The world pounded in harsh, bass-front music that was enough to make voices shake from the execution. Teddy was sure his bones were aching with it, but he also couldn’t tell his left from his rights. His veins stung and sparkled in the same way a dropped can of Coke would, fizz ready to bubble up and over the lip the sudden it was cracked open. Teddy wanted to crack open - he wanted the floors of the club to swallow him whole so that he never had to leave. Instead, he turned to Lana, leaning in close so that he could speak loudly in her ear, “What do you want to drink?” Already reaching into his pocket for his cash, signalling he’d pay - easier this way, sure to make it so that they’d get onto the dance floor quicker. The pills that made his skin itch with the need to move, to be pressed close to someone, had his gaze darting over and over to where people were elbow to elbow. An admittedly shitty Britney Spears remix was playing, but it was the best thing Teddy had ever heard in that moment, “What,” he started, only pausing to laugh at nothing, “in tarnation did you give me?” The high was a laughable one, in retrospect, considering what it usually took for him to have a good night, but it’d been a while that he was this high from that small a dose. It all but had him crawling out of his skin, too much too soon, hand rising and falling from Lana’s hip, to where he brushed back a piece of her hair, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. They probably looked inseparable to the untrained eye, and anyone who assumed so wouldn’t be far off. @strvwberryblcnde
Lana felt like a series of prismatic images layered on top of each other on a projector, the kind her math teacher would scrawl obtuse angles onto in an underwhelming presentation she paid a criminal lack of attention to in high school: nothing distinct, everything blurry. Water colour that couldn’t dry. Teddy only heightened that -- in a way, made her feel like she had one eye scrunched shut, other gawking through the lens of a kaleidoscope, fists twisting and adjusting until everything was only colours and shapes. “Water,” she blurted so fast it left like a bullet, grin springing as she leaned equally close, meeting him more than halfway. “Or rum. Wait, maybe rum. Rum’s better, can I change my answer? Judges! I’m changing. That’s a better answer.” Cheek to cheek. She had to resist the urge to rest there, eyes shut, thump of bass dwarfed by the space heater flush of his face. Briefly, she imagined draping her socks off his shoulders, spare lacy negligees, letting them toast after a hasty fetch from a washing machine. Teddy was shrugging inside of a warm sweater on a cold morning, in this fantasy. She had to force herself to keep her toes frosted as frozen carrots, to resist from stretching her arms inside of his sleeves. “It was, like, not even that strong, trust me,” she insisted, though the rabid dart of her pupils said otherwise, wide enough to match the bottomless jacuzzi of despair scientists had donned a brine pool off the coast of New Orleans. “Like, on a scale from weak to strong, it’d be, like, a -- a puny little ant colony, not even Dwayne Johnson. Trust me.” Re-emphasised. Perhaps she’d forgotten she’d said it at all. It was difficult to catalogue her words in her head when his hand was on her hip, though. Cheek. Shoulder. A hand of her own slunk up before she had the chance to blink, finger and thumb gently pooching his lips into that of a goldfish. Eerily familiar. Like they used to. There wasn’t even a reason for doing so, just an inclination towards fidgeting, a preference for touching rather than twitching over the hem of her dress. “Hey, can you dance with us? Like...” trailed off, mouth dry enough that it was forced into swallow. Lana wet her lips. Her hand left though her thumb still poked his bottom lip like she was chasing a ball of string in front of a waiting cat’s paw. They edged closer in the bar’s queue, a world of their own. When Lana spoke, it was directed at his mouth. “Like, I know Jake’s here, or whatever,” she shrugged off like it was an inconvenience, the mention of a stubbed toe before a mile long hike. Jake. One in a very long series of poorly mannered apes. Lana’s favourite accessory again, of late, since arriving in L.A. Sometimes, he’d grasp a fistful of Lana’s hair like a cat biting the scruff of it’s favourite kitten’s neck, plucking it from a scrabble of claws to lick it’s fur elsewhere. Lana liked playing, though. Far less boastfully, she liked claws, too -- didn’t mind a scratch, so long as she’d been chosen to receive it, a special pick from a sea of millions. “But, like... It’ll be fun. And I don’t think he’ll mind. ‘Cause that’s weird -- I mean, that’s, like, intense, honestly. Kinda dramatic, if he does. ‘Cause dancing’s just fun, right? Dancing’s fun,” she repeated, suddenly sick with the urge to lay her palm to his chest, flat in wait for a pulse. Rather than oblige, she stepped into the gap in front, wedged between Teddy and bar, humming whatever notes she recognised before resting her head -- tilting it, slightly, when she realised it was perched against his collarbone, breath warm as the cellophane stick of her skin. None of this involved static. Always technicolour, screen abuzz with constantly switched channels -- rocking gently on the heels of her boots, hips swaying with the butchered remix. She felt a little like the tracks of a runaway steam train, always trembling, hot with escape. “What’d you want? I can say it. I wanna say things. Makes my tongue feel kinda nice when I say things. Things. You know? Like... You know. Nice. Things. Tell me something to say,” she urged, smile infectious, all of a sudden stuck with the toe scrunching notion she’d challenged him something forbidden, something they daren’t ever say, not any more. A wide eyed blink followed the slope of his nose, bounced back to find equally bloated pupils. “Wanna see how it feels in my mouth. Please,” she added, cough drop on a scratchy throat, unsure whether she’d actually stretched to press a kiss to his cheek or merely imagined it -- a witness to their left would’ve testified the former, eyes on the conversation like it was the sordid contents of an incognito Chrome tab. “It’s like one of your acting classes. You play director, I’ll -- I wanna read your script. Gimme one, I’ll get an Oscar nomination. Promise.”