Les Désordonnés

He bantered like they were old friends; she would usually be more obliging, but this situation was already different from her typical keen riffing with strangers. “Oh, forgive me,” Cora replied unconvincingly with a roll of her eyes, far from shy when her came turn came for a drag, “I’ll start carrying scissors just to trim a perfect three-quarters off for you next time I decide to abuse my lungs.”

Of course it was different, because they weren’t strangers. Clement had irked her the first time they’d met by the cable cars with his double-talk partnered with his little kindnesses, a completely one-sided sport compared to the amiable verbal dueling she preferred. Then the handful of times they’d brushed in passing — even then she hadn’t escaped his velvet barbs. Anger was rising in Cora’s already flushed cheeks, her ears falling deaf on his continuing chatter. Perhaps it was an unreasonable anger, but a pure one, inflamed by the activities of the night. 

His perfectly male proposition was the final prick to her flayed-raw sensitivity. Cora’s back stiffened like she’d been suddenly struck by lightening and the energy crackling in her eyes carried a similar electricity as she twisted out of his grasp for the last time, standing back far enough that his hands couldn’t reach her for any quick attempts at appeasement. Cora’d spent enough time pinned under microscopes in the past bloody year, for journalists and policemen and grief counselors and family, she would would not lie prone and pleasant for this boy, pleasant as he may pretend to be with his arms around her shoulders.

Yes, she was angry —  fuck, was she was angry (and it wasn’t just for him, it couldn’t be, there was too much of it twisting up inside of her to be from this single petty source). “You’ve got some fucking nerve,” And for all heat in her expression, Cora’s words came out flat and cold ( — or they sounded so to her ears, not hearing the sharp, unsettled edge that had crept in), jarringly quiet after the final echoes of their laughter had disappeared down the empty corridors. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? What you keep doing? You think I’m enjoying playing your idiotic word games?” 

“Oh,” he breathed out when Cora twisted out of his jovial grasp, a thought of perhaps that wasn’t the right thing to ask flitting through his mind before being replaced with — oh, no, this is so much more interesting. “You’ve got some pretty unresolved anger issues.” He smiled, sweet and pleasant, the drink wearing off a touch in a flash from the anger — this could be dangerous, thoughts whispered, this could be fun.

He adjusted his winged shawl, straightening the golden feathers. The pleasant expression fully slid over his face.

“Well,” Clement said as he slid up to Théo’s side, “if my eyes don’t deceive me, is Lucifer himself here at this bacchanal?” He laughed, taking a drink from his cup of gin and tonic (heavy on the gin; light on the tonic), the gin dry and light on his tongue, and readjusted his golden wing shawl with his free hand. “Don’t you know that Michael is supposed to have defeated Lucifer?” He craned his neck up to look Théo in the eye; not particularly enjoying the seven-or-so inches of difference in their heights.

“I bet I could still take you,” he said with a laugh, fully joking and it showing in the jovial expression on his face, and the relaxed slope of his shoulders. “Michael trumps Lucifer, always.” Clement took another sip of his drink. “Don’t you think?”

“You always get to know things?” Cora parroted back disbelievingly with a snort of amusement, shaking her head, “Oh, likely story  — hold still, you idiot.” A hand darted out to grab Clement by his coat, halting the other before he could wander off once she’d made her sudden stop, fumbling to mold the damn cigarette back into a vaguely cylindrical shape with her fingers, bottom lip anchored between her teeth in concentration. 

“This is going to last us all of two seconds,” Cora mumbled around the filter matter-of-factly once she’d trapped it in her mouth. It was hard to shake the guilty flicker of caution about lighting up in the hallways where they walked to class — the twist of loose paper where half the contents had been lost burned up in an instant, ash scattering on the carpet underneath their feet while she got a lungful of smoke with barely any taste to it. The feeling didn’t stick. She pulled a face immediately, squinting hard as she shoved her arm out towards Clement’s face to offer the thing to him, filter first, “There, debt: paid.” 

She at least gave him the courtesy of actually assessing his costume with a look-over when he offered, “Aha, I see the feathers now,” Cora chirped, tugging at the end of the adornment, gaze shooting up as she flicked her finger against his headpiece with a metallic ping, “And your golden halo, yes?” Clement got an indignant surprised noise out of her as he pulled in close again, a quick and reactive “Hey, fuck you!” It was a joke, it was joke, but who the hell knew with this guy. In fact, she wondered, who the hell knew this guy? “This how you treat people that’re nice to you? Some angel.” 

“Hm,” Clement hummed, taking the stub of a cigarette and exaggerating a thoughtful expression, “I don’t think the debt is paid quite yet — I gave you a whole stick and you are only giving me a fraction of one.” He took a sad drag of the cigarette, and passed what little was left to Cora again. “And we’re sharing.” A little giggle. “If I remember right, you didn’t have to share the stick I gave you either.”

A smug smile painted itself across Clement’s face at her assessment of his costume, fixing his halo as quickly as she’d hit it off-kilter. “You know I’m an angel and you know it — I never get into any trouble.”

He delighted in the surprised noise he got out of her, showing in the smile plastered over his face. Keeping her held close to him (leeching warmth and, honestly, just enjoying having someone be that close to him) he let out a bark of a laugh at her swearing at him. “I can’t help it,” he said, “I speak French — now I’m not French but whatever — and you’re English; we have to jab each other.” His hand tensed on her shoulder as he wobbled away and then wobbled back conspiratorially close to her again. “Angels like to get their fingers in things but fuck off at the moment of showing themselves, y’know.” An easy laugh, still quite loud from the alcohol but not as harsh as the one before, popped out of him. “But I’m not like that; I like that follow through, y’know?”

Clement was in a mood to cause some strife — the night was going well (as far as he’d experienced) and he’d quite like to cause something of interest to happen. Not anything that could be traced back to himself, of course, and even the alcohol fogging his mind didn’t stop him from keeping that self-preservation.

Ah, his thoughts said, Jack — my favourite.

Clement ordered another duo of gin and tonics, the slopping pouring of the gin matched with the splashes of tonic. He took the two drinks and sidled up to Jack, tilting his head back with a heavy head — making his neck curve nicely (if he were to say so himself) — as he stared up at the other boy with false-heavy lids. “Hey Jack,” he said in French, much preferring the fluidness of the language when speaking with the other than clunky English — if they both spoke it with such ease, why would they bother with something as ugly as that?

“You’re one to talk, matchsticks.” If he wanted to jab, Cora decided, determined, she’d jab right back  —  twisting to grab the other’s hands before she picked one and circled her fingers tight around the boniest part of his wrist to make her point, “Only one of us could pick up the other,” She stated confidently, “And if I were you, I wouldn’t place bets.” 

Her brows knit together in confusion before his request processed properly, “Oh,” Cora tittered in quick-to-rise amusement, prying her lighter from his fingers again, “No, no, I’m pure mooch, I usually just - wait.” A small flicker of remembrance, patting down her leather jacket again before locating and triumphantly extracting her prize: half-crushed and shedding tobacco, a lovely shade of pale pink. “All yours,” She presented the crumpled cigarette to Clement with the airs of a queen bestowing knighthood, “Courtesy of the Russian Federation.” 

His unbalanced weight was a much more welcome presence pressed against her once she’d decided not to give a shit. He, quite frankly, seemed too drunk to focus on being truly mean. “Half of them were nude!” Cora near-shouted in response, her loud burst of laughter ricocheting down the gloomy corridors, “Have you even seen the people at this sch —  no, forget it, you’re wearing a shawl.” 

“I’m not a betting man, y’know,” he said, liquid confidence spilling the words out, “I just like to know things.” The warmth of her hand around his chilled wrist was welcome, and gone before he could enjoy it anymore. “And I always get to know things.”

Clement took the crumpled cigarette with delight — plucking it out of Cora’s fingers with a bouncy glee. “Oh send my regards then, if only to get more sticks out of them.” He laughed. The cigarette wobbled in his grasp, losing more tobacco with each shake. “Share, yes?” He thrust the cigarette back toward Cora, knocking it against her chest. “Light it.”

How late had it gotten? The dim gray light in the corridors offered nothing but ambiguity, more confusion for a head already swimming with vague uncertainty. She knew the direction she was going in and the intended destination: face down in her bed while the room tilted and twisted beneath her, sinking into the merciful swamp of sleep. Her legs ached more than her head did; for once, she thought, she might actually knock out long enough to miss the sunrise ( if it hadn’t happened already… )

A sudden shout shattered the silence Cora’d been wading room-wards through  –  she’d reached out to brace herself on a column just before the not-so stranger flung his arm around her, which turned out to be a fortunate move or they likely both would’ve hit the floor. She swore in surprise either way, “Christ, Clement!”, jolting at the contact before she could grab at his name in her mind, the boy all red-faced and grinning. “Jump into my arms straightaway next time, why don’t you?” Cora chided, swaying under his weight before her legs decided to support her properly again. He looked as bombed as she felt though, and it was hard not to laugh at the contrast with how he’d presented himself when they’d first met. 

Fingers fumbled clumsily in her jacket pocket, finally curling around her lighter before she reached out to press it against his chest without argument. “Here, here, take it.” Clement’s question was worth another narrow-eyed look, vaguely exasperated. “ ‘Bacchanal’ ,” Cora snorted, pushing off of her new accompaniment to step shakily back down the hallways, words slurring together with faint disdain. “The names you all fling around here. As if the maenads were tearing men apart in Gucci.” 

“Oh I will then,” Clement said, giggling at the thought of jumping into Cora’s arms as he did, “Could you even support me with those skinny little arms of yours?” Another laugh, more barking, popped out of him at that comment. A lopsided jab at her that wasn’t really that ill-intended.

At the lighter being shoved into his chest, Clement looked surprised. “No.” He took the lighter into his hand. Flipped it around with clumsy fingers. “That’s not what I meant — I want a… fuck,” his eyebrows tensed down into a frown, the word not coming to him in his drunken fog. “A stick.” He hoped she’d get what he meant, making a smoking motion using the lighter as a stand-in cigarette.

Clement was well and truly drunk, and his drunken mind decided it was best to leave before he got into more of the drink and broke his standing record of never having gotten sick from drink before. He stumbled up the stairs out of the cellar and was well on his wobbly jaunt down the hallways when he spotted a familiar face.

“I was hoping for a gin and tonic, but at this rate I’d settle for just about anything.” She was nervous at this kind of party, though she tried desperately to not let it show. A tipped up chin, a lipsticked mouth– she hoped to not look older, but more mature. There was an elegance to the students at Augustine that she was certain she could not carry, it only came with an impressive lineage or a trust fund exceeding six digits.

Clement was a prime example. She needed some kind of drink to settle her nerves, just a little something to make her laughter come just as easily, to make her less aware of the Dolce and Gabbana pieces draped from fine-boned shoulders and the Gucci boots that stomped carelessly through the dirt of the cellar. She hung back, fingertips clutching her elbows as she waited for them to turn back from the bar. “Thank you for this.”

“Oh gin and tonic is a classic,” Clement said, before he turned to the students behind the bar and ordered two of them in smooth French, tacking on that they should be heavy on the gin without asking Pearl what she’d prefer.

Pearl seemed to stick out — not because she was particularly plain, or because she was being rowdy or anything — but because she was being so quiet, so reserved, compared to the others at the bacchanal. Clement tilted his head, inspecting her with his dark eyes. Maybe she just needed a drink.

“Cold, cold, cold, intolerably cold and sweet.”

Pearl leaned across the makeshift bar and repeated the order again, loudly and in English. She was being ignored, and not even subtly so– the pair behind it snickered as they looked around her. It was her accent the first time she ordered, it wasn’t as pretty as the French they were used to hearing. She could hear them mocking it as they filled other orders, tequila sloshing onto the bar as they poured shots messily. They spoke English as well, they were Augustine students after all, but stubbornly refused to take orders in anything but French and Swiss-German. 

Finally ready to give up, she stepped back from the counter. Her place was easily filled in with another eager student. Turning to the body next to her, her red-painted lips were pursed in frustration. “I’m sorry to bother you. Would you mind if I you tacked on my order to yours? I was getting nowhere up there.”

Clement made his way to the makeshift bar with practiced ease — every year like clockwork this bacchanal happened, and he liked to think he had its working down to a fine art; just in time for it to be his last on he’d be attending. The only tiny bump in his smooth approach to the bar was there being no space for him, but it was quickly remedied by Pearl stepping back from it — curiously drink-less.

His curiosity was satiated when she spoke up without prompting.

If he was a ball of anxiety, Clement was serenity. It almost soothed him the way the other seemed to move with fluid motion, not too fast nor too aggressive– just enough to provoke attention. Arlo raised his gaze and took the fork politely with a soft thank you in gratitude. With a sheepish smile, he dug the utensil into the body of the cake and took a small bite, licking the chocolate mousse from his lip. Chocolate has always been his saving grace, and while he shoveled it into his mouth like a bear late for hibernation, Clement poised a question.

“I study performance art,” he replied once he swallowed, gently poking the prongs of his fork against the cake and watching them sink into the chocolatey depths. “I’m only a Sophomore, though. I really do love this place! It’s beautiful and people are– most people are friendly. I don’t have to suffer through scary core courses like Calculus” Arlo laughed softly, “It’s a great fit. What about you, Clement? You seem… well established here; are you an upperclassman?”

Clement followed Arlo’s bite of the cake with his own. Pressing the fork through the mousse and breaking off a decently sized chunk off the body of it — not having the same politeness as Arlo in taking a small bite — but he hovered the forkful over the plate as he spoke. “Oh!” It was a bit loud; definitely surprised, “That’s good, you must be a good actor then?” The end of the question lilted up, and Clement set the still full fork down on the edge of the plate.

A good actor, his thoughts echoed, could be a good thing, or not.

“Oh you’re young, you’ll find the people you fit in with soon enough,” he paused for a beat, “if you’ve not already found them; most people take time to warm up to others here.” Clement smiled, perhaps a bit sharply (especially when compared with the softness of Arlo’s laugh). “I never understood taking courses outside of your major,” he said, “if you’re going for a certain discipline should you not stay in it?”

DATE: 26 february, 2018 LOCATION: the lobby bar, gstaad palace @clementlenz

Her cheeks were flushed pink with cold even inside, like two spotlights reflecting on the back of the spoon laying next to her toddy. Gia drummed her gloved fingers on her cheek, glancing back at the hotel’s front door. Her friends were meant to be arriving after dark, it was dark, but she was of very little faith: they were off-piste somewhere and wouldn’t return until their iPhone flashlights faltered in the cold, she would stake her life on it, inwardly cursing the child who had slammed into her far too early that morning and sent her to the ground. No concussion, a resort medic had declared, so she could drink a few thousand watered down whiskys and wait. She lifted her hand to signal the bartender. Three. Three fucking toddies. She was desperate to text her boyfriend, to push him, hard, until he succumbed to her misery and joined her, but her phone was in her room, between layers of silk sheets and throws. 

She was only half-certain she knew the boy — from her few glances he looked like was Jamie’s age, he was a boy — who had taken the stool next to her when she tipped her chin at him. “I know you, don’t I?” The stupidity of the question made itself apparent in the second she hesitated, squinting at him. “Fuck, sorry. Of course I do, Clem. Fucking hell, it’s dark in here.” Three toddies weren’t helping. Her flush deepened. Théo‘s friend. Bas Décsey’s old roommate. “Please take this drink from me. Toddy’s starting to feel like a fake word. I feel like such a fool. Come closer, darling.”

It was colder than Clement had anticipated, even with the moving about in the snow it didn’t make him feel warm. His back hurt — feeling too tight and sore from a combination of the cold and his binder which had been worn far too long, he shouldn’t have put it on as early as he had. He just wanted to warm up, and forget that his back was screaming.

So, of course, alcohol was the prime choice.

Taking a seat next to Gia, Clement unwrapped his scarf and carefully folded it and laid it on the bar counter. He was barely keeping the smile that was threatening to start spreading over his face at bay when he realized she was trying to figure out who he was, and his smile broke through when she spoke.

“Yes,” he said, “we do know each other.” A pause. “But I’m sure most of Augustine knows you now, yes?” It was a petty jab. He shook his head. “That’s not actually how I know you, I hope you know that Gia.” It wasn’t a lie — he knew her through genuine interest and through, of course, Théo. “It’s pretty dark in here, yeah.” He let out a puff of a laugh. “Maybe it’s to help those in their cups with having plausible deniability in knowing faces in here.”

He took the toddy from her. “Now, dear heart, how many have you had?” He took a sip of the drink, not caring about sharing. “If toddy is starting to sound like a fake word I’m guessing a fair few.” Another sip, more of a proper drink. Setting the drink down on the counter before wrapping an arm around her shoulders, Clement leaned in close to her flushed face. “Is this close enough, darling?”

Leave a “Fight Me” for my character fighting with/or against yours.

“You wouldn’t get so defensive if you didn’t know you were wrong, Cora.” Clement’s voice was light and sweet; the argument he’d sparked was delighting him. A wide, toothy grin was spread across his face and all of his body language screamed delight.

“That’s not how that works and you know it.” Cora tried to keep her voice level, it wobbling just a tiny amount. Her shoulders were tense, and it wasn’t from the cold.

The shit-eating grin on Clement’s face seemed to grow wider, and he didn’t even bother to try to hide it in the puff of the emerald scarf wrapped delicately around his neck. “Do I?” He raised his eyebrows without his smile faltering, before dropping it to a closed-mouth smile and shaking his head. “You’re hopeless, don’t you know that? You don’t see what you should be seeing — only what you want to see.”

“Wow, it’s almost like making comments about my dead family member elicits an emotional response.” She glared at Clement. “You’re just a fucking asshole.”

“Nah,” Clement shrugged. “I’m not, I just know things.”

“About Fred?” Her clear eyes locked with Clement’s dark ones. Almost as if she were trying to appeal to his humanity.

Leave a “Amuse Me” for my character trying to cheer yours up.

                            [First year]

“Oh c’mon Bas,” Clement said from where he was sitting on Bastian’s bed beside his dear roommate, swinging his legs off the edge of it, “It’ll be fine. That exam was fuckin’ hard, it wasn’t just you that felt that.” The both of them had just walked back from their philosophy of religion class — a brutal midterm that’d taken them both the entire allotted time had shaken them both enough that they didn’t bother to wander over to the cafeteria to get food — and they had holed themselves up in their dorm.

Bastian let out a long sigh, clenching his jaw but not replying to Clement’s attempt to comfort.

“Listen,” Clement continued, as if he hadn’t been ignored, “it’s almost Friday — I’ll let you do my shot this week; sometimes you just gotta stab your roommate.” He let out a small, quiet laugh at his own joke. Wiping at his nose — the cold, dry air making the threat of an unexpected nosebleed more possible than in the more humid months — Clement stopped swinging his legs and hopped off Bastian’s bed. “I have something for you.”

“What?”

“Can’t tell you it wouldn’t be a surprise.” A pause. “You’ll love it though.” Clement cleared the small distance between their beds with a few steps and rifled through his rather worn out backpack — the one he kept all his dorm snacks in. He pulled out a pair of metal chopsticks and set them on the top of his immaculately made bed before pulling out two large bags of Cheetos.

He threw one bag at Bastian’s head, to which Bastian caught it with a plastic-y crunch and a smile. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Clement said as he grabbed his bag of Cheetos and his chopsticks before going back across the room and jumping back onto Bastian’s bed. “You sure you don’t need some of these?” He raised the hand he was holding the chopsticks in.

“I still think that’s so strange,” Bastian said, a hint of a laugh in his voice. He opened his bag of Cheetos.

“It’s better than having orange dust on your fingers.”

“The orange dust is a rite of passage.”

“That is such unhealthy eating habits,” said Toni, their voice almost haughty but their face still carrying the vestiges of a smile. They took some pork sausages, toast and some beans, and some slices of fresh fruit, then gingerly cut the sausage into slices before picking one up by their fork and eating it. “I think too much of anything is bad for you—even healthy foodstuffs like honey.” They slathered on some beans on their toast, the movements almost soothing, almost taking them back to a time when things were much simpler, when this was almost the highest luxury that their family could afford. “Besides, it doesn’t matter how healthy your food is if you’re not exactly eating, hm, during the appropriate times now, does it?”

The pout almost draws a chuckle from their lips. As it was, their mouth was full with toast and they nodded almost thoughtlessly instead. “And how should I make it up to you?” they finally said when they’ve swallowed down their toast. They didn’t take the question at all seriously, thinking it was some kind of joke between friends—and they were friends, were they not? Toni had many, to be sure, and Clement was but one of many, but they often wished that they were closer than they would be. For Toni, each friendship was valued in the worth it would give them in return: whether a step up in the social ladder or monetary benefits or something else entirely.

Toni finally did let out a laugh at Clement’s comment. Blooming in adverse conditions—dear God in Heaven, that’s what they’d been doing all their fucking life. Poverty tried them so very much, debased them and made them all the more lesser in comparison to those born with silver spoons in their mouths; but Toni persevered and struggled and worked hard until they were finally here, shining just as bright as the rest of them. For Toni, they already proved themself worthy—worthier even than those in here, because they suffered twice as much and had to work twice as hard for literally the same privilege. “We’ll see about that,” said Toni, almost good-naturedly, as if the rage inside them didn’t threaten to bubble up towards the surface. “I do quite fancy a challenge, you know.”

Toni clinked their glasses together, not really expecting Clement to reply as Toni has intended for it to be a singular toast alone, but they didn’t really protest. They took a big gulp of blessed, blessed, coffee and put the cup down on the table when they were finished. Clement’s statement still didn’t faze them now. “I’m opening myself up for suggestions, darling,” said Toni. “What do you want from me?” A smirk punctuated the end of their question, almost suggestive, but with enough room for plausible deniability, as if they were only smiling but got caught in the wrong motions. “Any ideas bubbling in that head of yours, darling?”

“Oh, I’m aware,” Clement said, “but it’s better to have a limit on it than stuffing yourself to the point of being sick, now isn’t it?” Clement didn’t particularly enjoy eating heavy things, but it was more because of the heavy, fatty meats that were so popular didn’t sit well in his stomach — making him feel off and nauseous for hours afterwards. He’d rather eat something heavy that was bread- or cheese-based than meat based. He’d, of course, write off his inconsistent eating habits to being busy, or just forgetting until it just wasn’t convenient to eat at that moment — and it was the case most of the time — but sometimes it was just because he thought it helped to limit himself sometimes. “Perhaps self-limiting is something we should all practice.” He let out a little laugh. “Over-indulgence kills the planet, don’t you know?”

He flicked his dark eyes up to Toni, their tone making Clement’s pout worsen. They weren’t taking Clement seriously and that wasn’t what Clement wanted. He cocked his head a little to the side, sobering up from the pout. “I don’t know,” he said, “aren’t you supposed to be the smarter of the two of us?” The emphasis was clear — if you can’t figure it out, then why would I bother dealing with you any more than I am?

Now, it wasn’t only that Toni was the means to an end. Clement truly did care about the other, but he’d be damned if he ever admit that to anyone — even himself. It was a cycle of getting flirting, getting close, getting closer, then shying away when there could be anything more than a simple means to an end.

Strictly business, Clement would tell himself after anything that’d happen, this is strictly business. It’ll be sad for them if they catch any feelings.

His state this morning- like most mornings- was that of a mess. Rumpled clothing scavenged from the floor, hair falling tangled into his eyes, Peter’s expression was humorless as he skulked through the library with his headphones snug over his ears and Dvořák raging, loud enough to drown out everything else. Every surface seemed to hold people: there they were sprawled on the couches, clustered into study groups at the round tables, seated in each of the stiff-backed wooden chairs with their heads bent over textbooks. He wove his way between outstretched legs and pushed-out chairs and bookbags strewn about like landmines. Flinty-eyed, he dodged a little pow-wow circle of freshmen sitting on the floor - in the midst of finals, the Augustine library started to bear a striking resemblance to the lawn at Woodstock. 

When he finally did find an unoccupied seat, it wasn’t empty. A coat and a bag had been dumped on it unceremoniously, and the owner of both was presumably the person seated next to them, reaching over to grasp around blindly for something inside the bag. Peter surveyed the library again; every other nook, cranny, and crevice, every window seat and open ledge, was claimed. He looked pointedly back at the seat-hogger without saying anything. The muscles of his face were set into a hard, heavy sulk and the shadows under his eyes were so dark they could pass for bruises- but it was finals, so everyone looked terrible, and his fatigued expression and unsmiling mouth hardly seemed out of place. The other student didn’t look up. No indication that they’d even noticed him standing there; maybe it wasn’t deliberate, but Peter felt his irritation spark anyway. He finally slid his headphones down so that they encircled his neck; a distant orchestra launched into the final frenzy of the allegro moderato. “You’re gonna have to choose one,” he said tersely, jerking his head towards the chair-turned-coattrack. “Saving seats is bullshit. There’s kind of an overcrowding issue, if you didn’t notice.”

Clement didn’t particularly want anyone to sit next to him — which is why he’d gotten to the library early and taken up the seat beside him with his backpack and coat — and there wasn’t usually an issue with it, even with how crowded the library got, simply because people were too cowardly to ask him to move his things. But, it seemed, Clement’s luck had run dry.

His eyes slid up to the offender — ah, Peter — and a toothy grin spread over his face, ears picking up on the faint orchestral music, and he said, “What if I want to choose both?” A puff of a laugh. “Maybe I’m saving it for you — you don’t know.” Clement did a once-over of Peter — the other looked tired. It was about par for finals, of course, but who knew what else the other had been getting up to.

Hm, Clement’s thoughts hummed, perhaps it could be interesting? Maybe?

Leave a “Drink Me” for my character taking shots with yours.

A huge smile was plastered over Clement’s flushed face. A loud laugh bubbled out of him with ease. He’d slung his arm around Toni’s shoulders, dragging the other down the entire five inches of difference between them. If Clement were to be drunk and touchy, he was going to get people on his level rather than awkwardly raise to theirs.

But there was a reason he didn’t take shots, and certainly not with Toni. There was too much possibility for a mess between them. Too many mistakes had tumbled out between them both.

“No, no! No more,” he laughed, yelling unintentionally — volume lubricated by the previous shots, “at least not unless it’s fucking jäger or something — no more of this whiskey shit!” It was a cheap taste in alcohol, but it was something that reminded him of his home. It wasn’t usual, but, sometimes, when Clement was drinking he got a touch sentimental.

Not that he’d name the sentimentality. No, he’d rather find comfort in drowning in more alcohol — cheap — and try to lick honey-thick contentedness out of the mouth of anyone who’d have him. And Toni would have him. Both of them drunk, at least one of them lonely — a perfect cocktail for a conversation in the morning that amounted to their own personal breakdowns over telling the other they weren’t really interested in one another; they were both simply a body to be content with at the end of a bender.

They weren’t anything other than that. They couldn’t be. Clement wouldn’t know how to handle it if they meant anything more than that.