Alta doesn’t know why she said yes to him. Sitting on the couch of Davy’s three-story house, one arm settled comfortably on a soft hand-rest, she turns over to grab a chilled cup of soda before gulping it down harshly. She probably should have sucked up the courage to turn down his invitation.

Perhaps the problem with that was she’s never exactly had anything against Davy, thus prompting an automatic, socially polite response booted from the front of her mouth as he shyly invited her to his rich-boy house with three dogs and a parrot.

Of course I’ll go to your house, Davy. Why would I say no?

House parties were so much more different than casual hangouts. A boy she couldn’t recognise - Brandon? James? Richard?  She flicks through a list of faces - had started chatting up a blonde girl just moments ago and is now raising his voice above the murmuring distortion of other conversations. He is screaming. It is unpleasant. Alta covers her ears childishly.

Chowder - Davy’s cocker spaniel - wags his tail at her, eyes sparkling with dumb delight. Nothing is happening. He’s just smiling. She wishes she could do the same.

Somebody screams as the music drops, a glass shattering as a wave of dubstep crashes into her eardrums. Alta groans, ears ringing with noise and head throbbing in pain and she brings a hand to her face. People blur past her, bobbing up and down, waving around sloshing cups of soda mixed in with some of Davy’s secret alcohol. She shouldn’t have tried it. That was a terrible idea.

“You look so dead.” Someone sits down beside her, one arm leant against throw pillows. “You look like you want to die.” 


“I do.” She mutters in response, curling up beside the figure. As the blurriness in her vision clears she recognises a face, eyes slanted with makeup, lips perked into some kind of crooked smirk. Delilah. Friend. “I want to die so bad.”

“Hey, you were the one that said you wanted to go,” Delilah replies. Her voice is soft; brown hair cascades down her shoulders in waves, bright eyes blinking earnestly. She likes it here, there’s no denying.

“Yeah. Because Karen said she was coming.” Alta replies bluntly, taking another gulp of soda. It burns down her throat - there must’ve been more gas in that thing than she realised, coupled with a sudden shot of dizziness that has Alta stretched against pillows again as she falls back. “But she’s not coming. And my head hurts. And this sucks.”


“There’s more to life than Karen.” Delilah snorts. “And you know she’s a shut-in. We’re all shut-ins. I just came in case you needed a ride back home, but this party isn’t half bad if you do some talking and stop being socially inept.”

The music stops suddenly, the sound of an unplugged cable ripping a high, whining sound through her ears as some kids drop to their knees and groan. Above the calamity, Davy’s voice is near faint and frail as he runs into the living room.

“Sorry guys. My dog started eating the wire.” He says. “Anyone wanna play some party games?”


“What do you have?” A boy - that’s Richard, Alta confirms with a slow nod - belches as he staggers forward, hands raised.

“Well.” Davy looks down at his hands, currently clenched around two cool bottles of some indiscernible liquid. “I have a bottle.”


“Let’s play!” Delilah whoops. Alta sends her off with a pat, struggles to sit up on the couch, and stumbles into the kitchen. Some guy named Brandon stands there awkwardly with Jessica, the class athlete, dyed blue hair pulled out of her once neatly made braid.

“Oh, hey Alta.” Brandon says meekly. He pushes up his glasses, fogged breath fading from the lenses.

“We were just…” Jessica starts, “talking about Econ homework.” 


“Sure, you guys,” Alta shakes her head, waving them away. “I’m so sorry. Keep at it. I’m not here.” 


Oh, she sighs, bent over at the counter. The uncomfortable sound of open-mouthed kissing starts again and she groans silently into her hand, tasting what she thinks might be rum.

Somebody save me.

— -

For this particular occasion, Kieran drags out of his closet the only tailored suit he has ever worn. Beside him on the dining table rests Quill’s note, scrawled on it a perfect opportunity to begin his next hit.

Bovy at Pink Lobster, 8:30-10 with customer Keith Waltz discussing his book. Table 15. Wear something formal.

It’s an anachronistic little thing, tightly fitted but well tailored, a 19th-century piece of clothing that somehow prevailed in his dusty closet against horrific bloodstained dress-shirts and corroding fabric. The suit’s pitch black exterior has worn down through the years, complete with bowtie and shorter coattails, shoulder pads tailor-made to fit his broad figure. Two cufflinks on each cuff. He remembered a time when those little, decorative pins served more than just aesthetic purposes.

“I bought this for you.”

“For me?” Kieran feigns a shocked response but the act is lost in his smiling eyes. “Whatever for?”


There comes a responding laugh. “A remarkable achievement unattainable by mankind.”

The suit twists, fabric soft and new in Kieran’s hands. It only takes a few more looks to know how expensive this is - he does have taste, but this is more than they can afford. He’d give it back if the hands pushing it towards him weren’t so insistent.

“Two cufflinks. Two hundred years.”


“How overly sentimental, my dear.” Kieran slips it on, inhaling sharply as the fabric glides smoothly over bare arms. “As is everything with you, I suppose.”


“What, you don’t wish for a third?” There are arms around him. Not big and strong like Kieran’s father - not wiry like his brothers are - but scarred and soft, and gently holding Kieran’s waist like a dancer would in a graceful waltz. “And a forth? And a fifth? Till we die. Oh,” and the sound of Judas’s voice mimics Kieran's low one in teasing tone, “How gothic, Judas. As is everything with you, I suppose.”

Kieran can’t remember the rest of how it went. It’ll do him no good to wrack his brain and scramble for fading dreams anyways. He’ll count himself lucky that the memory resurfaced, though not lucky enough for it to appear at a less unfortunate time. With a sigh, he slips it on.

“A third?” Kieran mutters as he heads out. “My dear, we would have looked ridiculous.”