Snippet #2444691

Placing his styrofoam cup on the ground, Oz shifted and turned around on the couch until he was lounging over the back, turning his full attention on Nate. The scene might seem a bit bizarre by most people's standards, Nate standing by the window, the setting sun casting a rather dramatic light effect on the scene, and Oz hanging off of the back of the couch like some discarded toy that had been thrown then forgotten by a careless child. But to Oz, this was a breath of normality in the past few strange months, and a pleased grin found itself settling on his face as Nate managed a smile that gradually grew larger. Everyone, in Oz's opinion, looked better with a smile on their face, but no one more so than his best friend whose smiles had become a rarer and rarer occurrence lately.

It was like the smile flicked a switch in Oz's mind, his uncharacteristic anxiety deflating and any tension held in his lanky frame vanishing away. This was a situation he knew, a situation he felt comfortable in; sitting around Nate's house, chatting about something, however serious, and it might not be exactly like before, but it was close enough to put him completely at ease.

"You seem so sure that you'd be kicking their asses," Oz huffed a laugh, stretching languidly. It was hard to imagine Nate fighting anyone, especially Briton's main antagonists, glorified jocks with the high school equivalent of bulging muscles. Still, the chance to talk things out was certainly a step in the right direction, which was, presumably, the direction that did not involve violence. And who knew? Maybe things could work themselves out the Oz way, the nice, peaceful way that only involved fists in the form of fist bumps. Okay, so it wasn't terribly likely, but a boy could dream, couldn't he?

"And if not, then we get a little more...'creative' about our approach."

"Nate," He groaned, drawing out his name in a faux disappointed voice. Playful smirk or not, a "creative approach" wasn't something that Oz would be looking forward to. Creative did not bode well for anyone involved, especially if those involved were his highly unpredictable friends and a handful of teenagers who got their jollies from picking on a sweetheart like Briton. Add in the alcohol and general adrenaline that characterized the parties Lacey tended to DJ at, and you had a recipe for disaster there.

However, any hint of disappointment vanished immediately with the announcement that dinner was ready. More like a dog than a person, Oz instantly perked up, face brightening considerably as he scrambled to his feet. Only Nate's voice stopped him and Oz let out another laugh. It was, sadly enough, less of an exaggeration than most people would imagine. If one thing could put a skip in Oz's lazy steps, it was food. More specifically, Nate's mother's food. What could he say? The woman could cook.

With a considerable more amount of dignity then he actually possessed, he replied, "Well, maybe I'm growing up, Nathan. You know, maturing." He kept up the facade for maybe half a second before laughing at the absurdity and taking off down the hall and towards the kitchen. Maturing. Right. Nice he might be, but for all of his calmness and patience, mature didn't quite fit in with the enigma that was Oscar Glass.

Dinner was perfect. It wasn't anything fancy, of course, and Mitzy was incessantly begging for food(which wasn't completely her fault given the fact that Oz insisted on feeding her bits and pieces from his own plate), but it was still perfect. Nate, Oz, and Nate's mother sat around the table, and the conversation flowed almost without pause in between bites of pasta and, in Oz's case, sips of milk. It hadn't been too terribly long since he'd been in this situation, but it felt like ages as he caught up with Nate's mother and Nate himself. For that time, he felt at home, really at home.

After dinner, as the minutes passed quickly by as the conversation from dinner continued in the living room, Oz took a moment to pull out his cellphone and text his parents to tell them that he'd be back late that night. He didn't need permission, not really. With his sisters' shenanigans, Oz often got lost in the fold, allowed to do whatever in the belief that he'd be a good boy and not cause any trouble. Which was fine, just fine, but didn't stop his smile from dropping for just a moment when his mother replied with a quick "Okay, dear, have fun!", not even bothering to ask where her only son was off to. His stepfather's reply was marginally better, at least asking when he'd be home and if he'd need to be picked up. Any lingering disappointment disappeared when he looked up from his phone, however, and slipped back into the conversation as if it had never happened. Because it was fine. Just fine. His parents loved him and trusted him and that was what mattered. That was all that mattered.

The party was already in full motion when they arrived, music almost imperceptible due to the noise from the crowd within and around the building, but the beat was thrumming so loudly that Oz could sweat that he felt it in his bones. It was difficult enough to stick together let alone make their way through the thriving crowd, people pressing in on them from all sides. To find anyone in the room was almost impossible. Almost. It was at times like these that Oz's height and disposition came into play. Seemingly ignorant of the gyrating bodies of those dancing or the simple movements of the crowd around him, pressing in on all sides in such a way that anyone might feel claustrophobic, Oz craned his neck, green eyes searching for familiar faces in the room. It just so happened that, rather unfortunately, the first familiar faces he found belonged to people he didn't quite want to see. Ryan Chaffon and, even more unfortunately, Vic Rockford were off with their own respective groups of friends to one side, probably laughing loudly or maybe just trying to carry on a conversation, but the noise was stolen away by the ruckus within the room. It was like fate was laughing at him, smirking down upon Oz in particularly as if to say, 'Your move.'

It was then that Oz made a significant and quite possiby stupid choice. They had to talk to them eventually, there was no getting around that given what had happened earlier and the following conversation, and who knew if he'd manage to spot them again later on in the night? Besides, maybe it would work out. Maybe if they just had a chat, everything would turn out fine and the party might be even better knowing that everything had come to a peaceful resolution. With that idealist delusion in mind, Oz grabbed Nate by the wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

"Hey, I see Ryan and Vic over there," Oz said, gesturing with one hand towards the group, voice significantly louder than normal to be heard over the din. "If we're going to talk to them, let's talk now, okay? Then we can just have fun afterwards." Fun. Afterwards. Ha.