He stood near the wall, holding a cup he had mostly emptied. The flat was crowded, filled with people he didn't know well—friends of friends, colleagues of colleagues. Music played at a volume that allowed conversation without shouting. It was Marcus's birthday, someone he had met twice before through mutual acquaintances. He had been invited via a message he almost didn't respond to.
He had come because he needed to be somewhere else.
'Have to leave those matters and unwind sometimes,' he thought.
The matters stayed where he left them, he hoped. They didn't follow him to parties.
His hair was deep blue, almost black in the dim lighting. People occasionally glanced at it, then away. It wasn't unusual enough to comment on in this crowd. A woman near the window had pink hair, and another near the kitchen had shaved hers completely. His deep blue fit right in.
He moved to the table for more snacks. The selection was standard—chips in bowls, some sandwiches cut into triangles, a cake that had already been sliced and mostly consumed. He picked up a few crisps and ate them without tasting much. The cake was chocolate, he noted, with white frosting between the layers. Someone had already taken the piece with the most icing.
The flat itself was typical of the area—two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen that opened into the living space. The furniture was mismatched, collected over time from various sources. A sofa with a faded cover dominated one wall, occupied by three people engaged in separate conversations. A bookshelf in the corner held paperbacks and a small plant that looked recently watered.
He had arrived an hour ago, and he had spoken to four people. Marcus, briefly, to deliver a card he had bought on the way. A woman named Priya who worked in the same building as him, though in a different department. A man whose name he had already forgotten, who talked at length about a band he didn't listen to. And a friend of Marcus's sister, who had asked about his hair and accepted his answer without further interest.
The window was open slightly, and cool air drifted in. The smell of cooking from another flat lingered—garlic and something fried. He stood near the wall because he didn't know where else to be. The sofa was full, the kitchen crowded, and the hallway too narrow to linger in without blocking movement.
He watched the room without focusing on anyone. A couple near the door argued quietly, their body tense but their voices low. Someone changed the music, and the new song was louder, with more bass. A few people danced in the limited space available, their movements casual and uncoordinated.
He finished his crisps and looked for a bin. There wasn't one visible, so he kept the napkin in his hand. The cup was warm from holding it too long, the contents no longer cold. He didn't mind. The temperature of the drink wasn't why he was here.
Marcus moved through the room with a fresh drink, greeting people he passed. He was younger than most present, though he carried himself with the ease of someone who hosted often. He caught his eye and smiled, and he smiled back. They didn't speak. There was nothing to say that hadn't been said in the message exchange about attendance.
The pink-haired woman laughed at something near the window, and the sound carried over the music. The shaved-head woman had moved to the kitchen and was talking to someone with a tattoo visible on their forearm. He didn't know either of them. He didn't know most of the people here, and he preferred it that way. Familiarity required maintenance he wasn't prepared to offer tonight.
He checked his phone, though he didn't expect messages. The screen showed the time, a notification from an app he rarely used, and nothing else. He put it back in his pocket without unlocking it. The matters he had left behind could wait. They had waited before, and they would wait again.
The cake was finished now, and the plates were being collected by someone who had volunteered for the task. A man with a beard stacked them carefully, balancing them against his chest as he moved toward the kitchen. He watched this without interest, then looked away.
The door opened and closed as people arrived and left. The room's population remained steady, new faces replacing those who departed. He didn't know if he would stay much longer. He had achieved what he came for—a change of location, a break from silence, proof that he could be among people without being required to perform.
A man approached from his left, smiling easily. He was taller than most in the room, dressed in a shirt that hadn't started the evening wrinkled. He moved with the confidence of someone who knew most people present.
"Don't think we've met," the man said. "I'm Bruce."
He turned, and he wiped his fingers on a napkin he didn't need. "I'm Hard."
Bruce's smile faltered. He took a small step back, and his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. "Uh," he said. "I'm not—I mean, I don't swing that way."
He looked at Bruce, and he didn't understand immediately. The music continued around them, and someone laughed at a joke across the room. "What?"
"Nothing against it," Bruce said quickly, and his eyes already searched the room for an exit. His hand moved slightly, as if preparing to wave at someone he knew across the flat. "Just not for me."
He opened his mouth to explain, but Bruce was already moving away, and he weaved through the crowd with purpose. He didn't look back, and he didn't slow his pace.
"Wait," he called after him. "You don't understand—"
Bruce didn't stop. He disappeared toward the kitchen, and he was gone within seconds, absorbed by the movement of other guests.
He stood there, and the cup in his hand was forgotten. He looked down at it, then back toward the kitchen where Bruce had vanished. A woman nearby glanced at him, then away, uninterested. The party continued its rhythm around him. Someone turned up the music slightly, and the bass became more noticeable in the floorboards.
He called out, "But seriously, I'm Hard!" And he said it louder this time.