( liability. )

All she wants to do is return to the delusion simplicity that used to follow so easily. Call one another, add in a few bottles of hard liquor and meet at a hotel. She was gone before the sun rose, and never had to let herself pause and think about anything other than the desire to rip his clothes off. Any possibility of that happening has become slim, leaving her feeling too vulnerable and unable to take her eyes off him. They’re complicated, practically the definition of the word, and no matter how hard she begs – Chessie can’t run away from this part of her life. Not anymore. Not when Sebastian shows up at her door and her stomach turns into knots. 

She wants to reach out, feel his arms around her, bask in the security that comes from his presence. Instead, she watches him, a half-smile gracing her lips as he attempts to maintain the lightness of their conversation, as if they’re not standing her bedroom at rehab, while he’s fresh off a three day stint at county. “Sebastian,” His name rolls off her tongue, feeling welcomed and familiar. A pause follows, as she stands, crossing the room to approach him. “I know you didn’t come here to talk about jell-o,” Chessie continues, now standing in front of him, head tilted up slightly to meet his eyes. In any other situation, any other context that would be an invitation. A segway into sloppy kisses and roaming hands, but now – It’s opening to something entirely different: An honest conversation, the rare moment she isn’t dismissing or running away. She can count on her hand the amount of times they’ve actually spoken to one another in the last eight years, this moment adding to the fold. A pause follows, before speaks again, soft and slowly. “What happened to you on New Years?” 

Play with fire, get burned. But Chessie isn’t fire. Not really. There’s a sweetness to her burn like a long pull of smokey whiskey running down his throat, turning everything hazy and magnificent. She’s that hit of ecstasy that makes party lights splinter and glisten like stain-glass windows crafted in tribute to praise a higher entity. And how human Sebastian feels, basking in that glory, gawking up at it, on his knees, seeking salvation.

But as the night hours stretch into morning, it’s that same drink, that same drug that has him slumped over the bar, the world spinning too quickly and too uncontrollably until he finds himself in the back of a cab, in the hollow corridors of his apartment, and eventually in his same empty bed.

She says his name so sweetly, so softly. And like an addict, he’s ready for another hit to send him spiraling.

It isn’t a secret. The covers of gossip rags on the newsstands of this city’s every corner have made sure of that. So he doesn’t bother lying to her, not this time. “Just a little stint in jail,” he offers, the inflection on the end of his sentence making it sound like a question, like he’s just delivered a joke he’s not sure is funny. “Cops broke up the party. I had some stuff on me. It’s nothing. You know the pigs are going insane—they’ll jump on anyone who’s even smiled at Rowan, y’know. Just Chief Tandel being an asshole.”

Rowan instinctively shoved back as Sebastian barged into his apartment, his face twisting from an expression of confusion to one of closed off anger. Changing course he moved to let Sebastian through, slamming the door after him and turning to face him, shoulders squaring as his own anger flared to match the level of intensity that the other man was coming at him with, even if he’d been inclined to keep his temper, which he wasn’t. Not at the moment, not with Sebastian, and certainly not when he had the balls to come to his door and start making accusations.  

“Oh I think the fuck not O’Riley. You don’t get to come into my goddamn house, shouting at me, and trotting down some moral fucking high road like you aren’t involved.” Rowan growled. “Even if I did sell that coke to Chess- which I fucking didn’t by the way asshole- you’ve handled plenty of little plastic baggies yourself, and we both know what the risks are. I keep track of how much shit I hand out, but that doesn’t change the fact that we deal drugs, not fucking vegetables. They can be dangerous when you’re an addict.” 

And there was no question of that word applying to Chessie. Even before the overdose, her words to Rowan had already proven to him what state she was in. He wondered if he had heard that last conversation between her and Rowan would make Sebastian blame him more or less. Given Rowan’s suspicions of his own roll in Chessie’ confession given their history (”David, he’s eight now.” - it was basic math.) He suspected the former. “But by all means Seb, tell me more about how you blame me for this.” Rowan said in something close to a snarl. “I like how you seem to be ignoring your own part in New York City’s drug trade.”

It doesn’t take much to tear down Sebastian’s every argument, and Rowan, of all people, knows that all too well. Vicious to a fault, Rowan shreds it with fangs and claws, and all Sebastian is left with is the torn skin and bare bones of a poor attempt staring back in his face.

“Right, yeah, uh huh,” he says dumbly, a few fillers as his brain tries to keep up, reboot and try again. “You didn’t sell that coke to Chess, that’s great, but don’t think I don’t know who she was going to to keep up the habit, Ro. Fuck! You can be so fucking selfish, you know that?”

He’s pacing now, trying to take up more space just to assert himself over it. “I’m not saying I’m fucking Mother Teresa either, but you could have at least put a little more effort into not, I don’t know, selling shit tons of coke to the people we actually give a shit about.” It’s every bit as fucked up as it sounds, and the logical part of him deep down... deep, deep down... knows that. But for as ruthless as Rowan is, Sebastian expects him to be able to draw a line and know when it’s been crossed. And Chessie, regardless of whatever the hell she and Sebastian are, is definitely a boundary. One that Seb won’t take trespassing over lightly.

Following his cue, she returns a half smile, grateful he’s not pushing her for information. Or at least, the truth she’s not sure she can verbalize without having a melt down. It was easier, but more complicated in the long run. Simply putting a traumatizing experience into a small box, on to the shelf to never be brought up again. Sebastian, more than anyone, knows how hard she tries to brush things under the rug. It’s a destructive way to live, but somehow, she’s managed to juggle all of her secrets, misdoings, and upsetting memories by simply pretending they don’t exist. It’s just the Abernathy way, really: If you never bring it up again, clearly it never happened, and will be forgotten just as easily. 

Chessie can’t help but feel like she’s sixteen again, sneaking Sebastian into her room everyone’s gone to sleep. She’s nervous, though there’s no reason to be. She knows him like the back of her hand, but each time she finds herself alone with him – His presence has a way of making her unravel in every sense of the word. Tonight seems to be a prime example. Add in the fact that she’s still unsure of where they stand with one another to the unfortunate circumstances that put her into  this room – And you have a lethal combination. It’s easy for her to control a conversation, keep things moving without uncomfortable pauses or breaks; Half of her career is schmoozing whatever photographer, fashion house, or editor comes her way. But then Sebastian O’Riley shows up to her door – In rehab, of all places – with a bouquet of flowers, and she’s a stuttering mess. I really needed to see you. Six words and her stomach is doing flips, a ghost of a smile gracing her lips for a moment.

She’s grateful that he stopped himself – Whether it was for her sake or his, the last thing she wants to talk about is the fact that she could have died. Chessie is painfully aware of the fact, it haunts her every thought and movement, reminding her cruelly of how reckless and out of control she was – is – and that it’d simply been pure luck that got her out of it. She didn’t need a conversation about it, didn’t need to think about how he would have been effected by it if she hadn’t made it through. No, she doesn’t want to talk about that. So, she settles for his joke about the lobster, feeling herself able to let go of the breath she’d been holding. “I’ve never eaten so much frozen food in my life,” she replies quietly, letting out a small chuckle. “If I see one more bowl of jell-o, I may lose it.”

What he wouldn’t do to wrap his arms around her, act like a barricade, showing his back to all the blades that threaten to pierce her skin, her heart, her soul. But Sebastian knows he’s not a hero. As often as he likes to play the part— arrive in clothes that shine like armor, offer something that resembles chivalry but always falls flat—he’s nothing but fool’s gold, a placebo. He can only numb the pain for a moment before it all comes rushing back to her. There’s not a damn thing he can do about it now. Except continue to play the game.

“Y’know, the cherry ones never really taste like cherry,” he agrees halfheartedly, carrying on the conversation for her sake. He could ask her a million questions, ask her how and why, oh God, why? But that’s not how they do this. It’s never been how they do this. A straight and narrow path never compares to the timeless allure of the scenic route. And what a topsy, turvy route they choose to take. “But the lime ones are seriously underrated.”

It wasn’t one moment that’s inspired this kind of anger in Sebastian. Funny enough, this isn’t something he’s thought up and executed the very moment it’s entered his mind. That doesn’t mean it’s any more premeditated, however.

Over the past few days, his anger towards Rowan has become a flame on a candle wick, shaking and flailing with life, but steady, contained. It grew and shrank in nonsensical intervals. Seb thought of Rowan selling to Chessie when Sebastian was pouring cereal, Captain Crunch rattling against the ceramic glaze of the bowl. He thought about it in business meetings as he stared at the intricate designs in the carpet. He thought about it while swiveling his toothbrush around his molars and turning up the thermostat.

Now he’s banging on Rowan’s door, and it’s only when it opens that he realizes he has no plan, no words, only rage. The candle’s been knocked over, setting the tablecloth beneath it on fire. It will soon spread across the floor and consume the entire building. 

Not waiting for an invitation, Seb forces his way through the door, gruffly knocking his shoulder against Rowan’s as words start to craft themselves on his tongue before his mind has anything to do with it. “Nice, Rowan. Real fucking nice. Y’know, I thought you were reserving lethal amounts of your drugs for the everyday schlub, maybe a CEO or two, but would it kill you to show some fucking loyalty and keep it away from our own fucking circle?”

Chessie didn’t want to admit to herself how much she wanted to see Sebastian. They weren’t together, he wasn’t her someone to miss. She’d convinced herself that would make her too invested in a ‘friends with benefits’ type of scenario, especially when the two were in a strange in-between in terms of whatever their relationship is. And well – Part of her couldn’t help but feel like she deserved a bit of isolation after what she put her friends and brother through, as well. But when she caught wind of Sebastian’s arrest, deserved isolation began to feel much more like helplessness, given that she wasn’t in a position to leave.

But then came a knock at her door, and there he was – The two stuttering through a conversation as he held up a bouquet of flowers. “Oh,” is the only word that comes out, a slow nod following as her eyes move from him to the flowers and back again. “Thank you,” follows soon after, her voice coming out somewhere just above a whisper. She can’t help but stare, for a moment too long, too many questions floating through her head, as she tries to find a way to explain herself. Chessie wants to tell him everything – That the reason she was hospitalized wasn’t for exhaustion, nothing close. She wants to vocalize to him that she thinks she has a problem, how scared she is. Instead, Chessie remains silent, chewing on her bottom lip as she tries to figure out what to do. 

He’s never seen her like this, never in this context.  She’d been to rehab before, but that had been a secret between her and her father – And back in California, long before they had reconnected. But now, here she was, in an old Auburn University sweatshirt, and a pair of leggings. Chessie made a habit of dressing up when she saw him, whether it be in a hotel room, or at his doorstep. Typically, she was some sort of put together, even on her days off – Perfectly curled hair, carefully applied make up and a pair of expensive heels. She looked like a ghost of herself, all dark circles and ribs poking out. It left her feeling far too vulnerable, too exposed. He was seeing a side of her that wasn’t known, one she didn’t want to see the light of day. 

“You should come in,” Chessie speaks up after a moment, attempting to break the tension and ignore her own insecurities. “Come in,” she repeats the words, taking a step back to let him into the room. “It’s not much, but I guess it’s –” she pauses, stopping herself from calling her room at rehab ‘home’. It was a decent sized room, a full sized bed in the center, with a set of chairs and a small table near by. There was a kitchenette, only stocked with cups and coffee filters for the Mr. Coffee on the counter. Crossing the room, Chessie moves to sit criss-crossed on her bed. There’s a silence hanging in the air, one she wished she could get rid of with a snap of her fingers. “I’m glad you came, Sebastian. I – I would have called, but they won’t let me have my phone here.” 

Chessie likes to pretend she’s a woman full of unattainable secrets, and Sebastian likes to let her. She knows when to seal her lips, sure enough, craft a clever diversion and dazzle her audience with a glimmering smile, glitz and glamour that no one can resist. She can craft herself into the very picture of the American Dream to an impoverished man: beautiful and unattainable.

But it’s her eyes that give her away. Eyes so wide it’s like her entire soul exists within them. Maybe that’s why he can’t look at them now, not as she invites him in and his steps shuffle clumsily along the floor.

He’s able to lift them only when he’s crossed the threshold. It’s... quaint, he decides. But he knows quaint is the rich’s kind way of saying little shit-shack. So he doesn’t comment, just lets his gaze scan over tasteless, brownish curtains, then to Chessie. He finally meets her eyes. And he feels a crack in his chest.

“No, I get it,” he says finally. It’s then he realizes it’s been a bit too long since he’s last spoken. His throat has had enough time to swell and strain around a lump he promptly tries to swallow down. “Seriously, don’t bother explaining; it’s a waste of both of our time.” He flashes a smile towards her, a genuine smile that’s only a shade too dim, cracked and dusty like an old photograph. Finding a place beside her, Sebastian sits himself on the bed. Lumpy, a bit too stiff with the coil springs resting underneath it. He’s never been more grateful for memory foam than he is in this moment. 

“I really needed to see you,” he admits in a sigh, and he’s not sure whether he’s admitting it to Chessie or himself, but it’s certainly the first time he’s said it. “I’m so glad you’re...” Okay? Safe? Alive? The first word isn’t enough, and the other two seem far too heavy. Too heavy for this silence that’s already crushing their chests. So Sebastian does what he does best and makes a joke of it. “How’s the food? Doubt the Maine lobster is up to par, huh?”

@seboriley

For lack of a better term, she felt like shit. The morning after she woke up, Chessie was shipped off to the Ostroff center, to take a temporary residency there for the week. The next seven days would be filled with meetings, and counseling sessions, answering for what had happened – All while the movers worked on getting her things packed and moved to Wren’s guest room.  She’d been there for roughly three days, and within that time, she wasn’t any less miserable. Sleeping didn’t become any easier, dark circles becoming a permanent staple for her now. Tonight was proving to be just like the last three – She’d spend her evening tossing and turning, before giving up and staring at her ceiling until the sun rose. That is, until a knock was at her door, disturbing her nightly routine. 

With an eye roll and a huff, she pulled herself from her bed, assuming it was another nurse at her door, consistently checking on her. Chessie knew they were just doing their jobs – But she couldn’t help but feel some of the younger nurses were hoping to catch her in a lie, or have a story to tell about her after, rather than check on her well being. “Sheila, I’m fine,” she called out, before slowly making her way to the door, hands running through her now shorter hair. (She’d called in her stylist the day before, thinking cutting her hair to above her shoulders seemed like a good way to deal with trauma.) “I don’t need a fucking babysitter,” she grumbled as she opened the door, “I said I’m – Oh.” And there he was, clear as day, standing in the doorway: Sebastian. He looked as disheveled as she did, though she was sure the dark circles under her eyes were darker than his. 

“Hey,” she spoke up after a moment too long, voice quiet and gentle. “What are you uh – What are you doing here?” Chessie finds herself asking the obvious, leaning against the doorway. Her tone wasn’t accusatory, vulnerability coming out far too easily. She hadn’t expected him to show up – But then again, Chessie hadn’t expected herself to be here. Truthfully, the sight of him made her far more emotional than she expected. “It’s… It’s good to see you.” She finds herself admit, lump forming in her throat. 

The Ostroff Center is just as gray and dull as Seb had expected it to be, but somehow it’s eerily worse. It’s the stillness, he realizes after a moment. The building is filled with the kind of silence that makes your ears buzz with white noise, makes you too aware of the heat blasting from overhead vents, the hiss of electricity in the LED lights on the ceiling. The comfort of his apartment feels so much further away now. He wonders if this place has every seen a hint of luxury, any sunlight bleeding through tall windows, the colorful glisten of crystals on a chandelier, any light at all. 

It hadn’t been even a week since he heard about Chessie’s so-called condition. Exhaustion, they’d called it. He knew better than to buy into FREYA’s story. 

Turning a blind eye had been easy. Ignoring the powder that clung to her nostrils and the way her ribs jut out from just below her chest had been easy. That’s what he’s telling himself, anyway. So easy that anyone could have missed it. So easy that he is not at all to blame. But he can’t truly believe that. Not for a second.

It’s selfish, and he knows it. But he can’t bear another moment without seeing her, can’t shake the feeling of acid burning his stomach, shriveling it down into nearly nothing.

There's a bouquet of peonies in his hand when she opens the door. The florist was out of sunflowers, and so, tragically, he couldn’t make a cheesy joke about bringing a little sunshine to her day. The peonies suit her a bit more, anyway, slightly folded in at their edges, just on the brink of fully blooming.

“I just... I just thought maybe...” he trails off, eyes finding the laces of his leather sneakers. He wants to look anywhere other than the hollows of her cheeks; she looks corpselike. He doesn’t have words, none that feel right, and so he lifts the flowers up instead. “Thought you might like these...” His voice is dry, stripped of the boisterous confidence he usually carries so effortlessly.

One call, and it’s his lawyer. Sebastian tries not to dwell on how pathetic it is, how mechanical, technical, cold it is. No, if he considered that, the crumbling feeling in his chest would disintegrate like the ashes of Pompeii, leaving behind nothing but ruin.

Henry Grimaldi is a good man, rigid and to the point as the square-shaped spectacles that line his eyes.

He was quick, almost lethally so, gave instructions clearly, and assured Sebastian the whole matter would be cleared up, that Sebastian had nothing to worry about. And with a standard dismissal, the phone clicked, line dead. Henry didn’t ask how Sebastian was holding up, ask if he could handle a few days in a jail cell, ask if he was okay at all. But that wasn’t his job. And that’s all their relationship was, a job. Maybe all the relationships he had left existed out of obligation more than anything else.

Lilith O’Riley is absolutely terrifying when she’s angry. She has a way of starting out in a calm, even tone—normally asking rhetorical questions at this point—and then, suddenly, becoming outraged at the drop of a hat. For this reason, Sebastian has learned to become a fairly decent liar, and he’s even better at covering his tracks. To this day, Sebastian hates speaking to his mother when she’s even remotely irritated, but he also knows better than to try and ignore her calls.

His parents’ approval was something Sebastian stopped chasing a long time ago. Daniel was like a coach to him, always trying to lead him on some fabled path of greatness. His father would outright tell him Seb needed to buckle down, get his head out of the clouds, start thinking with some reason, and this he told Seb often. Lilith was always much more subtle. She was a masterful actor, able to bend everyone to her will with her words alone. She would even whisper just to make you take a step closer to hear her. It was always “Sebastian, dear, don’t you think that’s a tad unreasonable?” or “Sebastian, maybe you ought to think that over a bit longer…” His relationship with his parents greatly confuses him, never sure how much affection they’ve given him and how much he owes them. After all, they were the ones who taught him to treat love like a business deal.

Normally, he’d brush off the paparazzi rats trying to get a rise out of him fairly easily, but now the jabs just feel like the twist of a dagger in his open wounds. It’s the first time he’s left the house in three days, and he can’t even head out to the grocery store without this nonsensical harassment.

He snaps, neck straightening, glare fixed. “Yeah, actually. Think I’m gonna continue with the crime streak, upgrade to felonies. Right now first-degree murder is lookin’ pretty good.”

His internal monologue is a string of fuck yous, each one more aggressive than the last. He manages to keep it off of his face, though the bone in his knuckle jumps when he clenches it into a little fist. “Fuck’s sake— If you’re going to crack these kinds of jokes, could you at least make them original? This has to be the third time I’ve heard that today.”

“For the record, no one’s making you talk to me.” Ben was over pleasing everyone around him. He did that when he was under the Vanderbilt rule, which caused him to virtually live a double life. He didn’t care about pleasing Sebastian or giving him things to complain about. He started digging through Arlo’s kitchen, hopefully, he wouldn’t mind. Finally, Ben hit the jackpot and handed the knife over to Sebastian. He didn’t trust himself to open a bag at this state. “Are you going to have a lime too or just let the tequila burn your mouth?”

“Dude, I’m kidding,” Sebastian assures, a little laugh bubbling up his throat as he tries to soften the blow. “What, they don’t bust your balls in Europe like they do in the good ‘ol U-S of A? We still got that on ‘em?” He offers a clipped but not insincere thanks, grabbing the handle of the knife and working it through a lime. “Well, might as well have some. No point in wasting a perfectly good lime. But if we’re going all out, we gotta find the salt...” He starts pulling open cabinets with reckless abandon, finally catching sight of a shaker and pulling it out. “’Kay. Lick your hand, Benny boy.”

The emotion completely fell from Bishop’s face, the drugs have an adverse affect. Most people would have expected Bishop to want to slam a fist into Sebastian’s face. He knew, however, that that would be losing. Instead, in exactly a half a second flat, he became his uncle. Eyes didn’t even betray him, the gold tones cooling to a disinterested look. “You’re right, I got you out of my system. Guess you really proved what sort of person you were, O’Reilly. Here I was thinking I was the worst person out here.” His eyes rolled at the statement. A sip of his drink and he realized how steady his hands were. Maybe this was what rage did to him, the real sort of rage. 

Wanting to kill someone meant that you still cared for them, he suspected. So this void? Bishop didn’t care. He didn’t even want to bat back replies. Instead, he chuckled, a dark sound coming from his throat. “That’s the best you got? A comment about my shoes?” He shook his head and mouthed the word wow. “Anyway, this was a nice little reunion, but I’ve wasted enough time talking to you.” This was one ghost that he didn’t have time for. The others that followed him around, he didn’t really have a choice with, but this body he could bury.

He swallows, throat tightening around the movement, making it feel thick and swollen, coated with acid. He watches Bishop slink off into a void, like a black mass returning to the shadows, because the light burns too harshly. He’s a coward, Sebastian decides. Because stepping back, that’s easy, isn’t it? Hiding away under the covers rather than grow up and face the monster in the closet is always easier. Sebastian never thought he’d be one to start lecturing someone else on growing up. And so he doesn’t. If Bishop wants to throw himself a pity party rather than buck up and try to fix it? Fine by Seb.

“No I was just—” he starts, rolling his eyes. The shoe comment was more charity than an insult. “Forget it.” 

He’s about to walk away, raise the white flag and disappear, but he can’t bring himself to take another step. Bishop isn’t the only one who can wear rage like a well-tailored suit. His eyes flash back up, whiskey slicking his tongue so the thoughts in his mind are harder to grip onto and impossible to pull back. “You know what, Bishop?” His mouth moves without his brain giving it clearance. “You are so fucking full of it. I fucked up. Bad. I get that. But you don’t get to waltz in here and play the victim, okay? You don’t get to fuck up and then make yourself out like a saint when anyone else does. You wanna know why no one sticks around you? Because one way or another, you’re gonna end up doing this shit to them, and no one can fucking stand it. You wanna play strangers? Fine. But stop feeling sorry for yourself when sooner or later everyone gets fed up and leaves you to wallow in your miserable, self-inflicted bullshit.”

A moment passes, and Sebastian remembers the reason he walked over in the first place. “I’m getting water.” He knocks his shoulder into Bishop’s as he walks past.

Arlo couldn’t help but chuckle at Sebastian. “You insult the majesty of the Solo cup; which is actually quite crucial at parties like this.” He laughed, walking into the kitchen and opening a cabinet next to the fridge. “Here are some good whiskey glasses that I, honestly, haven’t touched in forever.” 

He reached up to grab a glass but it was out of his reach. He tried again, stretching and pushing himself up on his toes but still to no avail. 

Turning around, he gave Sebastian a look. “So I can’t reach them. Which is probably why I haven’t used them in a while. Help?”

“On any other occasion, I would agree with you,” Seb starts, raising a finger to better illustrate the importance of his statement. Or, rather, what he thinks is importance. “But this stuff,” he raises the bottle, letting the liquid inside slosh with a few rattles of his wrist, “is a bit more dignified, and requires the finest crystal you’ve got.”

Sebastian settles himself, resting the bottle on the counter and watching Arlo attempt to reach the glasses. He might have stepped in sooner but, frankly, the sight of Arlo fumbling around with his back arched is kind of adorable.

“I gotcha,” he says through a laugh, stepping forward and pinching a couple of glasses between his knuckles, setting them on the counter. “And we’re gonna need ice.”

It’s easier this way, falling back into her routine with him – Rather than let herself become consumed in emotion, or do something as stupid as wear her heart on her sleeve, Chessie could justify this as a solid plan b. She could let herself get caught in the moment, forget the things that bothered her or needed to be discussed, and do what was easy: Get drunk, and sleep with him. It was simpler than trying to string together the words to tell him she wanted more than that side of him. With the aid of the bottle of vodka next to her, and the amount of coke she’d done in the last week – The thought didn’t as much as pass through her mind.

Meet me there in five. A smirk at her lips, Chessie nodded as she moved from his neck, “Deal.” She agrees without hesitation, moving to push herself off of the counter. Their banter was enjoyable, but it got old – She wanted him, and Chessie wasn’t planning on waiting all night. “Five minutes,” she repeats back to him, hands moving down his chest, head tilted up now that she’s standing in front of him. Even in heels, he’s still managed to get some height on her. Leaning upward on her toes, she kisses the corner of his mouth, before snagging the bottle of vodka and turning on her heel.

It doesn’t take long to find an empty room. She settles with the one at the end of the hall, given that it’s easy to find and looks like it hasn’t been used. Wandering to the bathroom, Chessie finishes the bottle of vodka, only stumbling once in the process. A brief wave of nerves hit her, inspiring her to brush her hands through her hair and smooth out her dress, assessing herself in the mirror. Even a near decade later, Sebastian still manages to make her nervous, without even trying. The feeling fades after a moment, her hands digging into the clutch she’d brought along. finding one of the small bags of coke she brought along.

Two generous bumps later, and the fleeting feeling from minutes before seems miles away. Kicking off her boots, she makes herself comfortable – Laying in the middle of the bed, she waits impatiently for him. The high doesn’t help, making her forget any sense of time, but any frustration that could have garnered in the short time she sat there is forgotten once the door opens. “I think you and I have different definitions of five minutes, babe.” She opens with, propping herself up by the elbows. “I was starting to think I’d have to take this dress off myself.” Chessie teases, head tilting to the side, smirk at her lips.

Five minutes. He has five minutes to get as trashed as he can before he can stumble back up the stairs and screw his ex-girlfriend, now it’s-too-complicated-to-really-sum-up-in-a-word. Maybe the alcohol would stunt the growth of the vines around his heart, stop them from stretching too long, twisting around another heart, tangling them together. He can’t afford to let them root. And so he reaches for his own bottle, whiskey and vodka mixing chaotically on his tongue, leaving a bitter, blurry taste in his mouth.

The blur starts dancing its way up to the crown of his head, smearing his vision and messing the steadiness of his movements. He’s just passed tipsy, settling comfortably underneath a drunkenness that isn’t too thick to climb out of with a little focus. And with it, he’s able to find his way to the guest room, door swinging open to find Chessie waiting for him.

He’s missed this, watching her splayed across the bed like she’s aching with a need that’s been unfulfilled for far too long, spine arched all lovely and feline, legs lying side by side, just enough space in between her thighs to slip his hands over, pin them down—her mouth is moving.

The words register a couple seconds too late, seconds he spends blinking at her dumbly rather than getting his mouth to ask her to repeat herself. “Einstein said time is relative,” he retorts, the fact less a fact he’s learned and more a direct quote from the newest Spider-Man movie. He doesn’t waste any time in letting her decipher that, though, instead closing the door behind him and twisting the lock. With a grunt, he collapses beside her on the bed, rolling over and pressing a kiss to her lips. 

“I’ll make it up to you,” he guarantees, smirk pulling on one end of his lips before falling right back down, hand cupping her jaw as he smears their mouths together again, the warm, thick taste of her lips coating his tongue along with the sharpness of vodka and the sweetness of artificial lemon.

Bishop’s heart was hammering in his chest. He could feel the thudding through his suit jacket. Probably shouldn’t have done the extra bump, but it was too damn late now. Swallowing down another glass of liquor, he was the best kind of party crasher. The kind that brought alcohol, some drugs, and didn’t make a mess. Arlo? Hated him, proven fact. But Bishop was pretty sure that everyone hated him here. He hated himself too, it was really fine. The alcohol took the edge off the razor feeling in the back of his head, right until he heard Sebastian’s voice. Nails on a chalkboard.

No one ever said that Bishop was nice, or kind, and now was no exception. He turned to look at his former friend and disgust coiled through him. Strong as the day the sextape aired. They hadn’t spoken. Not at least outside of the meetings that they had to attend when Blur was burned down. He wanted to keep it that way, tidy snips of a former friendship and strictly business. Pity that they all didn’t burn up with Celia in the fire. God knows they were ashes anyway. “Avoiding you?” Bishop laughed, the cocaine twisting his face into a cruel snarl. “Far from. You’re not worth my time. Just a dead man to me. And I don’t give a fuck about what dead men are sick of.”

The alcohol does nothing to dull the sting rippling through Sebastian’s chest now, starting right at the pit and growing out fast and wide, like kudzu vines taking over every structure in their path. Still, he manages to force his eyes in a loop, the only action he knows to take to dull the pain. This is precisely why Bishop is so bad at making friends and even worse at keeping them. But, just as any other pest, Sebastian isn’t quite so easy to get rid of.

“Good—you got that out of your system.” He stands himself up a little straighter, arms crossing over his chest, hazy eyes fixing on Bishop’s, searching. They were supposed to be even now, weren’t they? The bitter taste in Sebastian’s mouth reminds him: no, not quite. He and Celia, that was frivolous, the only strings attaching them being an excess of cocktails and boredom. Bishop and Chessie, that went deeper. Seb could only hope none of the strings between them included the red tether of fate, tangling them together until the end of time. “I’m sorry to cut the performance short; I’m sure you’ve been practicing that in the mirror all week...” 

His eyes settle on Bishop’s shoes, and Seb’s face pinches. This is proof, now more than ever, that Bishop needs him. Desperately. He could have at least thrown on a pair of oxfords, for God’s sake; he looks like he wandered out of a Bar Mitzvah. “I’m... sorry, I’m—” Seb can’t get over it, his gaze glued, drunken mind stumbling as it tries to get over this hurdle. “Are you seriously wearing Vans?”

As painful as it could be, Chessie enjoyed the teasing. It came with time and distance between them, mixed with plenty of shots and a fancy hotel room – An add bonus to their ever complicated dynamic. As messy things always managed to get, this was still one of her favorite parts. He could get her on the edge of her seat with a single touch, the right set of words strung together. She didn’t care about how public this moment was, nor did she care that they were packed into a penthouse, as if it were a frat party. All she could garner her attention to was him pulling away from her to drink. Chessie physically bit back a whine, bottom lip caught between her teeth as she watched him. His suggestion pulls a smirk from her, “I could think of worse ways to spend New Years.” She inches closer, back arching slightly at his touch, heat pooling between her legs. One hand moves under his blazer, tugging at his shirt until she’s pulled it up enough to feel her cold fingertips on his warm skin. The other, makes use of the bottle of vodka, taking another generous gulp, “I’m sure Arlo won’t mind us borrowing a room,” She justifies, lips moving along his jaw, before nuzzling his neck.

He's always sure to wear armor around his heart when it comes to being close to Chessie like this, preferring to block out his thoughts with the sting of alcohol or the dreamy haze that comes from swallowing down a few pills. Otherwise, her jabs could bruise. There are worse ways to spend New Years. He’s not a first place prize, he’s a consolation, a stop along the way to something greater. Silently, Sebastian begs the vodka to sink into his bloodstream, focusing on the sinking feeling that sits under his skin to will himself into a further state of drunkenness. He’s never been known for his patience. 

The chill of her touch around his hips, climbing up, up, up, serves as the perfect distraction, smirk quirking onto one corner of his lips. “In that case...” He’s grinning now, eyes rolling to the ceiling as her kisses tickle his skin. He plants one of his own against her hair, breath brushing over the top of her ear. “Meet me there in five?”