Prom for Failures
Posted: Wed Feb 13, 2019 5:08 pm
Nick felt miserable. He felt like he was hungover and sick and depressed all at once. That every fibre of his being, every ounce of every organ, was just working overtime to remind Nick that he felt terrible, just in case he’d forget otherwise. What made it even worse was that the people around him - including the assholes of George Hunter High, that handful of students that Nick knew had no claim to moral superiority over him - were enjoying themselves. They were having fun. It may well have been fleeting fun, aided by smuggled-in alcohol and the oppressive social obligation to enjoy prom come what may, but it was fun nonetheless. Nick hated it.
If there was one small comfort, it’s that he was entirely justified in this reaction. He’d had a rather acrimonious breakup with Tristan, one that wasn’t planned or logical, one that resulted entirely, Nick knew logically, from him blowing up at him, from him being incredulous that Tristan had dared to interact with Myles. And things had...rotted away with Beryl. There wasn’t any formal split up there. No announcement, no changes to Facebook statuses, nothing like that. They just drifted apart. Most ‘drifting apart’ breakups took weeks, if not months, but the timbre of their increasingly scant interactions changed irredeemably over the course of just a few days. No more Scrabble games. No more reality TV binging. No more crazy nights of wild passion that were the sort of hedonistic extravagance every smart person should want.
He had had a lot of unreasonable emotional reactions over the years, a lot of times when a minor inconvenience provoke some fiery tantrum of disproportionate magnitude, but for once, he felt that his feeling utterly shit was valid, that his newly deep-rooted misanthropic sentiments were, if not justified, at least understandable. For once, he had every right to be in this extreme emotional state, to be a scowling and morose curmudgeon sinisterly prowling the perimeter of the floor.
He thought about talking to his friends. But they all were either tied up in the inevitable fallout of the Trisickyl breakup (which Nick had been tenaciously diligent in remaining oblivious of), or were enjoying themselves. Nick didn’t want that positive energy. Nah. He just wanted to do something spiteful, or lustful, or self-destructive or...other-destructive. Whatever. If they wanted to talk to Nick, to share in his misery or plot some evil prank with him, then they could come over and talk to him.
None of them did.
Then again, his body language wasn’t exactly welcoming. Nick had the performer’s spirit, after all. He knew what sort of message his whole posture and mien was conveying. It was not a tolerant message. It was a ‘get out of my way’ message.
It was annoying. In the back of his mind, Nick knew he wanted someone to talk to him. He just...didn’t have the energy, didn’t have the interest in his own well-being or anything else, to actually put the requisite effort in. Nick knew it was self-destructive. A kind of social self-harm. Fuck it. He’d done that before. He’d recovered from it. No reason to pretend like he couldn’t do it again, if he could ever be arsed.
At one point, Nick was considering just going into the men’s room and cutting out a gloryhole in one of the cubicles. That’d show them. He was mulling over the logistics of such a plan - having decided the ‘how’ was more important than whether he should or not - when, inadvertently, he made eye contact with Lukas. Lukas was a good egg. Part of his old group of friends, with Blaise and Heather and Gaelan. He was smart and mature in how he handled relationships, which Nick needed right now, with a non-judgemental and unbigoted sexual ethic that Nick fully agreed with. He liked Nick. He was Nick’s friend. That was important here. Nick needed a friend. And, furthermore, he needed a friend that he could theoretically use as a rebound. He didn’t know if Lukas also thought Nick was cute. Only one way to find out.
He ambled towards Lukas, casually. Not desperately. Walked towards him like he was just calmly surveying the scene, looking out for any friend rather than just deliberately closing in on one. Finally, when he was a few metres away from him, he closed the gap, arms outstretched for a hug. “Lukas, my man! How’ve you been, mate? You enjoying the prom so far? Any action?”
If there was one small comfort, it’s that he was entirely justified in this reaction. He’d had a rather acrimonious breakup with Tristan, one that wasn’t planned or logical, one that resulted entirely, Nick knew logically, from him blowing up at him, from him being incredulous that Tristan had dared to interact with Myles. And things had...rotted away with Beryl. There wasn’t any formal split up there. No announcement, no changes to Facebook statuses, nothing like that. They just drifted apart. Most ‘drifting apart’ breakups took weeks, if not months, but the timbre of their increasingly scant interactions changed irredeemably over the course of just a few days. No more Scrabble games. No more reality TV binging. No more crazy nights of wild passion that were the sort of hedonistic extravagance every smart person should want.
He had had a lot of unreasonable emotional reactions over the years, a lot of times when a minor inconvenience provoke some fiery tantrum of disproportionate magnitude, but for once, he felt that his feeling utterly shit was valid, that his newly deep-rooted misanthropic sentiments were, if not justified, at least understandable. For once, he had every right to be in this extreme emotional state, to be a scowling and morose curmudgeon sinisterly prowling the perimeter of the floor.
He thought about talking to his friends. But they all were either tied up in the inevitable fallout of the Trisickyl breakup (which Nick had been tenaciously diligent in remaining oblivious of), or were enjoying themselves. Nick didn’t want that positive energy. Nah. He just wanted to do something spiteful, or lustful, or self-destructive or...other-destructive. Whatever. If they wanted to talk to Nick, to share in his misery or plot some evil prank with him, then they could come over and talk to him.
None of them did.
Then again, his body language wasn’t exactly welcoming. Nick had the performer’s spirit, after all. He knew what sort of message his whole posture and mien was conveying. It was not a tolerant message. It was a ‘get out of my way’ message.
It was annoying. In the back of his mind, Nick knew he wanted someone to talk to him. He just...didn’t have the energy, didn’t have the interest in his own well-being or anything else, to actually put the requisite effort in. Nick knew it was self-destructive. A kind of social self-harm. Fuck it. He’d done that before. He’d recovered from it. No reason to pretend like he couldn’t do it again, if he could ever be arsed.
At one point, Nick was considering just going into the men’s room and cutting out a gloryhole in one of the cubicles. That’d show them. He was mulling over the logistics of such a plan - having decided the ‘how’ was more important than whether he should or not - when, inadvertently, he made eye contact with Lukas. Lukas was a good egg. Part of his old group of friends, with Blaise and Heather and Gaelan. He was smart and mature in how he handled relationships, which Nick needed right now, with a non-judgemental and unbigoted sexual ethic that Nick fully agreed with. He liked Nick. He was Nick’s friend. That was important here. Nick needed a friend. And, furthermore, he needed a friend that he could theoretically use as a rebound. He didn’t know if Lukas also thought Nick was cute. Only one way to find out.
He ambled towards Lukas, casually. Not desperately. Walked towards him like he was just calmly surveying the scene, looking out for any friend rather than just deliberately closing in on one. Finally, when he was a few metres away from him, he closed the gap, arms outstretched for a hug. “Lukas, my man! How’ve you been, mate? You enjoying the prom so far? Any action?”