jacklevesque.
Jack was never one for school get-togethers and he was never one for fire, even though most of the time he was certain he was made from something similar. He wasn’t a fucking pyro. The weight of guilt and memory sucker-punched him deeper than his dislike for the atmosphere, it was a steaming helping of something so painful he couldn’t string together a word for. Was this sorrow? It wasn’t anger, he could not relate to flames before him right now. Was this grief? The juxtaposition of the laughter he could not hear fully and the pain he could not name rightly was almost too much to bare. He felt as though he knew far too much than he was good for, that he was filling to the brim with it. There were others out there who knew of something similar, but he didn’t wish to speak of it. It wouldn’t do them any good. Rather than waiting to see if this feeling would swallow him whole, he stepped away from the gathering and the pyre that everyone orbited around like a clustered solar system. He didn’t have a cup on him, so his hands were free to push stray, snow covered branches away from the footpath as his he held out his phone with the other, lighting the way just enough for him not to tumble over particularly merciless snow covered stumps and rocks. He could imagine this place a year back. Trailing behind the others as they hooted and hollered, he’d give one of the freshman in front of him who walked too slowly a shove —was it him? Jack shook his head, releasing a heavy breath out from his nose. When Jack made it to the lake, he didn’t feel any better. He could hear the ghosts again, this time louder. It was almost as if there more feet than his own crunching through the snow. He was fucking losing it. It was fine, he thought, can’t lose the shit you never had. He breathed slowly, the type of breath that he had been taught to take whenever he was feeling uneasy. For some reason it didn’t really help Jack, instead it made things worse. Focusing on his breathing was almost more distressing than the ghostly footsteps he couldn’t shake. He crouched down, doing the one thing he could usually never do: he made himself smaller. He clasped his hands behind his neck and tried to level himself out, but the footsteps didn’t stop. They sounded too real to be a manifestation of his own guilt. He released his hands slowly, then tossed his chin over his shoulder and even with his skewed perception he could tell that it was, in fact, no ghost. “Elizabeth Bright,” Jack greeted, his voice coming out slightly dazed as he stood back up. Thankfully, another presence had knocked some sanity back into him. He could make her out by the light of the moon, since his phone was now lying in the snow with the flashlight doing no good facing downwards. He pulled forward a painful grin as he continued speaking, “your photography is impeccable.” @elizabeth-bright
Lizzie might have been able to let attending the annual bonfire celebration pass as a method of mourning, but going to the lake again was nothing more than masochistic. The insatiable yearning for punishment she berated herself with had gotten too strong, the terrible knowledge she locked inside herself pulsing to burst out from her delicate, wilting frame. Few people knew what truly happened on that infamous night, and out of all of them, her staying silent made her perhaps the worst one of them all. Loose lips sink ships, as they say, but her lips pressed together so tightly that nothing could sail the ocean at all.
She thought she could pay respects in Fred’s true place of resting, though it was arguable whether she was respectable enough to share anything but apologies.
The muffled sloshing of her boots in the snow accompanied her silent trek to the lake, her path directed only by the white moonlight filtered through the tops of the trees. It was a welcome relief, the time to herself. She could only be surrounded by shouts of Pour one out for Freddie! and Here’s to you my man! for so long before it started to take its toll. Thankfully, the party had attracted the students like moths to a lantern; it would not be hard to find a place to be alone.
That is--or so she thought.
Jack Lévesque. Even in the night, his eyes were a blazing blue, hair wild despite the stillness of the wind. Was he here to pay respects as well? To escape the party, or something else? Even at his calmest, he looked ready for a fight, shoulders back, arms ready to strike. He looked the way she felt. Him, the bruised knuckles that lowered Fred to his frozen, wet grave, and her, the lips locked with the secret never spoken aloud. Together, they kept her best friend’s death in unspoken infamy. What a perfect pair.
She stood frozen, her feet sinking further into the snowy, wet footprints she’d made. His grin lacked any sort of comfort for her; completely devoid of any joy, it did nothing to quell her anxiety. She gulped.
“Jack,” she greeted, her words soft as the snow beneath her feet. “I suppose you aren’t referring to the ones in the student art gallery, are you?” Her hands fidgeted with the chunky knit scarf around her neck. Oh, how she wanted to wrap it around her eyes like a yarn blindfold and pretend he wasn’t there. She knew what he did, and he knew that she knew. If she were an ostrich, she would dip her face into the snow and risk the frost bite to never have to look at his chiseled face again. “Would you believe that the picture wasn’t supposed to be there? It hadn’t been edited; not a minute in Photoshop. It was an accident, I promise. I would never publish a photograph of someone without their consent.” A small, shaky sigh escaped her lips, the warm vapor of her breath rising into the still, cold air. She knew she was just rambling, a pathetic attempt at a lifeline. Whether she could misdirect his surefire anger or not was irrelevant. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your alone time. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just be going--”
