HOLY, HOLY, HOLY

[basdecsey-blog]

SYLVIANNE.

She took a pull from the cigarette, letting the smoke curl from her lips out the windows. Smoking in the dorm rooms was a violation, Sylv was sure, but it was one that she had seen yet to be enforced. Had she of been in a better mood, she’d of offered Bas one. Since she was not, she tapped the ash onto his window sill.

“She’s an annoyance,” Sylvianne said, refusing to allow Gia any more space in her mind. “Nothing more.” The girl was more than that; in truth. An annoyance, but also a fascination– a rival who should have no means to compete. Someone as ugly as she felt. “I can imagine as well what she wants from me,” her gaze fell back to Bas, still in seated. “But, you make your own choices.”

Sylv lifted a shoulder, finally returning to the foot of the bed. “What do you think of me these days?” It was a broad question, but like most posed by beautiful women, it was a trap.

Once she was close enough, Bastian reached out to touch her. He ran his fingers down her sleeve, across her wrist, along the lines of her palm. In fact, he thought less of her now than he had before. It was almost certainly a temporary shift, much like laying a hand on the scale, but he believed jealousy was an ugly color on her. More than expecting her to be cold and unshakeable ( unrealistic and boring as that would be ), he thought she might have understood the nuance of the situation. He had known — and continued to know, as it were — that she was special, and that their relationship was worth more than anything else being offered. Sylvianne was more than a catch or a precious gem; she was an equal and a partner. This momentary lapse in esteem, however unfortunate, did not alter that reality.

“Nothing has changed,” he answered. “Is that what you want to know? I think you’re being impulsive which I do dislike. Imagine if anyone else knew that you were feeling threatened by Gia Fox. That’s a more interesting rumor, isn’t it?”

He chuckled, but it wasn’t with as much amusement as he would have liked. Perhaps if he were someone else, it would be more absurd for Sylvianne to feel as she did. What had drawn him to her in the first place, after all? Their relationship was built on a foundation nearly as strange as the one he shared with Gia. Deceit, carefully contained and artfully curated, was a common denominator. There was also that both Sylvianne and Gia oozed a certain kind of power — whether refined and seductive or violent and impassioned. Occupying a space between them would prove to be unendurable so long as they existed as opposites, if only because Sylvianne’s framing made it feel so exhaustingly pedestrian.

He leaned back, settling in against the pillows. With a steady, curious gaze, he asked in return, “What do you want me to think of you?”

[basdecsey-blog]

SYLVIANNE.

His smile made her own mouth, painted crimson– as was to be expected, form a harder line. Jealousy, it was a foreign feeling to her, one that she swore to not be polluted by. It was a swampy emotion and it bogged at her ankles, stuck hazily in her mind. This was what she preferred to inflict upon other people, not to suffer from first hand. 

What was her evidence? Sylvianne was ruled more by passions than she was thought– she had none. Her freed grip allowed her to reach into her jacket pocket to free a cigarette. It found it’s way between her lips, and she stood. Before she lit it, the brunette cracked the window open, letting the cold February air filter in. His malady could be damned.

“She was wearing your coat at the bonfire. She’s brazen, has no respect. The way she touches you in public–” Her head canted, she wouldn’t get too ahead of herself, “If you’ve taken a liking to her, you know I’ve no qualms.” Sylv’s lies were easy, mumbled around the cigarette. “But it’s reached my ears that you’ve become intimate, and that disloyalty reflects upon my reputation.”

He nodded, echoing, “Yes, she is very disrespectful...”

Were they intimate? In a sense, he could agree with that conclusion. They had not spent very much time together, but every instance felt impossibly tangled in something corrosively personal. His theory was that Gia was unintentionally transparent and, as a result, her shows of strength were remarkably revealing. Whatever Sylvianne might have heard, it was surely just as equally transparent. Everyone knew the story. What was Gia in the collective mind of Saint Augustine but something too unfortunate to forget but too ugly to ever acknowledge?

‘ Oh, Sylvianne, I would like her so much less if anyone else noticed her. ’ 

“I know what you’re insinuating,” he said finally. “It’s untrue. Which,” Regardless of if she meant to protest, he held up a hand. “I admit, truth hardly matters where reputation is concerned. That is what we were interested in, no? But, is that really the issue here? I know what Gia wants from us — well, you — and I can assure you she’s not getting it, not even the perception.” This was a promise as much as a status report. 

“And, that I would think so little of you?” He scoffed. “Now you’ve insulted me.”

[basdecsey-blog]

SYLVIANNE.

Her head tilted down, Sylv’s eyes studied his. He had always been a clever boy, but this evening– she could gather nothing from his clear irises. Her mother had told her that once when she’d complained about her own, dark gaze. Brown eyes hold everything, they mirror their emotions– but blue, they were like glass, like smoke. 

“Georgiana Fox.” Her name fell between them, the syllables pronounced like the worst part of a curse. And that’s what she had been, the former darling of their once mutual friend. A curse.

“You’ve insulted me–” Sylvianne’s free hand gestured, “And our arrangement.”

“I’ve — ?”

He wanted to laugh. It was the natural reaction, prompted by deep discomfort, but it would have also articulated his feelings more effectively than any words. He did not know Gia by her full name; he had never known her when she was that person, somehow more than the clipped diminutive that fit her present persona better. She had been wholly insignificant then – a mere plaything, boring and passive. Sylvianne had known her then. She herself had subsequently been villainized and, as it presently stood, seemed to be constrained by that. The significance of Sylvianne dropping the name in such a way, then, wasn’t lost on him. That she had taken offense — insult, as she put it — and sought to press the fact so forcefully is what he found laughable.

But, he only smiled. Her statement hung in the air for a long moment as he strung together a response.  She hadn’t been invited into the game, and she was sore about it — perhaps, more specifically, because she didn’t know the rules as well as she thought. Perhaps prematurely, whatever anxiety had built up about the situation began to dissipate. 

“That’s a very weighty charge. You’ll need to be more explicit in your explanation because ...” He shrugged, letting go of her hand as he did. “I don’t think we’re on the same page.”

[basdecsey-blog]

SYLVIANNE.

If he was anything, Bastian was handsome— he had the sort of face that lent itself well to easy forgiveness. A full pouty mouth, light eyes framed with long lashes (though they did look more red and tired than usual) were what greeted her after she opened the door, while he remained in bed. Her head canted, studying him. “You don’t look well, you should have said something.” The brunette pulled her gloves off with a medical efficiency, setting them aside on his desk. “I’d of brought you something.”

Long legs made her stride across the room nothing more than three paces, she stopped by the window to pull open the shades. Cruel light filtered in before she herself took seat at the foot of Bas’ bed. Her hand reached out, finding his hand and threading her fingers through his. His was the grip of an artist, delicate almost— she wondered if her rings made hers unbearably cold. “I wanted,” She paused, she was still angry. “Needed, to talk to you.”

The light streamed in, and he turned away to stare at the grainy patterning of the wall. Bastian was habitually a creature of darkness, much preferring to occupy the shadows than broad daylight; it was only exacerbated by his apparent mental anguish. Yet, Sylvianne’s arrival cut through the dramatics — nicely, with a flourish, in her characteristic way. He turned back to look at her, wondering what she might have brought with her, noting the way she looked at him in return. She’d have brought nothing, judging by the way she had moved through the room.

It seemed she carried in something, intangible as it may be, to add to the miasma.

“Of course you did,” he responded, squeezing her hand. “But, why?”

[basdecsey-blog]

SYLVIANNE.

Since the bonfire, something in Sylvianne had been simmering. The coals of the fire had long since cooled, they stayed on the top of the mountain, blackened and waiting– but the spark stayed inside her chest. It had burned a hole and it ate at the nice things that padded her thoughts and she recognized this feeling as anger.  She didn’t like to dwell and as a result, she found herself in a familiar doorway, raising her fist to knock on Bastian’s door. 

Three short, sharp sounds before her hand came to a rest by her side. Perhaps her emotions were unwarranted, she was certain he’d tell her if that were the case– but jealousy, a sickly yellow feeling, raised up and gripped her by the back of the neck. They had an arrangement, and beyond that, something akin to a friendship.

And so, dressed in clothes the colour of soot, the brunette waited for the door to swing open. The hard expression on her face didn’t smooth, he could receive her without an edit: their relationship afforded him thus.

He hesitated to answer the door. The knocks were somehow recognizable, though he was startled nonetheless by the interruption. What had he been doing, after all, but soaking up the unending silence of the room? This was why he had been so delighted by no longer having a roommate. Self-imposed catatonia and an abrupt sequestering were discomforting. When the knocks happened, he had been staring at the door, eyes watering from the effort, perfecting the absolute blankness that was his present state of mind.

The worry had imploded. All that remained was ash — perhaps, also, a bad taste.

“Sylvianne — ”

It was too quiet. He threw back the quilt that had been pulled up to his chin and sat upright. The room was pristine as usual, if unconscionably dark. He reached for the lamp while clearing his throat to try answering again.

If it was her — and it was — then she wouldn’t just walk away.

“The door is open. Come in. I’m … under the weather.”

[basdecsey-blog]

GIA.

She was prepared for him. (This time, at least.) She had steeled herself against his cold, he could not catch her ruinously off-guard now. 

“Come with me. I need to talk to you.”

Brazen, she slipped her arm through the hollow at his side, fingers closing around his forearm. She would say it was to guide him through the trees if he had asked. It was a casual touch, under ordinary circumstances, she had drawn Toni O’Sullivan closer in a similar manner; she had wanted to do the same to Théo, wrap her hands around his — and — But. She was wearing Bas’ coat. (Still.) She had made it hers in the last week, filling its pockets with the things she carried in the pockets of her own coats — black and gold Sobranies and a gold plated lighter that didn’t work to match and round, silver francs, strays, that rattled and clinked together not unlike glasses raised in a toast — it was her coat. Except. She was holding onto its true owner, ferociously possessive, wearing him as she wore his coat.

They were alone in the dark, far enough from the bonfire that every shower of sparks looked like dust floating on the wind, far enough that they couldn’t be heard. Gia wouldn’t have touched him like that, her cheek brushing momentarily against his shoulder when they arrived at a gap in the trees, if they weren’t, her ability to act with easy cruelty suffocated by her distaste for violence. This was a violent place. That was something that could be felt. 

“I had a dream. A memory. A vision.” Her distress tasted metallic in the back of her throat and on the roof of her mouth. 

This. It had to be this. She was threatening him now.

After several false starts, it had begun. It remained undefined even as she took shape before him, a form made distinct by his own gift, somehow unrecognizable beyond a sense of confirmation. This is what he had been anticipating all along. The heavy weight of death — of looming memories past and yet to be made — must have been rendered incidental. And this, it, was therefore coincidental. While he expected something from the way the fire had winked at him all night long, Gia had been further from his mind ever. 

It was always banal, in the end — the force of a woman instead of cosmic retribution. Arguably, the two could be the same, but he found the predictability of such an outcome to be almost painful. This, more than anything, could have been humbling.

‘ Merely mortal, hm? ’ 

He was beginning to suspect, as she put distance between their conversation and the real world, that he was letting her get away with too much. Encouraging too much. Enabling. It looked like becoming a willing participant in a tragedy, extended. That had been his purpose from the start, of course, but the interpretation was less clear now. It was harder to contain when she did things like this: behaved of her own accord, dragged him along, was insistent and stormy. His fascination — with those very behaviors, with her — was costing him.

It wouldn’t do.

Yet, he couldn’t grab her by the shoulders and shake her, holding tight even through layers, making a conduit of her. ‘ Why are you a tempest? ’ he might ask, sounding like a fictive version of himself, knowing she would play along as a caricature in her own right. ‘ When will you become still and dull? ’ That would be an accusation. He was not as bored away from her as she made him feel. And so, without a handle on the situation, he had to contain himself. He had to keep his hands to himself, his thoughts to himself, wandering eyes glued to her and not tracking the way the tops of the trees seeming to birth the clear midnight sky. This was the same sky he gazed on from the estate, listening to his mother’s humming, gently fingering the rosary beads she passed him. They prayed together as he prayed now: from a deeper place of being, not one’s own but profoundly shared.

He always prayed inadvertently.

It was supposed to be the anniversary of becoming. The bonfire was a charade put together with the others, and he had admittedly never meant for it to count for anything. There was supposed to be an internal knowing, a private sense of awareness, that culminated in a successful conclusion of the evening. Making a mockery of it — the sinfulness, the lack of remorse, the fact that a mistake continued to be sustained. The first anniversary was so significant, portending how they might prevail for the rest of their natural lives. That was meant to be confined to the back of his mind, but it had been foregrounded the moment he was alone. Indeed, he was supposed to be having fun ( whatever that meant ). Had he stayed by Sylvianne’s side, then that would be exactly what happened. But, at some point, he wandered away and had subsequently become unmoored.

So, it was Gia, shepherding a profound sense of doom.

A shocking turn of events; good for her.

“Well? Please, don’t spare any details.”

[basdecsey-blog]

SYLVIANNE.

“I’m sure she’s still dying to befriend me.”

 Her smile was smug, but she spoke with a confidence that wasn’t unwarranted– Sylvianne was a person on campus that held a sort of status that those who didn’t meet tended to clamour to, regardless of how she treated them. Bastian’s words made her brows draw in and her lips pursed. “There’s something to be said about the sweet looking ones,” Sylv noted, “Men tend to be blind when they come along.” She wouldn’t elaborate further, but her mind skipped to the Gia, with her long curly lashes and her face splashed with freckles. 

“And classes to follow after a full recovery.” Sylvianne put the topic to bed, leaning forward with her hands on her knees. “Open your present, I’d love to know what you think.”

He thought about what she’s said — ‘ the sweet looking ones ’ — as he turned around to reach for the gift box. Sweetness was unlike purity in that it lacked an absolute quality. It was delicate and pleasant, but there was another side: sugared, sticky, cloying. It could be excessive or jarringly paltry. Unlike the kind and virtuous, sweet people were unpredictable.

And so, of course, Sylvianne was correct.

“I’m sure I will love it,” he answered. With care, he kept the paper unripped and folded the ribbon into a neat bundle. “I trust you to know exactly what I want.”

He ran his fingers along the accent lines of the jacket after lifting it from the box. “Suede and whipstitching...? So delightful. I suppose leather is our theme, then.” Unlike her, Bastian had been undeterred by the impracticality and had brought her boots to Marrakech. 

“You’re a gift in your own right, as you know.”

[basdecsey-blog]

( ✉ → sms ) don’t listen to any of the voicemails i sent last night. i was drunk.

[ BAS ] Creative content, K.

[ BAS ] Maybe we should talk more.

[basdecsey-blog]

( ✉ → sms ) i just need to vent…

text message starters ( x ) send more !

[ BAS ] Not yr therapist, S. (-: 

[ BAS ] [phone]

[memesandthings]

TEXT MESSAGE STARTERS, PART TWO ! 

Send one of the prompts below to get a response from my muse.

wrong/random number texts: 

( ✉ → sms ) found your number written on a wall… should i erase it?

( ✉ → sms ) [random name here]? is this still your number?

( ✉ → sms ) pretty sure you dialed the wrong number, but thanks for the 13 drunk voicemails last night.

( ✉ → sms ) you don’t know me but i’m bored and texting random numbers, so hi!

( ✉ → sms ) you FUCKING asshole, i hope you know how much i hate you!!!

sad texts:

( ✉ → sms ) can you please distract me so i don’t cry in public?

( ✉ → sms ) everything hurts lately

( ✉ → sms ) thanks for trying to cheer me up, but it’s not working.

( ✉ → sms ) what makes you feel better when you’re sad?

( ✉ → sms ) i just need to vent…

drunk texts:

( ✉ → sms ) im not DRUNK waht amkes you thijnk that

( ✉ → sms ) cna you pick me up… and brign some shoess… i cant find mine

( ✉ → sms ) the party was horrible but at least ikm drunk lol

( ✉ → sms ) whyj don’t oyu fuckign miss me????

( ✉ → sms ) all i wnat to do right now is talkk to you

angsty texts:

( ✉ → sms ) please talk to me. please help me make this work.

( ✉ → sms ) i don’t think we should see each other again.

( ✉ → sms ) when will we admit we’re no good for each other…

( ✉ → sms ) just know i cared about you. i really did.

( ✉ → sms ) i don’t think things can ever go back to the way they were between us

misc texts:

( ✉ → sms ) why do you reply so slowwwwwww

( ✉ → sms ) help me choose a pizza topping please

( ✉ → sms ) don’t listen to any of the voicemails i sent last night. i was drunk.

( ✉ → sms ) you haven’t watched my snapchat story all day. what are you up to?????

( ✉ → sms ) i’ve had the same dream about you three times in a row, is that weird?

( ✉ → sms ) why is april fool’s the only day of the year where people critically evaluate news articles before accepting them as true?

( ✉ → sms ) soooo, in your opinion, what are some of my best qualities? i need help writing my tinder bio.

[basdecsey-blog]

THÉO.

“I know that God exists,” Théo said, with an obstinate click of his tongue. “I am God. Strangely enough, my professor refuses to accept this as an answer.” A weary sigh, his shoulders rolling into a shrug, as though he truly couldn’t understand why this was so. The corner of his lip curled smugly when Bastian called him by his name. “See, even you call me God. Mostly this party is chafing the fuck out of me and I want to leave. Though tell me, what plans did you have for testing the existence of divine beings?” 

“‘ Fear is the most divine emotion ’ …” Bastian quoted, not bothering to modulate the reverence tinging his tone. “Blood and guts, all that. Sacrifice. I’m not sure you have the stomach for divinity, my friend.” It was not the hands of gods, after all, that made sense of entrails. Haruspicy was the work of men with sight — and, more importantly, seductive intonation. It was tricky, faithless prophesying. The believers were numerous and they craved the drama of the slaughter. It was the thankless work of the gifted to ensure Fate actualized the appropriate result. More than guesswork, the sheer force of will was key. Nevermind carrying the weight of the world when shouldering aside reality was more expedient.

“Quinque viae? Well ... Abandon our last bonfire to parse theology…? Even if you were God, I don’t think I could be persuaded.” He chuckled, then amended, “Especially if.”

[basdecsey-blog]

GIA.

Her careful choreography had failed her. She would not be over it for a very long time — longer, at least, than she intended to stand across from him, shivering and opposite. He looked well. 

“You look well,” Gia said, severely, the eyebrow of hers not split into jagged parts raised (the other, stitched back together and eternally missing a few hair strokes, struggled to go quite so high, lending her surprise an icy, unamused look, by the grace of God) as she considered his offering. Strange to be the one on the receiving end of such a thing; ordinarily, his counsel was immaterial, anything left at his altar was her own.  “Considering the weather.” She took the coat, one-handed, two, it was heavier than she had expected, drawing it over and around her shoulders. Like a cape. Now, she imitated not just defiance, but Bastian himself, her fingers closed tightly around the coat’s edges, holding it in place. She knew very little, except: she couldn’t drop it.

“Thank you.” The words sounded unnecessary the second she said them, a non-answer to such an important question. Sinning already? If Gia took his coat now, he would want it back. She would have to bring it back. Another meeting in another corridor. Or — she could wear it as she wore her humiliation, close to the skin, she could keep it and never give it back and beg miserable questions from his girlfriend for him, ‘Why does she have something of yours?’, a question Gia knew to be fatal. Or — she could bring it back. To his room. Wearing even less underneath it. She had a history of undressing in front of him now. She could make something of this. Was it a sin to wear his coat and conspire to undo him? No. Another step on her ladder. Retribution was within sight. This was biblical. Hardly sinning. “For this.”

“I should go. I left my books behind. They’ll be locked in if I’m too late.”

She made little effort to move, but one slow turn of her shoulder when the coat slipped slightly was enough to know: he had weighted her down with his gift, anchoring her in place. 

He stepped aside. There was no need to gesture her along or, worse yet, verbalize any parting words. It would have been easy — even in-character, on brand — for her to shoulder past him once she needed the interaction to end. She knew as well as he did what obstacle kept her from departing the moment the excuse had left her mouth.

It wasn’t decorum.

“Keep the coat if you want.”

The silence hung unevenly around them, but he lifted it with an off-handed suggestion. Offering it to her without any intention of reclaiming it put the ball firmly in her corner. And, he was confident she could always be counted on to play. Perhaps there was a version of events where she won — one where she defined those very terms, too — and that snubbed out any interest. This was not it. She was not as practiced in concealment as she could have been. Maybe she had marched outside into the cold because she was used to being so painfully exposed. 

“See you at the bonfire, then.”

[basdecsey-blog]

THÉO.

“They would have been Cassandra uttering prophecies to the wind,” he said, a lazy sort of shrug rolling his shoulders. What were all the things they knew now? That in an hour or so Freds would have been at the bottom of a slowly freezing lake. That his relations to his peers would be strained, the crown on his head would rust, and each day would pass by with him waiting for the very last one, when he could leave this place and every ghost that haunted him in its halls. That even that, this small grace, crumbled into pieces by Elizabeth Bright’s wrecking ball. The silence where the laughter ought to have been punctuated the air heavily, and this, perhaps, he would have derided theoretical-Cassandra for the most: that his closest friend would drop him like Théo himself had dropped so many others. That for many dreadful months they would speak in nothing but arguments, and for even harsher months afterwards, not at all. 

Yet, somehow, here they were now. Théo had found more success in his deal than he had anticipated. It had been no conspiracy, no long-standing, twenty-stepped plan; his actions had been ones of impulse, quick seizures of whatever opportunities had the misfortune to traipse in front of him. He had pushed, expecting no response from the other. When, to his surprise, Bastian had accommodated, he had pushed some more — just because that was what he did, push  — expecting to hit a brick wall. And yet, again, Bastian had yielded. Perhaps he might have attributed this to some innate skill in negotiation, but even he knew better than that. If Bastian had yielded, after all this time, it was because he wanted to. Théo grasped this rope, this anchor, this olive branch without knowing what the other intended with it, without knowing what he himself could opportune from it. There was no returning to the past, and all he could think of in relation to his future were the letters that hung around the trees and the pictures imprinted into the collective studentry’s vision, his figure indisputably present.

A swig from a bottle, which he soon passed to Bastian, though his gaze did not train to him. “I must be behaving well enough if you’re keeping your end of the deal,” he said. “Which reminds me, Décsey, I require your expertise on an urgent matter regarding, ah, problems of faith and reason. Perhaps it’s time to ditch this poor excuse of a party in favor of good old Thomas Aquinas.” 

Bastian took the bottle without hesitation, and it was only when it touched his lips that he paused to acknowledge the symbolism of the offering. It likely meant nothing, but he could at least appreciate the immature significance of sharing. After all, that was how it started. A year ago almost to the very day, he woke from a sleepless night and decided they would share never share anything — of his, of himself — ever again. That went on long enough to change everything, yet here he stood now doing it all over again by choice.

At Théo’s suggestion, he scoffed. “Thinking about homework now of all times, Théo? Or, what, do you want to test the existence of God?”

[basdecsey-blog]

SYLVIANNE.

Sylvianne watched as Bastian spoke. He had a way of doing so prettily, of using language in a way that would absolve him of sin— perhaps she mistook it for her fondness of him, or the charm that he had— whatever annoyance that had spurred the quickness in her speech melted into the pale of the snow outdoors. “The messenger shall remain unscathed tonight. I suppose I’m just,” her hand gestured vaguely. “On edge.”

A few drinks would ease the headache that seemed to anchor itself firmly against her temple, a cigarette would quiet the hammer of her heartbeat. Nothing would bail out the heaviness that lived in her heart however: she seemed destined to wade in the inky blackness that had begun to pool that night a year ago. Dark eyes lifted to find Bas’ calm gaze, she wondered if he too suffered the same affliction.

“I’d be lying if I said I could put it so easily out of my mind,” Sylv said finally. “But tonight is for us. Our final bonfire— Augustine should belong to us in this moment and we treat it as though we’re all still on trial. Let’s enjoy ourselves.” Her head canted. “I’ll ask around as well, perhaps someone knows her better than I’d have a chance at getting close. I’m fairly certain I spilled coffee on her once.”

Bastian laughed. “Oh, Sylvianne, that’s bullying. How will we ever befriend her now?”

“I wouldn’t claim to know her,” he continued. “But, I think we’ve spoken a handful of times. Photography is a shared interest.” At this, painfully aware of the relevance, he made a face. “She seems … Sweet. I doubt she has any idea what she’s done, much less meant for it to foreshadow some future-shattering exposé. But, that camera of hers might have captured more damning evidence. She, herself, might have.”

He shrugged. “Party tonight, hangovers tomorrow, very serious inquisition the day after.”

[basdecsey-blog]

PEARL.

God, she’d bothered him. Pearl took his hand and pulled herself up, dusting at the knees of her black jeans, the snow coating them already beginning to soak through. “No,” she insisted, shaking her head. “Please don’t apologize.” She frowned, looking back out to the dark outline of trees that stretched endlessly beyond then. This time last year they’d been just woods. “He’ll come back.” She didn’t mean to, but there was the slightest lilt to the words, twisting it into a half-formed question. Won’t he? The quiet beyond the party only added to her worry.

You don’t look like you’re having fun. Her immediate response was to smile. It was practiced enough, but too quick to be genuine. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be—“ she trailed off, avoiding his eyes by looking towards the bonfire, watching the flickering of the light. “Don’t you think,” she paused, brow creasing as she gathered her thought, a much more complicated process with what she’d been drinking, “It just seems a bit wrong now that we’re all here like this. Disrespectful, I suppose.” But what else could they do? Light candles in windowsills, kneel by the bedside in prayer? The students who stood round the rising flames, faces flushed with alcohol and voices growing louder and louder, they weren’t exactly pious.

“I’m probably just being a square.” It bothered Peter too, he’d stared at the dripping painted letters lock-jawed until he had to disappear. It was a heavy topic, especially on what was supposed to be a celebratory night. She felt guilty for bringing it up. Can I help with anything? “I’m fine Bas, thank you. I’m sorry.” Apologies tripped out of her mouth, she couldn’t help it. This was how she was raised, praised for being something small and pleasant. “Are you having fun at all?”

“A square?”

He was following her until then, nodding kindly as he tried to decide what merited a response. Pearl was clearly very lost and somewhat confused, even if she knew exactly where she was and what she was meant to be doing. For once, he could sympathize with that. The idiom threw him off, but he wasn’t in the mood for learning new phrases.

“I don’t know that having fun is the right wording.” Bastian sighed, shoulders dropping. 

“I have every reason to be, but you’re right; there is something wrong.” How to account for how dramatically his spirits had fallen since arriving earlier in the evening? He had been prepared — even sworn — to have fun tonight. The whole evening was a necessary act of defiance, and that required being present in every measure. It was to be a bit of bloodletting to further the healing. Instead, ‘ bad medicine ’ came to mind. And, Pearl was so much healthier. He could look at her and conclude that she lacked that certain kind of affliction.

Fortunately ( shockingly ), it wasn’t contagious.

“You should find a friend — someone you can have fun with.” He was looking past her, trying to see everything yet perceiving nothing. “It’s a wasted night otherwise.”

[basdecsey-blog]

SYLVIANNE.

Sylv smiled, crossing and uncrossing long legs until she found a position that suited her properly. They had an interesting sort of relationship— like two oligarchs that had found a consensus in the ruling of their kingdom. She leaned sideways, using the arm rests of the chair to perch her elbow. Sylvianne’s chin found itself cradled in her palm, her mouth stayed bent, despite her unease. “You’ve seen the picture, I take it.”

An alarming piece of evidence, possibly less so for those in their party that didn’t enjoy the grandeur of distinctive pieces: her face had cast back in the lens like a blur, but there was no denying her identity. This had kept her up the night before, paired with Cora’s findings.

She had said that the girl was one to keep an eye on. In any other case, she’d of been more smug about being right— but in this instance, a win in her court was a loss for all of theirs. They’d missed something. They’d implicated themselves with such a mistake. Bastian’s question made her frown, glancing up and slipping out of the shroud of her thoughts.

“No.” Her hand slipped away from her chin and her spine straightened. “Nor do I believe in karma, or destiny or the divine.” Dark eyes caught pale ones from across the room, and her tone shifted, as if this now serves as a test. “Do you?”

"I spit at God every day,” he replied, smiling. He spoke as if quoting something revered. “And along comes Fate to admonish me: ' impertinence is a sin. ' I stare her in the face and welcome the challenge. What is that saying — ' don’t shoot the messenger? '” A pause, a simper. “I misspoke when I asked; belief and faith are not the same.”

Now, he had confessed. It was not to Sylvianne, but making the statement lifted a weight from his shoulders in its own subtle way. He could hold her hand tonight and march brazenly into trouble. He could do so without looking over his shoulder, without feeling the burden of unsurety. Grandstanding, if only for himself, had that effect. Along with impertinence was the impunity; judgement comes from within, not above. These omens should have been a warning to the wicked that crimes do not go unpunished. Yet, he was insistent that theirs must.

“You don’t want to play with me tonight, do you? I’ll speak plainly. I’m not so concerned about it all, not yet. It’s a problem waiting to happen, but calling it by name may be unwise. Although ... I think I should get to know dear Lizzie a little better."

[basdecsey-blog]

THÉO.

@theorothschild

“Has it been a year already?”

Bastian had spotted him through the flames, and the very fact that he knew who it was amid the incessant flickering was motivation enough. There was an agreement hanging over his head, of course — unenforceable, but a promise nonetheless. Beyond that, the significance of the night made him sentimental, superstitious, frighteningly prone to acting on instinct. And, that’s what it was: a deep-seated urge to coax reality from symbolism. He had been staring at the fire all night in search of something, anything. So far, it had revealed indifference and Théo.

He was holding a cigarette and, for the moment, it was a distraction. It blocked the words from flowing out while he stared into the treeline. With more spite than intended, they trickled out anyway. “Imagine if someone had told us then all of the things we know now.”

They would have laughed, together, full of arrogance and irreverence. Bastian had felt untouchable until a moment ago.

“What a joke.”