Higher [boyxboy]

1. Parties, Porcelain and Poison

The house was booming. The windows, dewey and dark with condensation, were shaking in time with the stomach-dropping bass, as if they were dancing along to the beat. The lights were burning low, throwing the room into heady shades of orange and purple and creating frantic shadows on the walls, and unbelievably, there was a discoball hanging from the chandelier by a thin white string, like a balloon in reverse. It was reflecting small pieces of light onto people's heads, making it look like they had stars tangled in their hair.

Nick was both quietly impressed that someone went through the trouble of actually finding a discoball, and nervous that the string might snap and drop a fucking hefty-looking ball of splintered glass, onto the heads of unsuspecting party-goers dancing feverishly underneath.

The atmosphere in the room was suffocating, heavy with perfume and body heat. It was making Nick's collar stick to the back of his neck uncomfortably. All the windows in the house were shut, in order to contain the noise and deter the neighbours from calling the cops, but Nick thought all they managed to do, was keep out the late-spring night and keep everyone pressed together in this airtight room, recycling each other's breaths.

They didn't seem to mind.

He had to snake his way through hot, sweaty bodies, that didn't even glance at him as he pushed past them, before he finally made it to the stairs.

The dim hallway on the second floor was decidedly less crowded, but Nick still had to push his way through.

When he found an empty bathroom, he entered, closing the door behind him. It was like flipping a switch; the music, the voices, cut off immediately, his own breath shocking against the tile. He didn't lock the door, didn't think it'd be necessary. No one was looking for him.

He moved to the mirror, a shadow approaching on the other side, his reflection staring back at him.

He took in his blood-shot eyes, his hair sticking to his forehead in clumps.

Now that he was out of the stifling heat, he felt the cold biting at him, turning his palms sweaty.

He gripped the edges of the sink and leaned in closer, scrutinizing the face in front of him as if... as if there was something about him he couldn't understand. As if this stranger in front of him would disappear if he just stared hard enough.

His eyes passed over familiar slopes of pale skin, heavy-set eyes, a frowning mouth.

He looked away, having seen enough, and pulled out a little transparent baggie from his back pocket. He opened it carefully and tipped over its contents on the edge of the sink.

Four little pills. Four little pills. He stared down thinking, calculating, and then he caught himself. He didn't want to think, didn't want to calculate, didn't want to know. Maybe ...maybe not.

Who cares either way.

He cupped his left hand under the sink and pushed the pills onto his palm with his right hand. The weight in his palm was minuscule, he couldn't even feel the pills... they were insubstantial.

Unless they were inside.

Nick felt his breath hitch and closed his eyes. He didn't know if it was from fear or... desire? Those two words had been inexplicably linked for too long for Nick. Fear - desire. He could swear they rhymed.

Was this breaking the pattern? Or perpetuating it? He didn't know, he couldn't think anymore, nothing was clear.

He brought his hand to his mouth and tipped back his head.

The bitter pills only wanted to destroy, so he urged them on. Destroy, destroy.

-

...Music, distant voices. Laughter from somewhere nearer. The lip of the porcelain, digging into his skull, his body buzzing in a far away sort of way. Sensations were coming back to him in fragments. It was enough to poke at his consciousness.