#cant explain

You’re wearing a cheap, shiny pink wig. It sticks out like a sore thumb among the other guests who wear togas and plastic laurel crowns.

It catches Gaz’s eye immediately, the way it reflects against the light. The second thing he notices is that you’re eating sandwiches from the Prices’ fridge. He can’t stop the brow from arching. What were you doing? 

Gaz is walking over before he can stop himself. You’re munching away on what is very clearly a sandwich that was not prepared for this party. Stolen right from his Captain’s fridge. 

You’re chewing doesn’t stop or even slow down as he lands right next to you. He eyes you, the sandwich, and the fridge, still ajar. You’re wearing a pink, vintage dress. One that is very much not on theme.

You swallow, shifting a little on your feet. Neither of you says anything as the chatter of happy guests wafts around the two of you. Wordlessly, you kick the fridge door shut with your foot and then offer him a sandwich from the tray. 

“You hear for the Captain?” You ask, voice taking on a near-cloying quality. Gaz nods, taking the sandwich. “Well, I’m a guest of the wife. I know she buys these for lunch when she’s too tired to make anything.”

You take another bite, and with a mouthful of food, you tell him you’re gonna send her money. Curiosity satiated, Gaz sticks out his free hand.

“I’m Kyle,” he says, sending you a megawatt smile. You snort a little, choking slightly on the dry bread. You have the decency to look a little embarrassed, but you shake his hand and tell him your name over the noise of the other partygoers.

“What’s happening here?” Gaz thumbs at one of your synthetic, pink curls, watching the way your face pinches up in annoyance.

Cute. 

“Well, I clearly misunderstood Mrs. Price when she said ‘Greece.'” Gaz laughs at that. So you were Frenchie from Grease. Pink looks nice on you, at least.

His hand drops from your wig, grazing slightly past your jaw as it drops to his hip. You track the movement, eyes lingering on his exposed chest as he flexes for you, peacocking his muscles. 

He watches as you swallow a little nervously, sandwich abandoned in the little container. You blink doe eyes up at him, the longest stray pieces of your hot, pink fringe barely dusting against your eyelashes.

Really cute.

Gaz takes a bite of his own sandwich.

He makes a mental note that when he fucks you tonight, he wants the wig on.

who the fuck thought a clinical environment would be a viable substitute for community, safety, and freedom?