“Your roommate sounds like a weirdo.”
“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you and how you’re going to survive living with your roommate after you implied. Oh, I don’t know, he is in into substances .”
“Again with this, I was being cordial!” Monroe defended, his voice pitching slightly as his indignation grew. “Besides, it’s not like he hasn’t heard worse. And I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just… conversational.”
“Conversational?” Will repeated,. “You basically insulted the guy’s entire existence. It’s a miracle he didn’t pack his bags right then and there.”
Monroe sighed, tilting his head back dramatically. “Why is it always me? I don’t ask for much, you know. Just a private suite and a roommate who doesn’t look like he’s seen the inside of a jail cell.”
Will snorted, reaching for his water glass. “Well, Astor, you’ve got neither. So I’d suggest figuring out how to make it work before he poisons your toothpaste or something.”
Monroe glared at him, muttering under his breath. “My life is so hard.”
Will just laughed, shaking his head.
Monroe stumbled into the shared dormitory with all the grace of someone who had, frankly, had a night. His shirt was unbuttoned, his hair a mess of post-threesome chaos, and his tie hung limply around his neck.
He kicked the door closed behind him, narrowly missing the doorframe, and began stripping as he moved. First the jacket, which he tossed somewhere onto a chair, then the belt, which clattered to the floor in a haphazard coil. By the time he reached his side of the room, he was down to his tank and boxers.
He swayed slightly as he moved toward his desk, where his meticulously curated collection of skincare products gleamed under the faint light of his beloved vanity mirror.
For all his indulgences, Monroe would never dare skip his nighttime routine. He was many things—chaotic, entitled, undeniably for the streets—but neglectful of his skin was not one of them.
As he began applying toner with slightly unsteady hands, a voice drifted from the other side of the room.
“Hello…?”
Monroe froze, his heart nearly leaping out of his chest. Oh, right. He had a roommate now.
“ hOlY shIT, YOu ScAreD Me, ” he whisper-shouted, his voice breaking in his panic. He clutched his toner bottle like it might somehow protect him from… well, his roommate.
From the other bed, Elliot shifted, his voice groggy and slurred. “What? What time’sit?”
Monroe squinted at the grandfather clock his grandmother bought him, though his attention was more on the shadowy figure of Elliot lying in bed. “Uh… like… midnight? Maybe later? Why are you awake?”
“I wasn’t awake,” Elliot muttered, his voice heavy with exhaustion and irritation. “You’re loud as hell.”
“Well, excuse me, ” Monroe huffed, grabbing his moisturizer and dabbing it aggressively onto his cheeks. “You’re the one who’s always scaring me. It’s honestly creepy”
Elliot groaned, rolling onto his side to face Monroe. His hair was mussed, and his sweater—which he hadn’t bothered to take off before crashing into bed—hung loosely around his shoulders. His face, even in the dim light, was etched with annoyance.
“Fun?” he echoed, his voice still gravelly with sleep. “Is that what you call… whatever the hell you’re doing?”
“Yes,” Monroe snapped, now applying under-eye cream with a flourish. “ Fun. Ever heard of it, Mr. Antisocial? It’s what people do when they’re not moping in bed all day.”
Elliot’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but close enough to be infuriating. “You look like you’ve been hit by a car. Twice.”
Monroe paused, one hand hovering over his vanity. He turned to glare at Elliot. “I have been kissed aggressively by two very attractive girls tonight, thank you very much. I’m glowing.”
“Sure,” Elliot said, his voice flat but his eyes glittering with something Monroe couldn’t quite place. “Glowing like a dumpster fire.”
Monroe gasped, clutching his chest. “How dare you!”
Elliot groaned again, rolling onto his back and draping an arm over his eyes. “God, just finish whatever you’re doing and go to sleep.”
Monroe sniffed, dabbing his face one last time before capping his moisturizer. “For your information, this ”—he gestured at his reflection in the vanity mirror—“is the reason people want to kiss me aggressively. You could take a few notes, Wright.”
Elliot cracked one eye open, his gaze sliding to Monroe’s reflection. “You talk about yourself like you’re the eighth wonder of the world.”
“I am,” Monroe said with a smug grin, switching off the vanity light—except for the glowing border of the Hollywood-style bulbs. He wasn’t about to sleep without his sacred mirror lit. “And I’m the perfect nightlight, too.”
Elliot groaned softly. “Turn that thing off.”
“No,” Monroe said simply, climbing into bed and fluffing his pillows with a level of satisfaction that bordered on theatrical. “I like falling asleep looking at myself. Who wouldn’t?”
“You’re unbelievable,” Elliot muttered, turning onto his side to face the wall, the glow of the mirror reflecting off his pale skin.
“And you’re loud,” Monroe shot back, though his words were muffled by his pillow.
Elliot turned his head slightly, staring at the soft glow of the vanity mirror as it illuminated Monroe’s features, casting him in a warm light that made him look far too angelic for someone so obnoxious. It was annoying. It was distracting. It was Monroe.
And it made it impossible to fall back asleep.
“ Turn it off, ” Elliot grumbled again.
Monroe didn’t respond. He was already asleep, a faint smile tugging at his lips, blissfully unaware of Elliot’s scowl and the buzzing tension that filled the room.
Chapter 2: A Week Before Class
Monroe was knee-deep in the sacred art of organizing his wardrobe. His jackets were draped across the bed, arranged by material: corduroy, wool, cashmere, and that one black leather jacket that he stole from Will because it looked better on him.
Scarves were meticulously folded and color-coded on his bed, and an assortment of ties, watches, and other accessories glinted in the golden light from his vanity mirror. The room looked less like a shared dormitory and more like a Ralph Lauren store.
Monroe was entirely engrossed, lifting a cashmere scarf to inspect how the fabric shifted under natural light. He tilted it slightly, then furrowed his brows, whispering, “Hmm, maybe too matte…”
Then, out of nowhere, a hand waved in front of his face.
“ Aghh! ” Monroe let out a startled shriek, quickly smothering it with a series of coughs that fooled no one. “What?”
His new roomie Elliot Wright stood before him, leaning against the edge of the bed with the kind of lazy, nonchalance that Monroe found distracting.
His sweater looked rumpled, like it had been picked up off the floor and shrugged on without a second thought, and yet somehow he still managed to look like he’d just walked out of an indie film.
Elliot raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. His expression said it all: You know why I’m here.
“I’m serious. What? ” Monroe pressed, crossing his arms defensively.
The taller roommate shrugged, stepping closer, and for a moment Monroe was distracted by the soft shuffle of his roommate’s worn sneakers on the polished floor. “I think you left these,” Elliot said, finally revealing the items in question: a stack of magazines.
At first, Monroe didn’t process what they were—then his eyes widened as he registered the glossy covers of scantily clad women in provocative poses.
Tucked among them, however, was one glaring outlier: a men’s sports magazine that Monroe had definitely purchased purely for the articles.
“Hey!” Monroe exclaimed, snatching the magazines from Elliot’s hands with an almost feral urgency. His cheeks burned, but he masked his embarrassment with indignation. “Were you snooping around my stuff?”
Elliot raised an eyebrow, his expression maddeningly calm. “No.”
“Then how did these get on your side of the room?” Monroe demanded, clutching the magazines against his chest like they were state secrets.
“Probably fell out of one of the many luggage bags you brought. You know, the ones taking up 90% of the room.”
There was something about the way Elliot said it—calm, unbothered that made Monroe bristle. It wasn’t kindness, not really. It was patronizing, Monroe decided.
The way he talked, the way he moved, the way he just stood there hush and probably high as a kite. It was as if he were silently judging Monroe for being so... Monroe.
Monroe opened his mouth to retort, but Elliot cut him off with a cheap smile. “Relax, Astor. I’m just returning them. Not my business. Just being a nice roommate.”
“Right, well, thanks, ” Monroe said stiffly, turning away and pretending to focus on the scarves still strewn across his bed. His hands fumbled slightly as he tried to refold one, his fingers oddly clumsy.
Behind him, Elliot’s voice broke the silence, soft and vaguely amused. “You don’t need to freak out, you know. I don’t care what you read. Or… look at.”
Monroe stiffened, the scarf slipping from his hands. “I’m not freaking out,” he lied, his voice pitched slightly higher than usual.
“Sure,” Elliot replied, dragging the word out lazily as he stood upright again. He took a step closer—not close enough to invade Monroe’s space, but enough that his presence was palpable. “I mean, they’re your magazines. No judgment here.”
“Are you mocking me?” He whipped around to glare at Elliot, his cheeks still faintly red.
Elliot looked genuinely confused.“Mocking you? No.” He followed up with “Why? Do you think I should be?”
“Whatever,”
Elliot, clicked his tongue filling Monroe’s flustered silence but he let the moment hang for a beat longer before stepping back toward his side of the room. “Anyways,” he added over his shoulder, “If any of your stuff gets on my side. I’ll give it back to you, yeah?”
Monroe stared after him, cheeks still warm as he tried to process what had just happened. He clutched the magazines tighter, vaguely aware of how absurd this must look.
Okay, he thought, biting his lip again. That was mildly embarrassing.
Maybe his roommate wasn’t that bad. Maybe he was... chill. And maybe—just maybe—Monroe should learn how to be chill too.
On second thought, maybe his roommate was a little too chill.
Monroe had just returned from brunch with Will, where his cousin wouldn’t shut up about the “weird senior” he was stuck living with—a human being cursed with the name Cassius.
From what Monroe vaguely remembered from countless mandatory family Bible studies, the name Cassius had something to do with a cross, betrayal, and maybe a caesar salad—mambo jumbo Olive Garden shit. Either way, it wasn’t his problem.
His problem, however, greeted him the moment he stepped into the room.
Monroe froze in the doorway, clutching the small silver cross that hung around his neck.There was Elliot Wright, coked out of his mind, sprawled on Monroe’s pristine bed like it was his God-given right.
For a brief, uncharacteristic moment, Monroe wasn’t even mad—Elliot looked almost peaceful, his long limbs stretching lazily across the covers.
But then Monroe’s eyes zeroed in on what really mattered: Elliot’s head resting directly on his perfectly steamed outfit for dinner. A white button-up, now wrinkled to hell, sat under the disaster that was Elliot’s main.
Monroe Astor was seeing red.
Storming over, he grabbed Elliot by the head, shaking him violently. “Wake uppity up! ” he hissed. “Get out of my bed, you brainless fu—”
Elliot stirred mid-shake, his lashes fluttering up at Monroe with glassy, unfocused eyes. His cheekbones caught the golden light from the vanity, and Monroe was briefly— briefly —distracted by how ridiculously symmetrical his face was.
Then he saw it.
Some sort of residue—white and powdery—was dusted across Elliot’s mustache and lips. Monroe’s grip faltered, and Elliot’s head flopped back onto the bed with a dull thud.
“Huh?” Elliot mumbled, his voice thick with haze as he squinted at Monroe.
“Huh?” Monroe shot back, the ire flooding back in full force. “ You’re on my bed, dipshit! ”
Elliot blinked again, then seemed to realize where he was. “...My bad,” he muttered, attempting to push himself up.
Monroe wasn’t about to let him off that easily. He grabbed Elliot’s head again, holding him in place, and practically shoved a tumbler of warm ginger water into his hands. “This conversation isn’t over,” he snapped, pressing the rim of the tumbler against Elliot’s lips until the other boy reluctantly swallowed.
Elliot coughed lightly, his clouded eyes darting up to Monroe. “Thanks,” he muttered, his voice softer this time.
“This isn’t over! ” Monroe restated, refusing to let the moment soften. “I’m not done arguing with you!”
“Give me a break,” Elliot mumbled, sinking back against the bed.
And that’s when Monroe saw it.
Cigarette ash. All over his precious outfit. The white button-up now bore faint gray smudges like a crime scene victim.
Monroe’s eyes widened, and his voice pitched dangerously high. “ Look at what you did! I tolerate everything: the smell and the whole getting high lifestyle of yours, but this is pushing it to another level,”
Elliot glanced at the shirt, his expression unbothered. “Get over it,” he said flatly. “It’s just a few ashes. Brush it off with the palm of your hand.”
“Are you high right now? ”
“When have I ever been sober around you?” Elliot retorted, slouching further into the bed.
That gave Monroe pause. “That’s… alarming,” he admitted, narrowing his eyes. “I mean, I’m a hedonist myself, but that’s a lot.”
Elliot cracked a grin, his lips curling lazily. “Like what, you don’t do crack cocaine?”
“ Does it look like I do crack? Crack is whack! ”
Elliot let out a low laugh, and the sound was warm and rough around the edges, like sandpaper dipped in honey. It sent an involuntary shiver down Monroe’s spine.
“Is that supposed to be funny?” Monroe snapped, his cheeks heating for reasons he refused to acknowledge.
Elliot just shrugged, his grin lingering. Then he moved to stand, clearly over the conversation.
He sat up, unsteady and wobbling, clearly not yet reacquainted with gravity.
And that’s when he almost face-planted.
Monroe, acting on instinct, reached out to catch him, his hands gripping Elliot’s waist as they both stumbled. For a moment, Elliot sagged against him, their faces suddenly too close, their breaths mingling in the space between.
Monroe froze. His arms tensed around Elliot as he stared, unable to look away. He was painfully aware of how sharp his roomie’s jawline was, the faint flush on his cheeks, and the way his pupils dilated in the dim light.
For a second, he felt the pull of something dangerous.
Then Elliot shifted slightly, and the moment snapped.
They both fell.
Monroe yelped as his knees gave out, dragging Elliot down with him. They landed in an awkward tangled mess on the floor, Elliot’s weight pressing down against him.
“Get off,” But Elliot didn’t move right away. His head lolled against Monroe’s chest for a moment longer than necessary, his breath slow and even.
When he finally shifted, rolling off to the side, Monroe scrambled to his feet, glaring down at him with flushed cheeks. He didn’t offer a hand to help.
Elliot, still wobbly, propped himself up with a groan and made his way—unsteadily—to his side of the room. Monroe crossed his arms, watching him with a mixture of anger, pity, and something else he didn’t want to name.
For a brief moment, he almost called out to Elliot. But then he looked back at his ash-stained shirt and decided against it.
Monroe hadn’t seen his roomie all day. Not that he was looking for him or anything, but it was strange. Elliot was such a homebody—always slouched on his bed, scribbling in that notebook of his, or napping like he had nowhere else to be.
Maybe he was out scoring more... whatever it was he did.
Not that Monroe cared. In fact, Elliot’s absence was convenient. With no roommate around, Monroe had the perfect excuse to have someone over for a little fun.
The janitor’s supply closet and empty lecture halls were starting to feel like poorly written punchlines to his life. They were uncomfortable, unglamorous, and—let’s face it—not up to the Astor standard.
Now, he was leaning back against the headboard, his shirt unbuttoned and his lips busy with a girl whose name he’d already forgotten. Her Daisy Marc Jacobs was cloying, her laugh too sugary, but she was pretty enough and enthusiastic, which was all Monroe needed.
Her hands wandered, tugging at the waistband of his pants, and he let out a sweet and low moan, half-smirking against her lips.
He was just starting to get into the moment when the door opened.
Monroe froze. His eyes darted toward the door, where Elliot stood, one hand still on the doorknob, his sweater slung lazily over his shoulder.
For a moment, Monroe thought he might actually die.
Elliot’s face didn’t change—no shock, no irritation, not even a flicker of amusement. He just stood there, his gaze flicking once toward the girl, who was blissfully unaware of the intrusion, and then landing on Monroe. Their eyes locked.
Monroe’s chest tightened, his pulse quickening in a way that had nothing to do with the girl in his lap.
“Uh—” Monroe started, his voice embarrassingly uneven, but Elliot didn’t let him finish.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Elliot said casually, his tone as infuriatingly indifferent as ever.
Monroe’s breath hitched. Was he smirking? No, he wasn’t. Was he? Monroe couldn’t tell, but something about Elliot’s relaxed demeanor—made his skin crawl.
The girl shifted, leaning down to kiss his neck, and Monroe flinched as if she’d startled him. His eyes were still locked on Elliot, who gave the faintest shrug before turning around and closing the door behind him.
He was gone. Just like that.
“Monroe?” the girl’s voice broke into his thoughts, her fingers trailing up his chest.
“Huh?” he said, snapping back to the present.
She giggled. “You okay? You got all tense for a second.”
Monroe forced a smile, his jaw tight. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t. Not really.
The encounter had rattled him more than he cared to admit, and not for the reasons it should’ve. He wasn’t embarrassed that Elliot had walked in—no, that would’ve been too normal. Instead, Monroe found himself thinking about the way Elliot had looked at him. Calm. Detached. Completely unaffected.
Because now, all Monroe could think about was how close Elliot had been just moments ago. His chest felt too tight, his head too full, and the girl’s hands on him suddenly felt wrong—like she was in the way of something he didn’t understand.
Get a grip, he told himself, dragging in a shaky breath. But his thoughts kept circling back to Elliot. What kind of person didn’t react to something like that?
Monroe’s lips twisted into a scowl, but his fingers trembled where they gripped the edge of the mattress.
God help him. He hated Elliot Wright. He hated him so much, it hurt.
But he was just going fuck and hopefully forget.
Monroe had managed to avoid his roomie for the rest of the week leading up to the first day of class.
Which was really fucking hard, granted they lived together. But he had his ways. A couple of nights in a hotel—the kind with crisp white sheets, impeccable room service, and a bathroom that didn’t smell like stale weed—did wonders for his peace of mind.
Finally, he had uninterrupted privacy. Because the last thing he needed was to be mid-fuck and suddenly think about him. So that made hooking up at the hotel way easier.
Unfortunately, he soon had to check out of paradise. But on the bright side tonight was the Welcome Party , hosted by one of the frats: Kingsbridge’s Theta Chi. And if there was one thing Monroe never missed, it was a good party.
By the time he pulled up to the Astor dorms on his motorcycle, he had no plans of stepping foot into his room.
Instead, he went to Will’s, two doors down—where, thank God , his cousin always had an emergency outfit ready for him. Luckily for him, Will’s very weird roommate was not in sight. Which meant he avoided another unwanted interaction.
“I don’t even wanna know,” Will said as he tossed a fresh set of clothes onto the bed, already resigned to whatever antics Monroe had been up to. “But if you get foundation on my jacket again, I’m making you dry clean it yourself.”
Monroe scoffed, peeling off his shirt. “That was one time.”
“It was twice , and I had to make up a whole lie to the dry cleaner about it being chocolate .”
Monroe rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t listening anymore. A leather jacket, a tight white tee, and flared jeans later, he was back to looking perfectly disheveled, exactly as he liked it.
“You sure you wanna do this?” Will asked, eyeing him as Monroe checked himself out in the mirror.
“What kind of stupid question is that?” Monroe scoffed. “It’s the welcome party . I was practically born for shit like this.”
Will just hummed in response, clearly unconvinced.
But Monroe wasn’t interested in his cousin’s skepticism. He swung his leather jacket over his shoulder and stepped out, making his way down to the Theta Chi house.
And the moment he got there, he regretted not rushing.
The place was packed—loud music pulsing through the walls, people spilling out onto the front lawn, red Solo cups in every hand. It wasn’t the best party Monroe had ever been to (boarding school had set the bar high), but for a college rager, it wasn’t half bad.
He’d barely been there ten minutes when Will found him again, tapping his shoulder.
“Look, there’s my roommate,” Will whispered, subtly gesturing toward the other side of the room.
Monroe barely registered what Will was saying because Cassius Whoever didn’t matter. No—Monroe’s gaze was locked onto who Cassius was talking to.
Elliot.
Fucking.
Wright.
Monroe barely resisted the urge to groan out loud.
Of course, he was here. Of course , Elliot had somehow wormed his way into his night.
He needed a drink. Immediately.
He didn’t stop moving until he was lost in the throng of people, where the music was louder, and the liquor flowed faster. A few drinks later, a couple of Marlboros burned down to the filter, stolen kisses exchanged in dimly lit corners—Monroe finally started to feel like himself again.
By the time the night hit its peak, he felt a warm buzz and humming under his skin. It was the perfect moment to make his exit—before the party got sloppy, before the high wore off, before anything had the chance to ruin the night.
While the party hadn’t been mind-blowing , it had served its purpose: his mind was sufficiently distracted, and his ego? Adequately fed. He was satisfied. Finally, he could head home, face Elliot, and get over whatever weird, frustrating, wrong feelings had been creeping in since—
Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.
Because, apparently, he had pissed off some Greek god or angel in a past life, because just as he was slipping out of the party, a certain someone was also leaving the party.
Monroe practically skidded to a stop in the doorway, and sure enough—standing there, bathed in the glow of the streetlights, looking as high as ever—was Elliot Wright.
Monroe sucked in a slow breath, pressing his tongue against his cheek in irritation. This was going to be one awkward walk back.
He didn’t acknowledge Elliot at first, didn’t even spare him a glance. Instead, Monroe pulled his leather jacket tighter around himself and lit another cigarette. As if the nicotine could somehow erase the fact that they were about to share oxygen.
Elliot, on the other hand, had his wired earphones in, staring straight ahead with an expression that was either zoned out or indifferent.
But Monroe had a sixth sense for these things—for people looking at him. And Elliot was definitely sneaking glances.
Monroe’s fingers twitched as he blew out smoke, itching to say something snide. But before he could open his mouth, Elliot finally broke the silence.
“So, did you bring your keys?”
“What?”
“Your keys,” Elliot repeated, pulling out one earphone. “Did you bring them? ’Cause I didn’t bring mine.”
Monroe stopped dead in his tracks, staring at Elliot like he’d just suggested they break into The Louvre. “What do you mean you didn’t bring your keys?”
“I figured you would have yours. You’ve been gone for three days, so…”
Monroe looked like he was about to grab Elliot by the mustache and drag him up the stairs. “You figured ? What kind of degenerate leaves their room without keys?”
“The kind that locks the door through the doorknob,”
Monroe’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “That doesn’t even— what?! That’s not a real excuse! Who does that?! ”
“Apparently, me.”
Monroe groaned loudly, dragging his hand down his face. “Do you know anyone else who has a copy of your keys?”
“Nope. Do you?”
Monroe cursed under his breath. He tried to think—tried to focus —but it was hard with Elliot just standing there, radiating his usual smug, infuriating energy. Then it hit him.
Will. Will has a copy.
“My cousin might…”
“You have a cousin?”
Monroe didn’t dignify that with an answer.
When they reached their floor, Monroe immediately made a beeline for Will’s door, knocking loudly. “Will! Open up!”
There was no answer.
Monroe knocked again, louder this time. “I know you’re in there. Stop ignoring me, you son of a—” Okay he was not gonna insult his aunt and uncle. He loved them too much more than he admitted.
But still nothing.
Monroe yanked out his phone and called Will, pacing back and forth in the hallway. The phone rang… and rang… and went straight to voicemail.
“For God’s sake!” Monroe hissed, shoving his phone back into his pocket.
“So… he’s not answering?” Elliot asked, leaning against the wall with an almost smug look on his face.
Monroe glared at him. “ Obviously not. ”
Elliot hummed, unbothered as usual. “Guess we’re stuck. What do you wanna do about it?”
“We sit here and pray Will isn’t out doing… I don’t know, Will things, ” Monroe said, collapsing against the door next to Elliot.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. They just sat there, backs pressed to the cold door, the quiet hum of the dormitory filling the space between them.
Monroe, who was still somewhat buzzed, glanced at Elliot from the corner of his eye. He looked… softer in this lighting. Less smug, more human. Not that Monroe cared.
“So,” Elliot finally said, breaking the silence, “you’re not gonna yell at me some more?”
Monroe exhaled dramatically. “I don’t have the energy.”
“How uncharacteristic of you,” Elliot teased.
Monroe turned his head, glaring. “Do you ever not talk?”
“Do you ever not complain? ”
“Can we just sit here quietly?”
“Sure. But you’re not very good at sitting quietly, are you?”
“So,” Elliot started again, turning his head slightly to look at Monroe. “You gonna tell me why you’ve been avoiding me all week?”
“I haven’t been avoiding you. I just thought a nice change of scenery—”
“Right. And I’m sober right now.” Elliot paused before, leaning his head back against the door. “Just saying. Maybe you should loosen up. Could be good for you.”
Monroe rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath about “ wannabe philosophers .”
Elliot shifted slightly, turning to look at Monroe again. “You know, you kinda act like a dick.”
“I have one that’s for sure,”
“Still not the joking type I see,” Elliot said letting out a slight chuckle. “I’m serious,” Elliot said, his voice softer now. “You act like you hate me, but—”
“Hoooaaah” Monroe yawned interrupting Elliot mid-sentence. “You were saying?”
Elliot smirked, leaning in just a fraction. “Nothing. Forget it.”
Before either of them could say anything else, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall.
“Monroe?”
Will appeared at the end of the corridor, dragging a very unconscious Cassius Sinclair by the arm.
Will looked at both of them up and down. He raised an eyebrow before fishing the spare keys out of his pocket and tossing them at Monroe. “I don’t even wanna know”
Monroe didn’t even bother to defend himself, too focused on unlocking the door and escaping the suffocating tension.
As he stepped inside, he glanced back at Elliot, who was still leaning against the wall with that infuriatingly smug look on his face.
“Don’t say a word,” Monroe muttered, slamming the door behind him.
Notes: Y'alll made it to the end. I wonder if anyone will ever read this on this platform. This is my first post of 2025 hopefully more writings to come. I really believe in this fic to the point I made my own GIFS. Send comments on my AO3 or on here and yk send request on my blog if you want. Hope y'all caught the Wicked references I put here and there.
