Calling Affection (Boyxboy)

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Oliver's POV





The sofa felt more like a prison the more I contained myself on it. 

I bounced my leg, arms folded over my chest. I'd exhausted myself of whatever phone games I had, and not wanting to waste any more of my limited battery life, had put it away. That left me with nothing to do except fifth-wheel, entirely sober on my own. 

Roman and Kai were drunk and enjoying their unsexy PDA, and Mia and Zoe were in their own world—in both senses, judging by the suspicious smell of whatever was in the roll they shared. Minerva had popped by and woken James up, and they were back upstairs, leaving me with instructions to wait for Axel, but otherwise with no company and nothing to do. 

Every inch of my pounding head and throbbing eardrums convinced me I'd never allow myself to attend another one of these superfluous and garbage events ever again. 

The music was just so loud.

I felt like my bones were rattling in my skeleton, the vibrations from the music running through the floor, the sofa, all the way up to my pounding skull. The noise wasn't even pleasant, for fuck's sake. Endless warped songs were interrupted by repetitive cheers from a DJ who seemed to think he was at fucking Coachella, hooting and hollering and hyping everyone up. It was a shitty teen party! Just play some Taylor Swift and leave!

As if that wasn't enough, my other senses were offended too. It stunk like hell. Apparently everybody liked the smell of body odour, because not a person in the building seemed to be wearing deodorant. 

In fact, they were wearing the opposite—the cheap perfume would have given me a headache if the loud music and stink of weed already hadn't. 

The beer sloshed everywhere already made the place smell like piss. But as if that wasn't enough, the washrooms smelled like other bodily fluids, too.

It was foul. Why couldn't people fuck in the bathtub, at least? Why did they have to do it on the sink counter? I couldn't even wash my hands without encountering a used condom, laid out like a handtowel.

The washroom scarred me enough to keep me from wandering, and the moans and groans coming from behind any closed door I passed were delightfully effective deterrents.

But the boredom was killing me, setting me in an even more awful mood. Nobody had warned me how fucking boring parties were.

I didn't know what I was expecting—this wasn't a kid's birthday party, with pre-planned cake and games. But there should have been something to do! 

Besides things that required drugs and alcohol, of course. 

Eventually, the frustration lead me to figure out my own game—finding Axel and getting the fuck home as soon as I could. Nobody was paying attention to me, so I tentatively wandered upstairs, hovering at the edge of the main dance floor. 

I eyed the dancers, assessing. Calling them 'dancers' was too generous. They were just shaking their butts to the bass, jumping in the same spot, occasionally fist-pumping. That, or outright sexual grinding against anybody who was as desperate for human touch as they were. 

What happened to proper dancing? Why couldn't they, I don't know, do the salsa? Or tango?

I let out a long sigh. I wasn't going to degrade myself by joining them, but what else could I do to pass time? 

Mother's lesson about pickpocketing came to mind. Feeling devious and inspired, I snickered to myself. 

When else would I have better opportunity to learn than now? It wasn't like I needed much, I was mostly interested in seeing if I could do it. And maybe it'd teach people a lesson: don't get so drunk you don't notice you're being robbed. The world isn't a kind place, sweetheart.