LATER, BONERS.

You’re not ugly. She was still looking at the photo when the words made impact, her eyes snapping back to Beatrice’s, suddenly remembering what about eye contact scared her this much. Snorting at what might have sounded like a well-deserved dig her drunk mind told her she was reading too much into, because again, it was funny. And well-deserved, alright. “Sometimes”, she admitted. “Most times they gotta pay something, but yeah. For free too, sometimes.” Sparkling personality or not, all it took was someone being insistent enough, sad enough, desperate enough. Sasha’s boundaries were made of wet paper and she was good at exactly one way of comforting. Born a people pleaser and that translated in the bedroom, matching her non-existent standards and complete disregard for her own squicks. All anyone had to do was make an argument, no matter how weak, stupid or illogical. She didn’t see the wrong in it, but having to admit all that to this new dive bar encounter sure made her see the stupid.

Nodding along to the thought of Planned Parenthood that seemed the smart option all things considered, hell, even lifting her own glass in salute to down the contents in tandem with Beatrice, Sasha was still trying to find some comfort to offer. “Most women don’t even know when they catch the clap”, she said in the end. “It don’t even hurt. They just gonna give you some Avelox and it’s gonna be like you never got it.” To her it had been the opposite, it was gonorrhea that did her in and chlamydia she thought was yet another UTI, but she’d heard the poem plenty of times, both from colleagues and Planned Parenthood docs. The clap was the easy one. “There’s one two blocks down from here, next to Walmart. The doc there is real nice. Always lets you take extra free condoms and tampons than their normal.” There, a rec.

For a moment, Beatrice looked cross. Almost disappointed, even, her frown so tight-lipped that she kind of resembled a grimacing Muppet whose felt face was on the brink of turning inside out on itself. “That’s stupid,” she told Sasha, as if it wasn’t obvious that she felt that way -- as if Sasha could only be sleeping with ugly dudes because she hadn’t yet realized the drawbacks. No dick was that good, according to Beatrice. With liquor steadily pumping through her system, though, she couldn’t bring herself to argue too hard, self-made pity party weighing her down enough to deflate where she sat. “What do I know, though,” she muttered rhetorically, no genuine question intended. “Hot guys are huge fuckwads, too, apparently. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, or whatever.” A weak raspberry was sputtered from her lips and she twisted her empty tumbler around on the bar, just to keep her hands busy.

“Hm, it’s that simple?” she asked with a glance over at the other, head bobbing while she slowly absorbed the helpful STI information. “No follow-ups or anything, just the round of meds?” Odds were that she wouldn’t remember the finer details of this conversation tomorrow afternoon when she finally headed out to Planned Parenthood, but she still appreciated the advice. Beatrice didn’t think she had the guts to ask anyone that she actually knew-knew for help with this. It’d be mortifying enough just to explain why Damien wasn’t with her at the next big group function she had to go out to. The internet was always there to consult, too, but she doubted that any amount of Googling or a post made on Reddit from a throwaway account would get her such insider information like which clinic location was best. “Thanks,” she started to say, genuinely meaning it, too. “Thank you. For the advice and just, like... yeah, for listening. I’m a primo bitcher, I know.” Long digits stilled and no longer tipped the glass back and forth, simply resting without threatening to squeeze until it cracked under her grip, either. “I’ll try that place out, too, see if I can get everything sorted.”

“You know me.” Valentina simply stared at him. Her gaze was far too soft as she searched his eyes for something. She didn’t know the answer or the question. Valentina just wanted to crawl into his psyche and live there. She wanted to be the only one to know him like this, to know what made him tick and how to get her way with him. Why did she have to push, push, and, fucking push them both to this ledge? The words Roman spoke were so simple and yet she wished she could peel him apart delicately and apologize for how she acted. For what she put him through. The strands of hair pulled taut stung at the back of her neck, her eyes began to water and she could only shake her head. “I haven’t. You do.” 

There’s anger pooling in her gaze and yet she doesn’t take the bait of his words. The attempt to twist the blade is not lost on her. It’s what she deserves for her absence, for brushing it all off and hoping they could act like nothing happened. She deserved his words and the tug of his hand and the pain in her chest at the thought of losing him. “You’re mine.” She mindlessly corrected his words. They could be nothing or everything, she didn’t know. She felt incredibly desperate to keep him here with her despite the fact she would never let anyone else see her like this. Especially in the hallway of someone’s apartment. Rational thoughts left her as their bodies touched and she seemed to thrum back to life. Roman had always touched her back to life. “It’s you.” She pleaded into his mouth as she bit his lip harshly. Valentina despite it all still wanted some sense of control. “Just you.”

Being with Valentina, in whatever capacity this was, he’d always known that one of them would lose -- this was the first time he’d ever considered that maybe they’d end on the bitter note of no one coming out on top. It should’ve been a wake-up call, realizing the harsh eventuality that they’d both be hurt, but instead, in another fraction of a second, Roman decided that he could live with it. He was a wounded dog on his best days. Why not tear into each other and skulk away with the knowledge that Valentina was nursing a pain similar to his own? Mutually assured destruction had never been so appealing.

He stumbled forward a few steps, recklessly crowding into Valentina’s personal space before he caught himself, shaking away the phantom feeling that his knees might buckle. She only needed to say it once, the phrase acting like a salve, smeared all over the inside of his brain -- you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine. Roman sighed into her mouth, his next inhale a hiss. “You’re...” Muttered and nonsensical, he stubbornly tried to keep kissing Valentina, even while speaking, even with teeth meeting flesh and their noses bumping. “I’m yours,” he granted, fingers curling in her hair again. Did she know how starved he felt? Did she know everything she could get away with? That she could’ve bitten directly into his tongue and he would’ve merely flinched? Lust and misguided affection uncoiled in his chest, swelling and warming Roman from the inside out. “I feel you even when you’re away,” he rumbled lowly, drawing back with the drag of his palm along her jaw. He held Valentina’s face, thumb pressing against her dampened lips while he stared at her with a look of quiet marvel. I don’t think I’ll ever forget you. “You make me insane.”

She’s eyeing him, lips pressed thin with curiosity. “No.” She says carefully. He was smiling, and that usually meant he was all in for an idea. She truthfully had nothing against it, and if it was something he wanted to do she could follow along. He did manage to show up and accompany her during that insult to all drinkers, even if he was useless in a time of need. “I just hadn’t pegged you for the deep conversationalist.” She adds, her shoulders lifted and tucked into her neck, “You know? the one who likes to take midnight strolls while downing a few drinks.” Her shoulders drop and she’s back rummaging through her purse. Lily’s thoughts about Wyatt, since she formed a relationship with him, was that he could be a bit mysterious. She blamed it on his creative side. Most creatives, she felt, were reticent. 

Retrieving her keys, she sighs to herself in relief. The last thing she needed was to find her keys locked in her car. “A come-on?” Oh God, that’s not what she was implying. She’s baffled that that’s the first thing he thinks about. “It’s—no. It’s definitely not a come-on, Wyatt.” She drops her head, airily laughing at his statement. “I wasn’t exactly thinking hot and sweaty in a intimate way… More like dancing?” Her head bobs, curls springing in unison to match her mocking tone as if that wasn’t the obvious answer. “Anyway, I don’t need expensive. I just need food. Anymore snacks and I’ll be meeting Grim very soon.”

“Drinking is the best way to get to know someone,” he pointed out, tagging on the afterthought: “And quickest.” Lily was right, though, he wasn’t much of a talker when he didn’t have to be. Wyatt spent a solid eighty percent of his work life talking to people or giving presentations or delivering bad news -- the remaining twenty percent was full of travel, which was always a toss-up between blissful and hellish. If he could avoid small talk, then he sure as shit would. Close-knit parties were definitely more his style, but he liked to follow through on favors when and where he could.

The twist of an amused smirk quirked at the corner of his mouth when he glanced over to Lily again. He listened to her correcting herself, head shaking when she laughed. “Oh, so you’re trying to take me dancing?” It was Wyatt’s turn to sound discombobulated at that. “You’d have to get me drunk first.” Big, empty parking lots were pretty solid as far as makeshift dancefloors went, too, but still, he chose to be a little more considerate as they made their way down the stairs and out the front of the apartment complex. He hummed, thinking about the late hour with a glance down the street one way and then the other. Wyatt finally pointed down beyond the intersection. “Have you ever tried out that diner over on 5th? They do all-night breakfast.”

Nothing had been the same since Duncan’s party. It’d been two weeks and Dawn hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that she was being watched. Like there was always someone lurking just out of sight, hovering in the peripheral of her vision and vanishing as soon as she turned her head. It’d taken her a few days of extra vigilance and surviving her econ midterm to realize that Madison wasn’t quite right, either. She’d been sleeping less, skipping classes, and her low-grade level of bitchiness was cranked up to a constant ten. She wasn’t herself. Her natural roots had even started to grow in -- if that wasn’t a cry for help, then Dawn didn’t know what was.

Finding her friends clustered together on the quad, she dropped down to join them on the grass, bag dumped beside her as she focused on keeping her floppy slice of shitty cafeteria pizza on its plate. “Hey, have you seen Madison?” she asked with a gentle nudge to the person closest, tone uncharacteristically hushed. It was a weird thing to ask, too, she realized, considering that she shared a dorm with the girl. Clearing her throat, she picked at coagulated cheese stuck around the rim of her paper plate. “I mean, um, does she seem a little... off to you? Like, lately?” Her gaze raised to squint imploringly at them before skimming across the courtyard, trying to spot the bottle-blonde anywhere amongst the rest of the student body. It only raised another question: When had she last spoken to Madison in the daytime? Dawn frowned without realizing it.