[for Jayden] cara mio addio

[lowtohigh]

She wakes up most mornings fully convinced of the fact that she's done with silly, stupid mistakes. She ends a statistically significant number of days having managed to maintain that in the most important arenas.

But it's not every day.

And it's certainly not every night. There are still nights when the idea of sitting at home and doing work drives her up a wall--when the idea of going to see her brother for a 'classy' evening of wasting money on something 'useful' like the arts feels just as terrible as sitting home alone. There are nights when she asks the driver to wait around the corner and pretend he doesn't know where she's going so she can actually breathe deep something other than the rigidity of the life she's been building since Elisha returned and got her back on track.

There can't be anything so wrong with it, surely. It rarely, if ever, bleeds back over into her days. She always drags herself out of bed in the morning, whether she'd fallen into it at 10pm or 4am the night before. She always sits through classes and shows up for work with the same fierce, determined smile. She barely ever thinks of what might have happened the night before once she's got herself set for forward motion again.

Admittedly, sometimes she gets texts at work from numbers she definitely hadn't gotten at the university or the lab or any of her brother's little get-togethers. Jayden's number certainly didn't come from any vetted point of contact. It surprises her, really, how easy it is to extend something of her daytime self to a nighttime number. It's not a line she's really ever blurred before.

But he's coming to the aquarium. She's invited him. Almost like sleepwalking, she's explained to her supervisor that she wants a floor shift out in the actual building rather than holed away doing research. Idly scanning the crowd at the building's tall cement entrance, she wonders vaguely if she's even recognizable like this--flat shoes, hair tied tightly back, barely a stitch of makeup on and her wits obviously about her.

It's entirely possible he'll just walk straight past her. There are large signs for the penguins near the door, after all.

Comments

[lowtohigh]

[Clearly she needs to keep her arm around his back--for balance. Also clearly she needs to turn and order two more.

Also also she needs to laugh slightly, hip checking lightly against his.] I said 'cheers' in English, you lightweight.

[immigrantpunk]

[He laughs too, and it's suddenly difficult to keep a physical distance between them. He puts his arms around her and gives her a hug, pulling away only to grab the next drink.]

No no no, I meant after that.

[lowtohigh]

It was affectionate. [As, clearly, is this comfortable leaning together. She'll squirm away once their minds are buzzing, but while they're at the bar? He's something warm and squishy to lean on with a wonderful laugh.] Like-- for handsome guys.

[immigrantpunk]

[Truth be hold, he's wanted to be this close to her since they met at the aquarium, but that seemed too forward given the time and place. He takes a deep sip from the new glass. It's already going down much smoother. His smile is big and stupid.]

You think I'm handsome?

[His free hand slips into her hair, cautiously winding a finger around a few locks.]

[lowtohigh]

I--

[She does, clearly. She thinks it even more when he's got his giant, stupidly pleased smile on, like the world isn't crushing down on him even a little.

But hands in her hair are distracting, and absolutely to be swatted at--even at the cost of setting down her drink.] --stop that. I got it the way I like it.

[immigrantpunk]

[He flinches a bit at her swatting, dropping his hand immediately.]

Oh. Sorry.

[His smile vanishes, because now he feels a little rejected. He takes a deep swig of his drink to try to make up for it.]

[lowtohigh]

[It's a good deal of hard liquor they're consuming very quickly. Mood swings have to be expected. The drop of his smile doesn't stop with her continuing to lean against him while she sips her own drink.]

So how drunk d'you need to be before you dance?

[immigrantpunk]

[He will accept this as a consolation, keeping one arm around her, but being careful not to let his hand wander too far... for now.]

Mmmmm....

[He takes another swig.]

Gonna need a liiiiitttle bit more.

[But not much.]

[lowtohigh]

You promise?

[Because she'll sacrifice the rest of her own drink into his glass for that.]

[immigrantpunk]

Promise.

[He downs more of the drink, swallowing hard and letting out a shallow cough. He's not adverse to dancing, but it is always better with that glaze of alcohol removing any kind of self-consciousness. The colored lights shining on the dance floor are starting to look rather pretty.]

[lowtohigh]

Perfect.

[He can have a cheek kiss for that. He can also have the rest of her Manhattan for that.]

We're gonna have fun tonight, babe.

[immigrantpunk]

[He lets out a slow giggle, flushing hot not just with her words, but her breath and lips on his face. Oh, and probably also the alcohol.]

I like fun.

[He wiggles his eyebrows at her and takes another swallow.]

[lowtohigh]

[With less alcohol in her system, it probably would have made her roll her eyes. At the moment, it's got her laughing happily, lips still close against his cheek.]

Yeah? You wanna have fun with me?

[immigrantpunk]

[He turns so that his mouth is almost brushing hers. He stares at her lips, then flicks his eyes up to meet her gaze. He nods, slowly.]

Mmhmm.

[lowtohigh]

[She should probably recognize his youth at this point. She should probably recognize that he's got the weird nerves most boys manage to start properly outgrowing during college.

But she's a little sloshed around the edges and it's so much easier to just peck a kiss against his lower lip before untangling herself.] C'mon. Dance with me.

[immigrantpunk]

[Hey now, maybe he's just a late bloomer, you don't know. He hopes it isn't completely obvious this is his first time out of the gate.

The kiss is reassuring, but all too brief. A flash of heat hits him, and he wishes her mouth was still against his, not so briefly brushing his lip and then gone. The pursuit of more propels him forward, and he grabs for her hand so as not to lose her. Yes, he'll dance with her; he'll do anything. She can lead him anywhere she wants, and he will follow.]

[lowtohigh]

[It's probably for the best, then, that she isn't intending to lead him anywhere nefarious. Mostly. For the moment.

Certainly not while her fingers are giving his a squeeze and she's turning on her heel to tug him in close again once they're properly on the dance floor. She'll even direct his hands properly to her hips--where they can start out appropriately until they find a rhythm.

Then, who knows.]

[immigrantpunk]

[Oh, there's all sorts of nefarious places he would go with her.

But for now he's happy with their closeness, and where his hands are placed. He's not so great at dancing, but he's consumed enough alcohol that he can just sort of sway with the beat and appreciate the colored lights and feel pretty good about himself. He slides his hands up to the small of her back as he moves.]

[lowtohigh]

[Swaying to the beat will suffice for the moment, at least. It seems wrong to expect dancing miracles from the moderately intoxicated. Besides, there's nothing so terrible about just pressing in close and enjoying the feel of his hands on her, the pulse in his neck when she presses her forehead against it, the general togetherness of being so surrounded by moving bodies.

She does try to tell him she's having a good time, but it's not clear if he'll be able to hear her normal speaking voice over the music.]

[immigrantpunk]

[He doesn't quite get her words, so he leans down and puts his mouth close to her ear.]

You okay?

[He points to his own ear and brings it close to her lips so he can hear her response better this time. He's enjoying this, for sure, although between the alcohol and the closeness and the rise in temperature because of all the bodies, he's broken into a thin sheen of sweat.]

[lowtohigh]

[Sweat is expected. Sweat absolutely isn't the end of the world in a situation like this.

Her fingers shift to tangle up in the hair at the nape of his neck and hold him properly close so she can laugh against his ear.]

I'm-- great. Are you great?

[immigrantpunk]

[It's really all over when her hands reach his hair. Between that and the hot breath in his ear, he's done for.]

I'm perfect.

[Which is to say he no longer cares about the dancing, even though they've only been out here for a few minutes. He doesn't want to look desperate, though, so he doesn't say anything. He kisses her earlobe when he's done speaking, a light nip which he hopes is neither too forward nor too amateurish.]

[lowtohigh]

Perfect?

[There's another laugh in his throat for that. There's absolutely a pleased squirm against his body for the brief press of his lips.]

Awesome.

[Surely that means they can stay exactly here all night.]

[immigrantpunk]

[NooooooooOOOOooooooOOOOOOooooooo

Okay he can roll with this for another ten to fifteen minutes, but by then he's parched from the exertion and his feet are starting to hurt from supporting his own weight and hers. Plus it's hot as balls on this dance floor. He leans down to her ear.]

I think I need some air.

[lowtohigh]

[She's built for this. She gets it, apparently, almost genetically from her mother's side of the family. There are hours of this in her system.

She had also been raised to work her life independently. The bob of her head isn't remotely concerned as she leans up closer to his ear again.]

Find me when you come back?