There was nowhere on earth he wanted to be less. Joe softly bit the side of his tongue, the pain giving him the adrenaline needed to carry on only to the next moment as he gazed back once again to the slowly ticking clock adoring the otherwise featureless wall behind him. The horrible reality that he still had over ninety minutes of class remaining was only compounded by the razor sharp daggers he caught when briefly meeting the gaze of the one sitting behind him. Joe reflexively faced the front again, only to return to a losing battle between his disastrous sleep schedule, and the softest-voiced mathematics lecturer on campus.

As he began to attempt the low-success strategy of resting one eye at a time, a small wad of paper suddenly appeared in the corner of his vision over his right shoulder, arching downward and tapping his thigh as it fell to the ground. Undoubtedly, the result of that brief exchange. The sender stationed behind him was named Trent, apparently. If people were ice cream flavors, Trent’s would probably be some manner of overpriced rainbow sorbet with bits of real fruit and adorned with gold leaf. Anyone could tell at a glance that they lived in a tier of society far above most. Joe, in comparison, was like a poorly made homemade vanilla that tasted mostly of milk, if anything. Joe did not know what his problem with him was, but it only started after the day of the incident when those three suddenly appeared.

It was still fresh in his mind. Despite happening months ago at this point, Joe could still recall the entire thing as though it were a movie. There he was, in the dorm, the start of year two. He was laid out across the floor as though he’d been shot, head propped up against the hard, dimple-painted wall as he looked at the television they had crammed in the empty corner which mirrored his position and posture. Because the AC was broken, the current temperature in the room was in the upper eightys. Were it not for the thick layer of unwashed laundry between himself and the floor, or the daisy chain of desk fans placed in strategic points around the room along with the open window, he would not have be able to tolerate the 16 hours or so he’d remained there. He was one of three sardines sharing this experience, and they had just made it to season 3 of some slice of life comedy anime Hector found and already forgot the name of.

Utterly entranced, Hector would not have had the will to remain there were it not for that TV Milo had managed to take from home, cause that poor dude definitely had it the worst. Being a larger man, he was not very tolerant to the heat, thus, he was the only one among them who was currently nude, with the exception of some likely very caustic boxers which had exceeded it’s maximum sweat saturation level long ago. Milo, who seemed to be handling it the best, was likely only feeling such since he was drunk as a sailor and probably on something else on top of it, and so he remained in a specific corner delegated where he could let his cigarette ashes fall.

It was at some point around then Joe performed a miracle- the others turned to him with awe as he summoned strength into his muscles and slowly arose from his nest. Some socks and old shirts clung to his arms and neck as he stood, which he casually peeled off with his first few steps on his adventure to the kitchen. Since the kitchen was on the scale of a medium-to-large closet, the fridge stopped very short of opening all the way as the door collided with the unused dishwasher a few feet in front of it. Joe reached his arm into the newly opened pit of wonder, blindly feeling around the inside of the door for only a brief moment before his fingers found the top of the two-liter bottle from his memory.

As he begun to swig down the last few gulps, he heard the sound of the door suddenly breaking open with tremendous force and slamming against the wall. In that moment, his biology betrayed him in the most catastrophic way possible, sending the bottle and it’s remaining contents into the air above, and then on top of him. Hector spun his head towards the door with speed Joe had no idea he was capable of, with a face that read as though he was guilty of murder. After a short delay, Milo made an expression that looked as though he’d just walked into a tree. As Joe died a slow and violent end, coughing and gagging up fizzy sugar water that infiltrated his nose, lungs, and sinuses, he heard some unfamiliar voices arguing:

Stop that! Only in life or death situ- Is this not EXACTLY that?! I still don’t think we should- Oh? Why the pushback? Are you going to admit to your guilt? I think you’re both acting guilty, honestly.

Joe instinctively tried to yell, ask a question, say something, but alas, the soda which had once provided him joy was now killing him. As he crashed to the floor, he caught sight of Hector, who had at some point slipped on some basketball shorts and was now scrambling to put on the nearest floor shirt that fit, and Milo, doing and saying absolutely nothing whatsoever. The next thing he hears is an exclamation about the smell, and the next thing he sees is infinite blackness.

After some more coughing, Joe finally recovers enough from dying to get his bearings. He looks around to see Hector looking around like a lost puppy, stretching one of Milo’s shirts to it’s breaking point across his abdomen as it tries its best to cover the shame of his breasts, as well as Milo, who seems unsure if what he’s experiencing is real. His eyes finally settle on the three female figures in front of them waiting to be noticed, and immediately recognized them. He didn’t know their names and didn’t know their voices, but he actually sees them almost daily. Before he has the chance, or will, to say something to them, the middle of the three figures steps forward to address the three braincells.