Chapter Text
They could not do this.
Everything was so bright. Bright and loud; jewellery and glass and china staring Scott down from every corner of the room. An orchestra with an ever growing ensemble sat at the back, blasting noise into the air.
The skirt of every dress seemed wide enough to count as its own room, as tiny shards of mirror dangled from lace and ribbon. Gossiping women, clucking like swans, stood around admiring each other and their husbands. Men stuffed into suits three sizes too small stayed silent, hovering around the buffet tables, shoving piles of food down their throats. Scott was struck with an image of force-feeding his geese back home.
He wanted his farm. He wanted his mum. He wanted Albertha.
He wanted Duncan; but Duncan had been hauled off five minutes ago with the lingering promise to “-be right back I swear! This’ll only take a moment!”.
Many moments had passed since then, and Scott was stuck sweating into his outfit people-watching by the door. Where was Duncan?
“Are you Duncan’s boy?”
He looked up. There was an old woman-old enough to have skin held together only by surgeries-eyeing him. He swallowed.
“Do you-do you mean-”
“He brought you here, didn’t he? As his plus-one.”
It wasn’t a question. Scott didn’t know what to say. What to do. Did she mean as a friend, or as a partner? Had Duncan come out to her yet? Who was she?
“I-yes. Yes he did.”
An eyelid caked in purple flickered up and down his body, and Scott took a step back. He wasn’t comfortable with people his own age ‘checking him out’, let alone someone who seemed twenty minutes from death’s door.
The woman grunted approvingly at what she saw, and in one smooth movement, plucked a champagne flute from a passing waiter and downed it in one go.
“You’re a lucky boy then.” she stated. Scott was too busy watching her wrinkled throat-like a turkeys neck-push down her drink before registering what she said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Lucky,” she repeated, giving him a knowing nod. “Not many country boys can snag a Smith. Certainly not our Duncan.”
Scott had no idea what was going on. Part of him wanted to climb into the nearest bed and fall asleep forever. The other part wanted to see where this was going.
“I don’t understand.”
“Bet his inheritance could keep your little farm going long after you’ve both died. What kind is it again? A soil farm?”
Scott’s body jolted without him meaning to, his shoulders climbing up to his ears. Something really bad is happening. He isn’t sure what yet, but it is. She’s trying to get information out him him; trying to humiliate him. He can’t let that happen. He can’t have her win. He has to play it cool.
He nearly ran a hand through his hair before remembering it was slicked down, and shoved it into his pocket instead. He wanted to carve something.
“It’s a dirt farm.”
“So you… make dirt? How does that work?”
She knew exactly how it worked. He knew she knew.
“No ma’am. It means we can’t afford extra help. It’s just me, my sister and my ma and my papi.”
Another waiter passed by, and Scott’s fingers twitched to grab a drink. Just a small one. Maybe ask for some whiskey or whatever. Just to make this night fly by faster.
No. Duncan would be disappointed in him. And he couldn’t let that happen.
The woman hummed to herself, and moved so her back was against the wall. She was still looking at him; he could feel her gaze on his neck.
Whatever. Let her stare; at least she wasn’t talking anymore. Scott found a small ball of something in his pocket and twisted it around in his hand.
He could hold his liquor. Ever since he was old enough to eat solid foods his ma would let him drink a little bit of alcohol.
Scott pulled the ball out of his pocket-it was a cork-and stared off into the distance.
He remembered when he was six; he was sitting on her lap one afternoon; the sun cast into the open windows of the caravan, sinking her in a daze of pink. Her brown hair glazed in the same ginger as him and dark red like his sister. She’s still in her work uniform, and his tiny, chubby hands clutch the hem of her apron; the frills digging into his skin.
“When you were just a baby,” she told him, voice barely above a whisper, “I would dip my pinky finger into your papi’s whiskey and let your suck on it. That way when you get to drink by yourself when you’re older you can hold you alcohol.”
She gently stroked the back of his head and he remembers leaning into it, nearly falling asleep; leaning against her chest like a lifeline as he slowly shut his eyes.
“One day, Scotty Dog, you’re going to marry a pretty young girl from a rich family, and you’ll be able to drink all their champagne like it’s nothing. We’re going to raise you to be a proper little gentleman, Scotty Dog. You and your sister are going to leave this small village and make a name for yourselves.”
And that was all he could remember before falling asleep.
Something jabbed into his side and Scott snapped back to the present. Turning, he saw a young girl give him a quick scowl before rushing off onto the dancefloor. Nasty cow.
“You better treat Duncan well.”
It was that woman. Scott turned around to see her step away from the wall. She ruffled her dress, checking for dust that wasn’t there, and moving closer to the crowd of people beside them.
“Even if you are just here for his money-like they’re all saying-you stay with him. Don’t run off.”
And before Scott can ask her anything else (who’s saying that) she stepped into the crowd and was swallowed by the dresses and suits.
Scott just watched her go, barely noticing the cork as it fell from between his fingers.