Can you feel the weight of it?

Jude was pretty sure he’d be drooling at that wild pizza innovation if his mouth wasn’t so dry from the pot. Oh, the nasty things he would do to that chocolate-smothered, sugar-topped, round bready vixen. “Santa Madre de Dios.” He growled with enthusiasm, absently rubbing his tummy as he dreamed of gloriously stacked pizzas. “Let’s go, Cleo. Let’s go right now to Tesco’s. I’ve already wasted so much time not eating dessert pizza. What am I even doing with my life? Dessert pizza exists and I haven’t eaten it yet.” He reached out to grab her hand, only to realize that there was a tiny, burnt out stub of a joint still pinched between his fingers. “Oh, wait, let me…” He fished in his pocket for the little baggy, and dropped the roach in with the two fresh spliffs.

It was difficult for his large fingers to close the tiny ziplock baggie. The closure mechanism was just so damned small. He glanced up from his fumbling to eye Cleo with a hazy frown of concern, head tilted sideways like a confused puppy. “Don’t you say that.” He grumbled. “We noticed. We knew there was something wrong with her. We tried our best, on our own and with the others. I wish this was like the telly, but it ain’t. We don’t know how these things work, and we don’t got anybody to tell us what to do. Figurin’ things out on our own, without help, it’s like… like learnin’ to fly but we ain’t got wings… Well, Rory does… but you get what I mean, yeah? It’s the bloody author’s. They handicapped us with the bare minimum info an’ then expect us to perform miracles. No wonder the other groups all died. I think… I think we’re doin’ better than they expected. We ain’t dyin’ off yet.”

All this talk of the authors was giving him the creeps. The skin on the back of his neck prickled as the hairs stood on end. It was as if he could feel their eyes on him now. The heat of their distant gaze burned into the back of his head, crawled like insects down his spine, and swirled around in the pit of his hungry stomach. He could almost feel the color drain from his face. “Watching through our eyes?! Ah, gross!” He slapped his hands over his eyes, just in case they were looking through him. “Thanks Cleo, now I can never use the washroom again without thinking the authors might be eyeballing me bits.” The least they could do is take him out to dinner first before they molest him from their untraceable secret hidden lair.

With his hands still over his eyes, Jude took a deep whiff of the fragrant night air. It truly was lovely, full of sweet nuance and soft tones. He could taste the entire garden with just one sniff, all the fruits and flowers and herbs and even the moist duffy soil. “Those soy candles are so nice. They’re like… silky. They even smell silkier, not so blobby and unrefined as that cheap wax stuff. I didn’t even know they made candles out of soy until Imogen bought one. I’m never going back to the bargain candles again. The difference is night and day.” He peeked between his fingers to check that Cleo was, indeed, still there and was not, in fact, wandering away into the garden that smelled like expensive garden-scented candles.

“That’s such a good idea,” Cleo breathed, her eyes lighting up. “There’s a twenty-four hour Tesco Express if we take a...” She fumbled over the word. “...a detour between here and Imogen’s house. We should take the scenic route, past the twenty-four hour Tesco Express, buy the pizza with the chocolate on it, find out where the oven is, turn the oven on, cook the pizza, and then... and then just start eating it.” She wrapped her arms around herself, as if giving herself a hug. “That is so much cooking.”

Jude’s frantic reassurances were that - reassuring - in a way, but it also made her sad. “It’s just not fair,” she said, the glittery fabric of her dress sending little needling sensations along her fingertips and she turned from side to side, her arms still tightly around herself. “This whole thing sounds like TV, but every bit of it that I want to be like TV isn’t. All the hard parts are real and all the ridiculous things are like TV. I’ve no idea which one the ritual will be like.”

She glanced, without thinking, down at Jude’s crotch before her wide, dark eyes flicked back up to meet his again. “I’m sure your bits are just lovely,” she said solemnly. “They’re very old men. They’re probably jealous, Jude.” She paused, wondering what embarrassing things the author’s would see were she the proxy, besides the obvious toilet scenario. Maybe shopping for cheap wine in Aldi. They seemed distinguished. Maybe making toast for dinner, or that day she tried to lick her own elbow in front of the bathroom mirror.

“I bet Ruth knows how to make candles,” she said wisely. “Let’s see if we can find candles while we’re in the Tesco Express, and touch them.”

“Yes, I know what you told me…” she explained. But Faye had also fed her the same line for weeks, and it became clear that she was not, in fact, okay. Simply put, Cleo didn’t trust it. Ruth wasn’t alright. None of them were, really. But Ruth had come here, beautiful in her orange dress and pretty heels and immaculate makeup, with a very specific purpose.

As Ruth turned to go, David Meowie whirled around her feet with a fluttering purr, as though she were one step ahead of Cleo’s own intentions to keep Ruth from leaving the apartment. Cleo glanced down at the cat, then back up at Ruth, her resolve seemingly strengthened by Dave’s added efforts.

“Ruth, my love,” she said, starting forward before stopping herself. The last thing Ruth probably wanted was Cleo chasing after her like a spurned lover. Dave, however, unconcerned with such things, trotted past Ruth and sat square in the middle of the doorway, her tail flicking into a graceful crescent around her feet. “Ruth, why don’t you hang about here for a while? I’m on my own tonight, and there’s more wine in the fridge. I’d love a bit of help finishing it.”

“Ah!” A thick ball of fluff shot past her feet. In her stumbling attempt to not step on the cat, Ruth tripped on her heels and fell into the wall. “Ohmygosh. Is she okay? I didn’t step on her, right?” Ruth leaned on the wall and pushed herself back upright as she carefully set her feet properly underneath her. She blinked at the charming little feline that placed herself in the center of the doorway like some kind of regal little guard. “What in the world?” Ruth stepped forward slowly, testing the cat’s comfort. Her knees bent and she curled over to offer the cat her hand. “Hello beautiful, you’re an odd one, aren’t you? I like odd.” Crouching low, she eyed the cat with a curious wide-eyed gaze. “I’m sorry, Miss kitty,” she whispered, keeping her voice low enough that hopefully Cleo couldn’t hear her. “But I shouldn’t be here. Faye will get upset. I don’t want that.”

Cleo’s voice interrupted Ruth’s secret conversation with the furry beast. “Hmm?” She looked up. It took an awkward craning of her head backward to see Cleo behind her. A sweet, reserved smile spread over lips before she turned back to the cat guarding the door. Privately, to the cat, she rolled her eyes and sighed, though not without amusement. “If you insist,” she announced, “but I’m going to need some of that wine posthaste, if you don’t mind. It’s been a long couple of weeks.”

As she stood, she tucked her arms around the cat to hold it snugly to her chest. In her head, a silent prayer rattled, please don’t scratch me please don’t… while two dainty fingers moved to rub gently behind her fluffy ears. Her ankle felt a touch sore from her fall as she strode back into the living room and perched herself on the end of the couch furthest from the two leftover cups. She released the furry beastie beside her, idly still stroking her back while she glared at the pair of cups. The message was clear. Few cards in tarot so clearly represented mutual love. Ruth tucked her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, building a little wall of limbs between herself and harsh reality.

As Ruth straightened herself up again, Cleo gave the cat a gently chiding look, her eyes following the gentle flick of her tail. “She really is lovely though, isn’t she? She just started turning up at the flat a few months ago. The poor pet looked an absolute state so I think she was a stray, so... I gave her some water and some leftover chicken and she just kept coming back. So I suppose she’s my cat now. I called her David Meowie. Her friends just call her Dave, though.”

Dave eyed Ruth’s hand suspiciously for a moment, as though trying to decide whether Ruth was about to pet her or flick her on the nose. After a second, she deigned to sniff the girls fingers and then, apparently, decided that Ruth was worthy to pet the royal head, rubbing the top of her head slowly and luxuriously against Ruth’s knuckle.

Satisfied that Ruth wouldn’t be leaving the flat in a hurry now, Cleo smiled and popped over to the little kitchenette for the wine bottle and another glass. Honestly, despite her best efforts to make the most of Faye’s date, she didn’t really fancy being alone tonight, and she suspected that Ruth hadn’t intended to be either. They might as well have a nice evening together.

When she turned back to the living room, Ruth and Dave were continuing to get to know each other. Oddly, Cleo hadn’t expected Ruth to be a Cat Person. Maybe she’d been a little unfair before, assuming because of her upbringing and her class that she’d be a Tiny Dog Person. “She likes you,” she remarked, crossing the room to them with the fresh glass of wine.

She plopped back down on the sofa next to Ruth as Ruth examined the glass. Cleo eyed her with mild amusement as she swirled the cheap wine this way and that, watching the light bounce off it and shimmer through it like a real connoisseur, before knocking the glass back for a good swallow. As Ruth identified it correctly, Cleo laughed. “You are good!” she said gleefully. “I can’t help it. It’s lovely and sweet. You know their gin’s not bad, either? I think it got an award a couple of years ago.”

imogen stands back with a proper critical eye- the endless stream of compliments are honest and all in good fun, but one can’t let their love of a friend get in the way of the search for the perfect outfit. “honestly, if you just remember that everyone else is doing plenty of looking at you for you, you’ll avoid looking in mirrors too much,” she answers. “don’t get me wrong, i love looking in mirrors, but it’s a bit uncomfortable when people are watching you look at yourself.” imogen shrugs and tilts her head to one side in appraisal.

“honestly, you do look incredible, but that’s a given. but why would you pick a dress that looks like one you already have?” she laughs and reaches over to undo cleo’s hook and zipper, enough that cleo can get herself the rest of the way out, anyway. “the whole point of borrowing a dress is to wear something you don’t have, isn’t it? c’mon, pick another one. we’ll sort out the lipstick after. can’t have you wearing something marco might have already seen,” she adds with a stupid grin, throwing herself back on the bed.

Cleo watched her reflection thoughtfully, Imogen had a point. She had chosen to try on this dress because she knew the colour and shape worked on her. It was a safe choice. But it was true; she did wonder how she might look in the other dresses waiting quietly in the pile.

“No, you’re right,” she said decisively, going back over to the other dresses. She paused briefly while Imogen undid her catch again, then leaned over the little pile of fabric. “I think this one next.” She held up a bottle green floor-length dress with a bejewelled neckline. “It’s a bit unusual...” she went on, vanishing into thin air. She figured there was really no point in going to the bathroom, actually, when she was basically her own private changing cubicle. “...But that’s sort of why I picked it out.”

She slipped out of the burgundy trapeze dress and put it neatly back on its hanger before setting it on the bed. As she let it go and picked up the green one, it reappeared into view and the green dress vanished.

“Have you decided what you’re wearing yet?” she asked, wriggling into the slinky green number. “Or - no, wait. I bet you’re one of those girls who can just pick any old thing out of their wardrobe at the last minute and look amazing. You haven’t even thought about it yet, have you?”

She did the zip up as far as she could, then allowed herself to come back into view. “Alright. What about this one?”

“My home? Oh, I suppose.” He had to think about it for a minute. The compliments people dished out whenever they set foot on the Marino-Hart estate had lost its appeal many years ago. He was used to hearing that he had a beautiful home, that he was intelligent and good-looking and exemplary. But hearing the words coming from Cleo’s mouth caused Marco to pause and look around the extravagant room. It was beautiful. “Thank you, that’s kind of you to say.”

His expression hardened into a frown. “You shouldn’t walk around barefoot at a party,” he stated, though not unkindly. “There could be broken bits of glass and other unpleasant things on the floor. I wouldn’t want you slicing your foot open because some bumbling fool didn’t know how to handle his drink and was too ignorant to call on someone to clean it up.” He surveyed the area around them and pointed to a wet spot a couple of feet away from Cleo. “Careful there. André.” He turned to look at the bartender. “Could you get someone to mop up the floor here?”

He returned his attention to Cleo just as she asked him a question about feet. He stared down at his black Oxford shoes. “I read a science article last year about human evolution and the authors theorized that humans evolved such short toes so that they could be better at long-distance running. Small toes gave our ancestors an edge when it came to endurance running, which was necessary to kill and eat large animals.” He smiled to himself. “I love reading about evolution. Researchers are saying that humans won’t have a pinky toe in the future. I suppose they’ll have to adapt “This Little Piggy” too if that happens.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” she chided him gently. “This room is spotless. I’m quite sure that if I were to drop a sweetie wrapper someone would have it cleaned away before it even hit the grou-” 

She followed Marco’s gaze to the little wet spot on the floor. She hadn’t noticed that a moment ago. Stumped and proven very, very wrong, she tilted her head to one side, her eyes still fixed on the little puddle. “Huh...” she said intelligently. The puddle glittered back at her in the light of the shimmering chandeliers, as though winking cheerfully at her.

Marco’s deep voice carved through the warm tones of the band and she looked back at him, watching his lips and tongue wrap effortlessly around his word. She loved that. Watching people talk. It was like watching someone’s mouth dancing a dance that they just made up, to a song that they just wrote. His smile was small and private, just for him, but she was fortunate enough to see it anyway. Without intending to, she smiled back.

Suddenly, she noticed the pause in the conversation and realised that it must be her turn to speak. Her eyes flicked upwards to meet his. She had no idea what he’d just said. “Yes,” she replied intelligently. “I, um, was just admiring your garden earlier this evening. Is one of your parents a flower enthusiast? It’s just lovely out there, like another world. The air, you know, doesn’t feel like oxygen, but rather like something much more special. I’m quite sure I could eat the air, and it would make me incredibly, credibly well.”

A bashful flush warmed his cheeks at her kind compliments. He fidgeted quietly with the knot of his tie. The way it sat beneath his adam’s apple felt uncomfortably tight. His clumsy fingers tugged, but they couldn’t figure out how to untie the fanciful knot, only loosen it some. “I try,” he muttered shyly. “Don’t always succeed, but I try.” There were still days where, as much as he struggled, he didn’t feel like there was a single drop of good inside of him, not a shred or a shard of anything worthwhile. Slowly, he was learning how to fight back against the cruel darkness that crept on the edges of his thoughts. He hadn’t had a bad day in weeks. “Thank you.” His voice was only a tiny growl as he pinched the rapidly shrinking joint from her fingers.

He raised the pungent little stub to his lips and filled his lungs with thick swirling clouds of smoke and healing magic. He snorted with laughter over Cleo’s adorable fumbled words, barely managing to hold his breath in spite of the harsh tickling in his throat. Persistently, the surges of tickling rose to an itch. Jude let loose another bout of spluttering giggles at Cleo’s food suggestions, finally releasing the puff of smoke from his lungs. For a few seconds, he was too busy bouncing between coughing and laughing to form words. “Pizza,” He eventually managed to wheeze. “You. Me. Pizza.” Of course, no dinner with Cleo would be complete without dessert. “An’ cake. An’ popcorn cause we gotta watch a bad movie. An’ crisps… an’…” His stomach growled ravenously. All this talk of food had set off his stomach like a horse at a racetrack. If the Marinos thought he had raided the buffet table before, they were in for a surprise. “Chocolate fountains an’ three flavors of cupcakes an’ those little stuffed mushrooms with whateverthefuck they put in those they’re delicious.”

Tapping the ashes from the little roach end of the joint, Jude stared out over the gardens below. He especially liked the smell out here, a sweet heady stink of marijuana blended in with fragrant roses and freshly watered earth. The last enormous hit he took was still reeling in his senses. He swayed on his feet, but held on tight to the railing of the balcony. He was about to mention something else about magic, but it was immediately forgotten when Cleo suggested that the authors could be space aliens from another time. His eyes widened at the idea, and he whirled around to face Cleo, nearly falling over his own feet as he did so. “What?! No. What?! Dios mio. That would be… what?!” It was as if she had planted a stick of dynamite between his ears. His brain was more scrambled than eggs.

“They can’t be centuries old sorcerers, and space aliens. I mean… unless they could!” Another revelation struck him and he leaned in close to Cleo to whisper to her in low, secretive tones. “What if they’re here now, pretending to be guests, watching us. They’re space wizards. They could watch us anywhere.” Backing away, he reached out to tap a finger to Cleo’s cute button nose. “How do I know you’re you?” Though his paranoid words were accusing in nature, his wide grin was reassuringly warm and friendly. He had no doubt Cleo was his Cleo. The other party-goers? He wasn’t so sure.

Cleo stared out into the darkness in pensive silence for what felt to her like only a few seconds, but was probably much, much longer in reality. “Goodness,” she breathed. “We really should make a dessert pizza. I saw them in Tesco’s. They’re real. They’re the... the bottom bit of the pizza, and the sauce is chocolate and then they put marshmallows and popcorn and then... they cook it.” She turned to stare at him, wide-eyed, in a bid to convey the importance of this information. “It’s the future, Jude. The future has got pizza for dessert and it’s just lovely.”

She smiled, her small hand drifting upwards to toy with her soft, airy curls, the little coils warm and pleasant against her fingers.

“Oh...” She looked at him once again, a strange certainty in her eyes despite the pleasant cushion of fog around her brain. “I have no doubt that the authors are watching us. I’m not sure how, of course, but I doubt they’re very impressed by what they’ve seen so far. We’ve been a bit awful. One of us got possessed and we didn’t notice. That would never have happened in Charmed. Piper would certainly have noticed. She’s awfully clever.” She sighed and frowned, her dark eyebrows knitted in mild, drug-softened frustration, before following Jude’s words with her gaze, down at their fellow revellers, as she wondered whether the authors truly disguised themselves as passing strangers in order to observe them.

“Or maybe they use a crystal ball,” she suggested, her eyes following a tall, red-haired woman leading a male partygoer down the garden path and into the darkness. “Or perhaps you’re not far off. Perhaps one of our powers allows them to witness everything that person witnesses by proxy.” She shrugged, her little shoulders almost touching her earlobes. She looked up at the black sky, the stars winking down at her as though in on their secret - which, she supposed, they were.”

“It’s a beautiful night, don’t you think? It smells like candles. The posh ones, I mean, that you can’t buy at B&M. The soy ones.”

“You’re welcome.” Ruth replied out of instinctive politeness, without a conscious thought. Her head was somewhere else, imagining Faye curled up in Jude’s arms, just like they were the night of the exorcism. He didn’t deserve her. He’d had his chance and he’d thrown it away. It wasn’t fair. Life was so brutally unfair. Ruth had loved her so much more passionately under the watchful eyes of a billion stars than he would ever love her. She sniffed in a hard breath and squeezed tight her jaw as she looked around the room. The world outside the window rumbled by without noticing her loss at all. The little living room glowed soft and warm, a cozy little sanctuary from the flurry of motion and sound outside. Blinking, Ruth sucked back the prickling desire to cry.

Cleo’s small, silky voice interrupted her thoughts. “Hmm?” Ruth spun around to face Cleo, pulling on a pretty smile to cover the tense frown that had been sneaking out unbidden. “Silly Cleo, I already told you…” Her voice was smooth with a false cheer, if a little higher pitched with the strain of it. “I feel just lovely, really. I’m fine. The weather today was so delightful, I felt I should pick wildflowers for someone. That’s all. There’s nothing to worry about.” She clasped her hands tight behind her back and rocked on her feet, her eyes scanning around the room, unable to meet Cleo’s dark, watchful gaze. Instead, they landed on a pair of abandoned cups resting side-by-side on the table before the little couch. Her breath caught on her broken heart and tore a ragged little sigh from her chest.

“I’ll let you get back to your reading now. I didn’t mean to interrupt your cozy little night in,” she murmured sweetly. Ruth’s heel turned with a sharp click. As much as she didn’t want to be alone, she couldn’t bear to stay here either, evidence of Faye’s odd gentleness lingering like dust in the air. She’d have to go to Marco’s, wash her face and discard her jewelry so she could curl up against his chest and cry properly. He’d understand. He probably had been expecting her for a while. Marco always knew when one of her imminent little fits of emotion were coming. He knew everything. “I’ll see you soon, Cleo. G-goodnight.” Her voice cracked and wavered, much to Ruth’s dismay. She’d tried so hard to tuck it all away, hid her pain so well behind her charming smiles. Yet again, her body betrayed her. Keeping her head down, she brushed past Cleo to head for the door as fast she she could manage without looking like she was running away.

“Yes, I know what you told me...” she explained. But Faye had also fed her the same line for weeks, and it became clear that she was not, in fact, okay. Simply put, Cleo didn’t trust it. Ruth wasn’t alright. None of them were, really. But Ruth had come here, beautiful in her orange dress and pretty heels and immaculate makeup, with a very specific purpose.

As Ruth turned to go, David Meowie whirled around her feet with a fluttering purr, as though she were one step ahead of Cleo’s own intentions to keep Ruth from leaving the apartment. Cleo glanced down at the cat, then back up at Ruth, her resolve seemingly strengthened by Dave’s added efforts.

“Ruth, my love,” she said, starting forward before stopping herself. The last thing Ruth probably wanted was Cleo chasing after her like a spurned lover. Dave, however, unconcerned with such things, trotted past Ruth and sat square in the middle of the doorway, her tail flicking into a graceful crescent around her feet. “Ruth, why don’t you hang about here for a while? I’m on my own tonight, and there’s more wine in the fridge. I’d love a bit of help finishing it.”

“i’d do you up any time, darling~” imogen purrs in response, draping herself dramatically over the end of the bed before springing up to help cleo, who had quite wisely taken imogen’s bra strap advice to heart. “this color’s to die for on you, honestly-” she says, fastening the little hook at the top of the zipper before taking a step back to allow cleo space for a proper twirl.

“let’s see then~” she says, clapping twice like an excited child or a ballet instructor. “come on, give us a spin!”

Cleo smiled and rolled her eyes, shutting the bedroom door behind her. She turned her back on Imogen to allow her to fasten the zip up to the top, before turning to face her again. “Why, thank you,” she replied with a modest shrug. Dark, warm colours did tend to work on her. When she was in doubt she tended to stick with them. Nervously, like a little girl in her new school uniform, she took a few steps back and did a little twirl.

“I have one a bit like this,” she explained, looking down at the light, flowing skirt. “I mean, it’s not as nice as this one. But this sort of colour and shape. So at least I know I definitely have a lipstick that’ll go with it.” She glanced in the long mirror, watching the fabric move in perfect little waves as she idly turned this way and that.

“How do you not just constantly look at yourself when you wear things like this?” she asked. “It’s almost hypnotic.”

Cleo nodded silently. She hadn’t been paying much attention at the beginning of the night, if she was perfectly honest. She had been so nervous about turning up to meet Marco, making sure she was dressed appropriately for the ball, hoping not to embarrass her date as a member of the host family, and trying to walk in her heels, that she’d shamefully not even noticed the pamphlets announcing the subject of the fundraiser ball.

“That surprises me,” she remarked. “Rich people don’t often care for those sorts of charities. They can pay for their own therapists and the rest of us can typically hang.”

Jude’s arms were warm on her shoulders, like a heavy scarf - one that smelled of borrowed, heady cologne and shower gel and detergent. A pauper disguised as a Prince for the night. She could relate.

“Don’t be sorry,” she replied, her voice gentle, breaking slightly with the recently-inhaled smoke, as she willed him not to take on her burden as his own. Not when he carried so much himself. “I never said. We may be powerful, but none of us can read minds.” She smiled as he went on, flushing under his kind words. He really was lovely. She was far from the best of anything, really. And were she wise, she would have known how to get through these past few months without finding herself buried under a mountain of shattered hopes and lost sleep and dread for the future.

“Oh, my love,” she went on, her eyes filling up again. She pulled him into her own hug to hide her tears. “I’m none of those things, you know.” Giving his arms a small squeeze, she blinked back her tears and looked up at him, his words ringing alarm bells through the haze in her head.

“You and I are going to need to have a long talk after tonight, aren’t we?”

Jude snorted a bitter little laugh. No, none of them could read minds, yet. He was acutely aware, however, that the echoes of magical radiation would come back around very soon. There were only a few more weeks of peace before all of them would be dramatically changed all over again. In another month, their lives would forever be rocked by uncontrolled changes within their bodies and minds, and again in another six months, and again in another six months. He couldn’t imagine how his powers may grow any stronger. All he knew was that it wouldn’t bode well for the group as a whole.

She tugged him in closer, and Jude’s relaxed body easily melted against her, welcoming her into his broad chest. He could feel her breath sucking in short, tight little rhythms strained with emotion. He smiled softly into the dark tendrils of her hair. Thick fingers cradled the back of her head as he muttered in a low growl, “It’s alright, darlin’. I understand. Most days I don’t feel like much of anythin’ either.” The sweetness of her shampoo buzzed around his head. He could almost feel the perfume molecules bouncing against the inside of his cranium. When she looked up at him, tears twinkling like stars at the corners of her vast dark eyes, he suddenly realized how beautiful the softness that rounded her edges was. Cleo’s strange beauty had a mysterious ethereal quality, as if she wasn’t quite real, there and yet not there.

With an encouraging smile, he brushed his thumb across her cheek to wipe away the wetness that shimmered there. “I still think you’re wonderful…” His smile turned goofy as he glanced up at the stars above them, remembering some of their adventures—late nights tossing wild theories at each other, pixelated phantom Cleo in the photo booth after the autumn festival, her hand in his as they chased monsters in the labyrinth of his nightmares. He added, fondly, “And full of surprises.”

Speaking of surprises, Jude’s smile shrank and he blinked down at little Cleo. He wasn’t sure what she meant by “long talk” but it seemed like the two of them were overdue for a serious discussion. He’d been so focused on damage control for the last few months, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down with Cleo and just talked. “We got a lotta catchin’ up to do,” he conceded. As much as he loved Cleo, he wasn’t going to start explaining the dark places his mind had been. Not here, not now. Cleo had seen the destruction his choices had caused first hand in her roommate’s life. Could she ever understand the guilt that tore him apart to this very day?

“You’re quite brilliant yourself, you know,” she pointed out gently, finally taking the offered spliff and allowing herself a long drag. It swirled in her lungs like dry ice and filled up her skull like condensation in an old, battered car. “And I do mean it, Jude. You must see how clever you are, and how good.” Her head reeled pleasantly, and she closed her eyes and enjoyed the floral scent of the night air as she passed the spliff back to Jude. “And yes, we absobolutely do,” she went on, stumbling over her words a little and trying not to giggle at herself. “If I have to bribe you into it with food, I will. Cheese. Or bread. Or cheese and bread.”

She glanced sideways at him when he expressed his disappointment in the source of their magic, then smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe,” she mused. “The authors are actually aliens, time-travelling aliens. Or alien ghosts. You should never just assume people are from Earth, Jude. You don’t know their life.”

“oh, darling, you look far too young and hopeful to fit in at one of these galas. you’ll need about twenty more years and another half of your soul sucked out of you before you’ll look like you truly belong.” it’s not entirely accurate- imogen’s been going to these sorts of things for most of her life, there would be plenty of young people in attendance, but there’s a certain level of jadedness that she isn’t entirely sure cleo can pull off, even with that sarcastic streak as wide as the sidewalk.

“when i said show me what you got i expected an actual show,” imogen answers in her grossest, gravelliest, someone-probably-thinks-this-is-sexy-but-honestly-no-one-wants-to-meet-that-person-voice, but quickly switches back to her own voice. for as dramatic as she can be, imogen can only maintain that specific character for a certain amount of time before she grosses herself out. “but if you must~” she rolls onto her back and waves a bored hand toward the door, sending cleo on her way. “right across the hall.”

she hums to herself and holds her hands up to the ceiling, staring at her fresh manicure critically. imogen’s athletic hobbies don’t particularly lend themselves to fancy nails, so aside from filing them down once in a while she rarely bothers to paint them. she decides she doesn’t like having them done up. her hands don’t look like her hands, it’s very distracting. “if i see bra straps when you come back, i’ll cut them off myself, be warned,” she calls in the direction of the door.

Cleo smiled reluctantly at Imogen’s gentle ribbing. Imogen was far from being an idiot, but she certainly liked to act like one sometimes. She had an uncanny knack for cheering Cleo up even when she was in one of her particular doomy moods, and despite Cleo’s mask of disapproval, she appreciated it the silliness. She poked her tongue out at Imogen and disappeared to the bathroom with the first dress. “As if I’d let you see me even if I was in the room,” she tossed back as her parting words.

She shut the bathroom door behind her with a soft click, locking the door in case Imogen decided to bring her horsing around in there, too. She wasn’t quite ready for Imogen Song to catch her in her knickers today. She hung the dress on the back of the door and tugged her jumper off, shaking her hair loose as the static clung to the dark curls. She dropped the jumper on the tiles and wriggled out of her shorts, before gently coaxing the dress off its hanger. The dark red fabric flowed softly over her skin as she stepped into it and pulled it carefully to her waist, thinking all the time that the beautiful garment felt far too expensive for her. She imagined Imogen in the same dress, floating gracefully and effortlessly across a crowded banqueting hall and mingling with hundreds of fabulously wealthy and powerful fellow revellers, her confidence adding at least a foot to her diminutive stature. Cleo had a feeling that she herself would look ridiculous in comparison, mousy and small, no matter which of Imogen’s lovely dresses she wore.

As she drew her hands behind herself to fasten the lower part of the zip, she heard Imogen’s voice cracking across the hall like a whip. Sheepishly, she glanced in the bathroom mirror at the bottle green bra straps poking out from the dress at her shoulder, and pulled her arms free to quickly remove it. She liked that bra. She knew Imogen too well to risk it.

"Okay..." she sighed as she popped across the hall and back to Imogen’s room, the dress half-fastened. "Can you do me up?"

 Jude accepted back the spliff gratefully, his slow careful motions pinching the little roll between his large fingers. “Mental health.” He answered her implied question in a quiet grumble, gesturing with the spliff to the people standing in glittering packs below them. “There’s all kinds of dramatic-looking pamphlets inside by the door, though not a one actually details out what the charities they’re paying to actually do to assist people affected by mental illness. I checked.” What else did he have to do while hanging around alone in the ballroom, snacking on tiny plates of fancy cheeses and listening to speakers drone on, wondering if Imogen was even going to come back at all?

Emotion cracked the edges of Cleo’s silky-soft voice. Frowning with concern, Jude lifted his head from where it rested atop hers so he could look her in the eye. Her wide brown eyes twinkled with a shimmery wetness, reminding Jude of how the lights reflected off the chocolate fountain on the long buffet table. He set the spliff aside, balanced cautiously on the edge of an immense pot on the corner of the balcony that bloomed with lush fragrant gardenias. Turning back to give Cleo his full attention, he placed a gentle hand on each of her tiny shoulders. “I’m sorry, Cleo.” Emotions writhed in his stomach–sinking regret, burning anger–all buried beneath an immovable sense of duty. He always had and he always would protect his friends, at all costs. He’d lost his way for a while, but they had brought him back, they needed him. His voice remained unwavering, his gaze steady. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed someone. That was real shit of me to back out on our dinner nights.”

For a moment, he looked like he might say more, as if he had a storm of questions crashing through his thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, biting down on his lip. “I’ll be ‘round more now, promise. I won’t leave you to fend for yourself against… everythin’.” He wasn’t even really sure what it was that had bothered her so. Yes, the authors revelation and the awful mishaps with their powers had definitely caused her torment, but her pain seemed to be sharper than the dull darkness that hovered over the rest of the group. Jude decided it was best not to press her. Not now, anyway. “I always felt like you were the best of us, to be frank with ya. Marco’s smart, Luca’s dedicated, Imogen’s creative, but y’know… You got somethin’ wise about you. Maybe that’s why I thought you’d be okay.”

Realizing he was still hugging onto her shoulders unnecessarily, Jude tucked his hands back in his pockets and stood tall again. “Me? I uh… well… I’m alright.” He wasn’t sure how to explain it. Things were the same, but they were also better than they’d been, and somehow still the dark thoughts battered him in his quiet moments. “Keeping busy. It’s better when I’m busy.” It. That’s nice and vague. Nobody will suspect that at all. Jude plucked the joint up out of the shrubbery and re-lit the end. He washed his lungs in another cascade of cool, prickly magic. He could feel it crawling into his bloodstream as he rocked on his feet to the sound of the wind in the trees. His mouth spoke before his brain caught up. “You ever get somethin’ in your head an’ it just won’t go? I been that. It’s a bit maddening, innit?” He checked the tip of the joint, flicked off the build up of ash, then handed it back over to Cleo.

Cleo nodded silently. She hadn’t been paying much attention at the beginning of the night, if she was perfectly honest. She had been so nervous about turning up to meet Marco, making sure she was dressed appropriately for the ball, hoping not to embarrass her date as a member of the host family, and trying to walk in her heels, that she’d shamefully not even noticed the pamphlets announcing the subject of the fundraiser ball.

“That surprises me,” she remarked. “Rich people don’t often care for those sorts of charities. They can pay for their own therapists and the rest of us can typically hang.”

Jude’s arms were warm on her shoulders, like a heavy scarf - one that smelled of borrowed, heady cologne and shower gel and detergent. A pauper disguised as a Prince for the night. She could relate.

“Don’t be sorry,” she replied, her voice gentle, breaking slightly with the recently-inhaled smoke, as she willed him not to take on her burden as his own. Not when he carried so much himself. “I never said. We may be powerful, but none of us can read minds.” She smiled as he went on, flushing under his kind words. He really was lovely. She was far from the best of anything, really. And were she wise, she would have known how to get through these past few months without finding herself buried under a mountain of shattered hopes and lost sleep and dread for the future.

“Oh, my love,” she went on, her eyes filling up again. She pulled him into her own hug to hide her tears. “I’m none of those things, you know.” Giving his arms a small squeeze, she blinked back her tears and looked up at him, his words ringing alarm bells through the haze in her head.

“You and I are going to need to have a long talk after tonight, aren’t we?”

Marco nodded in thanks when Andre set his drink down in front of him. He took the glass in his hand and swirled the amber-coloured liquid around a few times before taking a long, satisfying drink. The alcohol burned his throat and set a fire inside his chest. He almost didn’t notice Cleo until her quiet, dreamy voice piped up beside him.”Cleo.” He set his glass down on the wooden bar, taking in the cloud of pretty brown hair, those dark, wide eyes. He almost blushed.

“I’m so sorry,” he began. “I didn’t mean to be gone for so long. I thought it would only take a minute. Turns out solicitors talk far more than they should, even when they’re off the clock.” He was about to ask her if she needed a drink, but found himself stumped by the question she directed at him.

“Heard what?” He didn’t understand what it was she asking him. As he lowered his gaze, he noticed her bare feet. “Cleo, why are you not wearing shoes?”

Cleo smiled and shrugged, a silent indication that she was unperturbed by Marco’s need to mingle with his father’s associates. Honestly her evening, despite having had a somewhat nervous and juddering beginning, was shaping up to be quite lovely after all. The beginning of the night had proven Marco to be a lovely date, and, despite not having quite settled into the party mood at first, she had spent some wonderful time with Jude. The strains of classical music from the other side of the hall, smooth and and velvety, tingled against her skin, causing the hairs on her arms to stand on end and her heart to swell with love for nothing in particular, and everything.

She glanced up at him, having forgotten for a moment that she’d asked him a question.

“That you have a lovely home,” she explained, brows knitted in a small frown as she tried to remember whether she had mentioned that part. Or had she just thought it? If she were to think loudly enough, she wondered, would Marco hear it?

She looked down at her bare feet with their little red-painted toenails, her soles humming with the vibrations travelling up from the floor.

“Oh. I suppose I took them off,” she replied with a smile. “They’re beautiful, but very difficult to walk in. I’m not sure how people do it for the entire night.”

She stared downward, fixated.

“Aren’t feet odd?” she said, looking up at him quizzically. “It’s like someone stretched out my hands but shorted my fingers. Don’t you think it’s odd?”

maybe, just maybe, it’s about time for imogen to do a closet purge. in durham, she doesn’t tend to keep a lot of random stuff in storage, but home in london is another story. the closet in the guest room nearer imogen’s room is half-full of old dresses and costumes, the sorts of things you wear once only to bemoan in photos forever for being too of-their-time. still, in moments like this, it’s handy to have some extras laying around.

“if you feel like being victorian, i have my a christmas carol dress, she announces over he shoulder, shoving through the hangers for anything that might fit cleo. while similar in height, imogen has only ever achieved cleo’s curves with the help of creative padding, meaning only a handful of her dresses had the appropriate space for cleo’s amazing boobs- a fact imogen has made sure to mention at least four times in the last hour. 

She had the good grace to appear as though she was considering going with a Victorian theme for the ball, and allowed a moment’s pause before responding. “I don’t imagine it would help me to blend in much,” she remarked, running a hand through her curls.

She glanced behind her at the bed as Imogen plopped a pile more much more promising and distinctly non-Victorian dresses there, considering the little pile of colours layered on top of one another. “Okay...” she said slowly, reaching for the second one from the top. It looked similar to the New Look one she owned, albeit much more beautifully tailored from fabric that felt like heaven against her fingers. “I’ll try this one first?” She glanced round at the bedroom door before looking back at Imogen, “Um... could I change in your bathroom, my love?”

Marco was worried. He had only meant to be gone for a few minutes when his parents had summoned him over to meet the company’s newest solicitor. But the minutes had stretched to half an hour, and he began to feel bad that he had left Cleo all alone at the bar. He fidgeted as the man, Arthur Hastings, droned on about the latest settlement he had managed to close on Eduardo and Elizabeth’s behalf. As tall as Marco was, he was still too far away to see whether or not Cleo was still waiting for him on the other side of the hall. What an idiot he was, leaving his date all alone because he had panicked and hadn’t thought to introduce Cleo right away to his parents. I’ll be right back, he had told her. Yeah, right. The sudden feeling of someone’s hand clasping his shoulder made him jump.

“Everything alright, Marco?” His father’s deep voice was devoid of concern. Eduardo had noticed he wasn’t paying attention to Arthur’s story.

“Yes, sir.” Marco fixed his eyes on the solicitor once more. Arthur Hastings was a large, broad-shouldered man with a booming voice that caused heads to turn. He clung to to his drink with one meaty hand, his fingers as red and as large as sausages. The beads of sweat on his forehead gleamed under the sparkling chandelier lights. He certainly wasn’t a pretty sight, but Marco decided that he had to be good at what he did if his parents had hired him on. Mediocrity wasn’t a word that existed in Eduardo and Elizabeth’s dictionary.

“Remember, young man,” Arthur prodded Marco’s chest with his glass. “People will settle on anything if the price is right.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, Mr. Hastings,” Marco replied politely, watching the heavy man guzzle down his expensive drink. “You should meet my sister. I’m sure she’d appreciate your counsel as much as I do.”

“Arthur is a very busy man, Marco,” Eduardo interjected immediately. “He doesn’t have time to meet Ruth. He’s not even staying for the whole party.”

“Have you seen Ruthie?” Elizabeth’s dark eyes were on him. It startled him how much Ruth and her looked alike. “I had hoped to see her before the guests started arriving, but…” But his mother hadn’t had time to inspect Ruth’s outfit beforehand. He knew his parents all too well.

“I’m sure she’s around. I could find her if you’d like.”

Elizabeth bowed her head in thanks. Marco excused himself from the group and tried not to rush back to the bar. He scanned the row of heads for a sign of his curly-haired date, but he could not catch a glimpse of the girl who set his heart beating so wildly lately.

“Another old-fashioned for you, sir?” André’s cheery face greeted him on the other side of the bar.

“Not right now, André. I was actually looking for the young woman I was with earlier. Big, curly hair, gold dress?”

The bartender’s lips curled into a smile. “Elle est mignonne ton amoureuse.”

Marco frowned. Stupid French men. “Tu l’as vu ou non?”

“Elle est sortie dehors plus tôt avec un beau, grand mec. Il te ressemble un peu, je trouve.”

“Il était mexicain par hasard?”

“Tu le connais?”

Marco sighed and leaned against the bar with his forearms. 

“Malheureusement.”

“Alors… how about that old-fashioned?”

“Only if you make it right this time.”

Finally, her wandering gaze landed on her date for the evening; on his brooding gaze, his perfect tailoring, and soft static around his hair. She moved toward him, seemingly teleporting across the room, to meet him at the bar. His cologne, clean and crisp, filled her head like helium in a balloon and made it hard to think of anything besides the strong, unavoidable presence of the young man stood next to her. She leaned with loosely folded arms on the bar, raising herself up on her bare tiptoes.

“You have a lovely home,” she said softly, lifting her eyes up to the cavernously high ceiling, it’s warm lights  winking down at her with the promise of a million secrets, memories of countless nights just like this one, countless people parcelled in expensive fabrics that cost more than her father’s car, countless scandals, countless subjects of gossip, countless drinks drunk, countless feet on the dance floor, all heeled and polished. She felt small, and swallowed back the prickle of panic that it gave her.

“Have you heard that much this evening?”

Jude turned to lean his back against the railing of the balcony and greet Cleo with a puff of smoke in the air and a silly grin. The chills swirled around in his chest like a tiny blizzard, hot smoke and cold healing magic creating a storm of ticklish tingles. Jude tried to stifle a flood of giggles behind his hand when the brush of magic fluttered around his lungs. “H-Hello.” As she moved in beside him, Jude lifted a large arm around her to tuck her into a warm sideways hug. The fabric of his jacket bunched up unpleasantly at the motion, awkward and stifling. He looked down at his suit with a disapproving glare and once again wondered how he’d gotten into this situation. Oh yeah, that’s right. The things he’d do for a good joke were a bit unreasonable.

He held out the spliff, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, and once Cleo took it from him, set about unbuttoning the troublesome suit jacket. “Neither had I, honestly. Whoever called this… whatever it is… a party, has a very warped definition of the word. I mean, what are we doing here? Watching a bunch of culos ricos acariciando sus egos?” His fingers worked the buttons loose, freeing his chest and shoulders from the restriction of the jacket. Jude took a deep relieved breath. The sweet fuzzy static had begun to settle down his arms, warming his fingertips that gently rested against Cleo’s little arm. “I don’t really want to go back down there, now that my date’s run off with another woman.” He snickered at the cheesiness of his ironic statement. Dios mio, he sounded like a character in a romantic comedy film. Even if it had all been a joke, without Imogen there to hold his hand, he looked more like a lost puppy than anything in that crowd.

The breeze coming off the garden was tinged with the floral fragrance of orange blossoms and rose petals. Jude sighed in the delicate flavor of flowers and cool night air. The trees whispered giddy secrets to each other like young lovers and a fountain somewhere nearby gurgled along in blissful ignorance. Jude’s head flopped over to touch against the cushion of Cleo’s curly halo. She smelled good, too, not like these socialites hiding behind their expensive designer perfumes. She smelled like musty cat hair and tart red wine and honey-sweet sweat. She smelled like home. “How you been Cleo, darling?” Her fluffy hair tickled his cheek as he spoke. As his muscles released the tension they’d been heaving around, his tongue slowly eased into his natural cockney accent. “It’s been a while since you and I talked, y’know, without Faye around.”

As Jude’s arm settled, heavy and warm, around her shoulders, she felt a sense of calm contentment descend around her, as though she’d just crawled into a cosy blanket fort. The night had been tense for a number of reasons, but she was just glad to be hidden away with a good friend - even if it felt a little different than usual. Cleo wasn’t used to the feeling of Jude’s touch through the stiff fabric of a suit jacket, being that he favourite soft old jumpers. It didn’t matter, though. Up here, they had a safe haven from the trained, judging eyes of wealthy revellers. A stiff wool blend wouldn’t change that.

She broke apart from their embrace when Jude offered out the spliff and began to remove his jacket. She took it between her thumb and forefinger and took a deep drag. She knew she shouldn’t have, but she held the breath a little longer that necessary before exhaling. She hadn’t smoked since last summer. It felt like a cool breeze on a hot day, cooling her face with a soft caress. When she looked back at Jude, his jacket was off and he looked slightly more comfortable. She smiled and turned back to the rail. She leaned her arms on it and shut her eyes, Jude’s voice dancing in her head as he spoke. “I think we’re here for charity,” she replied, though her head was already a little light, as though she were atop a mountain, the clouds catching her hair like dew. “I didn’t catch what it was, though.” She glanced sideways at him and passed him back the spliff. “Ran off? That doesn’t sound much like Imogen,” she teased gently. 

The soft touch of his cheek, vibrating subtly with his words, against the top of her hair tingled like pins and needles for a few seconds. Content, she shut her eyes again, and they were back in simpler times - before Ulfric, before her birthday, before the authors. When they were curiosities, lighting up their corner of the world with secrets and mysteries and fizzing curiosity. When they’d sit by warm lamplight at two in the morning, comparing notes and swapping crackpot theories. A rush of emotion, magnified by nostalgia and the electric cloud crackling in her lungs, sprung tears in the corners of her eyes. How had she been?

“It’s been a strange year,” she admitted. “One the likes of which I never want to experience again.” She’d spoken more dramatically than she’d intended, but the words had spilled out faster than she could save them. She took a breath. “But,” she went on, her voice tight with the air. “I’m so happy to have Faye back.” She opened her eyes, looking down at the perfectly coiffed heads below. “How have you been getting on?”