who should end up with who? what are some good ship names?

Ben

Everything hurt.

My head. Eyes. Throat. Even my stomach was rocking like a ship on stormy waves. My mouth tasted like something had died inside it. I spent a few minutes coughing before I could even sit up.

I was back in the dorm. My bed. Neck aching from the stiff mattress. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten here. I remembered dancing at the bar, a few drinks. It was as if someone had torn a page out of my memory.

Fuck.

"Morning," said my favorite person alive.

"Shut up," I told him, then started coughing again.

Michael was fully dressed, folding some laundry into a neat pile. "You want Advil?"

"Does it help?" I asked weakly.

He shrugged. "Better than Tylenol."

I closed my eyes. "Okay." He slammed shut the drawer and walked into the bathroom while I cringed from the sound. I reached down blindly to shove the sheet off me and felt my hand hit my bare leg. "Um... what happened to my pants?"

Michael reappeared and rattled the bottle in his hand as he walked over. "Oh, they're in some crazy old man's car," he said matter-of-factly. He stopped and pursed his lips. "Can I throw this at your head?"

"No," I snapped.

"Come on, please?" he said. "I need to. It'll be so epic. Full-circle. Ultimate revenge."

"No, Mich-" I started before he lightly tossed the bottle. It bounced off my shoulder.

"Oh my god, oh my god," he squeaked, flapping his hands in front of him. "Don't tell me what to do! I'm calling the police!"

"Is that supposed to be me?" I mumbled, pressing my hand to my forehead.

"No way," he said in a high voice, tilting his head in over-exaggerated confusion. "I talk like this all the time."

I rolled my eyes and downed two tablets of Advil. Although annoying, Michael was still being relatively nice to me. After our fight yesterday, I decided just to be grateful he was speaking to me.

"Want something to eat?" he asked as he started to walk away again. I couldn't remember the last time I actually ate something. Did the two bites of cereal yesterday morning count? Or the sandwich I threw away?

"Sure," I said. While he was gone I sat up the rest of the way and looked down at myself. There was something crusty on my shirt and my knees were bruised and scabbed over. Not to mention I had no pants.

Panic shot through me like a bullet. The hole in my memory burned, taunting me like a dark entity. I gripped the bedpost to steel myself as horrifying scenarios began to flash in place of real memories.

Michael returned from the kitchen, a poptart stuffed in his mouth and a second in his hand. "What's wrong?"

"I can't remember anything," I whispered.

He held out the second poptart and retracted his hand when I didn't take it. "There's not much worth remembering."

"Did we..."

"Did we what?" he said.

I bit my lip and stared at him.

"Oh." His face fell. "No. Jesus. You think I would do something like that when you're drunk?" He took another bite of his poptart before strolling back to his bed. "By the way," he murmured, "if we did, trust me, you would know."

I looked down to avoid the smirk I assumed he would make and bit off a chunk of the poptart he'd given me. It was stale. "So we're still going to?"

"Well, yesterday was a bit of a rough day," he said. "Hope you can understand. You know, getting humiliated by my disgusting wreck of a car, getting punched in the face for absolutely no reason, getting humiliated once again in front of my friends as you waltz in and magically scoop up our lovely little lady friend, oh, the list goes on, having to practically pry her off your dick to carry you-"

"Stop," I interrupted.

He sighed loudly while I broke off a tiny chunk of poptart and nibbled it miserably.

"I'm sorry," I said finally. "I'm sorry about everything. I just wanted to get drunk because I knew you hated me and I didn't want to think about it and then... and then I saw you and I thought, oh, I'll go talk to you because I like talking to you and I wanted you to like-"

"Okay, okay. I can forgive that. Did you have to punch me though?"

"I was defending Rhoda," I said, crossing my arms.

And then I remembered.

"Oh my god!" I shouted. "Oh my god. Oh-" I jumped up and started crawling around my bed like a rabid animal, searching for my phone in the sheets. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit. I left her, I left her there, I don't- oh my god, I think I lost my phone. Help me, help me, what to do-"

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. "Ah, shit, it's probably in the... Here." He held out his phone as I began hyperventilating. "Take it. Call her."

Immediately, I began searching for the slip of paper she'd given me on the first day of class. I was sure I still had it. I have to. Hands shaking, I held my backpack upside down and dumped everything out, my panic only growing when it was nowhere to be found.

"What are you doing?" Michael asked.

I looked up, blinking through my tears. "I have- I have this little thing, and it says her number and I- can you help me find it? Please?"

He stood still for a second, then nodded silently and crouched down to spread out some of the things I'd dumped everywhere. I couldn't take it anymore and finally let the tears in my eyes fall, and he turned towards me. "Hey, hey, I'll look, okay?" he said softly. "Just calm down."

I wiped my eyes and sat there while he searched for me. He gave up on the stuff on the ground after a moment and stood up to look at my desk, lifting the textbooks I'd piled there one by one.

"Hey," he said suddenly. "This it?"

He held up a small slip of paper and I let my breath out in a relieved rush. "Michael, thank you."

"You need to work on not panicking so much," he said. "Now. This is what we do. You call her, make sure everything's alright, and then I'll go in my Uber app and see if they can track down the old man."

"Old man?"

"You lost your phone in the car, right? There's a chance he's an idiot and still riding around with it in the backseat. But my guess is he's already tried to sell it or whoever he picked up next stole it."

I shakily typed the digits into his phone. Called. My stomach raged, threatening to make me sick again. I called again. How had I fucked up this bad? What if something happened to her? I was such a piece of shit.

Called a third time. Shaking. A groggy voice picked up. "Who is this?"

"Rhoda!" I was so relieved I nearly sobbed. "It's Ben! Are you okay? Did you get home alright? I'm so sor-"

"Oh..." she mumbled, voice thick and raspy. "Yeah. I went home. Some guy..."

"Guy?" I cut in. "What guy?" I could vaguely remember some of Michael's friends. That one playing with his nose. "Nothing... nothing bad happened, right?"

"Bad?" She sounded confused. Distant. "What?"

"I mean..." I stumbled over the words, my mouth still dry and thick. "I mean, how did you get home?"

"Think I fuckin' know?" she muttered airily. "Call me later, okay? I gotta go."

The call ended abruptly, like a punch to the gut. I scrubbed my eyes with one wrist. You fucking idiot. Fucked up again. Fucking, fucking piece of shit.

I looked down as Michael came over to get his phone, feeling ashamed for some reason. Maybe because he had five hundred girls to choose from and I was in tears over one. "She okay?" he said, watching me carefully.

I shrugged and sniffled.

He blinked once, then turned and sat down, wrapping one arm around me. "At least you got ahold of her, right?"

I said nothing and tipped my face to the side so I could lie my head on his shoulder. "I don't think she likes me."

"That might be my fault." His hand, warm and steady, rubbed circles into my back. He wore a thin, tan crewneck that I leaned into and closed my eyes. "I got heated yesterday. I shouldn't have yelled at either of you."

"Well, I probably shouldn't have hit you."

"Probably." He grinned. The swelling on his nose had gone down, but it was still bruised. And yet, there he was, still smiling, still making me feel better even though this was all my fault.

"I'm such a fucking mess." I leaned away from him. I was dirty. Bruised. Shirt stained with dried vomit. "Listen... I... I have a lot of issues, okay?" He looked at me, expression unreadable. "You don't need to care, I'm not asking you to." At that, Michael's lips parted, but I continued. "I have... problems. At home. Some mental shit to work out. And I'm very..." My eyes turned to the wall. White, undecorated. "Anxious... and angry. And that scares me."

I was beginning to ramble, I could tell. Losing the point I was trying to make. Michael listened in silence, waiting for me to finish.

"I don't really talk about it with anyone." I stared at my lap, twisting the hem of my T-shirt with two fingers. "I guess... since we're roommates... we'll get to know each other pretty well. I just didn't know... the appropriate time to tell you things, I guess. Or if you want to know them at all. I guess I feel like I should... warn you or something. If you're going to live with me. I don't think I'm a... well-adjusted person. I think I'm fucked up."

I forced myself to stop there. Michael's brow rose in a little quirk. "Do you think I'm a well-adjusted person?"

I laughed. "No. Not really."

"Okay." He let that sink in before continuing. "I have issues too. That's no secret. You knew that the first day you met me. I have a lot. I'm not judging you. I promise you. I don't go around bullying people... or whatever you accused me of-"

"Sorry." I smiled sheepishly.

"It's alright. I probably come off as an asshole-"

"You are an asshole."

"I knew you were going to say that." We were both smiling, breathless and a little nervous. "And as for, you know, the appropriate time to talk about it. It's whenever you want. If you haven't noticed, I don't exactly follow what's appropriate in a lot of ways."

This was true. Between the two of us, more social conventions had certainly been broken on his end. And yet, for some reason, I found myself in a perpetual state of doubt and embarrassment whenever I opened my mouth. Like every word I spoke was just one more nail in the coffin, proving what an awkward idiot I was.

"Well, you can always talk to me if you want," he said. "I'm a pretty chill guy. I also am good at hugs."

I looked up, my heart melting at his words. "Yeah, you are." He looked at me and we both smiled, and then I got up and crawled onto his lap and nuzzled myself into his chest. "I guess there's one nice thing about being here."

We stayed in bed for a long time. The silence was comfortable. My eyes, heavy and swollen from my hangover, drooped shut and I lay beside him while he watched videos on his phone. I did want to talk to him. At some point. I was still uncomfortable with the idea of talking to anyone about my problems, especially a dude. If I had ever been stupid enough to tell the guys at school about anything - about my dad, that I was feeling depressed, anything - they would have laughed it off. Or worse, started avoiding me.

Guys didn't talk about feelings. That was a girl thing. That was gay. You dealt with shit on your own. If you couldn't fix the problem, you learned to live with it.

But things felt different with Michael. I wanted to tell him everything. If only I knew how.

"I should shower," I murmured after a while. It was after eleven, almost time for lunch. Sarah would be pissed I hadn't called her.

"I'll be here." Michael batted his eyelashes playfully. I made my way to the bathroom and shut the door firmly before letting out a heavy sigh.

Never, ever, ever had I had this much of a crush on anyone. Sure, when girls looked my way I'd get excited, but nothing like this.

I felt in love, like all I wanted to do was run back out there and jump into his arms and let him kiss every square inch of me. He probably would, too.

I wondered if there was a time in my life that I'd ever actually liked a guy. I couldn't even remember finding one attractive. I always did my best to avoid accidentally letting my eyes fall on a man while watching porn. I'd never felt anything weird when I'd shared casual one-armed hugs with my male friends. Perhaps I'd never given myself the chance to consider being gay, because I'd always written it off as some gross taboo.

But that couldn't be, could it? You were supposed to know. All the gay men I'd ever heard of always went on and on about how from the second they could form a single thought, they knew they were gay.

You're probably just anxious about moving here, I told myself. So you got attached to the first person that seemed to like you.

Satisfied with this conclusion, I took off my clothes and turned the shower on, then got in carefully. For a while I just stood there and drank the water while it was still cold. After I'd finished generously shampooing and conditioning my hair, I started in on a deep scrub of my entire body.

I toweled off before slathering on a layer of deodorant and brushing my teeth. Lastly I secured the towel around my waist and poked my head out the door.

Michael was still sitting in my bed, scrolling through his phone. I cleared my throat.

"Hello, Benjamin," he said, not even looking up.

"Can you get up?" I snapped. "I need to get dressed."

"So get dressed," he said.

"Fine. I think I'll wear these." I threw a pair of jeans on the bed, slapping him across the chest.

I was fully aware of him slowly sitting up and swinging his legs to the floor, but I stood still as he walked up behind me. "Want help?" he murmured, his hands finding their way around my waist.

"Are you offering your skills as a stylist?"

He grinned and moved around me to the dresser. "Where's your underwear collection?"

I felt my cheeks heat up. "Um... bottom drawer," I mumbled.

"Hmm." He dropped into a crouch and started rifling through them. "Boring, boring. Any thongs? G-string?" He picked up a pair of solid black trunks. "I like these. These could work."

I rolled my eyes.

"Here," he said, tossing them to me as he stood. "Follow me." He walked past me to his side of the room and opened one of his drawers.

"I think all your clothes are too big for me," I murmured.

He shrugged and dug around before selecting a t-shirt. It was grayish-white with a black wire pattern and ivory circles placed randomly. He stacked a pair of sweats on top of it and handed them to me. "Try it."

"I think I'll wear my own pants, thanks."

"You can still have them," he said cheerfully.

I dumped the sweats into my drawer and slammed it shut, planning on never touching them as long as I lived. He smiled and then, before I could turn away, reached forward and gently tugged where I'd fastened the towel.

I flicked my eyes up at once. "This is kinda like unwrapping a present," he murmured, watching the towel turn in slow circles around my hips. "That's the best part of getting one, you know."

"Were you good this year?" I joked, tilting my head.

He took one more step closer and cupped the side of my face in his hand, tracing his thumb over my cheek. "Nah."

I stood still for a second, then rocked forward and gave him a short kiss, the movement making the towel fall once and for all.

"Oopsie," he whispered, smiling. He ruffled my hair a little and let me walk away. I shimmied into the trunks and pulled the shirt over my head, frowning when I saw how it went all the way down to my thighs. "It's cute," he said.

"It doesn't look like a dress?" I asked as I sat down to pull my pants on.

"No," he said. "You'd look pretty in a dress, though."

I glared at him. "Shut up."

"Or like a little miniskirt," he went on. "I'd pay to see that."

Well, I could use some money, I thought. I stuffed the front of the shirt into my jeans so it looked at least a slight bit fashionable and found some socks to wear. My shoes had mysteriously disappeared so I was forced to wear the dirty white Nikes Sarah had convinced me to pack.

"Okay," I said finally. "I'm leaving."

Michael was lying on his bed, actually looking the tiniest bit sad. "Can I come with you?"

"Why do you want to come with me?"

He shrugged slightly, then blinked his eyes down. "I'm bored."

I took a deep breath, then sighed. "Fine."

"Yay," he said, jumping up.

I leaned over to my table and grabbed my keys while he, with no warning, grabbed my hand. I wrenched it away, scowling at his stupid happy face. "Fuck off."

He narrowed his eyes wordlessly and reached for my hand again.

"Fuck off, we're not holding hands," I snapped. I shoved my way around him, opening the door and starting down the hall without him. I was aware that I seemed like the meanest person on earth, but for some reason, I couldn't stop myself.

It was almost like I wanted him to keep chasing me, even on the chance that he would just give up one of these times and focus his attention on someone else. Maybe I liked having him like me.

The halls of campus were busy today, and as we navigated our way through them, Michael made no further move to act affectionate. I was still confused about our relationship. He said we were friends, but I'd never made out with and gotten jerked off by any other friends. So did that make us lovers? The idea made me want to throw up.

The dining hall was crowded, filled with kids balancing paper plates of food in one arm, a heavy binder in the other, and a phone wedged between their shoulder and ear. Still, through all those people, I saw her.

I could spot that blue hair anywhere.

And I knew she saw me too, because one second she was staring forlornly out the window and the next she was squinting at me, and then on her feet and marching over. I panicked and did a full 180 turn, slamming into Michael.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Let's go, let's go," I chanted, trying to worm my way between him and a chubby guy in glasses who gave me an annoyed glare.

"Hey look, it's Smurfy," Michael pointed out.

"I know," I hissed. "Can we ju-"

I never got to finish my request. The next thing I knew Sarah was grabbing my arm and spinning me towards her with a strength greater than my own. The look in her eyes was deadly; she spoke through gritted teeth. "We gotta talk."