How lame do I look right now? Avery thought deeply, taking a sip from his drink and hearing the ice swirl around. The clouds of marijuana clouding his senses.

He was pretty sure he looked like the definition of a wallflower right now. Better than grinding on one of the jocks like half the people there were. The acrid smell of sweat and alcohol mixed with sweet marijuana smoke in the air, creating a distinctly college-party aroma that clung to his clothes.

Avery wasn't the one to go to frat parties, but free booze and weed weren't so bad. The thumping bass of the music vibrated through his chest as he shifted uncomfortably against the sticky wall, his baggy black sweater absorbing the heat from the crowded room.

Avery was the stereotypical emo kid. Alone, quiet, just take away the nice demeanor once you get to know them. His painted black nails tapped nervously against his plastic cup containing the harsh sting of cheap beer mixed with too-sweet orange juice.

His parents were surprised he made friends with how bitchy he acted. The fluorescent party lights cast multicolored shadows across his pale skin and dyed hair.

Being the emo kid wasn't ideal for him, but that's just his style. How he liked to express himself. He'd chosen this identity carefully, from the fake piercings to the band t-shirts underneath his oversized hoodie.

Avery first discovered his love for boys when he was seven. He was underneath the slides at recess, kissing a boy, horribly, of course. The memory made him smirk slightly into his drink.

He came out to his parents at ten; they didn't care at all. All they said was, and I quote, "I don't care; we have to go to work; make yourself some noodles or something." Their indifference had stung at first, but he'd come to prefer it over the alternative.

Not that Avery was complaining; most parents would kick them out or beat them till they were numb. At least his parents' neglect was relatively benign, if emotionally distant.

But... once he started dressing in all black, with fake piercings, baggy clothes, rock music, and dyed hair in almost every color, at sixteen. That's when they were concerned. Their reputation was everything to them.

So, when their precious baby boy started acting 'depressed,' as they put it, that's when they got concerned. With a little black and change of clothes. The double standard still irritated him years later.

But he loved them, sometimes. When they remembered his birthday or asked how school was going, brief moments of connection that kept him hoping for more.

Avery stayed against the wall, the orange juice a stark contrast from the beer mixed with it. The liquid sloshed slightly as he turned his head, following movement across the room.

His eyes darting around to each grinding, horny, smoke-filled corner. The music bass getting increasingly louder, making his head throb slightly.

And there he was, the notorious playboy. One of the jocks and frats. Avery could feel his heart rate quicken despite himself.

Avery couldn't even count on his fingers and toes how many people he'd slept with. He was walking towards him; why?!

Why is he coming towards me?! I'm barely even known in this school; people just ask me for my lunch money! The panic rising in his chest made it hard to breathe normally.

And there he stood, in front of Avery, handsome as always. Avery could see how he got many girls and boys, but Avery wasn't going to be one of them... maybe. The conflict between his attraction and his pride warred inside him.

"What do you want? Shouldn't you be fucking someone in a bathroom or doing cocaine, or whatever you guys do?" Avery said, a very obvious judgmental and hateful tone filling his voice. The words came out harsher than he intended, a defense mechanism kicking in.

Sure, he is attractive, but all they want is sex. Then, they'll dump you the next day, onto the next. Avery had seen it happen too many times to fall for that particular trap, no matter how his body seemed to betray him with its quickening pulse.