Chapter Text
Jess had invited him to go so, of course, as one did, Sam went. Parties werent really his thing—there were too many lights, too many people, too many eyes always watching, watching, watching—but Jess had said it'd be fun, that Bradley and some of his other mates would be there (Jess always the more popular one of the two) and so Sam had agreed.
She wasn't wrong. Not entirely, anyway. When they arrived at the place, it was already packed with people, cars lining down the street. Sam had worn a outfit matching with Jessica's as Jess had said it was a costume party but, looking around the joint, seemed less and less so.
Leaning in to Jess as they crossed the street and walked into the driveway, Sam asked, "Are you sure its a costume party?"
Jess smiled. "I'm sure," she said, squeezing his hand. Though she added: "And even if its not, well." A shrug. Sam felt his gut twist at the uncertainty, at the easy air Jess brought to things (why wasn't she panicking?), and he tried to make himself as small as possible as they entered the place.
It was bright. There were already groups migrated to the stairs, and Sam and Jess had to squeeze passed them to reach the actual house. Up on the deck floor and Sam already felt sick: nobody was in costume. More then that, it seemed like everyone here were in plain outfits. Now, it wouldn't be as of an issue if Jess and he had gone in, say, a sexy doctor custome — not only would Jessica look hot as shit in that but also confident as hell, nobody would pick on them — but they hadn't; they'd gone as some bloody clown inspired outfits. Sam could feel eyes on the back of his neck. He swore he could hear giggles, too, and he all but wanted to crawl into Jessica's arms and hide away until it was time to leave. Unfortunately a twenty going on twenty one year old could in no way just do that, so he ended up staying stitched to Jessica's hip, following her around like some kicked pup. To his prayers, she lingered moreso off to the side of the party, near where all the hotplates and small snacks were, rather then mingling in with the crowd.
"You alright?" She asked him, after half an hour of trailing her side like a pup. Sam nodded, though he felt sick for some reason.
"Fine."
"You look a little queasy." She rubbed at his arm. "You hungry?"
Right now, it felt like he couldn't stomach any food. Nonetheless he nodded and the two of them went to grab some snacks from the tables: nothing fancy, a few cheese platters, crackers, some chopped fruit. While Jess took a plate of cheese and crackers Sam went for the strawberries, eating some. That was when someone clapped him on the back. He flinched, looking over.
"Sam!" Brady was smiling. He was wearing a plain tshirt and some cargo shorts, thongs to match. He was inches from Sam's face and his breath already stank. Still, he was grinning like a madman. "My dude, how you've been? Seen you and Jess dressed up."
Sams ears went hot and Bradley laughed, easing off him to wrap Jess around one of his arms as well.
"Whats the theme? Bloody valentines?" Brady joked.
Jess whacked at his arm. "Bradley! Stop. Hes nervous enough as it is." She gave Sam a sympathetic look.
Brady let go of them after a moment. "Relax. You two look nice, don't sweat it." He gave Sam a once-over. Smiled. "Plus, a lot of these other people don't have any sort of style, besides you guys."
"Thanks, Brady," Jess laughed.
"Yeah." Sam still felt the pit in his stomach. "Thanks."
Brady softens, if thats a miracle Sam can count on. They mingle back towards the corner, Brady talking about classes, him and Jess laughing around it. Sam tries to join in, but his mind can't help but trickle back to what Brady said earlier—a snife and off handed remark, yes, but a remark nonetheless. Sam still felt it linger hot against his skin. Everytime someone passed them Sam could physically feel their reaction towards him: a glance, a twice over, disgust, laughter, snickering.
Jess didn't seem to mind it much. She was popular and whatever she did she seemed to carry an air that demanded respect from others. She could very easily walk back onto campus wearing that outfit, maybe even more obscure (a play knife on her side, splatter of blood big on her cheek) and not give a shit. Sam wanted to be like that. He looked up to her because of that, though every time he tried he was just reminded at how out of place he felt; about how lanky and tall he was, the scars criss crotching his throat, the bridge of his nose. He was ugly. Or, prehapes not that, but definitely someone more susceptible to laugher, to picking apart.
He could feel the party grow distant, as if his eyes were slowly being detached from his retina. His skin felt hot yet numb, and his hands—when he fiddled with them out of anxiety—felt too large for him, as if sewed on from another person's body. Jess was talking to him, asking him if he wanted any more food, or some air, was Sam feeling alright? And almost jarringly his name no longer rung famailiar. Instead it was as if Sam was looking from between two worlds: both inside himself as himself and yet equally so as an observer.
And this was alright. Sam knew what these things were, if vaguely, and knew how to handle them. Which was to say: nothing. He waved Jess's concern off with a smile (which he for sure thought was strained though Jess said nothing) and continued to talk to Brady and her, hearing his own voice through a cardboard tunnel. They talked mostly about nothing serious, maybe some recent show they'd watched, which team they were betting this season, what class work was due what week, the list went on.
Though Sam fit easy into these conversations, he was thinking too hard on too many other different things to engage: what was his cadence like, was he speaking loudly or too soft, aloof or too serious, meek or too overconfident; was he looking everyone in the eye, was he avoiding people, making them feel weird, out of place, at disease. It was a running commentary his brain refused to let go of.
Though, the main issue he came to find himself questioning—most oddly—most importantly—was this:
Was he speaking as if Sam himself would speak?
Sam would speak with a smile. Sam would speak with a slight high to his voice. He would grin when shy, laugh when embarrassed. He didn't show his hands well, and he knew that, because he was Sam, as they were the same. So Jess asked a question on whether he wanted to join her and Bradley on the balcony—them two moving sometime within his detatchment—and he nodded. Thats what Sam would've done. He wasn't one for outward discomfort. Neither was he.
"Finding it alright?" Jess asked, grabbing herself a can of soft drink from the esky located on the far end of one of the tables.
"You've been a bit quiet, Sammy," Brady laughed, taking a sip of his own can.
He smiled, strained. "Really?"
"Yeah, man. You got too many nerves in you." Brady grabbed another can from the esky, this one with red and orange—Kambucha, he thought he saw the name as—offering it to him. "Here. Take it. You need to loosen up."
He looked towards Jess. Jess said nothing discouraging, just smiled and sipped her own can. It was an odd thing to feel. He (or at least Sam) and Jess were twenty, there was no reason for him to ask for permission. Yet in some deep part of him—a part where they all didn't like—still seeked that permission from an older peer. Jessica, he seemed, was a replacement for him.
"I'm alright." He said. "Thanks, though."
"You sure?" Brady tucked the can under his arm, took a swig from his own. "You seem stressed. And, hey—Jess can always drive you home. Don't you guys live together anyway?"
"Still moving in," Jess replied, smiling.
"Yeah. So—its fine, right? Come on. You've been stressed for weeks, man. This party's supposed to be fun, right?"
He looked at Jessica again. She nudged his shoulder. "You deserve a break," she said. When all he did was blink—what was he to do?—Jess gave him a look, turning to Brady as she rubbed her hand along his arm. She was suddenly sympathetic, playing for his side. Girlfriends, right—Jessica would always have their back. "He doesn't want it, Brady."
Brady sighed. "Fine, fine."
He suddenly felt inclined. "Uh, well—"
"No, its all good. Don't sweat it." Brady opened the lid and tossed the can back in. Went back to his stance, easy-as.
Brady sipped at his drink, Jessica too, and he stood there a bit off-kin now. He wanted to drink, that was the thing, but did he really want to? He often had these deep craving for things he'd never even caught a wift of, something like weed, cigarettes, sometimes pain medication he didn't know the name of. Drinking was no different, besides his childhood memories of it, sparse and foamy, more of The Other then his own.
Watching as the party mingled on, he felt himself detaching once more, Sam coming back into focus, nearing the edge of his conciousness as if they were in a car and Sam was just rousing from his nap in the backseat. It was never that easy, however. He held back. A force to be argued with, he was. He could feel Sam slither to and from the back of their head, peering and dipping, wondering aloud: whats going on with me?
There was nothing wrong with him, though. He and Sam were one in the same, and, despite the swelling pit in his gut, they were fine—were going to be fine—because he reached for the can of beer Bradley had disregarded, popped it open, and took a sip.
Sam went forward—right near his eyes, so close he could feel his own self wafting away towards him—and then was propelled back, his uncharacteristic nature of giving in overriding his curiosity. Sam was never one for drinks. He'd made sure of that. For all of Sams memories, for all of his foggy ones, the ones not even he quite knew, Sam was terrified of drinking. It was less social condement then it was hurt yet to come. Even he didn't quite enjoy it, but he never got around much, and when the opportunity arose...
Well. Sam might be twenty, but he'd been twenty-seven for far too long without any relief. Screw Sam, right?
He was in control. He was in the front seat. Sam had shelved to the back of his head, and he was pretty sure he wasn't coming back any time soon.
So, with the party contining—Jessica sitting on the lounge inside, talking to some of her girlfriends, eating cheese and drinking lemonade—the social waft drifted away. He wasn't one for anxiety, anyway. He was moreso a shell then an actual person. A 'body' for possession, some might say.
So, Soulless got drunk.