Theyâd spoken a little bit at the beginning, after heâd wandered over with two beers and a smile at the ready, but the volume of the music made it hard to talkâ and with each lapse into muteness, when it felt like the conversation had started and stopped more times than a failing lawnmower, Marlowe realized that there would be no breakthrough tonight. He couldnât fault Maks for this. Couldnât really do anything about it, either, as they stood with their backs to the wall and his âdateâ watched the room with guarded eyes, looking supremely uncomfortable in his loud-patterned shirt with the buttons only halfway done, and Marlowe drank deeply, reminding himself that this was not a matter of what he could say or do; it was just a matter of time and place. He thought of the evening down by the lake, the few visits heâd paid through a basement-level window. The smiles heâd coaxed out, the closeness heâd learned how to initiate, slowly and carefullyâ nothing like this distance between them now, the awkward separation of a chaperoned school dance. The problem of Maks Lawrence was a little more complicated than he and a beer could solve, so after a while, the only thing Marlowe could do was raise his own bottle in a farewell salute. Maybe Iâll catch ya later. And then heâd sauntered off, joining the crowd, never one to let a good party go to waste.
Drinking, dancing, a bump from Lenâs stash in the bathroom. Hungry kiss in the hallway and another on the dance floor, pink feather boa twined around his neck, molting onto his shoulders. A face that was already a black hole in his memory, smeary lipstick and salt taste of sweat. Drinking, dancing, drinking more. And in between, he checked back; he sent glances full of messages. Each time he caught a fleeting lookâ barely a graze of those dark, expressive eyesâ Marlowe tried to keep the contact for longer than was comfortable, communicating the unspoken possibilities. Extending the same invitation, over and over again. By now, midnight had come and gone, and Rihanna was begging, please donât stop the music! but there was no danger of that, no one was slowing down. The girls had paneled the walls with mirrors, creating infinite replicas of every person in the room; Marlowe moved toward himself, approaching the murkier version trapped in the glass behind the drinks table. He appraised the irregular skyline of bottles with a scavengerâs eye. None of these options were what he would call a first choiceâ but as the gospel of all scavengers went, beggars couldnât be choosers. So he poured some vodka, sloshed in something that smelled astringently of red wine and fermenting fruit, and stirred. Movement in the mirror got his attention. He raised his eyes and saw who was standing behind him, then lowered them again, poker face still on straight. âAh,â he said carelessly, continuing the mixology experiment. âSupplies are dwindling, so Iâm gettinâ creative. Here we have the last of someoneâs Grey Goose with just a splash of someoneâs shitty sangria.â And then finally, he smiled. A very faint smile, just a reminder of its usual brilliance. Turning fully around, Marlowe held up the glass and swirled the clouded contents, refurbishing his real accent into something dramatic and haughty, much further South. âI have ah-lways depended on the kahn-dness of strangers,â he said, continuing to smile through this breathy Blanche Dubois impression. He took a dainty sip, more of a lip-wetting. âNot bad. As far as poison goes, itâs quite pleasant.â
Only now did he really look at Maks. Soon as he did, he understood what had changed. Those dark eyes. Their huge, almost startled expression. He sought out the pupils and saw that they were massive, only the slightest distinction between iris and wide, black pool; Marlowe tilted his head as if to study Maks from a new angle. His own amber eyes went slant, considering. âYou good, cowboy? Pick up any unattended drinks lately?â
Coming to this party felt like a test of his friendship with Freya. It was the dress code that had turned him off, the paragraph detailing the doâs and donâtsâ there was a section about hoodies that felt like a direct attack towards him, but he hadnât questioned it. Tommo had provided his outfit, a shirt that looked cheap but heâd insisted was actually very expensive, and his date was Marlowe, setup like an arranged marriage that he felt like apologizing about every time he sent a text to coordinate it. Coming through the door, Freya stopped him like a club bouncer, eyes narrowed as she instructed him to unbutton the shirt further and further, before heâd had to stop her from exposing even his navel. She also managed to apply a streak of shimmery gold from his chest down to his ribs, a jagged golden line before heâd gotten out of her reach. The action earned a scowl, but the blonde was too delighted in her handiwork to care.
Once they were inside the party properly, he began the process of walling himself off to a place more comfortable. The party was painted in red and pink light, glitter almost blinding in itâs abundance. He tried, helping himself to a drink and nodding along dumbly to conversation, but it was clumsy and he looked meanâ his mouth that hard, stubborn line, a default that was easy to adopt. Marlowe drifted from his side and he couldnât blame him, even Tommo had found some better company, his curly head tipped back in laughter as a dark haired girl animatedly told a story. There was a twist in his gut at the sight of it, a bitterness he couldnât help when it came as a chaser to his sudden loneliness.
Heâd swallowed Freyaâs offering with a swig of his second beer. I need something to relax, heâd asked, and when she asked if he was sure heâd nodded with grit teeth. She unfurled his hand and placed the little pill in the centre of his palm, closing his fingertips around it and delivering a warning. Be careful.
The dance floor was different now, a multitude of flushed faces, reflections and not. They laughed when he laughed, and the recently healed scar on his lip went white when he smiled, a mark that ran off centre. He danced too, not caring about how it looked, partners changing with the flash of the lights as everything became one long stretch of untethered joy. The brown in his eyes had been eaten up by the black of his pupils. He looked for Marlowe from time to time, he was tall enough to see over the heads of a lot of the crowd, and he scanned for that familiar face, for the pale silhouette of his body marked with the dark lines of his tattoos, but he found himself distracted by another song or another dance before he found him.
He pushed off the dance floor to find another drink, unbuttoning the shirt the rest of the way without thinking, glitter smeared further from sweat and dancing. Stopping at the table set up with various half empty bottles, his eyes traced the dragon inked along the skin of Marloweâs back. Warmth flooded him again at the realization of who it was, like finding something heâd been missing for a long time. When he turned, Maks watched the shape of his mouth as he talked, reflecting back a smile that felt almost liquid in the way it came over him. âIâm good, Iâm actually really fucking good,â he replied, bobbing his head and laughing, âI was looking for you, whereâd you go?â He came closer, grasping Marloweâs forearm and nodding towards the dance floor. He craved a closeness to him, the flurry of the centre of the room felt like a good enough excuse. âWe should dance. Together.â He reached for cup of jungle juice and took a drink before tacking on more words, closing the gap between them, âI think we should dance out there, Iâd like it.â
