The music blared so loudly from the overdriven speakers that the floor vibrated beneath our shoes. It smelled of spilled beer, sweet perfume, and that typical, slightly musty Halloween plastic from cheap masks. Orange fairy lights flashed everywhere, jack-o'-lanterns grinned from windowsills, and somewhere someone had set up a fog machine that enveloped the room in a milky haze.

Steve leaned against the kitchen island, his back pressed against the cold countertop, watching the chaos unfolding before him. Costumes mingled with real faces, laughter with boisterous shouting, and somewhere someone screamed enthusiastically as a particularly gruesome makeup job was admired. His hand clutched a red plastic cup that he had barely touched for minutes. He didn't know exactly why he felt so out of place. Maybe it was the cramped space, the heat, the way everyone was having such an easy time of it, while he felt like he was standing a step away from the scene.

“Harrington!” someone called from the living room, but he just raised his hand briefly without really looking.

He finally took a sip. The drink tasted sweeter than expected, almost syrupy, but the alcohol hardly burned. Someone had probably added too much juice. Never mind. He shrugged and put the cup down again.

“Well, Harrington? Already pre-drinking for your big career as prom queen?” The voice was mocking, deep, and instantly recognizable. Steve had to turn his head a little further than necessary to see Billy in the doorway. Leather jacket, that arrogant grin, as if he were just watching the whole scene to make fun of it.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Wow, Hargrove. Did you practice that line in front of the mirror for hours, or did it come out spontaneously?”

Billy pushed himself away from the doorframe and strolled into the kitchen as if he owned the house. His gaze slid briefly over the cup in Steve's hand, then back up to his face. That grin remained, but his eyes were more alert, sharper. “You look a little... off,” he said casually, grabbing a can from the table. “Too much sugar water?”

“I feel great,” Steve countered immediately, even though he noticed as he spoke that his voice sounded a touch slower than usual. He cleared his throat and raised his cup demonstratively. “Maybe you should try something sweet sometime. It would definitely help your sunny disposition.” Billy snorted softly, tore open the can, and took a long sip. “I'll leave the sweet stuff to you, princess.”

Steve wanted to reply, but for a moment he lost his train of thought. His thoughts stumbled as if someone had torn a page out of his head. He blinked and put the cup down - a little too inaccurately. The rim first hit the edge of the countertop, tipped over, and a gush of sticky liquid spilled over the wood. “Damn,” he muttered, reflexively supporting himself with one hand. The room shifted slightly to the side. Not much. Just a brief sway, as if the floor had given way momentarily. Steve pressed his lips together. Okay. That was new.

Billy watched him with his head tilted to one side. “You can't even put down a cup anymore? Impressive.”