Amel Stevens was in his second year of senior-hood, complete with apartment, loads of old Alph Phi buddies who still let him come for the parties and to hassle the new kids, and a girlfriend who was more of a stress reliever than anything. The last was mainly because Amel Stevens wasn’t the type for relationships. He never had been. He’d been born a quiet child who had done more watching than talking and while he’d managed to cover up the fact that he would rather be silent most of the time with some social niceties, he remained uninvolved with the rest of the human race.

That didn’t mean that he wasn’t upset that William Cloche was missing. The kid had been on his first year, had gotten himself inducted, had been kinda cute if you went for that kind of thing, and next thing you know, everyone’s putting up fliers over and next to the fliers that stated "Miranda Byers" who had disappeared only three weeks before.

So no - he wasn’t untouched by the issue. He wasn’t a ball of tears either. He was, on some level, very distrubed, however. It didn’t fit in the way of things. Something deep within him felt the Wrong of it all. People didn’t just disappear without permission to do so.

Oh, well, sometimes they did. But not in his general vicinity and not anyone he knew. That was the major difference. This was in the news and he was one of those who was slated for questioning and things just seemed Wrong - as if they were tipping an iceburg over on its tip.

Lots of effort to move a burg upside down. Inhuman effort and all that. Just to find two bodies or two people.

He rubbed the back of his girlfriend and kisses her bare shoulder blade as he got out of bed and headed into the bathroom. His lower back ached, just over his kidney. It was some.. stupid pain that no one could explain and it didn’t happen often. But lately, after the disappearances, it had started to ache more than usual. A hot shower generally took care of it. More so, when the hot shower became an activity for two, which, if he were loud in singing an Artist-Formerly-Known-As-Prince song, was an almost inevitability.

Amel was a small boy-man. At twenty two years of age, he had finally given up on the idea that he was going to grow any higher than his five foot nine status. His family was all tall, but his grandmother was a midgit so he figured he was a throw-back. It was okay. He’d come to terms with it. He didn’t have any weird short man complex either where he needed to go for girls who were six foot five just to prove his dick was up to the challenge.

For a long time, though - his masculinity had been in question. That was part of the problem, he thought. He was of a very slender, effeminate shape with small shoulders and delicate bone structure. He’d have made a killing as a drag queen if he’d been so inclined. Eyes too large and dark enough to seem almost black, lashes longer than most girls’, long, delicate fingers, and a small, bud like mouth.

He’d almost grown a beard when he’d started to grow one in, except it made people look at him twice, as if they weren’t sure if he was a guy or a girl and had to keep staring to figure out. At least, without one, he looked like he was sixteen and they figured he’d still had some growing to do.

When singing "Purple Rain" had no effect, he figured the booze had won out for the morning and got himself dressed in record time. Without pre-class activity, he had time to head to the student building and pick up some coffee and a scone. He snagged his bag off of the back of the kitchen chair and made his way to the campus.

__________________

‘What will my death be like?’ he thought- and knew at once
with abrupt certainty, that it would be just like his life:
... the same balance of bearables.
~Amis