collegiatesins

[collegiatesins]

the  cadence  of  his  voice  curling  like  smoke  through  the  underbrush,  all  teasing  edges  and  soft  landmines.  it  makes  something  in  them  clench.  a  muscle  they  forgot  they  had.  a  memory  that  hadn’t  yet  faded  enough  to  be  harmless.  he  looked  good.  which  is  so  unfair.  zahara,  be  cool,  they  tells  themself,  dragging  the  weight  of  their  gaze  up  to  meet  his  with  a  practiced  blankness  that  doesn’t  quite  reach  their  mouth.  it’s  already  twitching,  that  traitor  curve  tugging  at  the  corner.  "  miss  you?  "  zee  echoed  with  a  tilt  of  their  head,  stepping  forward  like  the  words  didn’t  strike  a  little  too  close  to  some  soft,  stupid  place  inside  them.  "  i  don’t  have  time  to  miss  someone  i  see  semi-regularly,  "  the  grin  doesn’t  fade.  not  entirely.  it  never  did  with  him,  that  was  part  of  the  problem.  part  of  the  reason  zee  things  fell  apart  between  them.  because  with  kasim,  everything  always  felt  a  little  too  easy.  too  dangerous.  zee  could  never  be  sure  whether  the  good  time  was  mutual  or  if  he  just  felt  obligated.  but  then  he’s  talking  about  sneaking  up  and  she  catches  it.  just  barely.  the  throwaway  comment,  dressed  like  a  joke,  left  to  die  on  the  vine.  

she  doesn’t  reach  for  it.  just  lets  her  eyes  flicker  once,  briefly,  to  his  and  away  again.  lets  the  silence  press  in  a  little  tighter  between  his  words.  "  you’re  terrible  at  lying,  "  she  murmurs,  kneeling  to  pluck  something.  a  dead  leaf  or  maybe  just  a  distraction  from  the  ground.  doesn’t  look  at  him  when  she  says  it.  doesn’t  have  to.  "  and  you’ve  always  had  the  worst  taste.  strawberry  guava,  kasim?  are  you  thirteen?  "  she  flicks  the  leaf  back  into  the  brush,  finally  glancing  back  up  at  him  with  something  that’s  not  quite  a  smile.  her  expression  softens.  not  enough  to  undo  anything,  but  enough  to  let  him  know:  she  sees  him.  even  now.  even  still.  "  you  were  definitely  vaping,  "  she  says,  like  it’s  fact.  like  she  knows  all  his  tells  and  remembers  them  by  heart.  "  and  frankie  definitely  doesn’t  appreciate  your  strawberry  fog  coating  your  ceiling.  "  then,  quieter,  as  she  crosses  her  arms  over  her  chest  and  rocks  back  on  her  heels:  "  you  could’ve  texted  me,  you  know.  if  you  needed  to  hide.  "  a  thread  pulled  loose.  maybe  even  a  door  cracked,  just  enough.  a  testing  of  boundaries  neither  of  them  seemed  equipped  to  set.  “  the  rehearsal  room  is  open  to  all  vagabonds.  plus,  i  think  i’d  rather  smell  strawberry  guava  there  than  shep’s  cigs.  but only if you pick up your fallen solider. the marantas will really judge you if you litter. “

there's  a  tell-tale  pang  in  his  chest  at  the  sight  of  zee  that  he  can't  quite  reconcile  with  his  expression.  he  wonders  if  it  shows—that  split  second  where  cocky  arrogance  slips  away  in  place  of  a  boy  still  heartbroken  by  the  simplest  of  break-ups.  it  wasn't  him,  it  wasn't  them,  it  was  just  "  i  think  we'd  be  better  off  as  friends.  "  that  he  didn't  fight.  it  takes  a  swallow,  a  few  blinks  before  a  grin  tugs  at  the  corners  of  his  lips,  pulling  them  up  into  a  pretty  convincing  mockery  of  a  very  chill,  very  cool  with  how  things  ended  smile.  "  just  wandering,  huh  ?  sure  you  didn't  miss  me  ?  "

"  didn't  mean  to  sneak  up  on  me  ?  that's  a  first.  "  it  comes  out  before  kasim  has  a  chance  to  bite  his  tongue;  the  references  to  what  once  was.  he  skips  it  over,  hopes  she  doesn't  catch  onto  it,  and  focuses  instead  on  what  was  a  freshly-bought  vape,  now  cracked  beneath  his  new  balances.  kasim  kicks  it  into  the  underbrush  and  gives  them  a  look  that  says  i  can't  believe  you'd  accuse  me  of  such  a  thing.  it's  true  though.  "  you  should  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  zee.  me,  vaping  ?  on  school  grounds  ?  and  with  strawberry  guava  no  less  ?  i'd  never.  especially  not  around  the  marantas,  what  would  they  say  about  me  to  you  if  i  had  ?  "  gaze  is  drawn  to  her  hands.  he  feels  a  pull  thrumming  beneath  his  fingertips  to  hold  them.  kasim  shoves  his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets.  "  i'd  say  haunting  purely  on  the  basis  it  sounds  cooler,  but  i  think  we  can  both  agree  i'm  hiding.  i  don't  think  frankie  would  appreciate  me  smoking  in  our  room  so  i've  come  to  bother  the  plants  with  my  flavored  nicotine.  "  he  pauses,  then  adds,  "  not  that  i  was  vaping,  because  i  wasn't.  "

[collegiatesins]

mika  hears  the  way  she  says  his  name  like  she’s  trying  not  to  feel  anything  at  all.  her  voice  cutting  into  him  softer  than  expected,  a  small,  disarming  jab  about  his  height.  he  should  have  a  quip  ready.  should’ve  worn  your  heels  then,  june,  or  something  smug  like  maybe  you  shrank  but  all  he  can  manage  is  a  small  exhale  through  his  nose.  the  almost  smile  kind,  a  blink  and  you’ll  miss  it  miniscule  movement  at  the  edge  of  his  lips.  they  haven't  changed.  still  half-guarded,  half-charging  ahead.  pretending  they  didn’t  feel  things  until  they’d  already  wrecked  them.  he’d  known  this  about  junie  and  still,  stupidly,  had  let  himself  get  wrecked  right  alongside.  “  could  always  sit  down,  ”  he  murmurs,  just  under  his  breath.  more  suggestion  than  tease.  when  she  rejects  the  skittles,  he  lets  out  a  low,  amused  hum  but  it’s  the  oreos  still  in  the  palm  of  his  hand  that  leaves  a  lasting  impression.  it's  the  kind  of  quiet  detail  he  never  forgot  how  to  notice.  “  i’m  going  to  pretend  you  didn’t  just  insult  my  precious  tropical  skittles  like  that,  ”  he  teases,  soft  as  dusk.  dark  eyes  follow  them  as  they  scurries  ahead,  slipping  into  motion  like  she  always  had  like  she  could  outpace  the  weight  of  the  past  if  she  moved  quick  enough. 

he  lets  her,  for  a  moment,  lets  her  fill  the  silence  with  her  rambling.  it’s  familiar.  a  comfort,  even  when  it  hurts.  “  you’ve  never  been  disappointing,  ”  he  says,  simply.  and  it’s  not  flirtation.  not  indulgent.  just  the  truth,  stripped  down  and  unpolished.  when  she  looks  at  him  and  asks  if  he’s  doing  well,  there’s  a  beat  of  silence.  mikael  in  no  rush  to  answer.  molten  chocolate  hues  steadily  trained  on  hers,  something  unreadable  flickering  just  beneath  the  surface.  “  i’ve  been…  ”  a  small  pause.  his  thumb  hooks  in  his  pocket.  “  well,  you’d  know  how  i’ve  been  if  you  bothered  to  stay  in  contact.  ”  he  could  leave  it  there.  probably  should.  but  then  he  adds,  quieter,  “ didn’t  think  you’d  say  yes. ”  it  wasn’t  an  accusation.  just  honesty.  the  kind  that  only  shows  up  when  it’s  already  too  late.  “  to  sit  down  with  me.  “  mika  clarifies,  his  pace  slows  slightly  beside  her,  the  kind  of  shift  someone  makes  when  they’re  not  in  a  hurry  to  get  anywhere,  not  if  it  means  the  moment  ends  sooner.  his  shoulder  brushing  just  close  enough  to  their  to  count,  but  never  touch.  “  i’m  glad  you  did,  though  . ”  and  this  time,  the  smile  does  reach  his  eyes.  a  little  crooked,  a  little  tired  —  but  real.

A shiver runs down her spine, against her own accord and causing her to shiver involuntarily, when he says her name. The same way he always did - like some sort of reprieve, a soothing balm on scorched palette. It makes her feel encouraged, while simultaneously diffident. She hated this ache in her chest - of being so unsure, facing something she’d thought had been one and done, left in the past. Saying goodbye to Mika the first time had been gut-wrenching in a way she hadn’t expected, she didn’t figure herself strong enough to do it all over again. Worse - she knew she wasn’t capable of it, though she’d go through it all again, anyway. Very unlike herself, to become such a flight risk. But then Mika was saying her name, and Junie finally glanced up - and up, she was so tiny and he was so tall - and she felt like diving headfirst into the shallow end. “Not too much growing, I hope. I can barely see you all the way up there.” Taking his joke about emotionally maturing and angling it in her favour, hinting that she wanted to see him better, up close. 

“Tropical skittles are the worst kind. I reject your offer.” She didn’t snatch back the oreos, though. They’d never been her favourite, but an easy fix when she wanted something sweet. Suddenly, it dawned on her that she’d only gotten into the habit of keeping them around when she was first seeing Mika. It made her blink, a bit daft - for the first time in forever - before scoffing gently under her breath, too quiet for him to hear. Glancing over her shoulder, Junie debated his offer. Not for too long - she could be brash in her reactions, cold-hearted when it came to emotion, but when Junie became properly invested, it showed in everything she did. This was her Pandora’s Box, nodding gently and feeling her chest crack wide open, glancing back up at him again with the same doe-eyed gaze she used to give him. “Yes, I’d like that,” she said, already turning to their newly appointed meeting spot. Scurrying quickly, like they always did, attempting to collect herself in the meantime. “Most of the particularly awful things I’ve seen have occurred in the last few weeks. Everyone here is shameless in a completely different way. I’ve been trying to be a bit more reckless, but I think I’ve been sorely disappointing.” Rambling, attempting to take up the silent, extra space. “You look nice. Good - I trust you’ve been doing well, then?”

[collegiatesins]

her  laugh  cuts  through  the  wind.  not  quite  as  loud  as  his,  but  just  as  reckless.  half  of  it’s  adrenaline,  the  other  half  is  the  way  laszlo  always  says  things  like  he’s  daring  the  world  to  contradict  him.  like  if  it  doesn’t  end  in  bruises  or  laughter,  it  wasn’t  worth  it.  and  she  loves  that.  even  if  she  pretends  not  to.    “  you’re  gonna  pull  a  hamstring  with  that  dramatic-ass  monologue.  ”  she  calls  after  him,  hoodie  flapping  behind  her  like  a  cape,  eyes  tracking  the  wild  arc  of  his  limbs  as  he  disappears  deeper  into  the  hedges.  “  dionysus  my  ass!  ”  but  she  follows.  of  course  she  follows.  they  always  run  this  line  between  disaster  and  daydream.  between  fleeing  the  world  and  crashing  right  into  it.  her  laugh  is  still  echoing  off  the  hedges  when  he  disappears  around  the  corner  —  and  she  doesn't  slow.  if  anything,  she  speeds  up.  excess  fabric  whipping  into  her  mouth,  hair  flying,  the  rhythm  of  her  boots  slapping  dirt  almost  musical. hearing  him  shout  comes  a  second  too  late.  their  boots  catch  the  edge  of  the  stone  just  as  they  rounded  the  corner,  and  suddenly  there’s  no  ground  under  them,  just,  “  oh  shit—!  ”  and  then  there’s  laszlo,  a  body  sprawled  out  like  a  trap  set  by  the  gods  of  slapstick,  and  zahara  lands  right  on  top  of  him  with  the  elegance  of  a  wrecking  ball.  knees  to  ribs,  elbow  to  shoulder,  hair  in  both  of  their  mouths.  the  wind  knocked  out  of  their  lungs  in  a  startled  oof,  and  then  it’s  dead  silence.  for,  like,  two  whole  seconds.  “  …that’s  one  way  to  haunt  the  fountain.  ”  they  are  breathless,  forehead  pressed  against  his  collarbone,  hair  tangled  in  his  jacket  zipper,  knees  awkwardly  braced  on  either  side  of  his  hips.  if  they  move,  zee  might  actually  make  things  worse.  but  the  absurdity  of  it  settles  first  in  their  chest,  then  their  throat,  and  in  a  blink  of  an  eye  shock  morphs  into  laughter.  loud,  unpretty,  real.  “  you  idiot!  why  weren’t  you  paying  attention  to  where  you  were  going?  ”

she  chokes  between  breaths,  hands  splayed  against  his  chest  like  she’s  either  going  to  push  herself  up  or  just  start  smacking  him.  “  on  the  bright  side,  i  guess  this  means  i  win  because  i  caught  you.  ”  she  doesn’t  get  up.  Still  trying  to  process  how  to  do  so  without  causing  further  damage.  now  that  the  adrenaline’s  cooling  and  she’s  not  careening  through  hedges  at  full  speed,  the  closeness  registers.  the  warmth  of  his  breath  ghosting  over  her  ear.  her  voice  dips,  soft  around  the  edges,  suddenly  unsure  of  herself  even  more  than  usual.  “  you’re  good  right?  i  didn’t  break  anything  did  it?  ”  she’s  teasing  but  her  eyes  are  scanning.  wrist,  knee,  ego.  she  stays  there,  still  draped  over  him,  still  tangled  and  ridiculous,  like  some  ridiculous  celestial  event  that  only  happens  once  a  year.  her  fingers  brush  his  collarbone  lightly,  barely-there  contact,  grounding.  “  …you  better  be  okay,  ”  she  mutters.  "  contrary  to  my  rippling  muscles,  they  are  just  for  show.  I  definitely  don’t  think  i’d  be  able  to  carry  you  back  in  an  emergency.  ”  but  her  smile’s  already  giving  her  away  —  wide  and  crooked,  still  flushed  from  the  run,  the  fall. 

"oh,  absolutely,"  genuine  words  masked  with  slow  -  dripping  sarcasm;  the  sticky  scent  of  coffee  drifting  off  his  clothes  as  the  wind  blows  them  sideways,  "they  love  it  -  makes  me  all  fucking  ...  mysterious.  like  i've  got  a  story  to  tell  with  each  fucking  -  pebble."  laszlo  watches  her  -  because  there's  nothing  else  to  watch  besides  the  leaves  battling  against  one  another  for  dominance  on  their  thin  branches,  and  because  it's  her.  undone  by  invisible  hands  that  tug  at  each  lock  of  hair,  at  the  strings  of  her  hoodie;  the  same  that  pull  at  him,  at  the  jacket  hung  loose  against  his  frame.  "got  that  one  at  the  lake.  good  one  for  skipping.  just  don't  fucking  -  toss  it  at  my  head,  yeah?  gonna  knock  it  clean  off  -  don't  got  much  holding  it  on."

small  satisfaction  nestles  between  his  ribs  as  zee  takes  the  hair  tie,  despite  knowing  it  won't  last  long;  hands  retreating  to  his  pockets  quick  after,  shoulders  rolling  back  with  the  release  of  tension.  every  time  he  talks  -  the  wind  takes  a  part  of  his  breath  with  him;  but  he  only  finds  it  easier  to  breathe.  "that's  the  fucking  -  plan.  gonna  jump  into  the  bushes,  cover  myself  in  dirt  -  come  back  reclaimed  by  fucking  ...  nature.  start  talking  greek  -  make  sure  you  tell  'em  it's  the  curse  of  dionysus,  the  theater  nerds  love  a  good  fucking  -  superstition.  basically  get  off  on  it,  those  sick  fucks."  his  arm  brushes  against  the  foliage;  reminds  him  he's  still  got  two  feet  on  the  ground,  that  the  slight  curve  of  her  lips  curling  into  a  small  smile  isn't  going  to  send  him  off  into  the  horizon.  "a  chase,"  he  repeats  again  after  her,  brows  raising  with  an  eagerness  bright  eyes  are  quick  to  match.  it's  easy  to  fall  into  this;  into  something  almost  juvenile,  something  freeing.  it's  just  them  in  the  maze;  at  least,  in  a  way  that  matters.

the  laugh  that  follows  is  loud  and  half  -  lost  in  the  wind  as  he  spins  heel  and  sprints;  branches  pulling  at  his  sleeves  as  he  turns  tight  corners.  can't  help  but  toss  his  head  back  with  every  bend  just  to  check  if  she's  still  following;  grin  wild  and  unfamiliar  -  sharpness  worn  down  like  a  dull  blade,  made  into  something  softer.  an  almost  kindness.  "if  we  never  find  our  way  out  -"  recites  after  her,  cheeks  stinging  with  what  could've  been  joy,  real  and  genuine,  "-  we  can  haunt  the  whole  fucking  -  castle.  handprints  on  the  mirror,  blood  in  the  bathtub,  fucking  -  stood  behind  curtains  -"

the  fountain  approaches  faster  than  laszlo  can  account  for  as  he  turns  into  the  maze's  center,  attention  switching  a  moment  too  late.  the  toe  of  his  boots,  steel  stained  with  last  night's  muck,  slam  into  the  mossed  masonry;  body  propelling  further,  arms  and  knees  catching  himself  before  the  stone  can.  he  lands  in  dead  leaves  and  cigarette  butts  and  rainwater  from  the  night  before,  a  new  ache  to  his  bones  as  he  flips  himself  over.  "fucking  -  zee,  wait!"  head  pops  over  the  edge;  hand  splayed  out  in  a  warning,  "fucking  -  careful  -"

[collegiatesins]

her  boots  squeak  on  the  grimy  tile,  obnoxiously  loud  in  the  quiet  that  follows  chaos.  the  set’s  just  ended  —  her  throat’s  still  raw,  makeup  melted  into  battle  paint,  adrenaline  crashing  like  a  sugar  high  gone  wrong.  she’s  still  glowing  under  the  stage  lights  that  linger  in  her  skull,  high  off  it  —  but  him,  she  clocked  missing  before  she’d  even  screamed  the  last  line.  the  bathroom  door’s  half-shut.  she  doesn’t  knock.  doesn’t  need  to.  the  door  swings  closed  behind  her  with  a  whine,  the  kind  of  noise  that  doesn’t  belong  in  a  venue  this  loud,  this  alive  but  it  slices  clean  through  the  fog  in  her  head.  she  doesn’t  need  to  check  all  the  stalls.  she  knows  which  one  he’s  in.  shepherd  doesn’t  go  out  soft.  he  disappears  hard.  and  she  always  notices.  fuck  off,  it's  occupied,  his  voice  grates  out  from  behind  the  thin  metal  like  broken  glass.  zahara  exhales.  not  annoyed.  barely  even  surprised.  just  tired  in  that  way  that  only  comes  when  you  care  too  hard  and  too  long.  “  yeah,  ”  they  mutter,  stepping  toward  the  door.  knowing  better  than  to  try  and  open  it,  just  crouching  down  to  sit  on  the  floor  outside  it,  back  pressed  to  the  wall  across  from  him.  “  i  figured.  ”  their  ass  is  definitely  going  to  catch  something  from  this  tile  but  they  can’t  muster  up  the  desire  to  care.  settling  anyway,  long  legs  crossed,  fingers  worrying  the  frayed  hem  of  their  fishnets,  mic-hand  twitching  like  it  doesn’t  know  how  to  rest.  zahara  lets  the  silence  stretch.  lets  it  breathe.  lets  him  breathe.  then,  after  rehearsing  it  a  couple  times  in  their  mind,  they  speak  again.  “  you  don’t  have  to  let  me  in.  i’m  not  here  to  drag  you  back  on  stage  or  make  you  talk  about  it.  i  just—  ”  they  pause.  swallowing,  “  i  just  want  to  make  sure  you’re  okay.  ”  shepherd  was  always  kind  of  perpetually  in  a  bad  mood,  but  when  he  was  like  this  in  particular,  zahara  found  themselves  worried  about  saying  the  wrong  thing  and  setting  him  off  even  more  than  usual.  every  word  and  movement  carefully  considered  before  being  made.  “  shepherd.  ”  not  dramatic.  or  scolding.  just  his  name,  full  of  breath  and  concern  and  the  kind  of  quiet  that  says  don’t  ignore  me.  she  reaches  into  her  jacket  pocket  and  pulls  out  the  emergency  mini  juice  box  she  managed  to  swipe  on  her  way  off  stage,  the  one  with  the  cartoon  dinosaur  and  a  bendy  straw.  “  i  brought  you  apple.  because  grape  is  cursed  and  you  don’t  like  orange.  ”  zahara  leans  her  head  back  against  the  wall.  the  buzz  from  the  venue’s  still  crawling  under  her  skin,  in  her  teeth,  behind  her  eyes.  her  voice  is  hoarse  from  the  set,  but  warm  still  —  always  warm,  when  it’s  for  him.  her  smile  ghost-flickers,  like  a  lighter  flame  in  wind.  “  i’m  just  gonna  be  out  here,  okay?  until  you’re  ready.  or  until  security  kicks  me  out.  or  until  we  both  die  of  toilet  tile  poisoning.  ”  then,  as  if  trying  to  distract  him  from  his  own  internal  turmoil,  “  we  fucking  killed  it  tonight,  shepherd.  you  should  have  seen  how  ravenous  the  crowd  was  after  the  encore.  ”

𝗳𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗱       :   shepherd     &     zahara     ( @collegiatesins ) !

𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘁: battle of the bands.

𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗿:   11:56pm.

𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻:  the rabbithole.

*    ❪       🔌         ❫     :  𝘁𝗵𝗲   𝘃𝗲𝗶𝗻   𝗮𝘁   𝗵𝗶𝘀   𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱   𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝗯𝘀,   𝗴𝘂𝘁𝘀 𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼   𝘁𝗵𝗲   𝘁𝗼𝗶𝗹𝗲𝘁   𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁  𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸𝘀   underneath   whitening   hands.   fucking   disgusting.   gross.   an abhorrent   fucking   mess   he's   gotten   himself   into.   completely   trashed   by   the   middle   of   the   set,   strobe   lights   only   ensuing   a vision   that   blears   in   and   out.   the   crowd   a   montontous   noise   that   barely   fills   his   ear   canals   as   zahara   hits   her   last   growling   note,   signaling   the   end   of   a   chaotic   setlist.   the   world   is   no   longer   tilting   on   its   axis,   finding   a   new   home   inside   his   skull.   rolling   around   until   bone   is   slowly   cracking   open,   contents   escaping   through   a   throat   that   swells   with   the   fire   that   sears   sensitive   appendage.   there's   nothing   much   to   eject,   moreso   acid   bubbled   up   from   an   empty   gut   that   has   maintained   its hollowness   for   the   past   week.   a   tactic   cooper   had   used   for   years,   making   shepherd   work   for   crumbs.   any   means   of   survival   wrapped   up   in   an   energy   bar   and   an   adrenaline   shot.   the   drumsticks   that'd   fallen   out   of   his   back   pocket   are   swiftly   swooped    back up   and   pressed   against   his   chest.   a   subconscious   tool   for   grounding   when   he's   having   moments   like   these.   moments   he   believes   he's   alone.   just   as   he   wanted.   shepherd   wipes   his   mouth   with   the   back   of   his   sleeve,   glowing and skeletal   and   following   the   theme   of   tonight's   performance.   something   to   knock   the   audience   right   off   their   damn   feet.   successful   due   to   the   nature   of   their   social   media   teams   backgrounds;   a   flair   for   the   dramatics   and   a   network   of   connections   with   the   wardrobe   and   lighting   departments.   he   shifts   until   his   back   is   hitting   the   stall   door,   head   tilting   until   he's   glancing   up   at   a   leaking   ceiling   with   a   thud.   noise   echoes   into   the   room   as   the   door   opens.   fuck,   forgot   to   lock   it.   half   hearted   and   raspy,   he's   mustering   up   what's   left   of   his   energy,    ❝ fuck   off,   it's   occupied. ❞  

[collegiatesins]

leona  doesn’t  flinch  when  she  feels  him  at  her  back,  but  her  fingers  curl  just  a  little  tighter  around  the  thermos,  knuckles  pale  against  metal.  she  doesn't  look  at  him  at  first.  she  knows  that  trick.  the  one  where  he  speaks  like  he  still  has  the  right,  like  every  word  he  drops  isn’t  a  match  in  her  ribs.  instead,  she  lets  the  silence  stretch.  the  kind  that  says:  you’re  trespassing.  almost  daring  him  to  keep  talking.  and,  of  course,  he  does.  his  voice  is  lower  now,  dipped  in  that  familiar  rasp,  all  velvet  and  friction.  the  come  with  me  isn’t  a  question,  and  it  never  has  been.  it’s  the  same  tone  he  used  the  night  they  snuck  out  past  curfew,  the  same  one  used  to  whisper  countless  reckless  statements  against  her  collarbone  and  made  her  believe  the  stars  were  only  out  for  them.  but  that  was  a  different  time.  before  he  left  bruises  on  conversations.  before  his  hands  knew  how  to  burn  just  by  hovering.  she  exhales,  slow.  measured.  controlled,  even  as  her  spine  straightens  like  a  blade  being  drawn.  she  doesn’t  move  when  he  touches  her  back.  standing  her  ground,  a  breath  away  from  striking.  “  you  smell  like  regret  and  a  cover  story,  ”  leo  says  flatly,  and  it’s  the  first  thing  she’s  said  to  him  in  three  weeks  that  isn’t  laced  with  fury  or  silence.  her  eyes  finally  cut  to  his.  sharp,  gold-hazel,  unwavering  and  for  a  second  it’s  like  the  entire  courtyard  goes  still. 

the  laughter  in  the  distance  dulls,  the  flicker  of  lanterns  dims,  and  all  that  exists  is  that  unbearable  tension  —  him,  close  enough  to  ruin  something;  her,  close  enough  to  let  him.  she  shifts  slightly,  not  enough  to  break  the  contact,  just  enough  to  make  it  hers.  her  voice  is  quiet  now,  dangerous  in  the  way  only  still  water  can  be.  “  you  don’t  get  to  ask  me  for  five  minutes  like  it’s  nothing.  ”  leona  stepped  back.  not  far.  just  enough  that  his  hand  falls  from  her  back  like  it  never  belonged  there.  like  she  never  once  leaned  into  it.  “  but  here’s  the  thing,  adrien, ”  she  glances  up  at  the  sky,  stars  reflected  like  shards  in  her  eyes,  “  you  never  come  for  the  science.  and  i’m  not  in  the  mood  to  be  your  nostalgia  project.  ”  it  takes  exactly  two  seconds  for  her  eyes  to  flick  to  the  side,  lips  already  parted  with  the  start  of  a  no  she’s  given  him  before,  and  will  give  again.  but  her  phone  buzzes  in  her  pocket.  with  the  SOS  message  she’d  sent  her  best  friend  being  met  with  the  little  nymph  telling  leona  to  go.  for  the  mess,  which  leo  couldn’t  even  be  angry  for  because  if  the  tables  had  been  turned  she  likely  would  have  advised  the  same  thing.  they  were  still  young  and  what  was  the  point  of  youth  if  not  to  be  wild  and  reckless.  though  she  had  really  been  hoping  cleo  would  talk  some  sense  into  her.  maybe  leona  should  have  texted  soren  the  SOS  instead.  she  slips  the  phone  back  into  her  pocket,  jaw  tight,  spine  straight.  turns  slowly,  just  enough  to  face  him.  adrien,  with  that  reckless  smile  and  the  stupid  romantic  timing  and  the  scent  of  weed  and  memory  clinging  to  his  skin  like  static.  “  i  shouldn’t,  ”  she  says,  voice  dry,  brittle  like  the  edge  of  something  cracking.  “  and  you  don’t  deserve  it.  ”  but  she’s  already  walking  —  past  him,  toward  the  edge  of  the  courtyard  —  slow,  controlled,  like  every  step  costs  her  something  she  won’t  admit  to.  “  five  minutes.  not  a  second  longer.  ”  she  doesn’t  wait  to  see  if  he  follows.  of  course  he  will.  as  she  moves  through  the  dark,  her  hand  tugs  her  coat  a  little  tighter  around  her.  a  shield.  a  lie.  a  comfort.  she  doesn’t  say  a  word  until  they’re  far  enough  from  the  others  that  the  buzz  of  conversation  fades  into  crickets  and  silence.  then,  finally,  she  stops.  doesn’t  look  at  him.  just  says,  “  you  don’t  get  to  be  a  ghost  and  still  ask  me  to  haunt  places  with  you.  ”  and  yet—  there  she  is.  standing  beside  him.  staring  at  the  stars  like  they  might  tell  her  something  worth  regretting.  she  doesn't  touch  him.  doesn't  reach.  but  her  voice  softens  just  enough  to  be  real  when  she  adds,    “ so  say  what  you  need  to  say,  adrien.  make  the  five  minutes  count.  ”  and  it’s  not  forgiveness.  but  it  is  something.  a  toe  across  the  line.  a  pulse  between  them.  a  maybe  that  should  have  been  a  firm  no.  she’ll  blame  cleo  later.  right  now,  she  blames  the  stars.

WITH: leona. @collegiatesins WHERE: the courtyard meteor shower viewing. WHEN:  8:17pm.

the courtyard glows dimly with starlight. scattered across the grass are blankets and bodies, little constellations of students sprawled out with drinks and snacks, their faces tilted upward. the whole campus is dark — not a single building lit, not a streetlamp humming — just the sky, vast and swallowing, studded with stars. and adrien beaumont shows up late. he doesn’t bring a blanket or snacks, just a joint tucked behind his ear and that crooked grin that means nothing good. he’s wearing something ridiculous — a too-expensive coat draped over a ratty t-shirt, rings glinting on his fingers as he lights up and exhales like he’s bored of the atmosphere already. but his pupils are too wide. his gaze is too sharp. he’s already scanned the courtyard three times and found what he was looking for. leona. she’s sitting on a striped blanket with cleo and laughing softly, legs tucked under her, a thermos in her hands. she doesn’t see him yet. he watches as she slips away from cleo, small, deliberate steps towards the table with snacks and drinks. the light from a nearby lantern flickers over her face, softening the edges but not hiding the sharp set of her jaw.

he walks toward her before his brain catches up with his body. blame it on the joint. blame it on the night. blame it on the fact that this many stars at once always makes him feel like something cosmic is up, or whatever the astrology-inclined barista had said to him last week. “so we’re doing stars now. real romantic.” when she notices him, the previous smile dies instantly and the the air going stiffer. she says, flatly, “you shouldn’t be here.” he smiles: small, not kind. “didn’t realize it was your meteor shower.” he flicks ash from his joint into the grass, steps a little closer, trying properly to hide it as discreetly as he can from administration — which, with adrien, is never done too discreetly. “what if i came for the science?” no one laughs, not even him. leona’s already half-turned away, but he keeps going; voice low, just for her now. “you look good.” there’s a challenge in his voice, low and teasing, like he’s daring her to say something smart back. his gaze holds hers longer than necessary, as if he’s memorizing the way the moonlight plays in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. “real good.” she's ignoring him and filling up her thermos, trying to hide any sort of expression on her face.

he doesn’t say a word about the memory that’s burning at the back of his throat — the hood of his car, her feet on the dash, the sound she made when the first meteor cut across the sky that night she made him pull off the highway to watch. instead, he swallows it, wrapped in something nostalgic and stupid. “come with me.” he says it low, right at her shoulder, like it’s not up for discussion. there’s no space left between them, no air, no question. just adrien and that look in his eye — the one he knew she used to fall for before. he nods, gently, toward the edge of the courtyard. “five minutes. no strings. just the stars. come on,” baiting, then looks down at her — eyes glassy, a little too bright, that stoned flush in his cheeks. “don’t make me ask twice.” he says it low — not loud, not asking, before she can shift away or say no or pretend she doesn’t hear, his fingers find the small of her back, as if guiding her towards the edge of the courtyard for privacy already. “five minutes away from the noise. better view.”

[collegiatesins]

maximo  didn’t  move  for  a  moment.  didn’t  blink,  didn’t  breathe,  didn’t  react.  not  in  the  way  people  were  supposed  to  when  they’d  just  been  kissed  like  that.  as  if  they  were  the  epicenter  of  the  moment,  not  just  some  passing  orbit.  instead,  he  sat  still,  like  time  had  cracked  open  and  he  was  considering  the  shape  of  it  from  the  inside.  then:  one  slow  exhale.  smoke  curling  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth  like  it  had  been  waiting  for  permission.  with  his  reality  finally  recentered,  he  turned  to  look  at  her,  really  look,  and  the  edge  of  his  mouth  tipped  into  something  just  shy  of  a  smile.  crooked.  dry.  deeply  unamused  at  himself  for  letting  her  get  that  close,  but  not  quite  mad  enough  to  stop  her.  not  now.  maybe  not  ever.  “  you’re  a  menace,  ”  he  comments,  low  and  even,  like  it  was  just  a  statement  of  fact.  his  voice  had  that  gravelly  undertone  it  got  when  he  was  feeling  too  much  and  trying  not  to  show  any  of  it.  “  an  actual  problem.  walking  calamity  in  slippers.  ”  his  hand  had  stilled  under  hers,  not  tense,  nor  pulling  away,  just…grounded.  anchored  by  her  touch  in  a  way  he  didn’t  want  to  examine  too  hard.  she  had  a  way  of  pushing  past  all  his  armor  without  asking.  just  wandered  right  in,  barefoot  and  grinning,  like  he’d  left  the  door  open  for  her.

(he  probably  had.)

“  you  think  i  don't  like  scripts?  ”  he  said  finally,  voice  rougher  now,  touched  by  something  softer  than  smoke.  “  that’s  the  funny  part.  i  do.  love  the  control.  the  rhythm.  knowing  what  comes  next.  ”  he  glanced  down,  where  her  hand  still  rested  against  his  chest  like  it  had  always  belonged  there.  “  it’s  improvising  that  fucks  me  up.  you  show  up,  do  shit  like  that—  ”  his  eyes  flicked  back  to  hers,  steady  now,  intense  in  the  way  only  max  could  manage  without  ever  raising  his  voice  “  and  suddenly  i’m  just  standing  here  with  no  lines,  hoping  i  hit  my  mark.  ”  he  let  a  beat  pass.  “  which  i  guess  means,  yeah.  you  helped  your  case.  ”  his  smirk  flickered  at  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  a  flare  of  amusement  through  the  storm.  “  hot  fries.  mystery  flavors.  kissing  without  warning.  all  checks  out.  ”  but  then  the  question  circled  back.  the  one  she’d  asked  with  her  thumb  on  his  pulse  and  her  mouth  sweet  from  sugar  and  smoke.  what  do  you  burn  for?  he  didn’t  answer  it  right  away.  just  leaned  back  against  the  wall  beside  her,  head  tilted  toward  the  ceiling,  watching  something  no  one  else  could  see.

“  i  used  to  think  it  was  legacy,  ”  he  said,  slow  and  quiet,  like  he  was  afraid  the  words  might  burn  too  hot  if  he  said  them  fast.  “  doing  something  that  lasted.  leaving  behind  a  story  they  couldn’t  rewrite.  ”  he  breathed  out  through  his  nose,  eyes  still  on  the  ceiling.  “  but  lately…i  dunno.  feels  like  i’d  settle  for  being  understood.  just  once.  all  the  way  through.  ”  which  would  be  a  hard  feat  considering  maximo  espinoza  rarely  ever  let  anyone  in  behind  his  barricaded  walls.  even  his  closest  friends  and  confidants  barely  scratched  the  surface  of  his  depth.  not  that  they  knew,  maximo  was  excellent  at  playing  an  open  book  even  when  he  wasn’t.  he  looked  at  her  again,  then.  all  smoke  and  focus  and  something  rare  that  didn’t  have  a  name.  “  that’s  the  fire.  that’s  what  makes  it  worth  it.  even  if  it  eats  you  alive.  ”  her  hand  was  still  on  his  chest.  he  lifted  his  own.  deliberate,  sure  and  laid  it  over  hers.  not  to  stop  her.  just  to  feel  it  there.  real.  steady.  “  so  yeah,  ”  he  said.  “  let  ‘em  watch.  ”  and  when  he  leaned  in  this  time,  there  was  no  performance  in  it.  just  something  raw  and  rooted,  like  gravity  pulling  him  forward.

cleo stretched like a cat: slow, languorous, spine arching just because it felt good. the joint tipped her from buzzed to liquid, everything honey-warm and loose in her limbs. her slippered foot nudged against maximo’s shin, casual as a yawn, as she tilted her head to eye him, all slanting mischief and haloed curls. “cheetos with lime,” she repeated, sucking her teeth like she was tasting it. “you’re so dramatic. i liked hot fries better, did that help my case of filing you in as such?” she plucked the joint from his hand again, hadn’t even looked as she did it. just reached over and stole it like it was always hers. like he was, trading him the lollipop back in return after a moment between her lips. “figures,” she had muttered, mouth around the candy now, her voice dulled and sticky. “bet you’d be the guy to order the mystery flavor just to feel something.” her mind had flocked to mystery meat in middle school, served lukewarm and splatted on her plate like a fresh load of laundry piled on her bed.

her elbow slid across his knee as she shifted closer, completely unaware — or pretending to be — how her body brushed against his like the universe was short on space. she had collapsed against the wall beside him with a dramatic sigh, head thunking just shy of his shoulder, curls spilling like static. “you know what’s intimate?” she asked, pointing the lollipop at him like it was a dagger. “not vending machine privileges. candy-sharing. mouth stuff. childhood trust, adult consequences. that’s the line.” she grinned, lazy and lopsided. “we crossed it, baby. no going back.” when he talked about the stars, her grin flattened into something quieter. but her eyes didn’t dull — just shifted focus. less spark, more slow burn. the stars. “they do stay,” she echoed, voice like a secret passed through a bathroom mirror. she tilted her head, lashes fluttering slow like moth wings, the glow of her curiosity unmistakable. no hesitation, no sense of timing — just the immediate pull of wanting to know.

“so what do you burn for?” she said it like asking someone what time it was. casual. direct. but her eyes hadn’t blinked, hadn’t flinched. she’d been watching him like she wanted to map his soul through his pupils, read his ribs like lines in a palm. her hand was still been warm against his leg, thumb idly tracing something meaningless — a rhythm, a shape, maybe just the question itself. “you said that like you’d thought about it,” she added, voice a little quieter then, but not less bold. “so. maximo.” she leaned in, grinning crooked and too close, like she might kiss the answer off his mouth if he stalled too long. “what sets you on fire?” she let the weight of her touch linger like heat trapped in fabric. her fingers found his wrist, then his palm, then curled in without asking. she had always been like that when she was high: tactile, electric, unfiltered. “you’re wrong, by the way,” she murmured, so close her breath had skimmed his jaw. “you are a performer. in your own sort of way. you just don’t like scripts.” her thumb dragged along his ring, slow and curious. and then she laughed, like that thought had tickled her.

“don’t worry,” she added, her hand still on his, “i’m terrible with endings too. probably gonna be a ghost someday, stuck in a house because i refused to admit i was dead. that’s my legacy.” her gaze dropped to his mouth for half a breath too long. and then back up. he said it — so something had told her he was the one they were really watching. and cleo grinned, slow and sharp like the edge of a bottle cap. eyes bright, lashes heavy. she let the line hang in the air for a beat, let it curl between them like smoke. then she shifted, inching closer, one hand finding his knee like it was a thing that belonged to her now. like she always touched him like that. “or,” she said, low and honey-warm, “we could just stop blaming things.” her fingers dragged up, lazy and deliberate — over denim, over heat — until her palm rested against his chest, right over the steady thrum of his heart. it wasn’t playful, not exactly — there was intention there: weight. “and give them a good show.”

and then she kissed him. not a maybe-kiss. not a brush or a glance or a near-miss. she kissed him like the night was ending. or like maybe it never would. like there was no one watching but the stars and maybe they deserved the front row. her mouth was soft but certain, slightly sweet from the lollipop, slightly bitter from the weed, completely her — wild and messy and intentional. her hand slipped to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and she didn’t pulled away until it was absolutely necessary — until the breath between them had become something living. when she did, it was with a little smile and her forehead resting against his like they were in the eye of the storm. like that was the safest part of the night. “there,” she whispered, slightly breathless. “now they’ve got something worth watching.” then she stole the lollipop back from his hand, popped it between her teeth, and leaned back like nothing had happened at all — except for the look in her eyes, which says everything did.

[collegiatesins]

chocolate  hues  watched  cleo  with  the  kind  of  stillness  that  didn’t  look  like  calm  so  much  as  coiled  restraint.  like  leona  was  holding  something  tight  behind  her  teeth,  trying  to  decide  whether  to  let  it  loose  or  keep  it  where  it  couldn’t  be  used  against  her  later.  her  lips  tugged  into  a  reluctant  smile  at  lukewarm  lurking,  and  she  huffed  a  low  breath  that  might’ve  passed  for  a  laugh  if  you  squinted.  “  medium  rare,  ”  she  repeated,  voice  dry  but  not  dismissive.  “  honestly?  that’s  generous.  adrien  thrives  on  an  audience.  you  probably  gave  him  a  boner  just  by  existing  in  the  general  vicinity.  ”  there  was  a  flicker  of  something  in  her  eyes  then.  not  quite  pain,  not  quite  anger.  just  that  vague,  exhausted  sting  that  came  from  being  tangled  in  someone  else’s  gravity  too  long.  like  she  hadn’t  realized  how  much  it  still  pulled  at  her  until  cleo  said  his  name  without  saying  it.  the  thing  about  cleo  was  she  didn’t  have  to  press.  she  didn’t  have  to  ask  why  leo  had  been  there,  or  what  got  said,  or  if  it  still  hurt.  she  just  left  it  on  the  table,  untouched,  like  she  trusted  leo  to  pick  it  up  only  if  she  wanted  to.  the  raven  haired  beauty  sat  forward  slowly,  elbows  to  knees,  hands  clasped  like  she  was  keeping  herself  from  unraveling. 

her  gaze  flicked  over  the  milk  bottle,  then  up  to  cleo’s  face,  warm  despite  everything.  “  you’re  right.  it  was—whatever  it  looked  like.  ”  she  exhaled,  dragging  a  hand  back  through  her  hair.  “  felt  like  improv  with  a  ghost  i  haven’t  had  the  decency  to  bury.  stupid.  but,  y’know.  ”  she  shrugged  once,  sharp  and  half-hearted.  “  some  people  don’t  rot  when  they  should.  they  just  linger.  like  mildew.  or  bad  spotify  ads.  ”  she  went  quiet  for  a  beat.  let  the  silence  settle.  then,  without  looking  over  “  you  showing  up  was  probably  the  only  thing  that  kept  me  from  completely  rearranging  this  room  out  of  rage.  so  thanks  for  the  milk  and  the  psychic  intervention.  ”  her  mouth  twitched  at  vibe-sensitive  raccoon,  and  this  time  the  laugh  did  escape.  quick,  surprised,  and  real.  “  you  are  absolutely  coming  back  as  a  raccoon.  it’s  your  final  form.  ”  she  turned  toward  cleo  then,  letting  the  humor  balance  the  ache  in  her  chest.  “  i’d  probably  come  back  as  a  fire  alarm.  loud,  annoying,  activated  by  nothing.  but  still  technically  trying  to  help.  ”  then  came  tow  truck  girl  and  leona  groaned,  dropping  her  face  into  her  hands  for  a  moment  like  it  might  shield  her  from  the  chaos  pouring  out  of  cleo’s  mouth.  “  jesus,  ”  she  muttered,  voice  muffled  by  her  palms.  there  were  so  many  memories  shared  between  the  two  since  meeting  freshmen  year  of  college  but  the  recollection  of  trying  to  tune  out  the  sound  of  cleo  clearly  getting  her  rocks  off  in  the  front  seat  of  a  tow  truck  as  leona  sat  squished  in  the  back  was  something  she  deeply  wished  to  forget.  “  you  can’t  just  say  things  like  that  when  i’m  emotionally  compromised.  ”  when  she  looked  up  again,  there  was  something  lighter  in  her  expression,  tension  eased  by  the  kind  of  friendship  that  didn’t  ask  her  to  explain  herself.  that  offered  distraction  with  zero  judgment  and  maximum  absurdity.  “  if  you’re  serious  about  the  newsletter,  i  want  him  signed  up  for  at  least  six  issues.  bonus  if  one’s  about  possum  mating  rituals.  ”  she  reached  over,  snagged  the  milk  from  cleo’s  hand  for  a  sip  she  probably  didn’t  deserve,  then  passed  it  back  with  a  lazy  nudge  of  her  fingers.  “  thanks,  ”  she  said  softly,  eyes  on  the  floor  now.  “  for  still  wanting  to  see  me.  even  when  i’m…whatever  the  hell  i  am  today.  ”  and  then,  sharper,  with  a  smirk  tugging  at  the  edge  of  her  mouth,  “  but  if  you  ever  describe  me  as  film  noir  mid-french-breakup  again,  i  will  sign  you  up  for  the  ferret  breeder’s  quarterly  and  leak  your  address.  ”  her  tone  was  dry,  but  her  gaze  held  steady  affectionate  in  a  way  leona  didn’t  give  easily.  only  for  cleo.  always  for  cleo.

cleo made a face, half-wince, half-smile — the kind she pulled when someone poked a bruise she didn’t quite want to admit was there. she sat up a little, leaning back on her palms, socked feet fidgeting against the edge of the rug. cleo tilted her head, scrunching her nose like she was trying to remember whether she’d dreamt something or lived it. “well,” she started, picking at the plastic on the milk bottle. “saw your location. i was actually gonna meet you in the amphitheater. that was the plan. very romantic. figured you were running lines.” she paused, eyes flicking toward leo with a smile that tried to be nonchalant and mostly failed. “but then i got there and saw you talking to him.” him meaning adrien. she wouldn’t say his name, didn’t need to press into that bruise. “and i didn’t not stick around to watch, but i also didn’t fully lurk. i was, like, halfway to lurking. lukewarm lurking.” she held her hand up, palm flat, wobbling it midair. “medium rare.”

she shifted her weight, now cross-legged, bouncing slightly with that weird, kinetic energy that always came out when she didn’t know what to do with her feelings. she reached for the milk again, twisting the cap but not drinking it yet. instead, she stared at it like the swirling pink inside might offer her a better way to phrase what came next. “anyway, you two looked like you were in the middle of some kind of.. emotionally haunted improv scene, and i didn’t want to be the cryptid friend who wanders in holding milk like, ‘hi, do we hate him or not today?’ so i bailed. escaped sneakily. like a vibe-sensitive raccoon” she paused for a moment, trying to gauge leona’s reaction at the topic mention. “feel like i’ll come back as a racoon, you know? those scrappy little things..” she finally took a sip of the milk, swallowing it dramatically. “and then i wandered around for a while trying to decide if that counted as growth or avoidance. still undecided.”

then, softer, she looked back at leo again. “but i still wanted to see you. even if you were maybe film noire mid-french-breakup-flirt-fight. figured you’d want the distraction anyways. not to be nosy or anything.” ironic. nosy was her second nature, especially when it came to leona; there was nothing the pair could hide from each other even if they wanted to. “i still have that tow truck girl's number, by the way. could ask them for a favor in between buttering up how nice their fingers felt inside me last halloween. wonder if they do international..” she drifted off, considering the professional work of a tow truck company, and the very professional work of someone who knew how to crook their fingers just the right way. "his car’s always been too loud, anyways." she grinned faintly. “or i can go subtler and sign him up for a subscription to an extremely niche newsletter. 'Montly Taxidermy Digest' is a real one, i checked last week. probably gets goosebumps at the sight of fattened possums, that douchebag.” her gaze lifted again to her friend’s face, fondly searching for a smile.

[collegiatesins]

max  kept  his  eyes  on  the  piece  in  front  of  him,  jaw  ticking  faintly  as  zak's  voice  settled  beside  him  like  an  echo  he  didn’t  ask  for  but  wasn’t  pushing  away,  either.  that  was  always  the  game  with  them,  wasn’t  it?  zak  poking,  prodding,  orbiting  like  a  moon  that  refused  to  leave  max’s  atmosphere.  and  max  letting  them.  that  was  the  problem.  he  exhaled  through  his  nose.  not  quite  a  sigh.  more  like  release  valve  pressure.  controlled.  contained.  barely.  "  buzzed  enough  to  tolerate  commentary  like  that,  "  he  said  dryly,  finally  shifting  his  gaze  toward  them  with  all  the  amusement  of  a  man  cornered  by  a  particularly  charming  stray  cat.  “  i  didn’t  suddenly  lose  my  tolerance.  but  if  i  had,  i  wouldn’t  be  confessing  it  to  you  of  all  people.  you’d  never  let  me  live  it  down.  ”  his  tone  was  cutting,  but  the  edges  weren’t  sharp  enough  to  draw  blood.  not  with  zak.  max’s  gaze  lingered  a  beat  longer  than  it  should  have,  tracking  the  way  their  head  tilted  toward  the  canvas,  the  familiar  curiosity  blooming  across  their  face.  they  always  tried  to  see  more  than  what  was  there,  and  max  didn’t  know  if  that  was  brave  or  stupid.  or  both.  “  you’re  not  wrong,  ”  he  muttered,  glancing  back  at  the  art.

“  about  the  kidney  thing.  they  probably  got  distracted  halfway  through.  tried  to  fix  it  and  made  it  worse.  so  now  it’s  trauma  with  a  twist.  ”  his  lips  quirked,  just  a  little.  almost  a  smile.  almost.  and  then  zak  nudged  him.  it  was  soft.  thoughtless.  natural  in  the  way  only  they  could  manage.  max’s  body  tensed  like  a  live  wire  touched,  reflexive  and  unsure  but  he  didn’t  move  away.  didn’t  snap.  didn’t  flinch.  instead,  his  shoulder  just  sat  there  under  zak’s  brief  weight  like  maybe,  just  maybe,  he  didn’t  mind.  “  taste  is  subjective,  ”  max  echoed,  dry  but  not  unkind.  “  still  not  sure  what  that  says  about  yours,  if  you’re  asking  me  for  a  second  opinion.  ”  he  paused,  dragging  his  tongue  along  the  inside  of  his  cheek  like  he  was  holding  something  back.  which  he  was.  always  was.  then:  “  ...yeah.  you  can  show  me.  ”  simple.  dismissive  on  the  surface,  but  something  about  the  way  he  said  it  made  it  sound  more  like  a  truce.  a  quiet  i’ll  stay,  if  you  want  me  to.  he  shifted  his  stance,  brushing  his  shoulder  against  zak’s.  barely  there,  just  enough  to  acknowledge  the  earlier  touch  and  jerked  his  chin  in  a  lead  the  way  gesture.  “  just  don’t  make  me  pretend  to  like  something  that  looks  like  someone  spilled  their  guts  on  a  canvas  and  forgot  to  clean  it  up,  ”  he  added,  a  smirk  threatening  the  corner  of  his  mouth.  “  i’ve  already  used  up  my  tolerance  quota  for  the  day.  ”

Zak felt themself grin at Max’s jab. So very him - sharp right off the bat, always a little mean. But it felt like a win when he didn’t shoo Zak away, despite clearly enjoying his alone time. They were opposites in that way. Zakaria didn’t fair well on their own - even if they were amidst a crowd of people they didn’t know, they felt slightly comforted. Loneliness was funny that way, used to hearing people lament about how they could feel the most alone even if they were amidst the throngs of an over-populated party, but it’s where Zak felt they could finally breathe. They were treading on thin ice, could tell just by the way Max exhaled, who clearly didn’t want to be interrupted in his solitude. But they did anyway - because it was Max, and he hadn’t protested yet, even if his words said otherwise.

“No more than you do,” Their own teasing, gentle and harmless, though it felt more bold than usual given the exasperation that rolled off of Max in waves. There didn’t always need to be a reason for his irritability, and Zak didn’t think it a good idea to push further. Sometimes, it was hard to take Max seriously, when he was in these moods - whether it was valid to be so grumpy or not. It was hard to fret over his rough edges when Zak had witnessed him at his most docile. It was a rarity, usually fueled by one too many drinks, but his hands had held Zak with painstaking care that they hadn’t known he’d possessed until it was impossible to think of anything else. Even when he was being snarky - especially then. “Buzzed?” Raising a brow, chuckling gently under their breath, “From before, or did you become a lightweight overnight?” It was a harmless question, but Zak considered that Max knew them well enough to know the real weight behind it. A bit concerned, maybe - hypocritical, too. Zak regularly smoked on their own, perpetually with their head in the clouds, but Max hadn’t specified what he was buzzed from. They were pretty sure self-soothing with alcohol was the marker of something being really wrong.

Eyeing the piece, Zakaria cocked their head, as if the new angle was all encompassing, would open their third eye to what they’d been missing at first glance. Art surrounded them their whole life - sketches adorning their walls and scattered haphazardly across their floor when the rare good idea for projects influenced them. They did not feel very influenced, even after Max explained The Anti-Hero to him. “I think he missed his heart. It looks like he nicked a kidney instead.” They mumbled, finally righting themself again. Zak’s head had grazed just over Max’s shoulder in their mild contortion, but had eventually resigned to the fact that they simply weren’t going to be wowed anytime soon. “But I like it, if you like it. And I like that about art - that it’s, y’know. Subjective. And I like questioning your taste.” An immediate oxymoron to their primary statement. When Zak nudged at Max to soften the blow of their jest, it was automatic - merely did it because they wanted to, only considering afterwards that it might not have been allowed in that moment. They didn’t mention it, though - waiting to see how Max would react and quickly moving on, learning from past missteps it was best to act like it never happened at all. “How long did you plan on hanging around here for? Can I show you my favourite piece?”

[collegiatesins]

maximo  clocks  the  shift  before  lucky  even  speaks.  the  twitch  of  a  muscle,  the  way  his  body  jerks  back  like  it’s  still  deciding  whether  maximo  is  a  threat  or  something  worse.  dark  gaze  drags  over  the  mess  lucky’s  made  of  himself.  mussed  hair,  undone  belt,  bruises  blooming  like  artwork,  the  gleam  of  something  chemical  on  his  bottom  lip.  always  a  fucking  spectacle.  he  hums  low  under  his  breath,  something  close  to  amused.  maybe  impressed.  “  you  look  like  a  goddamn  wreck,  ”  he  murmurs,  voice  thick  with  laughter,  with  something  darker  curling  beneath.  “  you  save  any  of  that  chaos  for  me,  or  am  i  late  to  the  party?  ”  and  then  he  hears  it,  the  syrup-slow  pop  of  sugar  sliding  from  spit-wet  lips,  glossed  in  toxins  and  intent.  maximo  watches  that  mouth  move  like  it’s  reciting  scripture  meant  to  damn  them  both  to  hell.  “  you’re  a  little  shite  you  know  that?  “  relaxed  jaw  ticks  as  that  fucking  foot  starts  to  climb.  slow,  deliberate.  a  lazy  challenge  issued  with  calf  grazing  heat  and  rising  stakes.  maximo  doesn’t  stop  it.  doesn’t  flinch.  he  smiles.  all  teeth  and  patience,  like  the  devil  himself  had  taken  up  residence  in  human  skin.  his  hand  finds  lucky’s  ankle.  not  to  stop  him,  choosing  instead  to  hold  him  there.  steady.  thumb  presses  in  just  enough  to  mark  without  bruising,  claim  without  ceremony.  “  whose  birthday  is  it?  ”  maximo  echoes,  mock  thoughtful.  tone  light,  but  his  gaze  is  locked.  “  pretty  sure  it’s  mine.  that  would  be  the  only  explanation  for  this  kind  of  show.  ”  he  answers,  voice  dipped  in  smoke,  heavy  like  honey  left  too  long  in  the  sun.  maximo  leaned  in,  not  quite  close  enough  to  kiss,  but  close  enough  for  the  air  between  them  to  spark.  “  you  want  to  play,  cariño?  or  are  you  just  bored  of  being  worshipped  by  people  who  don’t  know  what  to  do  with  you?  ”  if  lucky  wanted  to  play  chicken,  maximo  wasn’t  going  to  back  down. 

 * ❪   💸     ❫      :  𝘁𝗵𝗲    𝗯𝘂𝗿𝘀𝘁    𝗼𝗳    𝗿𝗮𝘂𝗰𝗼𝘂𝘀    𝗹𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗿    𝗮𝗻𝗱    𝘁𝗵𝘂𝗺𝗽    𝗼𝗳    𝘂𝗻𝗿𝘂𝗹𝘆    𝗯𝗼𝘆𝘀’    𝗳𝗶𝘁𝘀    𝗼𝗻    wooden    counters    beats    out    the    heavy    drumming    overhead.    there’s    laughter,    distant    though    only    centimeters    away    from    where    lucky's    rolling.    the    crash    of    breaking    glass    and    the    cruel    drag    of    lucky’s    voice    is    familiar    to    anyone    under    the    soft   -   raw    haze    sliding    through    the    venue.    with    those    he’s    spent,    they’re    sprawled    among    a    love    seat,    watching    with    provocative    intent.    he’s    halfway    through    an    acidic   trip    when    a    voice    is    calling    him    from    outside   —    incessant touches    just    enough    for    him    to    flinch    his    body    away    from    the    source;    an    instinctive    movement.    the    muscles    at    his    jaw    work    in    a    tempered    pace,    dual    toned    irises    finally    looking    down    to    confront    the    culprit.    maximo.    a    thorn    in   his   side,    rivaling   an    equally    vile    mentality.    lucky    quickly    comes    to,    the    contrast    in    sobriety    apparent    as    soon    as    maximo    speaks,    over    and   over   with    enough   energy    to    taunt,   crooning    becoming   a    faded    echo    in    the    background    of    surging    bass.   heat    lights  up   a    path    beneath    lucky’s    skin   and   settles    low    in    his    stomach, sensitive to the touch.    he    inhales,    eyes    mere    dark    marbles    turning    in    his    skull.    ember   hues   flutter,    discolored   marks   littering   a    bared    throat,   hair    mussed    and    belt undone     —    the   inner   meat   of   his   mouth   sporting   a   tiny    cut   from   being   bitten   into.       ❝ everywhere,   g. ❞      a    lollipop,    undoubtedly    dipped   in   chemicals   ranging   from   toxic   sweetener   to   the sour   tinge   of   an   adrenaline   shot,   pops   syrupy   slow   from   the   soft   plush   of   his bottom   lip, ❝ that's   right. can't get enough of you. ❞   just   like   those   that'd   left   him   a   mottle   of   purple   and   blue,   bite   marks   cinched   at   the   dip   of   tanned   collarbones.  the    foot    being    caressed    slides    over    maximo's    calf,    roaming    upward    until   the   edge   of   his   sneaker   presses   into   thigh   meat.   further    until it finds its intended target.      pressure    builds    against   maximo's  zipper, lucky  leaning    forward    slightly    without    breaking   contact.   eyes    alight   with    mischief,     ❝ who's   birthday is it again ? ❞  lack of mercy as foot shifts down, gold teeth gleaming under strobe lights that gleam.

[collegiatesins]

leona  is  not  really  a  runner.  not  in  the  physical  sense,  anyway  but  there’s  a  moment,  razor-thin  and  almost  imperceptible,  where  she  thinks  about  bolting.  it  hits  her  right  as  zak  speaks,  casual  and  sweet  and  painfully  open  in  that  way  they  always  are,  hands  touching  her  like  they’ve  never  known  how  not  to.  her  breath  still  shallow  from  everything  just  before,  balance  precarious,  not  from  sitting  in  zak’s  lap,  but  from  the  way  their  words  come  with  all  the  subtlety  of  a  confession  booth.  i’ve  wanted  to  kiss  you  forever.  leona  exhales  once,  slowly  blinking,  “  jesus,  ”  she  says,  voice  quiet  and  maybe  a  little  stunned,  a  half-laugh  laced  in  the  breath.  her  hand  is  still  at  the  side  of  their  neck,  thumb  brushing  the  edge  of  a  pulse  point  like  it’s  a  question.  like  she’s  checking  if  any  of  this  is  real.  “  you’re—god,  you’re  so  fucking  much.  ”  but  she  doesn’t  move  away.  doesn’t  shift  or  reclaim  her  usual  edge.  if  anything,  she  softens  into  the  way  zak  looks  at  her.  like  she’s  something  more  than  just  sharp  tongue  and  controlled  distance.  like  she’s  not  as  close  to  breaking  as  she  actually  feels.  “  i’m  not  going  to  hr  ,”  she  says  eventually,  dry  as  ever,  though  the  corner  of  her  mouth  tugs  upward.  “  but  i  should.  you’re  clearly  a  threat  to  workplace  productivity.  especially  mine.  ”  her  fingers  curl  slightly  at  their  shoulder,  a  thoughtless  anchor. and  then,  softer,  careful  in  a  way  most  people  don’t  get  from  her,  “  i’m  okay.  you  weren’t  too  much.  ”  her  voice  dips.  “  if  anything,  i…liked  it  more  than  i  probably  should’ve.  ”  and  that  part  stuns  her  more  than  the  kiss.  because  it’s  true.  leona  doesn’t  do  this  —  the  lap  sitting,  the  softness,  letting  someone  look  at  her  like  she’s  theirs.  not  since  adrien,  and  everything  that  unravelled  after.  but  zak  doesn’t  feel  like  a  risk.  they  feel  like  gravity  and  for  once,  leona  doesn’t  want  to  resist  the  pull.  “  okay,  ”  she  says,  “  fine.  turn  your  head.  ”  and  zak  does,  dramatically  angling  their  neck  like  they’re  expecting  her  to  discover  something  catastrophic.  and  leona,  solemn  as  a  surgeon,  lifts  her  hand  and  starts  genuinely  inspecting  their  ear.  brushing  their  hair  back  with  a  faint  smirk,  leaning  in  close  like  she’s  about  to  deliver  a  medical  opinion.  “  i’m  not  seeing  any  obvious  leakage,  ”  she  murmurs,  brows  furrowed  with  mock  concern.  “  but  it’s  early.  could  be  a  delayed  onset  melt.  if  you  start  drooling  or  quoting  slam  poetry,  i’m  out.  ”  she  leans  back  just  slightly,  still  in  their  lap  far  too  content  for  someone  who  swore  she  didn’t  do  this  kind  of  thing.  her  hands  settle  at  their  shoulders  again,  instinctual  now.  like  her  body’s  already  decided  before  her  brain’s  caught  up.  “  you’re  lucky  you’re  cute,  ”  she  adds,  nose  scrunching  slightly.  “  i  don’t  go  around  checking  just  anyone’s  ear.  ”  but  there’s  no  bite  to  it. 

her  tone  is  warm,  teasing,  and  underneath  it,  something  unspoken  and  soft  has  started  to  take  root.  when  she  looks  at  him  again,  it’s  with  something  softer  than  she  usually  lets  anyone  see.  it’s  there,  unmistakable  in  her  gaze.  something  tender  on  the  precipice  of  being  real.  her  thumb  continues  to  sketch  slow,  absent  arcs  over  their  collarbone.  leona  hesitates  for  a  moment,  then  admits,  almost  against  her  own  will,  “  honestly,  i  think  you  short-circuited  me  a  little.  but  in,  like...a  good  way?  ”  her  voice  hitches  slightly  at  that,  and  she  rolls  her  eyes  like  she  can’t  believe  she  actually  said  it  out  loud.  she  glances  down,  noticing  how  zak’s  hand  still  tracing  slow,  reverent  paths  up  her  thigh,  and  laughs  under  her  breath.  half  exasperated,  half  infatuated.  “  if  you  keep  touching  like  that,  i  might  do  something  drastic,  ”  she  warns,  but  doesn’t  move.  if  anything,  leo  leans  in  again.  pressing  a  brief,  grounding  kiss  to  the  corner  of  their  mouth.  quick  and  chaste,  like  she  couldn’t  trust  herself  to  do  anything  more  before  pulling  back.  planting  her  hands  on  the  dirty  carpet  as  she  lifted  herself  out  of  his  lap.  with  the  distance  comes  some  clarity,  but  not  much.  she’s  smirking,  sharp  edges  creeping  back  into  place,  her  voice  as  nonchalant  as  she  can  muster  with  a  heart  beating  too  fast  in  her  chest.  “  well, what other dumb magic tricks do you have up your sleeve? because clearly you suck at card related ones.  ”

Laughter vibrated around them, blanketing them in a laugh-track cacophony of uproar. The background noise sounded exactly like the backing audio of an episode of Friends, and Zak hadn’t paid any attention to it. Even when it raised in volume, bursts of obnoxious screaming more than actual chuckling. It didn’t impress itself in Zak’s mind, compass facing Leo and far too honed in on the giggles spilling out of her instead. Gentle and almost sheepish - something they hadn’t even known she could be. Feeling the ghost of it across his own mouth with how close they were, already anticipating what the hushed mirth would taste. It was as sweet as her lipgloss, left them needy. Obviously - body putting in work before their brain could put two and two together. When they tugged Leo into their lap, it was on purpose, though automatic. It just seemed like the next reasonable choice - they still couldn’t believe it’d been Leo to finally wade through the thick haze of what is this and eventually find a searchlight in the realm of more than friends. Though they didn’t want to jump the gun. But Zak had kissed a fair share of their friends, for fun and otherwise, and they didn’t kiss their friends like this. It felt lewd, openly shameless, without being flagrant. It was like they’d done this a hundred times before with how well they already knew the other operated.

They weren’t aware of how much time had gone by when Leona finally pulled back - immediately leaning forward and chasing after her mouth before giving in. A bit desperately, realizing they hadn’t actually taken a proper breath in… minutes, probably. Not that Zak was complaining, apparently willing to asphyxiate in the very crowded party if the cause was being able to kiss Leo without pause. But it was needed, the sudden break, if not so that they could wrap their mind around what’d just happened. How Leo felt about it - Zak knew how they felt about it. It probably showed in slightly flushed features. And if Leo shifted ever so slightly in their lap. Which - blinking, startled, Zak let out a sudden burst of laughter. Finally realizing just how frenzied they’d been, one hand at Leo’s waist and the other still cupping her face, while she sat in the same position in their lap. It made them, somehow, more flustered now that what they did of their own accord was being brought to light. “Shut up,” They mumbled, leaning back and against the couch behind them, only letting go of her for a moment to cover their face. The way she continued to touch them wasn’t discouraging - the opposite really. It made Zak stupid with reciprocating affection, almost frustrated with themself that they even considered leaning away from her for even a second while her hands still wandered with sentiment. Snapping back to reality, Zak didn’t want to miss a second of opportunity. They weren’t sure what this was supposed to mean now, what would happen next time they hung out - sober and in the light of day. They wanted to bask in this, Leona’s heated gaze, the warmth of her touch, while possible.

“I wouldn’t have been holding back if I knew you would’ve kissed me like that. I think brain matter’s gonna start leaking out my ears. Can you check for me?” They teased, turning their head slightly, as if angling themself so that she could get a better view. As they spoke, their hands returned back to her - in new positions, wanting to graze everywhere they could while she did the same. One hand skating along her clavicle to eventually loop around, settle at the bottom of her neck - gripping, gentle but firm, pulling her in close again because they were selfish for it. Zak didn’t kiss her again, not yet, but they craved a more near proximity. “Please don’t go to HR about this, I can’t lose my job.” And yet, their other hand rested at her thigh - above her knee and slowly coasting upwards, like they couldn’t hold still even if they wanted to. “I am not debauching you. Look -,” Raising their hands, as if to show they were innocent - before immediately placing them back in their previous position. Eager with it, as if it hurt more to let go of her than keep his hold. “Was I exuberant,” That’s a big word for Zakaria, “in my response? Well. I’ve wanted to kiss you forever, so. I dunno, I’m only human, Leo.” It was difficult, feigning ease when their heart settled in their throat and made a home there. “You’re okay, though? I’m - was that too much?” Gesturing to how she was still settled in their lap, cheeks still tinged red, hands flustered. Zak was pathetically fond, enthusiastic. But maybe this was just a day in the life for Leo. Maybe she didn’t appreciate being pawed at by them. Though with how they held each other, maintained their gaze - it felt like more. Zak didn’t want to push it before she had a chance to respond, though their grin remained, bright and endeared.

[collegiatesins]

PSA ABOUT BRI @cloyingblccd

do NOT interact with this individual they have done many terrible things!!! below the read more is the list of many terrible things they have DONE!!!

be sexy

write sexy muses

a secret third thing ( it's being sexy again )

[collegiatesins]

KEITH POWERS on BLAVITY TV.

[collegiatesins]

leona  doesn't  mean  to  laugh.  not  really.  it's  just  that  luna’s  unsolicited  ranting  has  always  hit  that  very  specific  nerve  in  her.  the  one  halfway  between  affection  and  deeply  unearned  smugness.  she  bites  back  the  first  wave  of  it  behind  a  raised  hand,  but  her  grin’s  already  doing  treason  across  her  face.  "  first  of  all,  "  she  says,  tone  all  lazy  velvet,  "  adrien  beaumont  sounds  like  a  guy  who  gets  into  bar  fights  in  saint-tropez  and  wins  on  technicality.  "  which  sadly,  was  just  her  type.  much  to  luna’s  disappointment.  “  second,  i  never  said  i  was  back  together  with  him?  ”  she’s  lounging  with  that  signature  leona  sprawl.  one  leg  tucked,  the  other  knee  bouncing  like  it’s  keeping  time  with  luna’s  mounting  frustration.  she  leans  back  on  her  hands,  gaze  flicking  sideways  with  just  enough  drama  to  sell  indifference.  “  third,  ”  she  adds,  arching  a  brow,  “  why  do  you  sound  jealous?  i  thought  we  were  past  the  phase  where  you  threatened  arson  every  time  i  looked  at  someone  with  a  jawline.  ”  it’s  teasing.  barely.  her  voice  gentles  a  fraction,  though  it’s  still  warm  with  amusement,  because  this  is  the  dance.  luna  gets  prickly,  leona  gets  smug,  they  orbit  and  prod  and  toe  the  line  like  the  weird,  tangled  friendship  they’ve  managed  to  preserve  post-breakup.  “  but  for  the  record,  ”  she  goes  on,  tucking  a  strand  of  hair  behind  her  ear  with  all  the  nonchalance  in  the  world,  “  you  brought  him  up  first.  I  innocently  mentioned  kissing  someone  recently  and  you  immediately  assumed  it  was  him.  it’s  not  my  fault  you  spiral  like  a  victorian  widow  every  time  i  talk  about  men.  god  forbid  a  woman  live  in  her  bisexual  truth.  ”

♡  special  delivery  for  @collegiatesins

for  all  intents  and  purposes,  luna  liked  leona.  a  whole  lot  more  than  they  liked  most  of  their  other  exes  --  which,  honestly,  isn't  particularly  surprising  considering  about  80%  of  those  relationships  ended  with  some  sort  of  property  damage.  but  things  were  different  with  leona.  in  a  strange  twist  of  fate,  they  were  actually  friends.  a  strange  duo,  sure,  but  one  that  worked  ...  most  of  the  time.  today,  though,  luna  was  definitely  questioning  their  life  choices.  "leo,  i  love  you  --  but  i  swear  to  god,  if  you  keep  talking  about  this  guy,  i'm  gonna  fucking  lose  it."  because  why  the  hell  did  leona  date  go  back  to  dating  guys  in  the  first  place?  skill  issue.  "like,  who  the  fuck  is  adrien  beaumont  anyways?  that's  not  even  a  real  name."

[collegiatesins]

“  your  energy?  ”  mikael  echoes,  like  the  very  concept  offends  him.  he  lifts  an  unimpressed  brow,  folds  his  arms,  and  watches  adrien  swipe  the  skittles  with  all  the  grace  of  a  raccoon  at  a  campsite.  “  right.  that  must  be  it.  nothing  wins  over  haunted  machinery  like  sheer  arrogance  and  secondhand  cologne.  ”  he  doesn’t  make  a  move  when  adrien  tears  the  bag  open  like  it  owes  him  money.  just  shifts  his  weight,  all  long  limbs  and  slow  disdain,  the  corner  of  his  mouth  twitching  like  he  might  be  amused,  if  he  were  a  worse  person.  “‘  emotional  support  fee,  ’”  he  muses,  tone  flat.  “  cool.  next  time  you  get  stupid  high  and  think  you’re  about  to  die  and  i  have  to  babysit  you  until  you  come  back  down,  i’ll  be  sure  to  invoice  you.  ”  adrien  leans,  crunching  like  he’s  narrating  a  psa  on  dental  trauma,  and  mikael  lets  the  silence  stretch  between  them  just  long  enough  to  be  petty.  it’s  comfortable,  though.  familiar.  the  kind  of  quiet  that  only  grows  between  two  people  who  have  memorized  each  other’s  pressure  points.  or  at  least  pretended  not  to. when  adrien  holds  the  bag  just  out  of  reach,  mikael  doesn’t  lunge.  that  would  be  too  easy.  too  eager.  instead,  he  stares  at  it  like  it’s  beneath  him.  like  maybe  the  skittles  will  sense  his  disappointment  and  walk  over  on  their  own.  “  you  realize,  ”  he  says  eventually,  tone  dry  as  desert  air,  “  if  i  wanted  to  see  a  goose  with  a  pulled  hamstring,  i’d  just  look  at  your  high  school  dance  photos.  ”  his  hand  moves,  quick  and  precise,  swiping  the  bag  from  adrien’s  loose  grip  without  ceremony.  he  doesn’t  even  look  triumphant  about  it,  only  mutters,  “  thanks,  ”  like  it’s  a  transaction,  and  tosses  a  red  skittle  into  his  mouth  with  all  the  solemnity  of  a  man  breaking  communion.  he  lets  adrien’s  last  words  hang  in  the  air  before  glancing  sideways  at  him,  half  amused,  half  fed  up.  “  you  say  that  like  i  haven’t  been  personally  responsible  for  bailing  you  out  of  every  bad  decision  you’ve  made  this  semester.  but  yeah,  sure.  i’ll  take  the  fall  for  a  vending  machine  too.  ”  he  shifts,  shoulder  knocking  gently  into  adrien’s,  something  casual  and  unspoken  in  the  motion.  “  also?  i  played  basketball,  not  football,  a  real  friend  would  know  that.  ”  because  of  course  mikael  can’t  not  get  the  last  word.

adrien makes a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh, low in his throat, like he’s genuinely entertained but refuses to give mikael the satisfaction. he watches as the machine hums back to life, the dollar miraculously accepted this time, and the familiar whir of the spiral begins its slow twist. “must’ve liked my energy better,” he says, grinning as the skittles finally drop with a satisfying thunk. before mikael can react, adrien’s already moving — too fast, too smooth. he crouches down, snatches the bag from the tray like he’s done this before (because he has), and tears it open without ceremony. he pops a few into his mouth, crunching obnoxiously loud as he leans his shoulder into the vending machine beside him, like they’re old friends at the scene of a minor crime. “the adrien tax,” he explains, around a mouthful of candy. “emotional support fee. you think i show up just to heckle you?”

he doesn’t offer the bag back right away. just holds it there, slightly out of reach, like he might make his roommate work for it. there’s mischief in his eyes, that maddening kind of playfulness that always seems to come wrapped in smoke and cologne and the faint suggestion of a dare. “i’m just saying,” adrien adds, tilting his head, “if there was interpretive dance, i’d stay. maybe even clap. depends how many twirls you commit to, big boy.” the idea makes him smile. “nothing funnier than watching a six-foot-something linebacker try to embody ‘lost innocence’ through movement.” he tosses another skittle into his mouth. “so much.. flailing. like a goose with a pulled hamstring. it’s incredible, really.” he finally relents, letting the skittles bag brush against his arm like a peace offering or a bribe, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in something dangerously close to fondness. “but if that thing eats my dollar next time, i’m holding you personally responsible.”

[collegiatesins]

it  all  happens  fast.  one  moment,  zahara’s  trying  to  coax  a  disinterested  baby  goat  into  eating  from  her  palm,  and  the  next,  a  full  sized  human  is  barreling  toward  her  like  a  cartoon  anvil.  there’s  barely  time  to  think.  just  a  sharp  thud  of  footsteps,  a  blur  of  flailing  limbs,  and  zahara  instinctively  stepping  forward,  arms  out  catching  dallas  against  her  like  she’s  done  this  a  thousand  times.  like  catching  wayward  boys  flung  by  rogue  farm  animals  is  just  another  tuesday.  their  knees  bend  slightly  with  the  force  of  it,  platform  shoes  skidding  a  half-step  in  the  dirt,  but  they  hold  steady  as  he  breathlessly  apologizes  midair.  their  hands  pressing  into  his  shoulders,  grounding  them  both.  "  ...hi,  "  zee  says,  eyebrows  arched,  expression  hovering  somewhere  between  amusement  and  bewildered  concern.  “  you  good?  ”  she  glances  past  him  at  the  offending  goat,  now  trotting  off  with  the  self  satisfaction  of  a  tiny,  horned  warlord.  then,  back  to  dallas,  who’s  clutching  his  chest  like  he  just  survived  a  harrowing  brush  with  death.  which,  to  be  fair,  maybe  he  did.  “  you  okay?  ”  they  ask  again,  a  little  softer  this  time,  “  everything  still  attached?  ”  only  once  it’s  clear  that  he’s  not  going  to  collapse  in  their  arms  do  they  ease  into  a  crooked  smile,  dry  and  amused.  “  for  the  record,  ”  the  musician  adds,  “  that  was  definitely  the  most  dramatic  way  someone’s  ever  said  hello  to  me.  ”  a  wry  little  smile  tugs  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth,  as  gentle  fingers  reach  over,  plucking  a  bit  of  straw  from  his  shoulder,  and  flicking  it  aside.  “  i’m  fine,  ”  they  assure  him,  voice  calm  despite  the  residual  adrenaline.  “  bruised  pride,  maybe.  mildly  offended  the  goat  doesn’t  even  look  sorry.  but  totally  a-ok  otherwise.  ”

      " OW — JESUS FUCK — " it wasn't every day that a head-butting goat sent dallas launching, but if it did become a routine occurrence, he would ideally wish to stumble land within the arms of zahara visser. talk about an ice breaker. this sick, masochistic form of bonding in the name of bridging the gap between two schools, joined together in moldy matrimony — in its orwellian glory, they became the petting zoo - or rather, just him, stumbling limbs and all, akin to the goat babies that ran amok in the far corner of the pen. " oh my god — " he'd peeled back now, a hand clutching his chest in some grounding moment to catch his breath and recenter whatever crumbs of gravity he had left. " hi, oh my god, i'm so sorry, dude — i mean, gender neutrally — holy shit, that goat wants to kill me. are you okay ? oh my god. i can, like, find a nurse or something. you're alive, right ? "

for. @collegiatesins !

[collegiatesins]

WITH:  kasim (@moonbleachd) WHERE:  forced play date @ the courtyard WHEN:  1:53pm

maximo  still  has  his  phone  in  hand  when  he  lets  out  a  slow,  theatrical  sigh  through  his  nose,  thumb  hovering  over  the  screen  like  it  might  self-destruct  if  he  doesn’t  swipe  out  of  the  call  fast  enough.  the  forced  smile  he’d  been  wearing  for  the  last  thirty  minutes  slips  off  his  face  like  silk  off  a  wire  hanger,  replaced  instantly  by  something  much  sharper,  thinner.  his  jaw  twitches.  “  god.  that  was  excruciating.  ”  he  tosses  the  phone  face-down  onto  the  table  like  it  personally  betrayed  him.  across  from  him,  kasim  is  still  sitting  there  with  that  look.  like  he’s  just  waiting  for  max  to  crack  first.  which,  fine,  maybe  max  is  cracking  a  little,  but  that’s  beside  the  point.  “  we  really  sold  it,  huh?  ”  he  deadpans,  reaching  for  the  absurdly  tiny  water  bottle  given  to  him,  like  hydration  was  something  to  be  rationed.  “  i  should  win  an  award  for  not  choking  on  my  tongue  every  time  i  called  you  buddy.  ”  he  took  a  sip  like  it’s  wine  and  not  lukewarm  distilled  water,  and  narrows  his  eyes  just  over  the  rim.  “  seriously,  how  are  you  not  breaking  out  in  hives  from  pretending  to  tolerate  me?  never  mind,  i  forgot  being  fake  is  like  your  specialty.  ”  maximo  leaned  back  in  the  chair,  all  lazy  limbs  and  barely  concealed  venom,  but  the  smirk  curling  at  the  edge  of  his  mouth  betrays  the  spark  of  enjoyment  he  gets  from  needling  kasim  like  this.  it’s  familiar,  like  muscle  memory.  a  dance  they’ve  been  doing  since  prep  school  halls  and  summer  galas,  choreographed  in  silent  eye  rolls  and  muttered  insults.  “  so,  ”  he  drawls,  tone  syrupy  and  smug,  “  what  do  you  think  are  the  odds  our  fathers  are  about  to  get  the  brilliant  idea  to  book  a  golf  trip  for  all  four  of  us?  ”

[collegiatesins]

zahara  hadn’t  expected  to  find  anyone  back  here,  let  alone  him,  but  then  again,  kasim  has  always  had  a  way  of  being  accidentally  theatrical.  the  vape,  the  slouch,  the  self-inflicted  exile  to  the  one  mossy  corner  of  the  garden  where  even  the  roses  seem  hesitant  to  bloom.  all,  textbook  kasim,  which  is  probably  why  they  linger  a  second  longer  than  they  should.  they  approach  slowly,  arms  loosely  folded,  not  defensive—just  contained.  chocolate  gaze  finds  the  curl  of  smoke  fading  from  the  air  and  the  telltale  scorch  of  strawberry  guava  still  lingering.  it’s  oddly  nostalgic,  in  a  way  they  hadn’t  quite  braced  for.  the  moment  his  eyes  meet  hers,  she  straightens  a  little.  nothing  formal,  just  an  unconscious  flicker  of  presence.  they  smile,  soft  and  shaped  with  something  like  surprise.  “  i  wasn’t  looking,  really,  ”  she  says  gently,  honest.  “  just  wandering.  ” 

she  steps  forward  anyway,  careful  not  to  stand  too  close.  familiarity  like  his  had  a  way  of  sticking,  of  settling  back  in  the  bones  like  it  never  left.  “  i  didn’t  mean  to  sneak  up  on  you.  ”  her  eyes  flick  down  to  the  vape  he  stomped  and  then  back  up,  amused  but  kind.  “  dramatic  exit  for  that  one.  ”  her  tone  is  playful.  but  there’s  a  distance  in  it  too.  not  cruel,  just  cautious.  zee  had  never  really  had  an  ex  before,  everything  about  this  was  uncharted  territory  they  didn’t  know  how  to  navigate.  “  i  was  actually  just  looking  for  the  plant  cart.  someone  said  they  brought  new  marantas  in  and  you  know  i  have  zero  restraint.  ”  a  pause.  “  but  then  i  saw  this  cloud  of...  guava  flavored  shame  and  thought,  ah.  must  be  kasim.  ”  zahara  cocks  her  head  slightly,  amusement  dancing  in  their  eyes  now,  even  as  nervous  fingers  pluck  at  random  threads  on  their  jacket.  “  are  you  hiding  or  haunting?  because  you’re  doing  a  pretty  dramatic  job  of  both.  ”

open to : if ur sexc n u know it clap ur hands @langstonstarters where : the inner garden

the  inner  garden  finds  him  here—tucked  away  in  some  shaded,  shady  corner  with  his  back  to  the  world,  taking  a  hit  of  his  stupid  burnt  vape  with  every  other  scroll  on  his  phone.  it's  furtive.  it's  mysterious.  it's  also  really,  really  obvious.  between  his  fourth  and  fifth  sip  of  deliciously  artificial  nicotine  dressed  up  enticingly  as  strawberry  guava,  kasim  becomes  painfully  aware  of  a  presence  lurking  a  bit  too  close.  down  goes  the  vape  on  the  ground.  he  stamps  on  it  (  no  idea  why  )  and  turns  around  with  the  brightest,  guiltiest  smile  he  can  muster.  "  well,  aren't  you  a  sight  for  sore  eyes,  "  kasim  muses.  "  were  you  looking  for  handsome  ol'  me  ?  "