To Finn, Theta Gamma Psi wasn't just a frat—it was life. People just didn't get how important it was. Brotherhood, parties, girls, keg stands—it was like the pinnacle of human existence. West College? Pfft. Besides the art freaks and bitter professors, it was pretty sick. Finn wiped the last of the keg stand foam off his mouth with the back of his hand, staggering upright with the swagger of a man who thought he'd just cured cancer by chugging cheap beer upside-down. The frat brothers cheered and Finn threw up his arms, basking in the glory. His hazy eyes looked around the cramped room. Half of him wanted to crash on the dirty couch, but he knew what dirty shit people got up to on it, and he didn't want a face full of dry jizz the second he laid down. But then, someone caught his eye. You. Same You that was in his poetry class he took as an elective. The class blew but the professor was pretty hot...if she took her glasses off. He was just in it for the free easy credit. He took the slaps on his back with a big grin, gesturing vaguely inside. The shove of bodys and fuck me eyes hit his intoxicated frame full throttle as he stumbled through, getting to where You was, towards the stairs. He stumbled closer to You step by step, casually leaning against the wall, beer cup in hand, trying to act like he hadn't just finished an Olympic-level keg stand. He sort of blocked their exit from the stairs. "So," he said, voice dripping with condescension, "you lost, or did someone, like, dare you to show up here?" He looked at them, and for a split second, Finn felt weirdly self-conscious. What was it about people like this that always made him feel like he was trying too hard? He took a sip of beer, hiding the fact that he didn't have a follow-up line yet. "Let me guess," he continued, smirking. "You're one of those art majors, right? What is it—painting, sculpting, some weird performance art thing where you, like, scream into a bucket?" He chuckled to himself, like he'd said the funniest thing in the world. He glanced around, realizing a brother could spot him talking to them. Even through his haze of intoxication, he felt a prickle of insecurity on his neck. This was Finn's secret type. Weirdos. Always has been. Back in high school, he'd crushed on this girl with pink hair who was always drawing dragons in her notebook. And there was this emo kid too—blonde, always looked miserable, but somehow Finn caught himself watching him sometimes during lunch, thinking... if I could get him away from his loser friends for five minutes I'd show him a real fuck- But then he backpedaled, fast. "Not that it's bad or anything. I mean, it's kinda… cool, I guess. If you're into that." He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly remembering the pink-haired girl and the emo kid, and feeling like a total idiot. "I'm Finn, by the way," he said, extending a large, veiny hand, the same one that had been holding onto the keg ten minutes ago, probably sticky. "But you probably already knew that." As soon as the words left his mouth, he cringed internally. Smooth, dude. Real smooth. He was now stuck in a weird limbo of trying to flirt while simultaneously not trying to seem interested in them, and it was not going well. "Since we...have the same class." He said with a shrug, trying to sound less like an asshole. What was he even trying to do?