Jayce was the golden boy. Captain of the football team, the “local heartthrob”, adored and worshipped by the majority. Viktor was quite the opposite. Devoted to his studies, scrawny, and limping by with a bad leg. Being stuck at a buzzing drunken party in the shadow of his friend was far from ideal. The drink in his cup had remained at the same quantity since Jayce had poured it for him, encouraging him to “let loose”.

He stayed crowded in a corner of the kitchen, his cane leaning against the counter nearby if he should need it, but he doubted he’d be leaving his spot. He kept surveying the rally, classmates swarming every inch of every room, all carrying the same cheap red Solo cups, their own poisons in each one. He could already feel the headache pounding against his skull, taunting him.

When the obnoxiousness of voices and echoes of basses through speakers eventually became too overwhelming, he tossed his wasted drink out and grabbed his cane, sneaking off away from the mass, slipping into a quiet, seemingly unoccupied, bedroom. He shut the door, pausing to eye the figure sitting on the edge of the bed.