Page 60 of In This Iron Ground
“No, but…fuck, just be careful. I don’t know. Just be careful!”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Brat.”
“Grandma.”
Stepping into the house party was an onslaught of sensory information. The loud noise and warmth of the packed people he had expected, but nobody tells you about the smell. The sticky almost-sweetness of alcohol, the haze of weed, the musk of sweaty bodies. It seemed to ramp up the noise of the music and laughter, the sudden feeling of being in a confined space with so many people.
There was no way there were any shifters here. They wouldn’t be able to stand it.
Damien tried to mask his reaction, not wanting to worry Olive, who was watching him carefully.
“Let’s party!” Damien said. Olive shook her head, but they waded in deeper. The smell and the heat and the noise got bigger and more insistent until they started to lose their edge, Damien’s overstuffed head becoming used to the overload.
Damien barely drank, nursing a single cup. He wasn’t panicking, but he didn’t feel nearly comfortable enough to lose an ounce of control. Olive, on the other hand, drank freely, obviously used to the habit. For the first hour, she stuck close by, but as distractions became more insistent and her inhibitions loosened, she started drifting away. Damien let her. It was nice to see that smile on her face. Damien had learnt to survive in the world of adults, but it still rubbed Olive raw. There, however, amidst college students and a lack of rules, she let herself go.
People were friendly in an inebriated sort of way, but Damien needed a break soon after he lost sight of Olive. There was something about the slight glaze in their eyes, the wide and sudden gestures of their arms, that put Damien on edge.
He went outside and the change in air was immediate. Despite the persistent smell of smoke, the cooling of temperature and open space relaxed Damien slightly.
Damien sipped at his drink a little nervously, trying not to wince at the taste. He looked around, pausing when he spotted a boy sitting by himself on the ground, smoking. He blended with the shadows slightly, his black hair and eyes, skin quite a few shades darker than Damien’s own. Damien’s legs began to move without conscious thought until he was in front of the guy.
“Can I sit here?” Damien asked. The guy looked up, a little surprised, but without a trace of annoyance.
“Sure.”
“Damien,” he introduced himself as he sat down.
“Gonzalo,” the guy replied.
“You know anybody here?”
“Yeah, a few people. They were doing my head in.”
“Too loud?”
“Too stupid.”
“Ah.”
“You?”
“Yeah. But she’s neither loud nor stupid.”
“Girlfriend?”
“What? Oh, no, she’s a friend.” For some reason the question made him blush. Gonzalo looked at him, almost as if he were finding something he hadn’t been looking for. His expression didn’t exactly soften, but it opened up somehow.
“What are you into?”
“Um…as in…?”
“As in what kind of stuff do you like doing? Hobbies?”
“Oh!” Damien ignored the burn in his cheeks and started talking. About herbs, flowers, when to plant parsnip, when to collect it. He talked about graphic novels, his favourite artists, the ones he found overrated. The words just came spilling out of him. The alcohol, the overwhelming environment, Gonzalo’s dark eyes. Damien didn’t know the reason, but his mouth didn’t want to stop.
Gonzalo didn’t seem to mind. He nodded and smiled and asked questions.
