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[right][code]September 7th, a few hours before all of Hell broke loose
Warehouse
Interactions: None[/code][/right][hr]

This was a bad idea. A very very very bad idea. Why did he even come? It’s not like he wanted to come. It’s not like he was even really [i]invited[/i] in the first place, he just knew about the party because, well, [i]everyone[/i] knew about it. Going off from the noise coming from the front doors, it’s not like anyone would notice him slipping in. Or would they notice? Would they notice the intruder? Would they spy his difference from the corner of their drunken eyes? Would they stare? Scorn him for it? Hide it behind sickly sweet cardboard smiles? They would, wouldn’t they. People always noticed.

His mother wouldn’t notice him gone, though. She never noticed, unless when she wants to. But this night she won’t notice him gone. Or if she does, she won’t care. She never cares. He could never come home and she wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t have to see her. If things go wrong he could just leave the party and spend the night at the park or near that 24h convenience store or—
 
 
 
 
 
—What was he thinking about…?

Dammit, his thoughts vanished again. He hates when that happens. Camille glanced over to the warehouse doors. He was probably thinking about the party. And how many people there was in there. His village was, what, 300 in population? 350 max? There must be at least a third that many, just in there. Probably more. And only people his age. Too many. Cornell is so big…

No, no, take a big breath. He came here for a reason. He came here because… because… because he can’t stay alone. It’s not good for him. His Papa would be sad to see him right now. He needs to… meet some people. He had friends back home. He could maybe have some friends here too? Or at least acquaintances. Or just… people he doesn’t feel like he needs to run away from. Just one person he can tolerate, that’s all he’s asking.

People are bad, but alone… alone like he is, is worse. When stuck between Scylla and Charybdis, you have to choose Scylla.

One last breath. Look up at the sky. Not a cloud in sight; that’s a good sign. Clear skies mean a clear mind. Steel yourself, remember when to smile, remember that you are strong, and… enter.

And immediately be hit by the [i]sheer overwhelming atmosphere[/i]. The noise, the movement, the lights, the smell, the [i]crowd[/i]. People were bumping into each other left and right, spilling drinks from those red plastic cups he’d have otherwise sworn were just a movie thing. People were climbing on chairs and shouting on the makeshift dance floor, and a strong smell of cannabis wafted from somewhere in the building.

Camille didn’t want to be there anymore. He wanted to run away, right [i]now[/i]. But he couldn’t, he wouldn’t. So he did the next best thing and hightailed it for the bar, which was thankfully relatively empty.

Everybody must’ve already gotten their drinks.

He slipped through the crowd, quick and silent, keeping his hands shoved in his hoodie’s pocket, hiding his bruised knuckles. Get to the bar, grip the table-turned-bar-countertop a completely normal amount of hard, and grab the first can of whatever he recognizes. There. Budweiser. It’s shit, but it’ll do.

He looks normal. He looks like he belongs. No one is staring at him. He hasn’t seen anyone glance at him for more than to avoid bumping into him. He’s [i]fine[/i].

But try as he might to convince himself, he can feel it. The Gaze, burning a hole through his back. A drop of sweat rolls down the back of his neck. [i]Someone[/i] is watching him. [i]Someone[/i] has caught on to his charade. He can never catch them in the act, people have said it’s all in his mind, but he can [i]feel[/i] them staring, a visceral, almost physical sensation.

He cracked open his can and took a shaky sip. Yup, tastes just as bad as he remembered. Still helps to settle his nerves though.

He found himself a spot on the room’s edge, where he had a wall at his back and a view of most of the crowd. He slowly sipped his beer, not too quickly since he hadn’t eaten dinner (again) and didn’t want to make himself sick, but enough to give himself something to do as he peoplewatched.

He watched the others dance, and talk, and laugh. He couldn’t pick out what people were saying, their words either too quick or too slurred or both for him to translate. The music was, well, he would be lying if he said he didn’t know [i]any[/i] of it, a good chunk of the songs did occasionally play on the radio, so he’d heard them in passing a few times. But he didn’t really [i]know it[/i] know it. American music was still a bit of a mystery to him, ignorant of music in general as he was. He didn’t especially like it, nor the way he could feel the bass resonate in his chest.

Maybe hoping to get out and talk to people was too much. Maybe just being there would have to be enough, would make his face a bit more familiar for when he’d start attending proper, real classes again. Maybe [i]then[/i] he could start having [i]something[/i] of a social life that wasn’t occasionally punching an asshole’s lights out in a back alley. Or his mother screaming at him.

Or maybe this whole thing would just put a bigger target on him. He could still feel the Gaze burning into him from somewhere unseen. Could feel how high strung it made him, how close to snapping his nerves were. Camille just… really hoped no one would talk to him. He wasn’t sure he’d survive an actual conversation.