Louis was the golden boy. Captain of the football team, the “local heartthrob”, adored and worshipped by the majority. Being stuck at a buzzing drunken party was normally ideal; the place where he thrived the most, drinking up the laughter and the shit talking while he took the center of the crowd. Though with every shot he downed, he expected to finally feel the rush, only to get an ache in turn.

He eventually stumbled back into a corner of the kitchen, cheap red Solo cup loosely in his grasp while his other hand was resting against his forehead, the coolness of his palm a relief to how warm he felt. Unfocused eyes surveyed the rally, once orderly classmates now swarming every inch of every room, all carrying the same tacky cups, their own poisons in each one. He could already feel the headache pounding against his skull, taunting him. So far out of the ordinary for him to be miserable in the throes of crowds, but now he was secluded with an ache in his head and a churning in his stomach.

When the obnoxiousness of voices and echoes of bass through speakers eventually became too overwhelming, his cup was left abandoned on the counter as he trudged away from the kitchen. He snuck away from the mass, slipping past people without stopping for any cry of his name or outstretched hand.

He clutched onto the railing, stabilizing his shaky legs as he climbed up the stairs. He stepped past a few of the noisier and clearly occupied rooms before finding a promisingly quiet one. He slipped into the room, a tired breath of relief leaving his lips as he leaned against the shut door. When his eyes reopened, his eyes landed on someone already sat on the edge of the bed.