In honor of Rush Week at Alabama, please enjoy the first chapter of the second part of the Crimson series, where Wyatt is in his Junior year. With Tate graduated and his influence fading, Wyatt and Elliot must navigate their new roles as Sigma Chi Chapter Executives, where new temptations and antagonists appear. As always, if you’re enjoying this series, I’d love to hear from you at [email protected]
The Magister
The words of the installation ceremony stuck in my throat.
Not because I didn't mean them. I did, mostly. But because standing in the back of the chapter room, arms crossed, wearing a dark suit and that familiar half-smirk, was Tate Harrison.
He'd come back to Tuscaloosa, just for this.
On the altar, Bradley Crawford raised the gavel. Tate's hand-picked successor. Homewood, just outside of the gates of the Tiny Kingdom, born and bred. The same Crawford who bailed on pickleball last year. The same Crawford who’d dinged Elliot’s door with his 4-Runner, and we didn’t say anything despite having the camera footage in Sentry mode.
Crawford's voice echoed off the wooden walls, reading off the script.
"Brothers, we are gathered to install the newly elected officers of Iota Iota Chapter. Leadership is not a privilege to be enjoyed, but a duty to be discharged with high ambition and integrity."
My eyes shifted to Elliot beside me. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead, but his hand, the one hidden from the crowd of brothers, brushed against mine. The question: Are we really going through with this?
I pressed back. Yes. No. I don't know.
Crawford turned to me first. "Wyatt Jefferson Briggs, you have been chosen by your brothers to serve as Magister. By accepting this position, you commit yourself to the advancement of Sigma Chi and the well-being of every brother in this hall."
Tate uncrossed his arms and nodded once. The proud smirk didn't waver.
"Do you solemnly promise, upon your honor as a Sigma Chi, that you will faithfully perform the duties of your office as prescribed by the Constitution and Statutes of the Fraternity and the Bylaws of this Chapter?"
I remembered everything that came before this. The donor pass. The locker room. The way Tate had owned us without ever raising his voice. Crawford was from the same breed, just newer, shinier, and more eager to prove himself.
"Do you pledge to guard the sanctity of our Ritual, and to represent the White Cross with dignity in all your dealings with the world?"
Crawford's voice was steady, rehearsed. But when Tate nodded from the back of the room, a small, almost imperceptible acknowledgment, I saw something gleam across his face. Not gratitude. Need. He'd been waiting for this. For Tate's approval. For the gavel. For the chance to prove he was more than just an errand boy.
"Finally, do you vow to be a brother to the brothers, exercising Self-Control and Courtesy, and to lead this Chapter toward the highest standards of the Jordan Standard?"
I raised my right hand. The words came out calmly, even if I didn't feel them fully.
"I, Wyatt J. Briggs, do solemnly pledge to fulfill the duties of Magister to the best of my ability. I will uphold the laws of Sigma Chi, protect its traditions, and labor for the prosperity of this Chapter. I will strive to be an example of the Seven Virtues, ensuring that my actions always reflect honor upon the White Cross. To this, I pledge my sacred honor."
Crawford extended his hand, and I shook it.
"By the authority vested in me," Crawford intoned, "I now declare you duly installed as Magister. May your leadership be guided by wisdom and may your fidelity never waver."
Then he turned to Elliot. "Elliot Ronald Withers, you have been chosen by your brothers to serve as Annotator..."
The ceremony continued, but I didn't hear the rest. Because Tate was already walking out, the door clicking shut behind him.
Elliot's hand found mine again and squeezed. This time, I squeezed back.
A week into the semester, I learned to spot them.
The pledges, I should clarify. The ones who would quit before we even started initiation. The ones who would coast through on legacy alone. And the ones who would surprise me.
Finn was of the latter category.
Freshman. Golf scholarship. Ranked somewhere in the 700s on the GJGR. Huntsville. He showed up to every pledge meeting ten minutes early, sat in the second row, and never spoke unless spoken to. His posture was military-straight, shoulders back, chin level: the kind of bearing that came from years of someone telling him to stand up straight, stand still, stand out.
He wore golf polos to everything. Not the standard issue most athletes wore. His were Under Armour moisture-wicking, solid colors: navy, charcoal, black. The collar always popped, just slightly, like he'd been taught to dress by someone who cared about impressions.
His frame was tall and wiry, the kind of lean that didn't show in clothes but would reveal itself on a course, in the torsion of a drive, the follow-through of a putt. Honey blonde hair that fell across his forehead when he was thinking. A sharp jawline and nose that gave his face an angular, almost severe beauty.
I noticed him during the first pledge meeting when a skinny African American kid from Mobile named Arthur raised his hand. "What's the time commitment? I have a job…"
Consul Crawford didn't let him finish. "You have a job?" He said it was like the concept was foreign. "This isn't a job. This is Sigma Chi. If you're already looking for an exit, the door's right there."
Arthur’s face flushed. He didn't ask another question all night.
I glanced at Finn, sitting two rows back. His cheeks were red. His hands were clasped in his lap, knuckles white. He wasn't looking at Crawford. He was looking at Arthur. Watching.
He didn't say anything. But he didn't look away either.
Then, during the second meeting, I caught a glimpse of white Nike Pro shorts under Finn’s cargo shorts. Even in Junior year, that tiny swoosh still did something to me.
Then, during every moment in between, until noticing became watching, and watching became something I thought I’d buried between the couch cushions in Dr. Harper’s office.
"You’re sure engrossed in that Pledge GroupMe."
Elliot's voice pulled me back. We were in our bedroom: a new one, assigned to Executive Committee members, but we'd opted to share because it had a bathroom like Crawford's. It was a Thursday night, Elliot was cross-legged on the bed we slept on, laptop open, reviewing the chapter's social media calendar or whatever Annotators did when they weren't watching their boyfriend ogle a lanky freshman.
"I'm not engrossed; I’m just observing." I replied.
"Same thing."
He didn't look up from his laptop. That was worse than if he'd glared.
I didn't have an answer for that. So I turned back to my own laptop, my own responsibilities, my own carefully constructed armor.
But Finn was still there, at the edge of my vision. I wasn’t sure if Elliot wanted me in his bed tonight or if I had to sleep in mine.
Later that night, I was coming down the stairs to make some matcha tea when I heard Crawford's voice from the Consul's corner. The door was cracked, and he was on his phone.
"No, I know. I just... Tate made it look easy. What if I can't?" A pause. "I'm not saying I'm not ready for it. I'm saying... they expect me to be him. And I'm not him."
I stopped just out of his view, listened, and felt something almost like pity.
Then he laughed, a hollow, self-deprecating sound. "Yeah. You're right. Fuck all of them. I've got the gavel and the parking spot. That's what matters."
I walked back upstairs without the tea before he realized I was there.
The next night, after Elliot had fallen asleep, I found myself on the Alabama Athletics site.
I wasn't sure why. Adam had already graduated. Out of habit, maybe, the same way my fingers used to open Grindr on the Samsung without my permission, before I'd drowned that phone in the Black Warrior River.
The golf roster loaded: Freshmen. Sophomores. Juniors. Seniors.
Finn Sterling's headshot was toward the bottom.
The photo was standard-issue: blue background, crimson polo, the same forced smile every athlete wore for these things. But his sky-blue eyes were different. Watchful. Like he was already calculating angles, reading greens, measuring the distance between where he was and where he wanted his ball to be.
I zoomed in. Not because I needed a closer look at his face. Because my finger did it to the mouse before I could stop myself.
"You're up late."
I nearly slammed the laptop shut. Elliot was sitting up in bed, hair mussed, eyes half-open but already sharp.
"Couldn't sleep," I said.
He didn't respond. Just looked at me. Saw the crimson glow of the screen reflecting off my face.
"What were you looking at?"
"Nothing. Just... the school athletics site."
"Which sport?"
That need for clarification saturated the room. Elliot wasn't stupid at all. He'd been watching me watch Finn for weeks. He'd been counting the seconds between when I said Finn's name and when I looked away.
"Golf," I said.
Elliot nodded slowly. Then he lay back down, pulled the blanket to his chin, and turned his back to me.
That silence was worse than any accusation.
I closed the laptop and clutched my Crimson Tide stress football. Listened to Elliot's breathing, too even to be real sleep.
The armor was definitely falling off now.
The next afternoon, after class, I volunteered to get the mail.
It was a mundane thing, a peace offering, or just an excuse to be out of the bedroom, away from the institutionalized silence. The Sigma Chi mailbox was a brass slot in the foyer, where Samuel sorted personal mail from official Sigma Chi Executive Committee matters.
Buried at the bottom was a thick, glossy package for Elliot.
Rhode Island School of Design.
The return address was printed in clean, script lettering. Not a welcome letter yet, I could tell from the heavier weight. This was an information package. Course catalogs. Housing options. The kind of thing you requested when you were serious.
I carried it upstairs like it weighed a thousand pounds.
Elliot was at his desk, back to me, sketching something I couldn't make out yet. I set the package beside his elbow. I didn't say anything, I just hovered.
He looked at it and dared not touch it.
"You requested that," I said finally.
"I requested it months ago." His voice was flat. "Before the elections. Before any of this."
"Are you serious about it?"
Elliot looked back. His deep blue eyes searched my pathetic face for what I couldn’t make out.
"I haven’t decided," he said. "Maybe. Yes. I'm... I'm seriously thinking about it over SCAD."
"You don’t just want to leave Alabama; you want to leave the South altogether?"
"I'm thinking about a program that might be right for me. That happens to be a thousand miles away." He stood, walked to the window, and stared out across Fraternity Row. "I'm not trying to hurt you, Wyatt."
"You're not trying to hurt me. You're just planning a life that doesn't include me."
"That's not fair." He said it defensively, like a reflex, still not looking back at me. "I love you, Wy."
"Neither is finding out your boyfriend wants out of this hellhole from an oversized Ivy League info package."
He didn't have an answer to that. I didn’t have anything left to say that wouldn’t be in check.
The quiet was brand new this time. Not cold, just... heavy. Like molasses had settled between us and neither of us knew how to break free.
At dinner, I thought about Uncle Jeff and his new career. He'd survived the May State Senate primary, barely, according to the news I loosely followed. The attack ads had been brutal, with vague references to the cover-up, and hints about almost bringing down our state's most beloved institution. The Briggs countered with something about "Southern Values: Faith, Family, and Football." His opponent never named me; it was implied.
Last fall, a couriered campaign package arrived at the Sigma Chi. Manila envelope with a metal clasp. Stickers. A handwritten note from Jeff, probably signed by an intern, asking for my support. Asking me to prominently display a yard sign.
I'd thrown it in the recycling bin without opening it.
My parents hadn't called after the primary. No text. No ‘congratulations’, Jeff pulled through." Just silence. The same silence that had been sitting ever since I handed over the keys to the Yukon in that hotel room. The same distance they put between me when I cleared out my childhood bedroom at home after Freshman year to move in with Elliot’s family in Old Cloverale that summer.
I didn't know if they'd softened. I didn't know if they ever would again, beyond the two-minute calls on holidays. Some wounds don't heal; Macy reminded me of that every week. They just scab over enough that you stop checking if they're still bleeding.
That Friday night, Elliot and I stayed in.
The house was loud, some brother's birthday, a keg in the basement, music vibrating through the floorboards. But we were in our bedroom, the door closed, the world reduced to the space between the bed and the window.
I climbed between the sheets wearing shiny green Lululemon shorts, the same ones Tate had mocked, the ones I'd worn when I was still trying to be someone else. Elliot's hand found my thigh, then higher, palm flat against the soft, intimate fabric.
"It'll just be two years," he said, his fingers tracing the hardening outline of me through the shorts. "I'll be home for Thanksgiving. Christmas. Summer. We can still talk every day on FaceTime."
But his eyes were already on Providence. On galleries propped up by trust fund babies. On a life that didn't include a fraternity house, a REC pickleball court, or me waking him up with Prevail coffee.
I wanted to show that I was happy for him. Part of me was. But grief and joy can occupy the same ribcage.
"Rhode Island wouldn’t be forever," he added, quieter now, rubbing the flare of my dick against the silky material in slow, sensual circles. "I’ll be back home before you know it."
I didn't answer. Because he wasn't talking to me anymore; he was talking to himself. Convincing himself that a banker’s boy from Montgomery could get into that program. I couldn’t find the voice to tell him that a thousand miles and two years felt like forever when you were the one being left behind.
Elliot's hand kept moving, slow and steady, but his eyes had drifted away again, to the window, to the wall, to his desk, to anywhere but my face.
"Hey," I said quietly. "Look at me, babe."
He did for a moment. Then his gaze slid away again.
"I can't," he sniffled. "If I look at you, I'll start crying because I know how you feel about it. And if I start crying, I won't stop. And I need... I need to feel you. Before I can't."
"Before you leave….” I corrected. “We still have this whole school year together."
He shook. "Yes….but now you know about it."
"Then don't look at me." I pulled him closer, turned him gently, so his back was to my chest. "Just feel it."
His breath hitched. His hand found mine, guided it to his hip.
"I want you inside me," he said, his voice needy. "But I can't look at you right now, Wy, I can't."
There was no reply. I just pulled down my shorts and guided myself inside him cautiously.
He was warm. He was always warm. But he was quiet. Not the good kind of quiet, the kind that meant he was present, feeling, with me. This was a different silence. Hollow. Like he was already practicing for the distance of grad school.
I moved slowly at first, my chest pressed against his back, my arms wrapped around him. I wanted to feel his heartbeat. I wanted to know if it was racing like mine. But he was still, so still.
"Elli," I whispered.
He didn't answer. Just reached back and held my wrist. Squeezed once, that was all.
I kept moving, but the energy was gone. Not passion, just... momentum. The desperate need to feel something, to hold onto something, before it slipped away to the Eastern Seaboard.
I was more than exhausted. Not just from this, from everything. The watching. The wanting. The hiding. The obsession I had with Finn. The secret Elliot had been carrying about RISD. The weight of both pressed down on me until I couldn't breathe.
When I felt myself getting close, I pulled out.
Elliot made a small sound, confusion, maybe, or disappointment, but he didn't turn around.
I jerked myself, fast and rough because I needed to finish. To be done. To stop pretending this night was something it wasn't.
I made a faint whimper and came on his lower back, the warmth spreading across his smooth skin, then cooling almost immediately.
After a minute, I peeled off the shorts and used the fabric to wipe his back clean. Careful. Automatic. Like it was something I’d done a hundred times before and I was just dealing with the aftermath all over again.
He didn’t react or turn back over. He just lay there, breathing slow and even, like he’d already gone somewhere I couldn’t follow.
I pulled the covers up over both of us and slid in beside him, the sheets cool against my skin.
For a breath, I thought about saying something. Anything. The name I'd been calling him for over a year, maybe. "Elli."
But my mouth struggled to even formulate a syllable, so I didn't try.
I lay there instead, staring at the ceiling, listening to his breathing settle into sleep, the same way I'd done that night on Lake Lanier, when we were just pledges, when I was still crimsonboi2648.
Now, I wasn't afraid. I just didn't need to speak.
Eventually, my breathing matched his, and sleep claimed me too.
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