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@onimpact
#ONIMPACT : a study in the ramifications of rage and regret, built upon the basis of a love long lost in a flame not yet forgotten. dependent single - muse blog, penned by karin ( any pronouns ) for tidepoint.
ALENA YAMAGUCHI. ( . . . ) pinterest , musings , interactions.
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he could leave. there's still distance between them — enough that alena could turn on his heels and pretend that he never saw tommy illuminated by the first light that hits the shore. her feet don't listen. they carry her past the threshold, unasked, until she's close enough that there's no way tommy wouldn't know she's there. she clears her throat. "been my spot for a few days now," he says. it's not a real greeting. it's also half a lie, but— "haven't seen you here before." this bit is honest, at least. she kicks at one rocky outcrop, the one just next to where tommy's perched on. she could go, still. could ask him to leave, maybe. knowing him, maybe he'd let her ask that of him. she bends her knees instead, already halfway into settling into a sit on the rocks before she asks, "think it's big enough for two?"
starter for . . . @pineapple1ce ╱ by the rocks on the shore at the crack of dawn, three years ago.
the sound of the waves crashing somewhere on the horizon is loud enough to fill the spaces between them. the only communication that needs to pass between him and sadie is the occasional head tilt between waves, an indication that one of them is going to try catch another. really, it's why he's chosen to text sadie and make his way to the beach today. no questions about the party. or about the blood on the wall. or about the messages teddy's been leaving in their group chat. it's just like any other day. except then alena opens her mouth : "how're you holding up?" it comes out rough, almost hoarse — like her tongue's refamiliarizing itself with speaking again. the edge of her surfboard bangs into sadie's. "heard some of us are going insane about things." a sharp grin follows, but there's not much humor to it. "not me, obviously."
starter for . . . @saltbreak ╱ out at sea, sometime between 8 and 9 am in the morning a few days later.
✶ for. 〳 @onimpact. ✶ time. 〳 approx. 1 p.m. ✶ place. 〳 [ext.] lethe harbor
SOMETIMES, LETHE MOVES LIKE NOTHING EVER HAPPENED. the ships come and leave the harbor in its steady rhythm, indifferent to the horrors of the previous summer, unconcerned with the fresh wave of doubts and secrets that plague this summer. juliette sits on a bench at a quiet end of the harbor next to alena, treats and drinks from saltbreak brought out with them. it's a miraculous thing, that in all the chaos of last summer, jules' bond with alena has done the exact opposite of fraying at its edges. if anything, she feels closer to him, and an acuity attuned to not messing with it like she has with many. as long as she doesn't find out about last summer, or ██████████. juliette, still with shadows under her eyes from a restless night, shifts to turn to alena. “ okay, if we start from the beginning… ” she begins, a journalist instinct arising in her — a need to piece it all together, somehow have it all make sense. she folds the cafe receipt in her hand as she thinks. “ who would've sent that text ? and do they have his phone, somehow ? but didn't we– i– ” the superstition suddenly passes: the harbor hears, and remembers. juliette eyes their surroundings once, even though this end holds no boats, no other people. “ is it just some kind of sick prank ? ”
her heart thuds in her chest. it's a frightening thing when it threatens to rise up her throat, and even more frightening when it doesn't. now, next to juliette, the beat of it chimes steady. one, two. one, two. like footsteps. like what heartbeats are meant to sound like in the first place. alena's hands ball into fists, nails digging into his skin. one, two. one, two. open, close. he opens them again.
it should be unsettling. there's a rhythm here — a calm he hasn't been used to in a long time now. funny how it's jules who brings that out of him. how simple it all is if he lets it be simple. alena almost snorts. he says, instead, "you're not the first person to call it a sick prank." kieran's words resurface. there was blood on the wall and that was what he called it, too. she turns — looks at juliette. if she lets herself stop for more than just a beat, maybe warmth will take root. it's almost comforting. "i think it's something else," he continues. the text. the blood on the wall. who knows what else happened or will happen? "you guys gotta stop calling it a prank. don't you see?" it's not meant to be unkind. if there's anyone who deserves her patience right now, it's jules. she exhales. "it's a threat, jules. someone wants us scared. nothing funny about that, don't you think?"
location : the bluffs. time : approx. 3:12PM open to : @onimpact !
❛ i’m not going to apologize. ❜ an entry without preamble, sharp — down to the very point. something akin to a scowl takes shape in the purse of her lips, in the furrow of her brow ; she isn’t sure what it is that she expected, having concocted a hazy, far - off sketch of reintroduction in the far corners of her mind, but she’s certain that it wasn’t this. ❛ i’m not going to apologize because chicago sucked without you, and you just assumed that i was going to be here, and you never even picked up the phone and thought to ask — and that’s fucked, alena. that’s fucked and you know it. ❜ and at the proverbial crossroads, they stand ; it bothers her in a way she wishes it hadn’t, aching like a bruise, and here she is, pinching at the edges to bring the color back to the surface. ❛ you could have called, or texted, or fuck, sent me a letter. and you didn’t, so i’m stuck trying to figure out what i did wrong. ❜
i wasn't asking you to, is on the tip alena's tongue, sharp and jagged and all sorts of defensive. there's a fracture here, he thinks — a crack born from the ashes of last summer turned into something bigger than the both of them in the months that followed it. chicago looms large in the background. what do you want, freya? she almost asks. she doesn't have to.
"i did," she says instead. freya's always been the one better at being honest. maybe that's the problem, really. he meant to say : i did. i called. i replied to your texts. not enough, maybe, but— what comes out is, "how do you do it?" she stands. crawls off her knees and pulls herself to full height, face to face with freya now. they're almost nose to nose. almost touching. it's almost like before last summer again. almost like they still share chicago. alena's eyes narrow. "how do you do it, freya?" how do you stomach being so honest still in the aftermath of it all? "after everything, after the texts, the—" he pauses. the words, i know what you did last summer, etched on the wall in blood, flashes in her mind. "how are you still wearing your heart out on your fucking sleeve?" her hand reaches out, grabbing onto the crook of freya's elbow. "didn't you know?" she hisses, low and soft. "shit like that could kill you out here."
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take two . . .
/ ( yuki kato. genderfluid. she/he ). ⸻ alena yamaguchi, a twenty - nine year old finance officer, still wears last summer like a scar. they move through the heat as the supernova, each step a reminder of the role they've never quite outrun. carried like souvenirs from something they won't talk about, you'll recognize them by the crush of the tide against jagged rocks below ; the cloying scent of oil, petrol, and grease ; a rotting flower drowning in its own vase. they've always been persevering and capricious, depending on who's telling the story. the sand shifts, the shoreline whispers, and everyone pretends not to notice what's changed. but secrets rot faster in the sun & someone out there still remembers exactly what they did… she bribed an old team boss to let her win the season, all without his parents’ knowledge.
why were you arguing with the flight risk at the top of tidepoint the night of the party? what was said in the dark that no one else was meant to hear?
the furrow of her brows is immediate, a restless energy settling into her spine. “are we interrogating me now? we weren’t—” what was it that her childhood therapist used to say? breathe in deep. hold it for three seconds. breathe out. yeah, much good that’s gonna do him here. one leg stretches below the table. over the other, alena presses her palm into, just above the knee. it’s not enough to curb the tension.
he looks away, scowl already forming as his fingers dig into the fabric of his jeans. she’ll find angry red half - moon marks over the skin underneath later, probably, but— later’s problem, really. her other arm finds the surface of the table, elbow laid flat on it. no point in running from this, too. her breath comes out in an irritated huff when she leans in. “why? can’t i keep my secrets anymore?” so many others that are worth more now, and yet. maybe this one won’t see the light, since teddy’s fucking dead. there’s a pause, and then : “he knew someone,” he settles for.
“i was looking to move. new city, new job, all that. needed a new place to stay. you know how it is.” they don’t, not really. this has to work out, teddy, he’d said. look where that got them. “teddy said he had a friend who could hook me up.” how unimportant was it all, in the grand scheme of things? “it fell through.”
you know how it is, alena wants to say again. they all knew how the rest of it played out. “i got mad. we argued.” no big deal, right? teddy had said. you can find a new place. there’s still time. that was the problem with teddy. nothing was ever a problem to him, and now he’s fucking dead. like hell it isn’t a big deal, she’d snarled that night, hands shoving against teddy’s chest. it’s all her fault for showing him how desperate she’d been. he didn’t get it. “it had to work out,” she says now. she leans back again. the metal feet of the chair scrape against the ground as alena pushes to a stand. full height, chest heaving and fists balled. “doesn’t matter now, anyway. i got what i wanted.”
for some reason, he’d braced for something harsher, a clipped remark to keep him at arm’s length, but alena holds himself as he always does: steady as glass that refuses to crack, even when the room rattles. it leaves him strangely unmoored, the same way he’d felt the first summer he saw her again in lethe, unsure of where he fit in her world. “only if they played bye baby by nas,” he says, with a chuckle meant to fill the gap. “it fucks me up. i thought nas and kelis would be together forever.” the song had been the soundtrack to his first summer in lethe, playing on repeat in cheap headphones as he tried to drown out the weight of everything else. he remembers hearing it the day he first spotted sadie from the window, two discordant moments tangled together. when he speaks again, it’s slower, the grin softened into something almost cautious. “to be honest, i saw you walk out and just… followed. thought i’d check if you’re alright. i’m guessing you got the text, too?”
sometimes he can't decide if he likes that about tommy — that he's able to turn whatever's wrong with all of them into something lighter — or if it's something that he wants to shake out of him. it makes alena feel a little like a fraud, the way tommy grins and laughs like this is just another party. just another summer. she doesn't know how to match that lightness, to play along with his joke. but then he gives her an opening, and this much she knows how to deal with. this is easy, even when tommy's expression closes up. he's cautious now. this alena knows how to deal with. he says, "yeah?" what's the verdict, then? he wants to ask. am i alright? sometimes alena wonders, too, what tommy sees when he looks at him. instead, he follows it up with, "you shouldn't be so open about the text. what if you were the only one who got it, hm? the rest of us might suspect you of something you haven't done."
he appreciates the ease that settles between them. like that alena doesn't beat around the bush. for someone who has been told, on more than one occasion, to bite his tongue ( courtesy mostly of his sisters ), he knows he operates the same way. probably why they found an easy rhythm, both inside and outside of the gym. “ not avoiding you. at least not intentionally. probably was a shit person to most people the last. . .” he pauses, gazing into the distance as if he's doing some serious calculations. “ ten . . . maybe twelve months. ” a quirked smile, tugging up his lips. “ though, some might say always. tommy would say always. ” his hand swipes at his hair, fingers running through what was meant to be gelled, but forgotten strands. “ i'm pretty sure you've called me stupid before, ” milos accuses, but his voice doesn't hide its teasing inflection. “ besides, who else is willing to put up your trash music while we lift ”
he holds up his hand. in a invitation, or a challenge, or something else, alena isn’t sure yet. but he holds it out there, waiting for milos to take it — like he’s sure that that’s the only outcome that’ll come true. maybe it is. “i don’t care,” she says. probably was a shit person to most people, he had said. sometimes she thinks that they could’ve been mirrors, if your reflection in the mirror doesn't raise their hand the same time you do, or smile back at you even when you're not smiling. like a broken mirror. defunct. alena shoulders on, "better a shit person who's honest about it than a shit person in denial about being one."
that's what she likes about milos, anyway. that he's unabashed about it even when he's being shitty. there's a fierce stubbornness that takes root in her, even when her lips quirk up. "don't really like it when you lie, though," he adds. "you play trash music, i don't." and then, a bit more carefully, "tommy giving you shit about . . ." a pause follows. there's probably a lot of things that tommy could give milos shit for. some maybe warranted. "—the last ten, twelve months?"
HE DOESN'T LAUGH, but a deep part of him wants to. it would sound wrong, too bitter, too cracked at the edges to pass for humor, so it just curls behind his teeth, never to escape. kieran fixates on the words, staring hard enough until it brands in the back of his skull. troxler effect kicks in, and he has to force himself to blink. he looks at alena, then zak. the space between the three of them feels thinner now, nearly suffocating. “yeah,” he murmurs, tautness pulling his voice. “but i can only recall one thing worth all this trouble.”
kieran takes a closer look, and he abruptly stiffens. that smell again, metallic, faint, and real. it’s the same sharp, iron edge that clung to the night air last summer, when teddy’s body went cold. the realization hits the back of his throat like a memory he can’t shake, and the summer evening heat cools instantly. his hand closes into a fist at his side — he knows this scent too well. “this isn’t random.” his eyes drift between the smeared letters and the two standing beside him. “it's probably someone we know. some sick, twisted prank.”
the cigarette breathes between his fingers, ember blooming soft with every inhale. zakaria doesn’t bother to hide the twist in his mouth sharp as fishhook, “ someone we know, ” he echoes, voice riding the thinnest seam of mockery, already displeased with the company. his gaze sweeps over alena, then kieran, then back to the wall. he steps forward, and the boathouse seems to breathe before him — ribs showing, wood darkening like a bruise. zakaria drags two fingers through the “ K, ” blood staining the pad of his middle finger. wet. familiar. the cigarette trembles forgotten. below, seawater slaps the pilings like it's waiting for a confession. “ fucking sick bastard. blood's still warm. "
it's almost a comfort that the first instinct that strikes her is to pluck the cigarette right out of zak's fingers, pressing the lit end against the wall just above the 'R'. it's just like any other night. she holds it there and the spark flickers, and flickers again, and then dies out entirely. only the street light illuminates them and the writing on the wall. just like any other night, except there's blood on the wall, and someone knows what they did last summer. the urge to call zak insufferable dies in her throat. she looks at him. lets her gaze linger for a moment, before turning to look at kieran. he wonders if kieran would want to do something about this, or if he'd rather leave and pretend it never happened. neither her nor zak have that luxury.
he lets his eyes stay on kieran. "you think anyone saw us that night?" a lot of things happened last summer. but i can only recall one thing worth all this trouble, kieran had said. if someone did, then they'd have to acknowledge what this is. she looks at the smeared 'K'. "not a prank, then." this one, she says to zakaria. "whose blood do you think it is?"
eyes fall upon the other , yet neither of the two see . and confusion is the sole thing guiding his hands to reach , try to steady even moments after the impact had settled to dust between them . a prolonged reaction , rei is sure that alena can tell by now . he'd grown accostumed to the spectres flickering , the softest alternation in their features . . . merely a finger pointing back at him as a reminder of his state . go home , rei . cold plunge back into the reality they both found themselves in . and as his tongue lay heavy against the words that didn't make it out quite yet , a laugh was what he could muster without any sort of hesitation . breathless , at best , still sufficient in unravelling some seams previously knit around his pretense . “ you're here , too ” his throat clicked in a frenzied attempt to swallow down the question foreboding something much grimmer . . . you are here , aren't you ? alike an agreement made somewhere between the lines , rei sat on the nearest bench . . . invitation for alena to follow suit out in the open . raw and genuine , grueling admission to defeat in the face of an opponent set to falsly joust against one another .
it'd be easy to walk away. it should be easy. alena's gaze falls on rei's hands, watching him reach for some phantom in the dark before he steadies them again. there's a fleeting moment — just a split second too long — where she wonders if he would have grasped onto something had she been anyone else. she lets the thought pass. too many what ifs and too little to gain from them. you're here, too, rei says, and alena could tell him : not for long. or maybe, yeah, but you shouldn't be. anything to put an end to this before it becomes a conversation. he sits on the bench next to rei instead.
"long night," she says. the cover of the night usually brings the worst out of her. too many times he'd slip into another common tongue, meant only for rei to hear. there's a certain kind of sick satisfaction that comes from understanding. tonight, his tongue is kinder — spent on all that venom already. she leans forward, resting her elbows over her knees. a moment passes, and then she glances at him. if she was even kinder, she'd ask, what happened to you? what comes out of her mouth is, "just don't sleep like the dead past lunchtime tomorrow. they're gonna think someone got to you, too."
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company is company, whether or not it had been invited. she sits and hana's lips press into a thin line. she draws in a deep breath, eyes falling shut. find your peace. ( because the last thing any of them need is an argument from higher ground. ) “all that room and you're right in my bubble.” she pulls her knees to her chest, blatantly not looking at him — a move that is as intentional as it is petulant. the same as it's always been: hana doesn't know how to ask for space, so she grows cold. a puff of air from her mouth, “not like there's the entirety of lethe coast to explore or anything.”
what happened to you? alena wants to ask. what happened to us? it wouldn't be the first time the question lingers, threatening to make its way past his lips before he swallows it back down. "yeah, well," he says instead. it's not a real answer, but there's a pause as he bends his knees and then folds them out in front of him, settling into a cross-legged sit next to hana. their elbows are still close enough to brush.
"don't pout," alena starts again. it's not as if he can see her, staring out the sea like this. no point in looking back if hana's not going to look at her. her laugh is short — humourless. "strength in numbers, right? gonna need someone to save me in case i fall off the cliff." now, he turns to look at her. who cares if she's not looking back? it's a morbid joke, but : "and you're here. wouldn't want me to fall to my death, would you?"
it’s a careful waltz, toeing the perimeter between anticipation and dread — the moment feels fragile, curled up in the palm of her hand, and she can do nothing but stare as alena lies clear through his teeth, a stoic allocution. figured there’d be no point in coming down to chicago for a visit when you’d be here. she scoffs, hiding it neatly behind the palm of her hand, a beacon of decorum. if her eye - roll is caught, she’ll do what she does best : deny, deny, deny. nothing about alena’s behavior surprises her ; the tension predictable, formulaic. inevitable. their penultimate dialogue feels as if it had taken place ages ago, years upon years rather than a few short months. hell, freya doesn’t even remember if alena had said goodbye.
❛ and what if i hadn’t come back this year ? ❜ it spills from her quick, sharp, glinting through the night like a blade. it turns quickly, temper flaring under the lights, against the thud of the bass. it’s disingenuous, the whole lot of it, and that may be the part that she hates the most. she’ll entertain it from the others, smile while they spin their lies and half - truths, weave the web of a story of their own creation, but she won’t do that with her. not with alena. not after everything. something accusatory simmers under the surface. this, a familiar arena : on the offense, swift to bite. it easier this way, at home in her own skin. yet her opponent is unfamiliar, foreign, a blindspot. they’ve always been on the same side, the two of them, thick as thieves. freya isn’t sure when that changed. or why. ❛ want me to send you a calendar invite ? that’ll keep it top of mind. get you to pick up the phone occasionally. ❜ her voice is saccharine, sticky - sweet. she smiles and it doesn’t reach her eyes. not even close. ❛ how do you like it out there ? it’s spokane, right ? ❜
the feeling is a familiar one — bubbling just under the surface, not yet full - formed, but there enough that she remembers it. it's like the race she never completed. or the spark snuffed out, or the remnants of a house burnt down. the thing making a home in her belly opens its mouth and spits out : regret. but the truth about regret is that it's an old friend as much as it is an old enemy now. the ebb and flow of it doesn’t feel like a bullet straight to the heart anymore.
freya’s accusation still takes the form of a knife to his throat. he hadn’t asked, because freya would be in lethe. she had to be. and she's here now, isn't she? is it really a lie if the only thing that could bring alena back to chicago is freya? there's no point in spending a summer there when the red string between them still leads both of them here, to the shore and the sea and the scene of the crime.
his lips curl. like this, it's like looking a snake directly in its mouth, fangs and all. if freya's bite had poison in it, a lesser man might've looked away. he meets her gaze, swallowing the smile that isn't really a smile staring back at him. "it's lethe," she repeats. like that too, still means something. you wouldn't have not come back. "you knew i'd be here too, didn't you?" is that an admission, an accusation, or a wish? maybe it's all three. something crackles in the back of her throat, red - hot and fiery. deep breaths. "someone told me this a while ago. they said a conversation goes both ways. did you know that?" granted, it's alena's fault — mostly. the missed calls, the text messages he returned too late . . . "you'd know how i like it out there if you asked. or remembered where 'out there' is." her arms fold over her chest. "don't pick this fight with me, freya. send me that calendar invite for the day after you get back home." are they mending things or making things worse? the question stays unanswered. "don't worry, i'll remember to accept."
it’s not as if alena was unaware whose company he’s keeping right now. but it’s not until the words on the wall stare back at her that the two figures at her side snap into focus, as if the writing itself commanded her attention. look, it taunts her. look at me. look around you. an urgency takes root, untamed and erratic. she wonders if zakaria and kieran can hear the pounding of her heart. “well,” he starts, head turning to see if the writing on the wall commanded their attention, too. what do we do now? his voice dips low. “a lot of things happened last summer.”
starter for . . . @incaelestis & @t3nebrae ╱ at the five around 12:15 am, staring at the wall that says, “i know what you did last summer.”
✦ ⌢ open to unlimited replies. ✦ ⌢ ＠ the bluffs, around 10:00 a.m.
perched atop the bluffs, hana feels as if she can finally breathe. impossibly high above lethe and the ocean, it's as if nothing can touch her here. ( as long as she keeps her eyes forward, far away from the direction of tidepoint. ) coming alone almost promises no need for performance. almost— because she hears the trek of a guest climbing the bluffs. she doesn't turn. eyes ahead, she reminds herself. “spot's taken.”
she could bulldoze her way into an agreement. or not say anything at all and just . . . stop. sit. she could stop right here and stand there, more than a good few feet away from hana. it's a big enough distance. they can even both stare out the ocean in silence. it's not a bad idea.
alena doesn't heed the thought. he finds his way next to hana instead, only planting his feet when their elbows are close enough to touch. "last i checked," she starts, "spot's big enough for two." hana's eyes are fixed forward. is it the sky, the sea, or something else she's looking at? he follows her gaze. "could fit the whole group, actually. it's not like you own the whole stretch." like this, it's equal parts a challenge and a probe for permission.
“ i'd prefer to go one night with just nostalgia — sans grief, you know ? ” perhaps that made misja a shill, someone who could easily compartmentalize the festivities of a purely self-serving spectacle ( sorry, hana ) versus that of the death of their friend, detachment in some way that felt arguably colder than the rest of their group. someone needed to be their rock, a force that wouldn't devolve into tears or self-destructive behaviors simply to cope with the tragedy that is — was — teddy. misja would never say that they were the best choice at doing so, far from the number one pick, but, someone had to. “ some people do — they really believe they've been ‘emselves for their whole lives and part of me believes it, maybe. ” a dry laugh escapes her, eyes darting to face alena, gaze washing over the way moonlight basks upon his features. “ i’m contradicting myself by saying this, but — you're one of ‘em. you’ve always been you, to me. some shining thing, bright ‘n fuckin’ unabashed. if one of us was gonna punch teddy, it was either gonna be you, or milos, and my money was on you this whole time. what'd your clients think when they realize the guy lookin' over their w-2's was this close from smashing a bottle over a guy's head two summers ago ? ” they shake their head, bare heel digging into the sand below them. “ mind if i steal that line from your old therapist, though ? ”
she misses teddy. the thought comes, unbidden, like a sudden wave crashing onto shore — one second there and the next gone, only the sting of it as proof that it was ever there at all. it’s his fault, really, for bringing up this stupid elephant in the room. “alright. no grief, got it,” she says, hands raised in mock surrender. if it comes out a little tighter than he intended, well— he just has to trust that misja has grace to give and not mention it.
and then they go and invoke teddy’s name, and the same tightness makes a home in alena’s chest. still, it’s misja. hardly the worst to share a bout of nostalgia with. her gaze flickers, finding the stretch of nothing behind them. his eyes rests on the tree line beyond the tennis courts when he opens his mouth. why is looking at misja so damn hard? "that the therapist in you trying to psychoanalyze me?" it's not meant to be unkind. it's just easier to say than to confront the nostalgia of two summers ago and what that means. two summers ago. one summer ago. where do they draw the line of when to stop going down that lane of memory? he forces himself to look at her again. some shining thing, misja called her. alena exhales. "my clients think i've got the sweetest deal. summer by the sea, taking calls on the beach . . . what's not to like?" her smile holds just the smallest hints of humor. "next time i'll tell them i even got a summer friend who calls me a bright shining thing, too." now that he's looking, he can't tear his eyes away. they're bonded in ways they were never before, all fourteen — fifteen, alena thinks — of them. the sarcasm drips off his tongue : "just the dream summer vacation we've got, huh? we all stay the same for three months every year."
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the sourness makes a home in his throat even before he feels the full impact of the collision. there’s something funny about that, about how his body knows even before he comes face to face with rei sato, of all people. the words slip out of her mouth without warning : “you again.” it’s followed by a step back. the memory of last summer threatening to fill in the space between them. why is it always you i find, after everything’s been said and done? it feels too intimate to say out loud. alena’s lips purse. what happened to you tonight that also happened to me? “go home, rei,” she settles for. her nails dig into her palms, both of them hanging loosely by her sides. “it’s late.” never mind that she’s still out here, too.
starter for . . . @pecadilloss ╱ out on the boardwalks, sometime after the events of the last plot drop but before dawn comes.
setting: in one of the corridors, lethe club. after the text, with @onimpact
after a deep inhale, he holds the breath like it'd keep him afloat as he glances across the room, gaze settling on him. they couldn't be further apart, alena and tommy. it's always been that way. but when the curtains close and the applause stills, they meet between the rocks and the tide. an unspoken rule tommy finds breaking as he approaches her, one apologetic step after another, but he slips away before tommy can reach him. “lena -- hey!” eventually, he catches up to her, and suddenly he realises there's no real reason he couldn't wait until morning. wiping his palms down linen trousers, with a lopsided grin, he asks, “not a fan of the song?”
they’re on two ends of the spectrum, two opposing corners of a room. a room that’s beginning to feel smaller and smaller by the second, the two corners dragging themselves closer and closer to collide in the middle. or maybe that’s just tommy, unrelenting in all his glory. she watches him skid to a stop, grin directed at her in full force.
if she closes her eyes and pretends the thundering beat of the music are waves crashing against the rocks, it’s almost like they’re down by the shore. he throws a glance behind him, where the party is still in full swing somewhere inside. he snorts. “what, would you step out just ‘cause you don’t like the song?” scratch that. if anyone would, it’d be tommy. wouldn’t it be nice to live like that? alena blinks. and then, with a shrug of faux nonchalance, “needed air — stuffy in there and all.” it feels so . . . distant. clinical. he forces himself to look at tommy’s grin again. “why are you out here? hana too much of a host?”
