my namie is jamie

Charlotte: umm yes but weddings usually have a cocktail hour so we need to compromise

Marc: Do I really look that easy to charm?

Marc: Well that's not my fault, I'm irresistible

Marc: And she kind of hates you, but that's beyond the point here

Marc: Don't you have a lighter on you?

Jamie: No. I'm actually trying hard to charm you so that's why i'm expecting results~

Jamie: She's jealous all the girls are listening to me instead of her or sth

“I think it would take more than chicken soup. What it would take I won’t share–I can’t give the competition an advantage after all–just that, friend, I’m pretty sure you don’t have it.” He started off with an edge to his voice, snark that played as teasing but didn’t quite get there as smiles came with too many teeth, but he continued breezily, losing the tenseness and becoming magnanimous. “ You shouldn’t take offense of course. You wouldn’t seriously make a play for Lauren, so why argue over whether it would be successful or not? There’s no need for macho posturing between us. I trust you as well as her, though I don’t trust you to the same extent. You’re old, dear friends . I wouldn’t want to infere with that and, before you say it yourself, I know  I couldn’t. I’m not jealous. I’m glad for her that she has you. So don’t be a twat on purpose. We aren’t threats to each other. Though, point ganted, I should be careful throwing around the word ‘escort.’ I didn’t grow up with the debutante ball set and I thought for a significant ocasion that required accompaniment you didn’t just say date.”

“Don’t worry about giving any advantages, Lockwood. She loves you to the moon and back and you have nothing to worry about, right?” his smile grew to mirror Lucas’, not taking any of those words half as seriously as the other and letting an easy-going chuckle leave his lips as he comforted him about their relationship that Jamie didn’t want to hear one more word about. It was exhausting, watching the man try lightness with so much tension hovering over his shoulders. Jamie would have offered to give him a massage, out of the blue, just to underline the position he was in and where the other’s speech was reaching, though not worried as he should have been, in his perspective. “But, Luke, we are threats to each other. I, for one, am terrified of you stealing Lauren forever,” he went for a satirical answer that had no truth in it. If he was losing Lauren, it was to no one but time, and that factor he couldn’t compete with.

Marc: But that wasn't even cute

Marc: Try again.

Marc: Why do I have to do all the hard work?

Jamie: It was the cutest and you're charmed, but fine, play it hard to get

Jamie: Because she doesn't instantly yell at you when /you/ walk by. I'd get caught in a second

Charlotte: there's gonna be an after party, right?? it's what r kelly would've wanted

Ladylike.

The menagerie soul is for an abominable instant, frozen. The brutish beasts, of a girl no longer, aligned behind iron bars, wrought with debauched recollections of time past, stopped their perpetual pacing. And her hummingbird heart, pinned to her sleeve and pulsing sanguine, stutters to an utter stop. The deracinated bramble rose who had been replanted in the haute monde ( anomalous and feral amidst an amalgamation of light, perennial garden roses ), played at poised and polite for far too long now. Her undomesticated roots had been subdued; her petals, once lined with revolt, had been preened to perfection, plucked until the fragments of Jamie Heather’s Lauren Hastings had been annihilated. But beneath a blanket of silt and soil, the sunlight cherub turned wayward adolescent was there amongst the rootlets and wilted florets. And she had shocked into stillness.

Ladylike, indeed. Of that she’d agree.  Though she felt more fraud than lady in his presence.

“Foolish boy, shouldn’t you know? A well mannered lady of society would never drink anyone under the table, much less do so in public. One drink maximum, perhaps two if I’m feeling particularly indulgent. You’ve much to learn of the trials and tribulations of being a societal darling.” A joke, too forced, and a pause, too thick ( as if she herself were waiting for the punchline ), and a lingering glance.

She’d scold herself later, but, oh, that sparkling grin of his. She couldn’t help but look twice.

“You look handsome tonight. Tell anyone I said so and I’ll deny, deny, deny.” Her chiming laughter dripping with manufactured grandeur a menace to her ears. “But,” another pause, cursory this time, though still long enough for her paling fingertips, slick and padded pink, to flitter across a crisp lapel, a scintillating lilt skimming an idyllic visage. “White isn’t your color. Too pristine.”

His eyebrows rose lazily with a condescending air at the spontaneous taunt through a word Jamie cut off his dictionary a long time ago. Her tongue wasn’t spitting faux poison teasingly without a shadow of a reason, because while denying it with steel vehemence, Jamie Heather was foolish in many aspects, where his charm intervened as shield, to play the role he cast himself in, of a pretty boy whose contribution to the party was a bell-like laughter at older figures’ sophisticated jokes he couldn’t follow. It wasn’t where he was standing, with a majority of jokes said at any kind of party - be it a family soiree ending in an auction for who holds their chin with more poise - but playing foolish was most of times the highest form of entertainment around boring people. It was the only way he could find them funny.

Yet, when Lauren recited the sonnet verse with her court grace that made his eyes roll out of his head, Jamie’s pretended, studied, self-taught neutral and innocent expression turned arrogant. A schoolboy inquiring face, rhetorically asking for an elaboration. “I'm sorry. I never, in fact, cared much about the agenda of a well-mannered lady of society. But for the case I decide to become one myself, I’ll start taking notes. Do tell me, is that drink vodka for the least possible amount of calories because we’re watching our figure, or are you doing it like every mum there is with gin and tonic?” It hit him, all of a sudden, that he hadn’t seen Lauren drink anything but champagne in years. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll be the first to deny any compliment from you. Your appreciation for my look tonight might make people mistake what I am wearing for something a well-mannered gentleman of society, or God knows what other horrors.” The critique got a fake gasp from him, as if he didn’t know himself, from when he was looking in a mirror that wasn’t his reflection in her bleu eyes. He wanted to argue that every color was his color and the solid proof for that was the fact that white wasn’t a color, but he bit his tongue and let her have that one victory, turning the compliment into a mild insult, made lovingly. “That’s no trouble. It’s yours, on the other hand. Just the right amount of maidenly. You look like we’re about to attend a wedding, not a ball. Any plans?”

Like a butterfly’s frangible wing snared against the sharpened edge of a wayward thorn, the tender organ lain within the cavity of her chest splutters to life. Noir lashes fluttering in slow synchronization with the stutter of unraveling wings, as his hallowed presence breathes sanguine hues upon the swell of raw, candy apple cheeks.

Nothing gold can stay, was that not the saying? If the aphorism held the slightest semblance of truth, Jamie Heather and Lauren Hastings had been fated to fall. For he had been a gilded prince with no crown but for the ashen silt upon his brow. And she had been a little girl of gold, all daffodils entwined within flaxen strands of untamable curls, and sun kissed flesh splotched with mud and feral unrest, who’d chase after him until her bare feet blistered and her knobbed knees went weak. Their exquisite ruination must have been written in the stars. 

She had never before known a yearning so great as the ache for it to be untrue. But the years past had birthed a different girl. Perhaps a different boy, too.

Lauren flashed a mouthful of pearly incisors tarnished by a melancholic nostalgia, counted the freshwater pearls hung from an elongated neck like rosary beads and hoped, no, prayed, that she might resist his velvet-tongued temptation. For his voice was akin to a lit match, and she resembled a pyre doused in kerosene. Tonight, she didn’t fancy being ignited. 

“That’d certainly make for a night to remember,” she mused with a little smile. “Accompany me to the bar instead?”

They were different. They have outgrown every inch of skin that bruised from falls off a bicycle or was held firmly by police officers who didn’t understand why those children couldn’t stop spinning around trouble. They were different enough — not just her, despite him being the only one complaining and letting the blame fall over her fragile shoulders instead of helping her carry it, as it was  them who broke themselves —  that it could be assumed they were other set of DNA, come out of thin air to replace an airy summer dream. His reflection matched the memory enough so he would stare at the boy in the mirror and lie about his age, but her hair was so straightened it would never return to an initial shape again. 

The difference between them, where his blame ended and hers intensified, was that he still tried. His eyes were flickering the same mischievous, dark flame that she was outrunning  — and she would have run away from him too if he hadn’t secured a hand on her waist to keep her close enough not to levitate into the atmosphere, where Jamie knew Lauren belonged now.  

Lauren smiled politely and he knew she was going to decline before the words showed up on the tip of her tongue. She didn’t want to burn with him, not tonight, and it instantly threw off his mood and ended the party that wasn’t already too much to begin with. 

“Lady-like,” he appreciated with a sarcastic head nod that wasn’t meant to stab anything but the bottle image she was holding up. “You’re trying to drink me under the table, take advantage of a poor boy with a judgment clouded by alcohol. Don’t think I don’t see you,” he threatened jokingly, and gently directed her to the ball. “... Go already. Let’s go.”

Slowly, her head swayed from side to side as she tried to figure out if what he meant was actually sincere enough for her to let pass. Sometimes it was hard to tell given how easily he could coat his words but in the end she deduced that perhaps it was best to move on. “I suppose you make a solid point with that. I must just be far too used to the forwardness of others to truly remember not all think alike,” she commented. If there was one thing that dawned on Arabella it was the fact that she hadn’t thought about Marc or his perception of her being one of his closest friends dates for one night. Not that it was truly of any interest to her but she didn’t quite feel like dealing with any possible idiocies from him later in the near - or distant - future. Her brows raised as she noticed him shut his eyes but a huff of a laugh escaped her, followed by a sly smile. “Even if I wasn’t it would be much to late to actually do something about it, don’t you think?” She pondered, finally taking his hand after shifting her bag to the opposing.

As their steps brought them closer and closer to the birch door  — white enough to start an intoxication  — Jamie mused over her words humming, eyes stabbing the evening sky that didn’t come to respect the color theme. As they reached the threshold, he stopped, and with a firm enough grasp on her hand, tried to stop before she walked inside. “It’s never too late,” he began, as if he was reading a lecture. “Say the word and we can skip altogether.” Bold suggestion, not intended the way most other boys would have  — because, unlike some of them, Jamie knew it wasn’t the approach for a car fuck, although he didn’t know what was when it came to the blonde. Skipping had less to do with sleeping with each other, howsoever, and more to do with going elsewhere. It was spontaneous enough for him to go with it without a question asked.

Once again he was back with his theatrics and his teasing and once again she was as unmoved by them as always. No brow quirked and no lips twitched as he played out a scene that only he was interested in taking part in. It all rang false to her, knowing full well that if he were to write a list and rank it of all the girls he would have wanted to take, she’d have been far from the top if only because of her involvement with the Quarrel Club. Still, his words however exaggerating deserved some form of reply. “I’m quite sure that there’s plenty of other girls who would be ecstatic in your company and perhaps would turn your ‘goodnight’ into a good night.”

The pun would have received an eye roll and enough mockery to take some of it home too if it were recited by anybody else, but her name was Cordelia McQueen and she wasn’t known for her career as a stand up comedian, so Jamie found it unpredictable enough for a bell laughter that wasn’t even forced. “Goodnight into a good night,” he nodded, still between huffing laughter, not obnoxious enough to make it loud although, deep down, he knew that was the recipe to making his interlocutor lose her mind — seemingly impossible task; maybe she was already there, but Jamie hadn’t been taught the art of giving up and picking the right battles. This couldn’t have mattered less, and yet, here he was, obsessing over it as if it was the top of his bucket list to squeeze some emotion out of the wall. “You’re too kind, but it’s not the fanbase that interests me.” Pulling out a cigarette, he declared he wouldn’t be leaving that soon after all. “Do you have a light?” Even in your eyes? Maybe just a little? No, he didn’t think so.

Marc: That might be true, but what are friends for?

Marc: You'd be lost without me

Marc: I don't know what's stopping us from doing both

Jamie: I'm lost even with you but at least we're both lost in the same place. ;)

Jamie: That was your 12% of a cute friendshipy moment. Never again.

Nick: Feel free to have a laugh at me too, if it helps. Wouldn't want you to not have fun yourself. I'm a giver, Jamie ;)

Jamie: I would never dare!!!!!

Jamie: Who me??? Humble little me?

Jamie: No:(

Marc: Fuck

Marc: Well aren't we all a little alcoholic?

Marc: Please I'm counting on you to make this night better

Jamie: Maybe we all are, but I am only because I'm friends with you

Jamie: That's what they all tell me. Okay babe, for you, I'll try my best, as usual

Nick: ..... i know you git. Lol. I just enjoy denying you the satisfaction

Nick: I know, I know, i'm an unspeakably good lover.

Jamie: Oh you're having way more fun than I am if you're having a laugh @ me

Nick: okay but your logic is flawed. how much chocolate i consume is not directly related to how much you pay me to bathe in it, see?

Jamie: You're making me explain my jokes.........

He was right. Miles Augustus Kenilsworth does not have a beating heart.

                                                                              Run. 

The setting was dark. The driver selected an automatic lighting for the vehicle that account for minimum brightness to appease to the retina when driving during the late hours. The stars above were limited as well, for clouds of an upcoming storm were hovering over the burning hues of the universe. The moon, too, was a crescent in a proportion that could not satisfy the civilians needing the guidance of the orb. In such a circumstance, little boys would run from the beasts. They have warned the boys of the danger within the darkness, but little boys are foolish. They all want to touch the fire, and they all want to be titled as king of the world. But, beating hearts are all fearful, and they cannot suffice to the reality of darkness. Only a man without a beating heart can conquer and control. 

He was not a confidant man. Sauntering down the marble halls of Oxford, the tall male lacks the flavor of bitterness that top contenders appreciate with every lick. He lacks the glamour that magazines would want to capture to claim as the leading figure of world domination. Miles is not your number one choice, and he knew that. What he knew, though, was that his power manifested within the devices of stringing together the situation through his temptations. His mind could gather clues in a matter of seconds, and that is a skill that many businessmen must acquire in order to manage their business with ease. Miles was smart—without a doubt, and that’s all he needed to pass on by. A beating heart with emotions would only get in the way of his success. 

His green eyes were focused to the front. The typical stoic expression was worn, for the comment spoken by Jamie was one that triggered critical thinking. It was only seventy-three seconds. That’s how long it took him to snap back into reality. “You should be nervous.” His voice was solid—a straight line exposing the truth of the matter. Jamie was never the one in control when the pair was in conversation. It was always Miles. Whether he would admit to it or not, Miles knew that he somehow got Jamie to halt. Turning to face the man, he still held onto his straight features, “I do not think jokes are necessary when it comes to us. You and I both know they do not work.”

A prankster. A hoodie lost in the night — not that night, when he chained a tie around his neck and decided to play host with elegance despite his hands in the pockets of his pants, but generally. A trail of laughter that never failed to step on somebody’s toes purposefully. Jamie could not agree once with Miles’ skepticism to jokes, because they were an essential portion of what made him him, perhaps second ingredient to nothing but atoms of Carbon. He couldn’t appreciate the silk smoothness of every word slipping out of his mouth with born class  — because he has never seen something precious enough to buy such a captivating grace and the display seemed so effortlessly and genuine that he doubted Miles was playing a role. 

He had his words with him, as usual  — thirty versions of the same comeback buried in his mind, wheels spinning so fast that he recited the words victorious to the selection with the ease of an unfiltered first thought speech. Yet, the words he had with him weren’t so quick to be turned into noise, as Jamie was trying for once to find the perfect ones in the given circumstances. Every syllable coming up Miles’ throat seemed milimetric, meticulous, picked to perfection, and he wanted nothing but to mirror the level of the conversation. “Do you ever do just what’s necessary?” he inquired, perfectly curious and in no way judging, through his question. “That would be awfully boring. The jokes are essential in their lack of necessity, because that’s the difference between business and pleasure.”

Jamie’s eyes rolled playfully, not an inch bothered by Miles’ stern talking. “They do not work?” he raised his eyebrows, continuously fascinated as he shot the blond an interested look, encouraging him to elaborate. “Then what works? Tip me,” the young man tried his luck, feeling like he was slowly melting under the pressure of whatever tension was gathering up in the vacant spot between them.

She crinkled her nose in distaste at something he’d said. “Not always. That’s too big of a word. You just caught me on a bad morning – or good, depending on how you see it.” The tone she employed was never didactic, but more questioning. “For someone who’s allegedly such a big OJ fan, I don’t remember it ever being on a menu at one of your events. Or are those not important enough?” Again, she spoke lightly, casually. She preferred to stay away from unnecessary seriousness. (At least she was convinced of this fact at this very moment.) “You sure? I mean, all old, white men look sort of the same, don’t they? It’s pretty easy to get muddled up. And the whole him dying in 1727 thing leaves a couple of loose ends – not that I’m doubting your story, of course. Anything can happen in Barcelona.” She snorted. “I quite like tryhard, to be honest. I’ll take it. Unless you want to steal that from me, too.” Sarcasm laced her voice, though it was more easily nonchalant than actively bitter. How unaffected she was by anything he could say only added to her impenetrable superiority. 

“Why would I be giving you the key to my heart?” He wasn’t even fond to that extent of orange juice, but now that the conversation had been launched about it, he was ready to improvise and treat the beverage as his religion, for the vine. “I had to see if you are worthy first, and frankly, I’m a bit hesitant sharing my beloved orange juice with you. Maybe next party, if you behave nicely.” Grinning at the prospect of ‘anything can happen in Barcelona’ as if he was getting flashbacks worth turning melancholic at the thought of, Jamie pretended to consider if he could have made the mistake of taking somebody else for Isaac Newton. “No, I’m absolutely sure. Though he was more of an apple juice fan, and that almost didn’t seal the deal,” he made the smart remark after her showing off, knowing the year of his death. “Don’t worry, nobody will ever want to steal it away from you. It’s safe and yours.”