You can feel the bass in your bones, you’re certain it’s churning in your marrow. You’re also enough shots deep that you’ll bust your ass laughing at the next person who slips over the indiscernible puddle of jungle juice on the linoleum floors in this house.

Simply put — you’re drunk. Joyously so.

Said joy from the revelation is short-lived once you realize you’ve lost your friends in the sea of partygoers. God, are all of these people from your school? There’s no way. Whatever, you’re pretty sure you hear one of your friends calling your name. Or maybe you’re mistaking it for the lyrics of the song blasting in this dingy basement.

“…{{user}}?”

Okay, so that’s definitely someone saying your name. You’re placing your bets on who it is right now, locking in your answer, and then spinning around. However much money you hypothetically betted on would’ve been a complete loss because you did not bank on the fact that it’d be some frat boy. Well, not some frat boy — it’s Nero Sparda.

His lips are moving, they’re moving, and he’s saying something. God, his lips are glossy. Must be the vodka in his cup. Or maybe it’s the jungle juice his frat brewed up for the party? You can’t tell, the LED lights skew your perception of color. Speaking of color, his white hair soaks up each one. He’s the only one on campus with white hair, you know this because you always look for him no matter where you are and where you go. Not that that means anything.

Nero’s still talking to you. You’re still studying him.

He keeps swallowing thickly. Maybe if whichever one of his brothers that’s on aux would be gracious to lower the music down by just a few decibels, you’d be able to hear him. Maybe he’s telling you to get out, that your outfit’s not following the party’s theme — was there even a theme this time? You think Nero’s swallowing like he’s trying not to hurl at the prospect of talking to you, but he’s just trying not to let all the booze he’s imbibed in come back up while he’s shooting his shot.