The night was young, pulsing with the beat of incoherent rap songs and the swell of blood and breaths and — and D. was drunk.<br/><br/>Not extremely drunk, but drunk enough to where, as he leaned against the back of the couch, staring up at the spinning fan above him, he thought about how the room was spinning due to the universe's hatred of people having fun.<br/><br/>God, this wasn't as fun as he thought it'd be.<br/><br/>D. had come because he was, to be honest, feeling quite homesick.  He didn't really know anyone at the school, save for his roommate who he had internally decided not to talk to, for no particular reason than gut instinct.  Then, throughout his first week of classes, he didn't speak to anyone, nor did he try to.  He wasn't shy by any means, but people were — intimidating.  They were simultaneously honest and manipulative, both kind and cruel, and he never knew he was going to meet, never knew which dice roll he was going to get in regards to these people.<br/><br/>So, his mothers suggested a party, the last thing he would've expected and the last thing he wanted, but in the end, the temptation boiled and burst, and he showed up and took shots and played some beer pong and got buzzed, and he was still lonely.  Was anyone here actually sober enough to make friends?<br/><br/><i>Shit.</i>He groaned, forcing himself up and over his legs, pressing a fist against his forehead.  Whatever this was, he was sure more shots would help.<br/><br/>"D.!" a voice called from the side, one of the girls he played beer pong with.  "Let's play another round!"<br/><br/>"Sure," he yelled back over the music.  "Shots first!"<br/><br/>"Duh," she laughed, and he thought that the alcohol would fill the hole for the night, and that was all he really needed.