Well, here it was. Room 618.

Stanford unlocked the door and turned the rusty, loose knob. It opened with a horrid squeaking noise, just as he'd anticipated. Everything at this shitty school was subpar, he didn't exactly have high hopes. Ford picked up his boxes and bags, then elbowed the door open and walked inside.

He took a moment to glance over the room – peeling pale yellow wallpaper covered in lazy orange waves, two beds with hundreds of initials and other miscellaneous (mostly obscene) messages scratched onto their frames, a couple of beat-up old end tables, two desks riddled with scratches and dents, two empty wall-mounted shelves that looked like they were about to come toppling down at any moment, and a singular window. Far too small and definitely too smelly.

Great. Just fan-fucking-tastic. He couldn't wait to meet his dormmate (by couldn't wait, of course, he meant he hoped they never showed up). Whoever he was going to have to room with was probably going to be just as shitty as everything else about this stupid school. Heaving a sigh, Ford set his possessions near the bed on the left and sat down, the mattress springs squealing underneath him. He stared down at his hands in his lap for a moment before lifting his gaze to find a figure standing in the doorway, wearing a smug smirk that he was immediately tempted to wipe off with a well-placed punch. Ford stood and examined him.

The stranger was a rather lanky man about his height. A pair of round spectacles rested atop his rather long nose. He had thin, straw-like hair that was an almost unnatural shade of light brown. A streak of lighter-colored hair ran horizontally around his head just above his ears. He wore a pair of tattered bell-bottoms and scuffed brown shoes. This was topped off with about the ugliest red, black, and white plaid-patterned button-up Ford had ever laid eyes on. Stanford's gaze wandered down from his giraffe of a neck (he honestly couldn't even tell where his chin was) to the bulging satchel that hung at his side, which appeared to be burned in several places. The end of some sort of musical instrument (a guitar, maybe?) was sticking up from behind his back. Ford hated him already.

The man set the single cardboard box he was carrying on the desk to the right and then turned to him. "Howdy," the man greeted in what Ford took as a condescendi ng tone, extending his hand toward him. His voice was high-pitched and accented just enough to grate on Stanford's nerves. So his new roommate was one of those idiotic hillbillies, too. Excellent. Ford scowled, narrowing his eyes and hesitating a bit before placing a tightly balled fist in the other man's hand. The southerner's baby blue eyes flicked from his hands to his face with a bewildered expression as the awkward handshake was reciprocated. Ford brushed off his hand on his pants and then quickly tucked both hands behind his back, hoping the fool was too thick to have taken notice of his deformity. He said nothing. Instead, he turned abruptly away (still making sure to keep his hands hidden) and made a big show of going back to unpacking.

The stranger quirked a brow. "I said, howdy." he repeated in that absolutely wretched voice of his, annunciating "howdy" like he was trying to teach a child to speak.

"Hello." Ford snapped back curtly, not even turning to face him.

"Somebody's sure got his feathers ruffled." the redneck muttered, turning and setting his satchel on the desk.

Ford bit back a biting remark and glanced back at the other. The instrument strapped to his back was now in full view – a banjo. A goddamn banjo. Ford watched him pull a couple of dirty, wrinkled outfits out of the satchel and toss them on the bed. He then shook the bag upside-down over the desk, sending an array of tools, screws, circuitboards, scraps of metal, and spools of wiring clattering out. Finally, he slid the cardboard box all the way under his bed and then stood up, stepping back to watch Ford. Ford, unnerved by the boy's stare, shoved a book onto the shelf above his bed a bit harder than intended.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed as the shelf gave way and slammed down on top of his head. Ford rubbed the spot where it'd hit him, briefly forgetting to hide his hand. The Annoyance laughed. Ford clenched his teeth, blinking away the tears that had begun to pool at the corners of his eyes.

"Here. Lemme fix that for 'ya." The Annoyance walked over and knelt on the bed beside him. He examined the board and the mounting mechanism for a few seconds. "Oh. This is an easy fix, no problem." The Annoyance grabbed a screwdriver and matching screw off his desk, then returned and began to work. "Well, I should introduce myself, I reckon." he spoke, not looking away from the wall. "Name's Fiddleford McGucket. I'd say it's a pleasure to meet 'ya, but you clearly don't see it that way." he said, a slight edge of bitterness creeping into his voice.

"Stanford Pines." Ford replied flatly, folding his arms. He sat cross-legged on the bed and watched The Annoya- Fiddleford work. Fiddleford managed to remount the shelf fairly quickly.

"There. Good as new." He gave it a wiggle to make sure it was stable and turned to look at Ford with the same smug-ass smile he had when he first saw him. Ford frowned deeply. "You're welcome, asshole." Fiddleford said, sliding off the bed. Ford glared at him.

Stanford went back to the task of unpacking, silently brooding. As he was putting up his prized poster of Nikola Tesla, he caught a glimpse of something moving out of the corner of his eye. He looked down to see a cockroach skitter out from under one of the beds and let out a pitiful yelp. Ford frantically dug around in one of his boxes and pulled out a can of pest control spray, then proceeded to heavily douse the entire dorm room with the substance. So the place was infested with cockroaches. Astounding. Why wasn't he surprised?

"Mostly bug-free dorms, my ass. Wouldn't be a problem if I was at West Coast Tech." Ford muttered under his breath. He chucked the can back into the box. Stupid fucking school. Stupid fucking Stan. Stupid fucking idiot he was going to be stuck with indefinitely because of this stupid fucking school because of stupid fucking Stan.

Fiddleford's coughing turned into laughter as he squashed the roach with his foot. "Wooooow. Tough guy." He was grinning ear to ear as he spoke.

"I hate you." said Ford.

Fiddleford's expression didn't change. "I know."

The two finished their unpacking in bitter silence. Ford left immediately afterward (not before making sure to memorize where every single one of his possessions was and shoving his journal and sketchbook where Fiddleford didn't have a chance of finding them, of course). His aim was to go out and meet his professors (class didn't officially start until tomorrow, but it was best to get a foot in the door now so that he had a head start), which he certainly did. After checking out a stack of yellowing, dog-eared books from the maybe eight shelves Backupsmore called a library, he had enough information to complete all of next month's assignments that very night if he so pleased.

Now he was again standing in front of the same mystery-fluid-stained red door he's found himself before that morning, but feeling even more temperamental than he'd been just hours ago and clutching a leaning tower of books that was bound to topple over at any second. He kicked the door a couple of times, not wanting to set his books down and knowing full well the bum was probably still inside.

"Let me in, Fi-Fiddleford." Ford spoke. He tried to sound firm, but stumbled over the pest's tongue-twister of a name. What kind of name was Fiddleford? Who named their kid Fiddleford? Seriously, why wo-

His train of thought was abruptly derailed as the door swung open. In hindsight, leaning against the door to counterbalance the weight of the books hadn't been the wisest choice, seeing as he had lost his balance when the surface moved away and he was probably going to come face-to-face with the floor very soon.

He felt a surprisingly strong grip clamp onto his arms and push him back before he could tumble over completely. A few books flew off the top of the stack and he stumbled a bit before he managed to right himself, but he was saved from a flat-out fall by none other than the scrawny parasite he was going to be sharing this dump with for way too long.

Fiddleford peered around the stack of books and grinned at him. "Easy there, tiger." he teased, letting go of him and stepping back. Ford swore he was going to go insane if he had to listen to that voice every single day. He set the stack of books on his desk with a growl, then turned back to look over the room. He tallied up each item that belonged to him, ticking off his mental checklist as he made sure each and every thing he owned was accounted for. He wouldn't put petty thievery past a filthy hick like Fiddle-whatever-the-fuck-he-called-himself. If anything was missing, Tesla help him…

Huh. Nothing was gone. Remarkable.

"What's with all the books, anyway?"

"None of your business."

The rest of the afternoon was spent trying to ignore the nuisance by burying his face in a book on quantum physics and shamelessly cutting short any attempts at conversation.

"What're you majorin' in, Stanford?"

"Why does it fucking matter to you?"

"Nevermind, then. Jesus."

Ford still wasn't sure why the prick was suddenly so hellbent on being friendly, anyway. Had he not made it abundantly clear that he didn't want to speak to him? Fiddleford would pose a random inquiry even ten minutes or so on average, much to Ford's irritation.

"Can I see your schedule? Maybe we have some classes together."

"No."

He'd just about had it.

"So, where're you from?"

"New Jersey."

"That explains the attitude, I guess."

"Well, where are you from?"

"Tennessee."

"Wow." Ford gave an overdramatic gasp, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "College must be so different, huh? You don't even have to ride your tractor to school!"

Apparently that struck a nerve. Fiddleford stormed over and stood beside the bed where Stanford was sitting and reading. "For your information, I biked five miles to school every morning." Ford felt a hand grab a hold of his sweater. He dropped his book as he was lifted and shoved roughly against the headboard. Fiddleford leaned over and put his face so close to Ford's that he could feel his breath on his face. "Listen here, city boy." His voice was dead serious and laced with something so remarkably close to menace that Ford actually found himself feeling scared for a moment. "You think you're some kinda smart-ass, huh? You think you're hot shit, don't you? Don't you?" He shoved him again.

Ford finally found his voice. He grabbed Fiddleford's arm and tried to push him off of him. "Let go of me!"

Fiddleford responded by moving his hand from his shirt to his neck, pinning him. "I've been tryin' to be sociable. I've been tryin' to be nice. And you've given me nothing but lip in return. Well, guess what, Jersey? I'm gonna kick your entitled ass if you don't shut your goddamn mouth. Am. I. Making. Myself. Clear?" Ford felt the hand around his throat tighten. Then instinct finally took over and Ford kicked him squarely in the chest.

"Get your hands off of me!" he yelled. Fiddleford reeled back from the blow. Ford stood up, raising his fists defensively in case things escalated. Honestly, with the way his day was going, he wouldn't even be surprised if he ended up getting into a fistfight with his roommate the first day of college. He watched Fiddleford size him up, already feeling a nervous sweat collect on his temples.

Fiddleford let out a strangled noise of displeasure and brushed his shirt off as if to collect himself before looking Ford straight in the eyes. "Look, Stan…"

"Don't call me that."

The room went absolutely silent for a moment.

"Okay, fine. Stanford… I don't wanna fight you." Fiddleford put his hands out in front of him in sort of a "simmer down" gesture, trying to deescalate the situation.

"Then just leave me alone!" Ford shouted, extending both arms out to the sides in utter exasperation. Wasn't the solution obvious?

Fiddleford simply stood there and blinked at him for a few moments, seemingly stunned by his reaction. Ford squinted back at him, equally confused. Fiddleford's blank look twisted into a scowl after a few seconds of silence.

"Happy to oblige." He hissed. He walked over to his bed and climbed in, clothes and shoes and all, then pulled the covers over himself and abruptly turned off the light. "Good night." His tone was short and curt.

Ford threw his arms in the air, grumbling something under his breath before flipping it back on. "It's nine 'o clock!" he spoke as the suboptimal electrical system buzzed and flickered to life.

"Exactly!" The light was turned off again.

And now it was back on, accompanied by the same static and flickering as before. Ford blinked rapidly to adjust to the change in light levels. His eyes and ears were beginning to become irritated, but he ignored it. "Do you seriously go to bed at nine 'o clock!?" he inquired incredulously.

Off. "Uh, yes. What are you, nocturnal?"

On. "What are you, a child?"

Ford braced himself for a rebuttal, but received none. He looked down at Fiddleford, who gave a sigh and rubbed his brow with his fingers. "Can you just do me a favor and go to bed?"

"I don't owe you any favors! You tried to choke me!"

"I did no-" Fiddleford cut himself off and sighed again. "Stanford. Hear me out. As much as you so clearly despise me, I think it's been a long day for both of us, yeah? I don't know about you, but I'm fucking exhausted."

Ford considered this for a few moments. Fiddleford was right, honestly. He didn't have the energy to fight any longer. He turned away and went to find his pajamas. "This is both the first and last time I'm ever going to listen to you. I hope you realize that."

He heard Fiddleford let out a huff of amusement. He turned to see him grab a bundle of clothes from under his bed. Ford grabbed a bag of toiletries and followed him out the door and down the hall to the bathrooms. He brushed his teeth and returned to the dorm room (he probably should've showered, but he didn't really need one tonight, did he?) to change.

Fiddleford came back a few minutes later wearing a ratty old t-shirt and frayed shorts. Both students climbed wordlessly into their respective beds. Somebody turned out the light. A few minutes of quiet and darkness passed before a sudden thought regarding their earlier spat popped into Ford's head. He snickered aloud. "Were you really just going to turn out the light and sleep in your clothes?"

"It wouldn't have been as effective if I actually took the time to get ready for bed first." Fiddleford snapped.

Ford snorted. "Fair enough."