denny is posed in front of the mirror dousing his body with cologne. it’s a brand new bottle, a gift from an ex maybe two years ago, left in the drawers to die until he’d decided to swing by the bathroom for a new tub of pomade. doug had been messing with his hair too, to no success. looking like a tumbleweed, he grabs a cap and tugs it over his head as denny gives his neck one last spritz. why either of them bother is a mystery; in an hour they’ll both be sweating by the bucketloads.
they head out by car and on the way to the concert they stop by a convenience store for snacks. as denny drives doug shoves a handful of chips into his brother’s face and when the car comes to a stop every so often he passes the cola over to wash everything down and this repeats like clockwork until they arrive at the venue. denny leans in to ticketing as doug hangs out to take in the scene.
pink lips peachy blush a pearly shimmering face pewter hoops
she turns up on a pineapple yellow hoverboard its peeling stickers emblazoned all over the bottom and
doug feels positively parched for water is he in the sahara?
“dough. dough.” denny slaps at doug’s wrists but no response. “earth to dough.” denny squints his eyes to follow doug’s path of gaze and manages to put two and two together. instead of shimmying his shoulders or cooing or otherwise embarrassing his brother, denny holds his breath and pushes doug along as he keeps his eye glued to the girl. “c’mon, show’s starting soon.”
he lets doug work under the impression that fate has thrown him a nice gristly bone by putting him in the same section as stickerboard girl. denny smiles as he watches a thousand potential scenarios unfold in his brain, transparent by the way doug’s face contorts out of time with the music. it takes five songs, liquid courage from the soda, and one strategic shove for denny to get doug moving. turning back towards the stage, denny pumps his fists in the air as doug finally taps the girl on the shoulder.
the air's abuzz with a frenzy, and phoebe has to push her tiny frame, hoverboard and all, through the literal herd-mentality that holds everyone else hostage. from the smell of it, booze is making its rounds despite the glaring red sign that reads "no alcoholic beverages allowed," as well as the pungent wet dog-ness of weed.
it's a set-up that should have stooped her expectations down to an all time low: ticket in left hand, with no one at her right; the quick 'n clean girls had bailed on her (in quick succession of "i have a date, sorry babe," "got shit to do," and "jungkook oppa is on vlive again!") and sian is trudging through yet another shift in over time.
so this leaves phoebe, the abhorrently loud air horns echoing through the entrance, and some boy she has zero clue is even looking her way.
"c'mon pheebs," she says under her breath. won't be the first time she has to go alone, and most certainly won't be the last. the hoverboard zips her inside upon command.
it takes phoebe a wash of anticipatory crowd energy, a stick of big red, and the opening beats to her favorite off the tracklist for her to be swallowed up by the excitement. by track six, she’s practically buzzing herself, face lit up like a full moon. so totally absorbed that at first she doesn’t notice some boy trying to get her attention until she turns around and
some boy is actually really, really, really cute and tall (that's stretching it—backtrack: taller), even if the team logo stitched onto his snapback is at the bottom of her blacklist and
why the hell are they starting up a slow jam right now of all times?
phoebe stares right back at him, almost gawking. nothing, absolutely nothing, in her entire eighteen year long life (even the near-death experience from last thursday night) could have prepared her for a cute boy approaching her for a change. even if she has no idea what possibly for. her phone is in her grip, and she thinks to number three on her speed-dial.
the question of the hour then: what would chia do? charge on the spot? god, she could never.
"um." phoebe clears her throat, tilts her chin up in faux chic annoyance. play it cool, pheebs. play it cool. "can i help you?"
