There was nothing remarkable about his roommate.
Andy Davis thought he was your average-looking guy (a freshman just like him with an undecided major but inclined towards English and Psychology) with a record of awkward dating relationships and content to resign himself to carrying the burdens of his loaded but exceedingly dissatisfied parents (who called their room number almost every weekend, and Andy was the only one who answered these calls he recognized after a while with discomfort). As your average male roommates in a double-roomer, in a college populace of twenty thousand and still growing, they didn't say much to each other the first few weeks of college — minus the one or two-worded, stereotypically monotone greetings of "Sup, man?" and "…good…" that would give a wound-up conversationalist a bloody aneurysm.
There was nothing remarkable at the illegally underage party they ended up drinking themselves silly into on Saturday night.
It had been a bust from the start for Andy. His girlfriend of six months decided to have it all out with him several hours prior, calling him 'a sorry bastard' and 'uncaring asshole' for some bullshit reason he couldn't recall after more than a couple Jell-O shots and one-and-a-half purposely spiked ice teas.
Most weekends were turning into this ritual it seemed. She went to a different college on the complete opposite end of the state and must have worked it out in her wacked-out psyche that he liked making her miserable by applying to this place and denying her their usual sex (as if he didn't have needs of his own, like any other healthy male of his age group).
From the leaning, broken armchair in the frat house, his summer-sky blue eyes blinked, noticing an approaching figure that weaved unsteadily through the dancers; a figure with a rumpled, plaid Abercrombie shirt and uneven socks exposed by his too-short slacks. His roommate — "Christopher Robin" it said on transcripts, but he insisted on the nickname "Rob" to everyone; his full name was only a nuisance spoken by his family — slumped towards the nearby banister, laughing aloud as Andy rose from the armchair, grabbing his arm before he could drop to the cigarette-littered floor.
"Whoa… you doing alright, man?"
Rob ignored the halfhearted concern, replying to the question between the sudden bout of laughter, "… Lesley broke up… with me… need… another drink..."
Though it seemed like the worst idea to this dramatic scenario (Andy vividly remembered the stern lecture from his close uncle about the negative effects of purging away your problems, and what it had done to his side of the family), he was feeling up to another round of those deliciously alcoholic iced teas himself.
They toasted to rotten girlfriends. They toasted to their semi-decent scores in AP Math. They toasted to the ability of the party to not being raided by cops.
It had been the most stimulating occurrence between Andy and his roommate since the beginning of the year. After that, the inebriated and excited fervor of their collective agreement on a variety of subjects calmed to an effortless discussion about anything and everything — and throughout until they stumbled out of the frat house into the lightly foggy evening. Andy realized a few important details during this time… first; even though he felt fairly sober, he was probably in no better shape than his magically floppy companion being led to the elevator of the dormitory, with their arms holding up shoulders… second; Rob was not only very open about what was on his mind, but a very huggy drunk with him.
It was not a terrible feeling.
"I use to think my toys could talk to me…"
Andy pretended to make an intrigued noise at that statement, unpeeling his clingy roommate from him and had him sit on their futon (there was no way in hell that Rob could make it up his lofted bed on the stepladder with how he was wobbling), and turned away a moment to throw his keys on his desk. "Really, dude?"
Rob must have thought he was making fun of him because of how his almond-shaped, dark eyes narrowed with clouded feelings of hurt up at him.
"I was a kid, alright?" He insisted defensively, "I didn't have a lot of friends and I had a lot of toys. I use to pretend that we would go on adventures… they would all live in the woods in my backyard…"
Andy watched in silence as his fingers ran through his stylishly-ruffled dark brown hair, as if nervous, as if disclosing something so unbearably intimate.
"Pooh Bear was my favorite." As Rob spoke, the other freshman realized with a bit of surprise and an unexpected stomach flutter that his roommate had a hint of a British accent that had never surfaced before when sober — it had probably been deeply engrained in him and been lost from his childhood.
"I use to think my toys had a mind of their own." Andy heard himself begin to explain, "Sometimes I would lose one and I was sure that there would be no chance of it coming back… and then the next day, there was Woody next to me… as if I had him with me the whole time…"
Andy added as afterthought, "My cowboy doll. He had a drawstring in his back that made him talk. There was Buzz Lightyear, Jessie the Cowgirl, Bullseye the Stallion, Hamm the Piggy Bank, Rex the Dinosaur, a Mister Potato Head…"
"I had a bunch of stuffed animals as a kid," Rob cut in. He counted off. "A bear, a rabbit, a tiger, a piglet, an owl, and a kangaroo with a baby in her pouch…"
"Dude… that's lame…"
Instead of appearing hurt this time, Rob grinned stupidly, shoving at Andy's shoulder. ""You had a cowgirl doll… and you call me lame?"
Andy felt his freckled and already flushing face heat further.
"I-I meant that she was my s-sister's doll!" He lied, wincing in his panic-induced stammer.
Damn, he didn't buy it.
"You shut up," Rob repeated without a trace of malice, staring up into his summer-sky blue eyes with a strong intent. So strong.
Andy couldn't place it — and wouldn't have been able to with a clearer focus — even after it happened, as the other male on the futon reached out with both hands to clasp Andy by his polo shirt collar and pull him down with a hearty tug, mashing their mouths together in a heated, fleshy seal. The reality that he was being expertly tongue fucked by someone he thought had been indefinitely straight and not up for the notorious "college experimentation" came crashing harshly around a stunned Andy.
His spiraling thoughts polluted by the vast quantities of alcohol and sexual deprivation and unconcealed bewilderment were going in such a slew that he could not pick out one from the other. He would blame that entirely for his decision to push his drunk roommate down on the futon, crawling over him — their lips; teeth; jaws colliding once more aggressively. Andy's hand slipped down for the buttons on Rob's jeans, earning him a earnest groan, his fingers fumbling blindly—
—the room phone on the wall began ringing. Once. Twice. A third time.
They froze at the same time, finally torn apart from each other, wide-eyed.
"Bugger," cursed Rob with his now pronounced and heavy accent (…and downright sexy, and that wasn't okay… Andy's own conscious scolded inside his head… this can't be okay…), rubbing his hands over his face. Slowly, Andy removed himself from the other male spread out from under him, his heart racing, his hands starting to curl at his sides.
A sixth ring. A seventh.
His companion noticed the loss in weight, protesting faintly, "Don't—"
"It's your parents. Just take the fucking call," Andy snapped, shuffling away. The early development of a nauseated hangover closed in, his mouth tingling from the previous abuse and lower lip bleeding a little as he sucked it clean between his teeth. Still painfully aroused. He continued numbly shuffling to his own lofted bed, managing to make it up without tumbling off, and rolled over still with all his clothes on to turn off his overhead lamp.
There was nothing remarkable about his roommate as he stumbled back on his feet, meekly answering the angry voices on the phone — his guiltily blushing lips pressing together into a line.
Guess who has officially ruined her childhood? And this all came to be because my little brother and I made the connection that Andy and Christopher Robin went to college.
Well, if you have any kind of comment to leave me... I'm open to them... about how you now ship this like whoa/your astonishment on how the hell I managed to escape the asylum/anything of the sort.