It's the way the colors swirl. That's how he knew. Carlos was going to be okay as long as the colors decided to stay. Eventually, as all parties do, this one will shut down. Right now, with a fifth of vodka in his hand, a blunt on the painted banister, and the mist of the night air on his face the parties in full swing. Out here with the music, the bustle of the boys and the meander of the girls he's free to breath his way. His way is just a little different from everyone else's way.
Sure burrowing in to the legs of some silver stone sorority sister slipped so sweetly. Slimy messes were his favorite but not like this. You can breath when you're in a room of steam. The eyes are on you. You've got to preform. How simpler things were when he and some girl from school were getting to know each other in the backseat of his very first car in a cut somewhere before spending the night divulging what it was to be human. Back then he was allowed to be cute and sweet. Here the boys have expectations. His lacerations on his back, those scars, aren't from some horrible accident in his childhood. They're from the boys. Every time you're caught being emotional about something, complaining, or not being a total asshole to someone who was beneath you you were... reminded of your place here.
That's what president Logan Reese always said.
Being a man was a priority. You had to walk, talk, speak, move, like a bull. Their leading Greek symbol was the same for the Taurus. Baylor Beta was a brick house and breaking in is beyond your depth. We are the monsters parents warn children about. We are the stories passing in the halls of who was unfortunate enough to fall into our hands long enough for us to hit record. We have a collection of mess in the basement. Locked away in vault. Why does this bother him? He should love the role. No pain. Only conquers, parties, and money.
A voice, "You look interesting. That your gimmick. Everyone here seems to have one."
Interesting. He's never heard the tone of anger at a party. They have something in common. He still warned her, she's must be a freshman if she doesn't know, "The point of a party is to purge the pain."
She nods, "Yeah that cut throat bitch Tori Vega said that to me too but I outrank her and I deeply enjoy being angry."
Out rank. How? She's the president. Then he saw her broach and knew. Dear God, "You're a transfer."
"I feel like I've been thrown into God awful movie where Mitchell Musso and a group of pretty people are stranded on a beach where the sand is infested with a hair like creature that eats flesh. I am deeply concerned and need to ask a lot of questions." She explained.
He shrugged, "You wont get much of that done here. Not at 1 am at a Beta party. You got a name scrappy?"
She had the deep black curls of volcanic rock. Her skin was porclein and her eyes looked like emeralds, "Camille. What about you, expressionless?"
"Carlos." Of course. She'd heard of him. Who hadn't.
He was a dance major. Imagine Reese's shock when he found out. The boys beat away at him for a week. He persued. He had too. That's what life was for him. He would spin and spiral and be slapped around if he had to but the freedoms he found in his shorts and tshirt with the music high and the colors dripping away from what ever Drake Parker kept giving him "For the pain"
Him and Drake are roommates. Bonded in their blood the same year. That pledge week left all of them deeply infused. A pack. Complying to the twisted commands of their chaotic cult.
"If you so much as think about mentioning that Summer's Solstace impromptu I'll hurl." He insisted.
She threw her hands up, "I tried dude."
Then she spun on her heel and started walking away but a fight broke out inside and she froze where she stood. Too soon to reenter from this balcony on the west end. She'd have to wait a bit.
Carlos was staring out over the balcony hoping she'd left. Women could be attractive, at times, but as much as it's been shoved in his face. As many times as he's had to work one out when it was honestly the last thing on his mind has left him drained. They're conversations were usually so unrelated to anything remotely human. I don't care that you've gained a little weight this is college. I don't care that Leann cut all your bras. There is literally no law that says you have to wear one and oddly enough Carlos rarely finds himself looking at them.
In fact there's something else he prefers to look at and he'd be in trouble in he ever admitted that it was moving in across the street. A group of musicians. Each one so intricately different but clutching their instrument of choice in the same fashion. Only one of them didn't have something to play. Instead he held on tightly to a leather bound journal with a pendant pen. Even from here Carlos would recognize the moon in any form or fashion.
Kendall Knight. A poet. A writer. A voice of freedom and feeling. How Carlos wanted so badly to hate him and knew in that moment he would have to pretend.