#gwescott

If Sebastian had caught Ezra Bergmann so much as looking in the direction of another student for more than a few seconds or so, he would have claimed, loudly, that he was a creepy stalker. Sebastian, however, was on day four of following and watching Gwen Prescott pointedly from a moderate distance, taking note of her habits, her mannerisms, her schedule. 

It was from this that he had discovered two things: 1. In public areas, she was pretty fucking boring and 2. she didn’t seem to like soda much.

“Hey,” he greeted with a smile, setting a cool bottle of Evian on the table where Gwen was steadily tapping away at the keys of her laptop, the very same one she seemed to have with her at all times. He was started to wonder if it had some kind of proximity bomb in it as if she got too far away from it, it would start to beep and explode within seconds. “Vending machine spit out an extra,” he explained, as if he hadn’t very intentionally bought it for her, waited until it was the temperature it seemed to need to before she’d start feeling inclined to sip at it and then approached her from his hiding spot. He took a seat opposite her, chair legs scraping against the floor as he pushed it back to fit his frame comfortably beneath the table they were now sharing. He folded his arms and leaned back slightly, making himself quite at home, “Mind if I steal your time for a minute?” he asked without waiting for an answer, he was already there and he’d already gone through the trouble of providing her with a light refreshment, “We’re throwing a little party- I assume Damian’s already told you all about it since he’s the one organizing it- but I just wanted to make sure you were definitely coming. You’re like, the life of the party- some people just won’t even think about coming if you’re not- which I get- I just don’t want the event to flop when Damian’s putting so much work into it, he’s like- it’s like his pet project, I think it’s helping him take his mind off of De Santis and Maggie but he’s going kinda crazy trying to make sure all the people he cares about are gonna have a good time. I know I give the guy a headache sometimes but he’s still my house captain and  I kind of owe him a solid for hooking up the party- and if I’m honest, it’s not just for him- I want to see you there too,” 

“Gwen!” Over the music, his yell is barely heard. The fact that he’s on the loft of the barn doesn’t help the situation either. Chris’s first thought is to empty the drink in his hand and throw the plastic cup at Gwen to get her attention. Though remembering how pissy she gets, he decides not to. Instead, it becomes clear to Chris what needs to be done. He downs his drink, tosses the plastic cup over his shoulder, and then yeets himself off of the ledge with hopes of landing on the patch of empty space below him.

In any other state, he might made this landing perfectly, but with a high blood alcohol level and 3 or so pills of whatever in him, it’s a graceless entrance. Chris’s body hits the crusty ground with a harsh thud that sends a large puff of dust shooting upwards, making him sneeze. Aw fuck, that’s not fun. That makes his face feel all itchy. But whatever. He’s not leaving tonight without a pair of red panties to offer Daddy come morning light. And he knows Gwen is just the right person to go to for them.

"Gwen!” He says again, in a bit of a coughing fit from the dust that came flying up at him. Chris clambers onto his feet, ignorant of the pain that’s beginning to settle in his body. He’s more concerned with swiping at his face and blowing away some of the weird fuzz that got in his mouth. “Yo, I’ve been looking all over for you. Do you have a second?” He runs a hand over his shirt in a poor attempt to look presentable, even if any opportunity of that is long gone with the patches of dirt that decorate his white top from his recklessness this evening.

It’s probably very risky, his decision to visit D4 knowing full well who occupies the room other than Gwen, but Damian is rather confident in the choice with his knowledge of Faith’s eating habits. She likes to chew properly, and that takes time, so unless his once-best friend has taken up the habit of speed-eating and racing to her dorm like her life depends on it, Damian is sure he has enough leeway to knock on D4′s door and see if one of its tenants can explain their absence at dinner. Besides, he left the Dining Hall rather early this evening, taking the least amount of time possible to finish his food since eating under Flick’s gaze isn’t exactly the most comfortable.

Knock knock.

“Gwen? Are you in there? It’s me.” For a moment, he considers clarifying who ‘me’ is but then again, he’s sure his voice is recognizable to her. Not because he’s a well-known figure around these halls but because he’s certain Gwen wouldn’t forget the voice of her once-mortal enemy. “Are you okay? You didn’t come to dinner.” Obviously. It’s the only reason he’s here. He wonders if she’s fallen ill or something of the sort. Maybe he should have brought along a fruit other than an apple with him. Perhaps something packed with more Vitamin C if she’s feeling under the weather... Either way, he has what he has. He’ll just make up for the poorly-considered choice another time.

“Gwen?” He repeats in his impatience (and worry). Gosh, he hopes she’s here.

It’s childish how much his brain fights him on the topic of Gwen. It badgers and pleads with him as he watches students file out of Mr. Gordon’s classroom, on the look out for this particular shade of color he comes to know Gwen’s hair as. This... dark copper that he’s occasionally fooled into thinking is brown. When he spots her making her leave among the crowd, he straightens, shoulders pulling back before he marches forward with the hopes of catching up to her. It’s easy enough since most students shy away from him like he carries a disease. For once, that silly behavior finally works to his advantage.

“Gwen—” He catches up to her in the hall, slowing to a stop just short of being whipped on the chest by her hair. He even leans away for good measure. What if those strands are laced with toxins? You can never be too safe. But just as quickly as his brain works to portray her as some demon, it also calls to mind Ben’s words. It’s just that Gwen… She’s sensitive, man. She pretends she isn’t.

Curses, Martos. Gwen is human, he reminds himself. Gwen is a girl. Gwen has cried in front of you. She isn’t some treacherous wretch. She’s... confusing if anything at this point. And someone’s whose party his drama has ruined, so... he needs to formally apologize for that. And hopefully not get sucked into asking her if she’s on the verge of losing her mind attaching her lips to his like she did that weekend.

“Might I speak to you for a moment? I feel we’re long overdue for a talk.”

Considering this isn’t his first rodeo -- it’s his second one now -- Damian knows better than to arrive to one of these parties without his own beverage in hand. He doesn’t want to subject his kerchief to the dirt of a plastic cup nor his body to any more carbonated drinks, so to be safe, he arrives with a bottle of hotel water in hand. It’s plastic, sure, and that’s unfortunate, but he doesn’t want to risk bringing his insulated bottle and losing it at some point in the middle of the night. He's still without knowledge of the whereabouts of his beloved leather jacket that he wore to the barn party. Such a shame since he did really love it. 

In his struggle to cross the room with its sea of gyrating bodies, Damian bumps into somebody. “Oh, I’m sorry--” He’s quick to utter, the words coming to him on instinct. Though, when he turns properly and catches sight of just who it is he offered an apology to, he second guesses his choice to be so polite. “Gwen.” He clears his throat. “I see you’re here.” He looks her up and down quickly. Being in Gwen’s presence has become even more uncomfortable for Damian as of late, what with the incident that occurred between himself and JJ, and again just the other night with JJ and Hugo in their shared room. Needless to say, Damian goes to sleep with his rosary in hand or close-by now, hoping to the Heavens it keeps the Father’s watchful eye on him in his slumber.