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Okay, so, back up a little. Work hadn't been going so well, at least not since he got fucking punched in the nose by some drunken werewolf who had lost a bet and nearly had his leg snapped by the guy's superhuman grip, and home was just... well, it was boring. He didn't like to be alone. But if anyone asked, it was because his house was boring (despite having several huge televisions and pool tables and whatnot).
No, there was really nothing quite like getting a little too sweaty and a little too close to other people, recycling old, hot breath and swapping a little spit. There was something about the primal and base nature of these ragers that drew Harlow to them, like a vine to the sun. He could never pin down what it was, though; maybe it was the people themselves or the familiarity of sharing drugs or just the drugs, but whatever it was, it was better than sitting at home with all the blinds open waiting for the morning.
In the upstairs bedroom, which was really more like a loft, it looked like a damn Renaissance painting, with people on the floor, on the bed, or somewhere in between, in a state of motion that almost looked surreal.
Or maybe it was just the drugs. He had ingested and inhaled a cocktail of them, from alcohol and edibles to pure cocaine, and he teetered on the edge of being the right amount of buzzed and being passed out in a ditch. In his nearly-forty years of being an "adult," he had learned where his happy place was.
Harlow stumbled over a couple of people sitting in the middle of the floor taking selfies with the wrong side of the phone, and he sneered down at them after nearly losing his footing on one of their shoes. But he had to think positive or this whole thing would be a sham. A dud. He snaked through a few other people crowding around the balcony overlooking the rest of the party until he found the stairs, which, from way up at the top looking down, looked extremely harrowing as fucked up as he was. Almost like he was on an old, rickety bridge staring down at the ground from fifty stories up.
"Shit, okay," he mumbled to himself as he tentatively put one foot on the step. The other stairs came naturally but slowly until he was on the ground level, where the party moved a bit faster and harder than the loft upstairs. Harlow tried to stagger into the kitchen, or at least what looked like the kitchen, but was jostled by a sudden flock of drunk girls holding their high heels in their hands, causing him to step backwards into an immovable wall. Or what felt like a wall. Turning around quickly enough to make his head spin and vision go all static-y, he realized, despite his kaleidoscope vision, that it wasn't a wall at all.
It took a few moments for his eyes to move up from the guy's chest to his face, but once they did, a genuine (if maybe a little drug-fueled) smile alighted on Harlow's expression. "Oh, hey! I didn't--wow, I didn't expect to see you here. Why are you just in the corner?" he asked, talking a little too loudly for someone who already talked loudly. With an amused snort, he added playfully, "Kiiind of creepy, dude."