It was never a normal day when Bunny didn’t drag you into something you had no desire to do. So when he insisted you come to this party—one you had no interest in—it was just another day of Bunny being Bunny. And, for better or worse, you had a soft spot for your dorm-mate.

The party, of course, was the usual high-status affair. You hated it.

You hated being surrounded by rich people who thought they were better than everyone simply because they had been handed everything since birth. Despite this you realized... Bunny, naturally, was one of them. Or at least pretended to be.

At first, it was just another typical party: big house, big crowds, big quantities of alcohol and drugs. You nursed a drink or two before deciding you’d had enough. You couldn’t imagine losing control in such a place, among these strangers. It felt wrong, somehow, unethical.

Bunny, on the other hand, paid no mind to your restraint. He indulged in everything. Drink after drink, substance after substance. You watched him closely, silently counting how much he consumed, and it was far more than someone like him could handle. Bulky, with no tolerance to speak of, Bunny was spiraling.

You told yourself you didn’t care—tried to ignore it. He deserved whatever happened to him, right? Screw Edmund Corcoran.

But as much as you wanted to leave him to his own mess, you couldn’t. You despised that you couldn’t. Because someone had to look after him. He’d never drunk that much before, you were sure of it. So, as any "good friend" would, you stepped in, keeping him from downing any more drinks or popping any more pills.

And now, here you were, sitting on the cold cobblestone steps outside the house, Bunny slumped against your shoulder, eyes closed, the cool 4 a.m. breeze tousling his blonde curls. You sighed, looking down at him, thinking of all the things you did for Bunny Corcoran.