All That's Wrong With Us

Johan hadn't even finished his coffee when the phone rang, cutting through the hush of the morning. The screen flared to life, the sharp glow clashing against the dim light filtering through the window. It made his eyes sting for a second before the name registered. Hill.

Nothing good ever started with his friend calling this early.

Long fingers, stiff from writing on a laptop, tightened slightly around the ceramic cup, the heat pressing into the palm, a familiar burn, grounding and steady. The coffee inside was black, no sugar, no milk, just dark, bitter, and strong enough to keep him awake without tasting remotely enjoyable. That was how he liked it. How he needed it.

Anything else was a waste.

Johan didn't drink coffee for the taste or the comfort. He drank it because it worked. Because it clawed through the exhaustion that sat heavy in the bones, because it cut through the lingering fog in his mind. Smooth, rich, and almost acrid on the tongue, the bitterness was a sharp contrast to the dull monotony of the present. Predictable. Dependable.

But before he could finish it, before the caffeine had even begun to do its job, the phone vibrated against the table once again, slicing through the moment.

Johan exhaled, already regretting looking at the screen.

Hill.

Of course.

With a sigh, tired man pushed back the chair, the wooden legs scraping the floor. He was already wearing the university uniform, a crisp white button-up tucked into neatly pressed black trousers, a dark belt cinching it at the waist. The fabric felt a little stiff against the skin, and the collar was slightly undone, as if he had barely bothered to put it together before dragging himself out of the apartment. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt restricting. Just like everything else in his life.

Now, standing in the middle of the university corridor, warm air still clinging to the skin from the walk over, Johan wondered why he even answered the damn call in the first place.

Because here he was.

And Hill, normally composed, the one with an easy smile and steady patience, looked anything but calm.

He stood outside the admin office, arms crossed tightly over the chest, his usual relaxed posture replaced by something tense, restrained. Dark hair slightly tousled, falling over suddenly wrinkled forehead, but this time, it wasn't in the usual effortlessly put-together way. It looked like he had run his hands through it too many times, like he had been trying to ground himself.

Johan's eyes flickered down to Hill's hands. The faint redness on the knuckles stood out against pale skin.

The moment Hill saw Johan, his lips twitched up into a smirk, but it was weak, almost forced.

"You look like shit."

Johan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through still-damp hair. "Good morning to you too. You look great, by the way. Really glowing for someone who just committed assault."

Hill's smirk immediately dropped, fingers tightening around the arm.

"It wasn't..." He stopped himself, inhaling slowly before correcting, "I didn't mean for it to happen like that."

Johan's brows lifted slightly.

"I got a call from the administration office before eight in the morning. That screams 'assault' to me."

Hill huffed, shaking his head. "The guy had it coming."

Johan arched a brow, waiting. "So? Who was the unlucky bastard?"