The halls of the boys' dormitory are always alive with noise. From throbbing basslines pulsing through the too-thin walls to cackling laughter, to stampeding footsteps pounding up and down the stairs and slamming doors closing hard enough to send trembles through the floor. Boys, and men alike, travel to and fro, sometimes stopping to engage in fruitless conversation with neighboring residents in volumes unnecessary for the short distance between them.

Ivan does not like it. He does not like any of it. It is too much. Whether in the middle of the night or midway through the afternoon, all the commotion seems strangely out of place. The dissimilarities are too plentiful to pretend. He feels out of his element in the very place he is meant to call home.

As he jams his key into the lock on the door to his small room, he supposes that is the exact reason why he is more often seen vacating the building than occupying it. He supposes that is the very reason why whenever he happens to be spotted momentarily occupying the building, those who can be considered acquaintances will take the opportunity to bombard him with gossip or any other information he genuinely does not care about. Anything to get him talking.

Fruitless conversation, indeed.

Namely from Gilbert, the meddling, loudmouthed, overly rambunctious man-child, who rooms across the hall and three doors to the left. Ivan has to force down the urge to heave out a sigh of exasperation at the very sight of the man hurriedly approaching him. A dozen excuses to hold himself exempt from chatting at the moment race through his mind, but he never gets the chance to use a single one. From the moment they are within hearing-distance of one another, Gilbert is prattling on and on without so much as a greeting first.

"Fucking roommate is having one of his episodes again," the man says, facial expression contorted into some sort of grimace, though the frequent darting of his eyes towards his room betrays him and shows concern. "I swear I can't deal with this shit anymore. I can't wait until next semester so I can switch rooms. I can't wait to get out of here—period. Know what I mean?"

Ivan, although weary of meandering his way into others' business, cannot help but question Gilbert's thinking under these circumstances. "What does one of his 'episodes' look like?"

The other appears to be absorbed in thought before answering. Ivan can tell by the way his shoulders lift and fall in a brief shrug, in spite of his opening mouth. Almost as if he is weighing the consequences of revealing too much and, perhaps, revealing too little. It is clear the cogs in his brain are turning against each other much too fast to perfectly match both thought and action.

"Usually just a lot of crying," he pauses, carefully constructing his next sentences. "A lot of agitation and restlessness. He'll start throwing shit and make a general mess of everything for seemingly no reason. Tore my fucking posters off the wall one day."

Really, Ivan does not know much about psychology. It seems to be years ago that he took his General Education courses, which included an Introduction to Psychology class that he attended rather reluctantly. Nonetheless, the symptoms- could they even be called that? -seem worthy of keeping an eye on the person. Although, judging by the leather jacket draped over his shoulders, Gilbert is prepared to head out, much like Ivan is.

"And you are going out right now?"

Gilbert's eyebrows shoot up towards his forehead, an action that can easily be mistaken for surprise if not for the blank face that accompanies it. "Were you even paying attention?"

The answer is yes, not that it really matters.

Not at all interested in entertaining weak sarcasms and unwarranted attitudes, Ivan finally returns to the task at hand. He twists the lock into place before tearing the key from the brass knob and placing it in the pocket of his coat. He does not bother to give Gilbert any farewells when he turns away, whether by mere expression or words, and, instead, makes his way down the hall towards the elevator.

As if invited to tag along, Gilbert falls into step beside him, running off at the mouth all the while. "There's no way I'm staying in that room with him like that. It's just weird. What am I supposed to do? Just sit there and try and pretend that shit's normal. No chance in hell, dude. Fuck that. He can…"

His useless chatter begins to fade into nothingness while Ivan finds himself contemplating the steps he would take if cornered in the same situation as they wait, the down button glowing a mellow blue to signify it has been pressed.

"I think you should check on him."

Ivan is unsure whether his suggestion stems from his desire to be rid of Gilbert or the feeling of wariness that arises with the idea of someone's roommate having an "episode" without another to supervise their actions.

"Chill," Gilbert sighs, tossing his arm around Ivan's back to hook uncomfortably around his neck. "He'll be completely fine. It's not like he cuts himself or anything. He just gets stressed. It's college. Everyone's fucking crazy."

But something is off . A feeling of dread drops onto his shoulders atop the emotional distress caused by that of the many other burdens he already carries and he begins to feel uneasy as the elevator doors slowly slide closed. When the lift drops into its steady descent downwards, Ivan attempts to ignore the tight constricting in his chest.

Two hours later, when he arrives back at the dormitory (a lot earlier than usual), he is surprised to see an ambulance parked in outside the building. Well , he is mildly surprised and, then again, after a little thinking, not surprised in the least. Sickness is common. Typically, not to this degree, but it is not unheard of. Ivan has witnessed a handful of ambulances pulling away from campus on different occasions.

Most likely alcohol poisoning—again , he thinks.

Even as he scans his identification card and is swiftly permitted entrance to the building, even as he shuffles through the lobby filled with muttering and whispering peers, their eyes wide with worry. Even as he takes the stairs with the thought of avoiding the wait for the elevator. Even as he pushes the door open to the north wing of the fifth floor and is met with more than a dozen bodies lingering in their doorways, he still does not think it is anything more than alcohol poisoning.

When he reaches his door, he peers down the hallway out of habit, a heaviness carefully snowballing itself within his chest when he spots two paramedics making their way into a room not too far away. Ivan squints to catch sight of the number posted to the left of it, counts the distance away from his own.

The room across the hall and three doors to the left, Gilbert's room. Gilbert and his roommate.

Fucking roommate is having one of his episodes again.

Chill. It's not like he cuts himself or anything.

Ivan feels sick. The steadily growing wad of anticipation and guilt finally sinks into the pit of his stomach in a fit of oncoming nausea.

"Most likely just alcohol poisoning," he whispers to himself before stepping over the threshold to his room. When the door closes silently behind him, it all seems surreal.

Later, after the flashing lights of the ambulance can no longer be seen flickering across the walls and ceiling of his bedroom, Ivan continues to think. Continues to wonder and ponder the events that may have occurred during the two hours he spent studying in the campus library.

That night, the boys' dormitory is as quiet as the darkness that looms outside its residents' windows. There is no excited chatter, no jovial laughter and pounding footsteps up and down the halls. It is silent, however thin the walls are. Ivan hears nothing beyond that of his own breathing as he lays in bed, plagued with his own thoughts. He wonders if this is what college is all about.