miraculously, there isn’t a stain in sight on adrian’s exquisitely-detailed ( and decidedly more risqué ) version of the corpse bride’s wedding dress. it hasn’t been an easy feat and has required more and more energy as the night goes on and he becomes increasingly intoxicated. straddling that precarious line between pleasantly buzzed and far too drunk, adrian’s found himself up on one of the nightclub’s raised, isolated platforms for the dancers, having convinced one of the girls to let him try it for just one song. it’s been more than one, though, and, gleaming with a thin layer of sweat and a careful dusting of body glitter, he moves to get back down only to find that the dancer is gone. in his heels and with impaired motor skills, even his inebriated brain is aware that jumping down by himself is asking for a broken neck. “hey!” he calls over the music to the person closest, reaching out and making a childish grabby-hands motion at them. “can you help me down, please? i’m trapped! i should have dressed as rapunzel!”
