- X -

* * * * *
         "Hullo there. Feeling any better?"
         "What . . . oh. It's you. You're back. I didn't even see your brother leave."
         "Hm, probably because you were all caught up in yourself and not paying attention to a damn thing going on around you. Typical."
         "Hey . . . hey, that's . . . now that's not fair, you can't say that I shouldn't be . . . that . . ."
         "Oh do be quiet for a second. I'm as sympathetic as the next fellow that wanders this way but frankly isn't there someone you're forgetting in all of this? Someone who has wound up suffering a whole hell of a lot."
         "But they . . . deserve . . . deserved it."
         "That's not who I'm talking about. You know that."
         "Yeah I . . . oh God, yes I do. I do know. I just . . . I don't want to think about it because . . . because I start and it . . . I think . . ."
         "What do you think?"
         "I don't want to talk about it."
         "I'm afraid that we're rather past that option at this point. As much as I'm an advocate for individual freedom, you're going to have to talk about this even if I have to drag it out of you inch by bloody inch. Otherwise, you're going to keep it all bottled up and probably wind up dead. In some fashion. So you might as well talk about whatever you're thinking about. I'm not going anywhere."
         "You know, ha, that's, ha, one of the things that strikes me as so funny about all of this. You're not going anywhere, you're not going away. You're like a . . . bad dream that I can't shake."
         "That's very nice, but it's not what you were going to say before. I can see the seams of your mind, if you want me to say it for you, I will. But I rather think you'd like to hear your own thoughts in your own words, hm?"
         "I . . . dammit . . . I was going to say that . . . times like this, that, that, sometimes I think . . . I feel that my life is just going to be like this from now on . . . just . . ."
         "Like what?"
         "This! Like all of this, just . . . just wandering from one goddamn tragedy to another, like I'm supposed to . . . catalog all of this in my head and I can't do anything, I just stand there and . . . and watch . . . I . . . oh God . . ."
         "Please calm down. Have some coffee, it's really rather good as far as coffee goes. I really don't like seeing you upset-"
         "Then do something about it, goddammit! Because I don't know what the hell you want me to do . . . I . . . I feel so . . . stagnant, like life's just . . . moving . . . moving forward and I'm . . . just standing still and moving in . . . circles. Just in circles."
         "Hm. Circles. Interesting you should say that. I don't agree with you of course but then you don't have my perspective. Just think, in fifty years, we'll be laughing about all of this, about how silly all of this worrying was."
         "There's not a . . . not a thing . . . funny about any of this. There isn't."
         "No, there's not. But that doesn't mean we can't find it mildly amusing given the proper time and distance. You'll see. It's an inevitable progression."
         "Oh God . . . it's like, ha, it's like everytime I start to forget you're not human . . . you, you turn around and say something that just, just reminds me . . ."
         "Oh, like nothing else I've done tonight reminded you of what I was? You've a curious mind, I'm afraid."
         "Can I ask you a question? Please?"
         "Mmhm, of course. But don't blame me if you don't like the answer."
         "Have any of . . . any of . . . hell, I don't even know how to say it . . . have any of what I am, ever . . . killed themselves, you know . . ."
         "Suicide?"
         "Yea-yes. Suicide. That's what I mean."
         "Are you thinking about it?"
         "I . . . I don't know. I really don't. Why the hell don't you tell me?"
         "Hm. Given the circumstances, that's about as honest an answer as I can expect. Very well. Have they? Yes. I can't say it hasn't happened. As you're finding out, there are a lot of pressures and forces acting upon you. We try to make sure that they can stand up to it. Sometimes they can't."
         "Okay, because . . . because these days I feel . . . feel drawn out and . . . trapped in just some endless . . . grey . . . box and it's never going to get brighter or . . . or darker, it's just going to keep existing like that and I can't take the . . . the thought of it always . . . of it being like that all the goddamn time. Do you understand? Do you?"
         "I do. More than you probably realize, even though I'm sure you don't want to hear that. I'll ask you again though, do you want to kill yourself?"
         "I wish I knew. But if I . . . if I wanted to . . . would you try and . . . stop me?"
         "If I was able to, I would."
         "How . . . how could you not?"
         "Well, you see, that's the funny thing I've found about you people. For better or for ill, when you folks get an idea in your head, I mean when you really get it in your heads to accomplish something, there's not a force in this Universe that can hope to stop you."
         "What . . . what are you saying?"
         "If you really really wanted to do yourself in, there's not a damn thing I could do to stop you."
         "But . . . but would you still try . . . even though there might be . . . no chance at all . . ."
         "Of course. Otherwise there'd be no point. Just because it's inevitable doesn't mean you shouldn't fight it. Emotions can be changed even if the outcome can't be. I learned that a long time ago."
         "I . . . you see, I just can't see things that way. And everything feels inevitable. And I don't feel like fighting. Not anymore. Not these days."
         "That's where you're very wrong, my friend. You're still fighting, in every second of every day."
         "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
         "Let me put it this way: you're still here, aren't you?"
         "Yes but I don't see-"
         "Then there you go. That's all the answer and explanation you need."

* * * * *
         Tristian watches.
         He's back in the corner by the stairs again, somehow managing to find his way back there like a dog ceaselessly finding the same bone to chew on. From this angle, it's like he can almost see the strains of soundwaves emanating from the stereo, lancing and coasting into everyone, strafing the endless dancing horde, each person caught in miniature, caught in pained microseconds of strobe, a jerky graceless series of motions that seems to all fall into place when you string all the pieces together. In the end. That's just it. When all the pieces start to fall into place there's no stopping it, you're forced to just go along with it, to see what happens. To see where it goes.
         And where it's going he's not really sure. He can feel the beat and hum of the music near him, even at his oblique angle but it doesn't move him, doesn't stir him like it does the rest of them. Near him, one girl glides past, her arms weaving together in some visual examination of the song, her eyes closed, mouth forming the words even as she seems to have lost sight of everything around her. Tristian's little more than a ghost to her, something she can see out of the corner of her eye, a blip in her vision that she just tosses out as an anomaly. On a night like this, in a place moving like this, there's one way you can stand still, there's no way you can be here and be idle. No way you can just stand there and watch.
         Nevertheless Tristian's eyes are everywhere as he takes a slow sip of his drink, a mere soda this time. Rebel. The tingling bubbles strike the top of his lip, giving him another sensation to focus on. It's almost too much to take in and yet he feels this need to watch, this need to stand there and observe and maybe understand something. What that is, he has no idea.
         So Tristian watches, looking for something formless and shapeless and elusive. They say there was a name for it once. Long ago. But he's forgotten it now. Better off.
         The stairs are near him and he can see up the stairwell, in darkened recesses. There are shapes moving up there as well, shapes wound and bound closely together, seeming to explore each other, the dark wrapped completely around them to the point where they seem to be just echoes, pieces of emotion left behind by someone else. Marking a passing. Tristian stands there for a while before he realizes that it's probably rude to stare. Not that they notice him. If Tristian always had one thing going for him when he was younger, it was that people never noticed him. He was invisible, just some hazy afterglow that floated at the sidelines of your sight, your eyes just slid past him, never taking note, never recognizing. For a long time, it bothered him, even if he never wanted to admit that it did. Everyone wants to be recognized, everyone wants to be noticed, somewhere deep down inside it's that acknowledgement that reminds you that you're alive, that someone cares, that you exist.
         Now, Tristian can care less if he exists or not. If people remember his name or what he looks like or even where he went to school. Toss it all out the window. It's part of another life. He'd rather not exist for these people, rather he was able to go back in time and make them forget he ever existed. Let him just be some shared nightmare, a black cloud that merely dissipates in the light of day, never to be seen again. They could all wake up and look at each other and be like Whew that was some nasty dream, good thing that Tristian guy never really existed. It'd sure be hell if he did.
         Hell. Oh hell.
         The music shifts suddenly and everyone seems to shift to compensate for it, not even realizing what they're doing. The crowd's bigger now, the girls are dragging some of the guys in now. Some guys gamely go along with it, some for the sake of their girlfriends, some for the sake of someone who they might wish to be their girlfriend, for a few enjoyable hours at least. Alcohol tends to make everyone braver. Enough in your system and you feel limber enough to dance right on through the walls. Turn sideways and be gone. Tristian so much wants to do that. Wants to just step at right angles to everything and feel it all pass away. The thing at his waist feels like a weight that's dragging him down. Why did he even bring it? Because he wants to remind all of them that he's not exactly like them anymore, that he's been touched by something that makes his mind want to shriek and run away if he even thinks about confronting it directly?
         Or is there another reason? Does he want to remind himself that for all his posturing, for all his feelings and wants and needs, there really isn't any place for him among these people anymore.
         The air is becoming stagnant around him, in his quiet corner. He has to move around, wander a bit. Maybe even mingle, if such a thing can be believed. One hand in his pockets, the other clutching his drink, he leaves and passes through crowds, leaving nothing more than a chill, a feeling of something terribly terribly wrong. So he thinks. In his little mind that's all he'll ever do, just leave behind droppings of despair, little presents for people who have been nothing but good to him. What has he done for them? Not a goddamned thing. He feels his hand involuntarily tighten on the glass. A little more and it'd crack completely. Is he still talking about the glass? Maybe. Maybe.
         Tristian moves and Tristian watches but they still see him. They. His friends. He can't put names to faces, can't look anybody straight in the eye. Just watching afterimages, just watching the echoes, ripples in the water of people swimming by. A couple stumbles past him, panting heavily, arms around each other. There's a stink of sweat in the air, a heavy sodden feeling, a dam waiting to break. He turns in mid step, his attention distracted by the couple, following them in their descent, or ascent as it seems to him. There's nowhere for them to go but up, caught in these forces, you can't help but rise. They fall onto the couch, tangled nearly, laughing, bouncing a bit on the impact of landing. They haven't let go of each other.
         The girl's back is to him and so he can't see her face but he imagines that the guy is almost looking into a mirror. Glazed eyes and clumsy passion. There's still a simple beauty to it and maybe that's just what he likes watching, all the threads being pulled together, maybe not tightly and maybe not in all the right places but you can still piece together the mosaic. For some reason he can't stop staring at the guy, at his face, at the naked anticipation, at the slow dawning yearning, a drunken sloppy awakening. A realization of just what the night is capable of. What good it might bring.
         His eyes seem to focus on Tristian for a second, but before any reaction can register, Tristian is away, moving to another location. He can't get involved, there can't be any emotion. His steps are still unsteady though, he shouldn't have watched for so long, the worst things start to happen. Tristian feels his chest clenching a little, an old aching feeling. Part of him very much wants someone to rest their head there and act like it's the most comfortable place in the world.
         Tristian has the sudden crooked revelation that he almost saw his face in the guy's face. Going and putting yourself in another's place. No. Can't do that. There's no point. No need. Never needed to do that before, never wanted to be anyone but himself. Now Tristian's not even sure if he wants to be that. Being himself was something he always figured was the least he could aspire to. Now even that seems a far distance away. This isn't him, this silently weeping moping paper doll, that's not him at all.
         There has to be a way to break this slow quiet cycle, of spiralling yourself down into insanity. Of not caring. Part of him wants to desperately talk to the only people who might understand anymore. But they're not here. He doesn't want them here. In this place. With these people. There's already subtle fear in their tensions, in their stances, in the way some people step away from me like he's carrying some sort of plague. Like if they stand too near him they might cease to exist and just go away to somewhere else. It's in the glances, in the looks he's given when they think he's not paying attention. Not even any whispers, he's not even good enough for that.
         So Tristian moves and watches, disturbing a path through the packed room, parting people and bringing them closer together. If they can agree on one thing, as much as their opinions differ, as much as their minds might be split and sundered, they can all agree on one goddamned thing.
         Tristian scares the absolute hell out of them.
         Again comes the feeling of compression, of being trapped in a space that isn't large enough to contain him anymore. Of being squeezed out. He's got this desire to get out, he does. Getting out and going away. But the outside isn't enough, the campus isn't enough, the country isn't enough, the whole goddamn world isn't enough.
         Tristian glances back at the dancers, catching their rapturous, concentrated faces, as if drawing strength from each other, drawing the willpower to continue. Tristian wishes he could enjoy himself more, he wishes that he has that capacity. But it's just not there. It really isn't.
         He feels a bump on his shoulder and spins, reflexes that aren't even close to being needed springing into play. A vaguely familiar face floats out in front of him, glowing and glistening in the halfdark. The eyes take a second to focus and a silly grin lights up the face.
         "I . . . know . . . you . . ." the person, Brad, he remembers now states. True enough, he does. The words sound like they're being forced from his throat, almost being caught and crushed in the screaming music.
         ". . . is it important you're yelling so loud . . ."
         Brad doesn't wait for Tristian to answer, he just barrels on, as if hearing the conversation in his head and relating to Tristian what he should be hearing, what he should be saying. "Are you . . . enjoying the . . . party . . ." a strangled grin breaks out on his face, an involuntary twitch, "because I . . . it's a great . . . party."
         "I guess," Tristian notes noncommittally, not knowing if Brad is even hearing him. "It's nice to see everyone again . . ."
         Brad nods as if this is something of great import that Tristian has just said. "You know . . . it's . . . it's too bad, that . . ." he stops, face puzzled as if a sudden thought occurred to him, "that we don't . . . see you any . . . anymore. Why's that?" And the expression on his face is so innocently unassuming that Tristian almost wants to laugh.
         "Ah, I don't know," Tristian admits, almost uneasily. "I guess I just don't have much in common with everyone anymore-" He gives a shrug that can only be seen in shadow. Around them, it's as dark as it gets, and steamy, like a rain forest gone wild.
         "That's not it," Brad interrupts, almost absentmindedly shoving hair out of his face. The wet stringy mass taunts him by sliding right back to where it was. "That's not it . . . at all. You're . . . you're too afraid of . . . us . . . now . . ."
         "What?" Tristian asks.
         "That's . . . right, you're afraid," and there's no mocking in his voice, just a sudden forlorn pity. "Because you've got those . . . those . . . gods . . ." and he throws his hands in the air, splashing some beer over himself in an attempt to apparently describe whatever it is he's describing. "That follow you . . ." he suddenly peers from side to side, as if trying to pierce a veil. "They're not here are they?" he asks in a voice meant to be hushed but utterly failing. It's the thought that counts.
         "No. No, they're not here, Brad," Tristian replies with a little smile. Time has stopped for him and he's having a barely sensible conversation with a drunk man. Not his idea of a great night but you take it where you can get it. "Say whatever you want."
         "Ah, I don't . . . don't care about them," Brad says vigorously but his eyes are still searching around, as if they might be lurking on the corners of the ceiling. He stops again, rubs his face and leans closer to Tristian, letting his breath wash over him like something fermenting. "Listen . . . Tristian, we're still . . . your . . . we're still friends, Tristian and . . . we'd never leave you . . . alone," and his voice is sad again.
         "They're scared of me, Brad," Tristian says softly. "I can see it when they look at me. Ever since the restaurant, they're not sure what's going to happen next."
         And Brad is waving his hand in the air, as if trying to scatter Tristian's words. "No no no! That's not . . . that's not it at all . . ."
         "Then what the hell is it?" Tristian finds himself asking almost angrily. But he's not sure where the anger is coming from or what it's even directed at.
         Brad drapes his arm around Tristian suddenly, shoving his face near Tristian's ear. It's a mildly uncomfortable feeling, to say the least. Brad's shirt is soaked and moist, he'll almost have to peel himself away. "They're afraid for you . . ." he nearly whispers. And then, stronger, as if the alcohol has just vanished from his system, "Don't let yourself drift away, man. You'll never come back."
         And then a noise comes from Brad not unlike a small sigh and Tristian feels a great weight sag against him. Glancing over, he sees Brad's eyes completely closed. That little bit of truth must have cost him, Tristian thinks a bit sardonically. Still, his head is buzzing slightly, maybe he's getting drunk off fumes. Gently, he lays Brad down on the couch, vowing to check on him later just to make sure. Not like he'll be doing anything. The couple that had been on the couch before is back dancing, jockeying on the fringes for entrance, not being completely in and enjoying just hovering at the edges, basking in the essence. Tristian finds that almost inspiring, so much so that he just stands there for a long while just watching the spectacle. On the outside looking at the outside. Running past the ramparts trying to convince yourself that someone inside is listening, that someone cares. That someone even cares enough to hear you.
         His eyes are blinking in time with the lights, the lights are filling his head, taking on weight and shape, his thoughts giving them perspective and distance. His vision sails out of focus, the lights break apart and drip to the floor, as the world beats on his head trying to get in. Trying to see what makes him tick. It's a mystery even he can't solve, not sure if he even wants to. You can't stare at the mirror for too long before you start wondering which way is really left and which way is really right. It all seems so arbitrary, feelings, emotions, all that stuff just randomly assigned on pure whim. But who's pulling the strings and assigning the parts? Who?
         The heat is getting to him, smothering him in a cloying sweltering bodysuit. He takes a step back, mindful of the press of bodies all around him, caught in the center of a Universe of centers and probably the only person feeling like he's completely and utterly alone. Tristian raises his soda to his lips and finds that the glass is vibrating ever so slightly. From his hand. His hand won't stop shaking. In the near distance, so close that they're caught on the cusp of forever, the dancing couple finds a gap and takes it, reentering the group, finding acceptance. He imagines them embracing, bolstered by a loving crowd and a backbeat that infuses them with energy. He can get the hints, the edges, from where he's standing but it's only a vague shallow outline. There's no way he can even begin to follow the footsteps. The liquid washes down his throat, still cool and yet the core is warming up. His hand is slick with condensed water and sweat, an absurd image of the glass slipping from his hand and crashing to the floor, all happening in slow motion, him disappearing at the same time, fills his head. Tristian's not sure why. He takes another step back, back from the couch, his island of safety, almost into the milling crowd itself. Might drift away. Might just drift yet.
         And he can see, he can see the slumped snoring form of Brad, collapsed against the couch, while at the same time he can see the dancers, moving up and down back and forth, following a rhythm that they can only sense because it's coming from within them, it's the beat of their lives. Everyone's following it, doing variations, coming back to the same theme. They're all smiling. Too many people are enjoying themselves, it's a heat that sunburns him more than if he got teleported right in front of the sun. It burns him and Tristian has to flinch, has to look away, because he wants to jump right in there and let it all go, cast it all away and forget about everything for just one goddamn five minute song.
         ". . . what I wouldn't give for only one night, a little relief in sight, when times weren't so tight . . ."
         The dancers surge forward and then back, unfolding like a flower and he catches a glimpse of someone he knows, caught in radiance, in fluid motion, the face expressive and locked away from his understanding, bathed in emotions he can see and observe but never feel intensely, never know. A stray thought clatters across his head
         My God she's so
         and then Tristian's staggering, almost tripping, turning his face away completely, trying to reduce it all to just a memory. He's seen too much dammit, too much and everything is just a reminder. Pulling back the curtain for just one second to let him know just what he's missing. These people, they don't know him, anymore than he ever knew himself.
         "Dammit," he mutters harshly, crossing the barriers of people. The table in the corner is mercifully unoccupied, almost like it was waiting for him. The usual table for you, sir. He sits down gently, as if too aware of the fragility of his own body. Brown's got it easy, he never has to get old, never has to worry about scars or aches or pains, just has to keep himself from getting vaporized and he'll have a ripe old millennia of age. Tristian leans on the table, feeling it shift and creak and threaten to tip, but he holds his ground and the table withdraws the threat. Just kidding. He chances a glance back at the dancers and thinks he can see Brown, his body a comet, flaring and never burning out, showing them all how it's done. How you can live forever. How you can sit there and watch everyone you know grow old and die. Tristian smiles, holding the glass up to the meager light, seeing the translucent soda refract and catch the rays, sorting and rearranging. The soda's almost done, soon enough it'll be gone, processed through his body. No such thing as a never ending glass but that's okay because he couldn't drink soda forever, you'd get tired of it eventually. Tristian has the same philosophy on life. Give him finity, give him something with definite boundaries and edges, not this constant expanding of the consciousness, reevaluating your place with everything every single damn day. Too much of anything, for good or ill, can only do you harm in the long run. Let the immortals have their infinity, he'll take his eyeblink of a life and do the best he can with it.
         "Your thoughts look too deep for a party like this," someone says to him, sitting down across from him. Tristian blinks, changing his focus from the glass, settling it down with a clink of the table, to the newcomer. A face and a name try to fit together. Lrac. No, that's not right.
         "Carl, right?" Tristian says, not the best response under the circumstances but he's coming back from a long swim through his own thoughts. You can get lost in there, it's a fractal maze where everything just echoes itself over and over. You have to let the air wash over your face before you can start to think clearly again.
         "Yeah, Carl," Carl replies, not so much confirming as just repeating. His eyes are following something that Tristian can't see, staring around and past him, tracking objects with military precision. This is a man who knows the inside of a party, someone with experience. Carl sets his own glass down on the table, says simply, "I just wanted to, you know, apologize for walking off so abruptly before."
         "It doesn't-"
         "Hold on," Carl interrupts, holding up a hand. "I just wanted to say that it was nothing you did, I just . . ." he lowers his head down a little, staring into the amber pit of his drink, raises his head to stare back at Tristian again, "Will told me . . . about you . . ." and he trails off and leaves it at that.
         "He did," Tristian states flatly, not sure how to feel about that. It's not he even tried to hide it, but he's not sure where Carl is going with this, he's not sure of anything about the man.
         Instead, Tristian just says, "You probably didn't want to believe it, hm? That's everyone's first reaction." He gives a wry smile, making himself relax. Here, have a conversation. It won't kill you. You might even enjoy it. Really. "It sure as hell was mine," he adds softly, almost to himself but loud enough so that Carl might hear it.
         Carl gives a sort of laugh at that, a sound muffled and crumpled by the leaden music around them. "I really didn't, you know, I thought it was just some story. Something Will was pulling my leg with." He takes a swig of his drink, setting it back down at the table, steady eyes looking right at Tristian. "But the first time I saw you, when I realized it was you Will had been talking about . . ." he shakes his head, "I realized that all that crap might just be real and . . ." his tone is frank, casual, "really, it scared the hell out of me." A shrug, tinged with vague shame. "Sorry about that."
         "It's really okay," Tristian replies, somewhat pleased to hear the sound of his own voice again. "At least you didn't run away screaming." His mouth turns down a little, remembering. "That's a reaction that gets old very quickly."
         "I can imagine," Carl responds, laughing again. His face changes, turns serious, the eyes crinkle and almost seem to bore into him. Tristian returns the stare evenly, just like before. If Carl is somehow trying to cow him, it won't work that well. He's been through too much. But Carl only leans forward, resting one elbow on the table, his speech intent, clutching. "What's it really like?" The question, then. Ah, the famed question.
         But for some reason Tristian feels differently about the question this time. Something in Carl's face, distant longing perhaps. Or maybe he's just pretending. At this point, Tristian will take any sort of sincerity he can find, any attempt at conveying honest emotion. Sliding his glass idly across the table, mostly just to hear the low pitched scratching noise it makes, he says, prefacing his sentence with a deep sigh, as if dredging these words up from somewhere very far, "Some days . . ." he looks up at Carl, "some days I want to pray to God that he'll wake me up from his nightmare my life's become," and his other hand is running along the sleek thing at his belt, knowing that in a second he could look like a hero to all of them, they'd all understand. But he can't do that.
         Carl is staring at him with something akin to surprise and horror, though it really shouldn't be surprising to him, Tristian thinks. But then Tristian smiles and finishes his sentence. "But there are a lot of things when I see something so beautiful, so indescribable and I know that I'm probably the only person alive who's seen such things . . ." Tristian stares somberly at Carl but there's a dark dense thrill lurking behind his eyes, "I'd rather stay in the coma and have dreams like that for the rest of my life." He takes a sip of his soda, his throat for some reason going very dry. "You take the good with the bad, I guess. Same as everyone else, I'm no different." Do you really believe that? he asks himself. Deep down inside, do you really believe that you're the same as anyone else? Still the same? Really?
         "Hm, I guess that makes sense," Carl tells him. "And yet I . . . I look at you and . . ." he cuts that thought off. "So what's he like?" he asks suddenly, piercingly.
         "He?" Tristian's taken off guard by the question.
         "You know, the . . . the . . ." and then in a lowered tone of voice, "god . . ."
         Tristian isn't quite sure how to answer that, really. So he decides not to. "Getting mighty personal here, aren't we?" Tristian says in a mildly amused tone of voice. "Why, we've only just met." His voice is light, dancing at the edges of a hint, the same tone he used back out in the stairwell. Sometimes there's a power in him that he doesn't even realize.
         Carl sees the hint and takes it. Ducking his head briefly, he murmurs something akin to an apology but Tristian doesn't really care, he's not here to have people ask him question or tell him their life's story. He can find that out simply by watching, left by himself long enough and the whole world might just unravel its mysteries right in front of him.
         "You seem to be keeping to yourself pretty much tonight," Carl notes to him, abruptly changing the subject.
         Tristian only nods. He's staring at the dancers again, lost in their movements, trapped outside the glass jar and forced to watch the immolation in the light, caught in twisting flickering flames, their lives erupting in a single sustained aura of heat. He suddenly feels very cold and resists the desire to clutch his jacket tighter around himself.
         "Really, seriously," Carl prods, "you should get out there and enjoy yourself. Have a few drinks, flirt a little, if anyone really deserves it, it's you."
         Tristian gives him an odd look, but still says nothing.
         Carl gives an easy smile. He sits back in chair, resting one ankle on his knee, holding his glass in one hand and using it to punctuate his statements. "Ah, hell, you think I'm just feeding you some sort of line, trying to pretend I'm your friend or something. Right?" When Tristian still doesn't answer, just gives a neutral shrug, Carl continues on, undaunted, "Well, I'll tell you that I was just like you once, not too long ago." Another sideways glance from Tristian, he's not really sure what to think of all this, what he's supposed to make of it. "No, really, I was. Just sat down and watched the entire party pass me by, figuring I'd enjoy it just the same if I merely watched it, just watched everyone else having fun."
         Tristian sits up straighter. The music crashes against them like waves, wearing them down to nothing.
         ". . . show me show me show me how you do that trick, the one that makes me scream she said . . ."
         "Maybe I like it better this way," Tristian notes evenly, keeping his voice level. It's just talk. Talk can't hurt anyone. "Maybe I'd rather not get involved."
         Carl just laughs. Laughs right at him. "Then you don't know what the hell you're missing out on, my friend" and he says friend like he actually means it. Right now it's not all that mutual but Tristian does get the feeling that this man for some reason senses a kindred soul and is honestly trying to help. For what it's worth. "Because," Carl continues, "what you see out there is just the surface of what you can enjoy." His hand gestures outward, offering the world to Tristian. It's all so tempting. Only sometimes. "One day . . . one day I just said the hell with it and just dove right in and I never went back to watching again." His voice is somewhat excited, jittery, he's keeping his other hand down by his leg.
         "You make a good argument," Tristian replies with some amusement.
         Carl just shrugs, the excitement gone now. His eyes are scanning the room again, like he's fishing. Trolling. "Just trying to help. Guy like you, he could use some relaxing once in a while and . . . this is the place for it." He cocks his head back to Tristian, giving a small grin. "I'll bet you any amount of money that any girl in this place would want you, even just for one night. Any amount of money, any girl. Take your pick."
         Tristian gives him a look between detachment and disgust. "Sorry, that's not generally the way I operate."
         "No, sorry, no, that's not . . . that's not what I meant," Carl amends his statement quickly. "What I mean is that you're probably sitting there thinking that nobody in this place notices you, that you're just some figment of their imagination." He takes a long drink. "That's where you're dead wrong, Tristian." Tristian's giving him a skeptical look now, but Carl just keeps plunging forward. "Maybe I'm not being objective here, but if I might put forward an opinion, you've got just about every other guy here beat. Hands down. Believe me." He stares at Tristian over the lip of his glass, the bottom half of his face seen through liquid, watery and warped. There's a crooked grin lurking there. "All you have to do is take the first step and try, it all falls right into place then. Trust me, it works."
         "You're so sure about that," is all Tristian says.
         Carl grins and starts to say something but from the depths of the music, comes a yell.
         "There he is!"
         And then Jina's in front of him, tugging at his arms. He's set his glass down in surprise, wondering where this is all coming from. Where all these people suddenly came from.
         "Come on Tristian, the hell if I'm going to let you sit down all night!" Jina tells him, giving a sudden yank that he's forced to go with to avoid pulling her down onto him. Someone's behind him, shoving him forward, keeping him from changing his mind and reversing his momentum.
         "Better listen to her, Tristian, she's as feisty as ever," a voice that he thinks is Brown's echoes in his ear. Bastard. Probably planned this himself. There are people all around him, laughing and shouting. Before the crowd engulfs him like some foreign object, he gets a glance at Carl. The other man is grinning at him, and inclining his head toward the dancefloor. The meaning is unmistakable. Go. Enjoy yourself. The night can't last forever.
         In that second, Tristian sees that Carl was right, that you can't sit around and watch forever, eventually you have to get off your ass and actually do something. Or somebody will come along and do it for you. There are whirling faces all around him and his heart is leaping in his chest. There aren't as many people as it seems but it's enough. Enough to get him going. Enough to slash his thoughts to pieces and send them crashing and splintering away. Enough to make him stop caring enough so he can start to care again.
         "Come on!" someone shouts and Tristian thinks to himself oh the hell with it
         and lets himself go
         stumbling and staggering
         right into the center.
         Somewhere, distantly, he hears a cheer. For him? He doubts it. But who cares, it's the sentiment that counts and the air is thick with it, you could squeeze it out and collect it in a bucket if you so chose.
         The hell with it he thinks again, feeling a wild, manic grin spreading across his face.
         ". . . could've seen much clearer, but I didn't have the time, walk a path that's nearer face the day and start the climb . . ."
         He might just wind up enjoying himself after all.