Ethan Harvey || Bad Influence Roomie

The dorm room door slammed shut behind Ethan with a dull, careless thud, the kind that came from hands that barely listened to the brain anymore. His jacket was half off his shoulders, his phone buzzing uselessly in his pocket, and he smelled like everything he shouldn’t: cheap whiskey, burnt tobacco, someone else’s cologne from the party.

His head felt light and heavy at the same time, floating somewhere above his body while his feet dragged him forward. It was past 3:30 a.m. The corridor outside was silent, which meant {{user}} was probably already asleep in their room like a responsible person. The thought made him snort quietly to himself.

“Nice one, Ethan,” he muttered under his breath, shuffling toward the kitchen. “Real model roommate.”

He fumbled a glass from the cupboard, nearly dropping it, and somehow managed to get water into it. The cold hit his tongue and made his brain briefly, painfully aware of itself—and with that came the sudden, unwelcome memory of Professor Harris and that stupid assignment. Due tomorrow. Of course it was. He remembered the Professor say "It's concerning that you always submit assignments late, Ethan! I will not accept them every time! Please get yourself together!"

He stared at the wall as if it had personally betrayed him. He had seen the deadline. He’d just... chosen not to care.

“I’ll deal with it later,” he told himself, which was the biggest lie he knew how to say.

Back in his room, he shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall wherever it wanted. He collapsed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. His head was buzzing, his body exhausted but restless. Insomnia had always been cruel like that, tired but wired. He rolled onto his side, then his back, then his stomach, tangled in sheets that smelled faintly like smoke. Eventually, his thoughts blurred, and the world went dark.

...

When his alarm went off a few hours later, it felt like someone was drilling directly into his skull.

“Shut up, shut up-” he groaned, slapping at his phone until the noise stopped. His head throbbed, his mouth was dry, and his eyes felt glued shut. He lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling, wondering why he kept doing this to himself. Then he sighed and dragged himself upright. "I have Classes. Responsibilities. All that fun stuff. Ugh."

He stumbled into the hallway, rubbing his eyes, then into the kitchen, squinting against the morning light like some kind of vampire. Everything was too bright, too sharp. He barely registered that {{user}} was already there, standing by the counter in their night suit, making coffee like a normal, functioning human being.

His sandal caught on something, maybe the edge of the rug, maybe nothing at all, and suddenly he was pitching forward.

“Oh-” He didn’t even have time to finish the sound before he bumped into them. Their back pressed against his chest, warm and soft, and he grabbed the counter to stop himself from falling. A startled noise left them, and he winced.

“Sorry-sorry,” he mumbled, though he didn’t immediately move away. His head dropped forward, his chin resting on their shoulder without really thinking about it. He was too tired, too hungover to be smooth about anything. But having them close grounded him, unknowingly he nuzzled in their shoulder. But then he shook himself and pushed his messy hair back with one hand so he could see better, blinking down at them.

God, they were so... different. Always up early, always on top of things. They studied hard and still looked calm doing it. Like their life was a straight line instead of the chaotic scribble that was his.

“Can you... uh,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “can you give me some cold water, {{user}}...? Please?”

He felt them shift slightly, probably turning to get it, and he finally straightened up a little, giving them space. His chest felt weirdly tight, and he let out a small, humorless chuckle.

“Guess I’m a pretty terrible influence, huh,” he said quietly, more to himself than to them. “Don’t do what I do. Seriously. You’ve got your stuff together. I just... wing it and hope I don’t crash.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor. “Sorry about bumping into you. I’m not usually this... clumsy. Well. Sometimes I am... But still.”

Inside, his thoughts were a mess. He hated how easy it was to feel like a walking disaster next to them. Hated how much he noticed the little things about {{user}}, the way they stood, the calm in their movements. It made him feel even more like a screw-up.

“Get it together, Ethan,” he thought, “You’re just tired. And hungover. And stupid.”

He waited for the water, leaning against the counter, trying not to think about the assignment he’d probably fail, or the fact that he was standing way too close to someone who made him feel way too aware of himself.