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Hey you look just like my love (are you alright?)
That night, Alice dreams of falling.
She succumbs to sleepiness sometime after Andrew leaves, the camera still propped on its tripod in the middle of her room and the marks of Annabel Lee still smudged around her eyes. She doesn’t change from her dress; instead she curls up in bed with Journey Through Bookland resting by her side and tries to squint through the dark to make out its faded title. It’s a beautiful book; smells of something old and familiar that reminds her of her parent’s library back home and it calms her better than anything has all evening – better even than the drinks Andrew had forced upon her earlier in a bid to stop her trembling hands.
“You look as pale as a ghost,” he’d whispered to her from behind, and she hadn’t been able to tell if he’d been joking; commenting on her choice of costume or subtly trying to tell her she needed to calm the fuck down.
And then later, after dancing with Cara and Lily and Heather he’d swung back by their table and dragged her up with him, told her she looked fierce and ready to ride into battle while his hand hovered dangerously close to her side, and Alice had had to step back forcefully, suddenly unable to breathe amongst the mess of artificial fog and inebriated college students. She’d blamed the alcohol, and ignored the fact that Andrew’s bare chest was pressed snugly against her shoulder, because things like that had never bothered her before and even now she doesn’t want to think about why that might have started.
He doesn’t bother her, she reminds herself instead, and rolls onto her back to stare at the dark ceiling. It’s cold in her bedroom, like the depths of winter are rumbling beneath the earth and starting to seep up into the world. Soon all the leaves will have dropt and it will be time for scarves and mittens and gingerbread lattes; for everything to smell slightly spiced, and the snow to fall and then crunch and slush under foot. Alice loves October, but Halloween this year has been a rollercoaster of unwanted feelings – the uptight worry over Ewan winning the election and the downwards crash of his revelations in The Ocelot Call. But the truth is she’s been on edge far longer than the Halloween Ball, perhaps as far back as Ewan’s hostile takeover of the student paper, when the squirmy and uncomfortable feeling that she’d made a terrible mistake had first wormed its way into her stomach.
Her words to Andrew back at the beginning of Macbeth are still true – she’s horribly aware of her own part in this mess. Ewan’s actions may have been his own, and she’s not about to alleviate him of any blame – but she created the circumstance. Even if she’s not responsible, it doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel it, and now like some terrible hangover the guilty feeling remains. She can’t help but worry that things are still terribly wrong, even though the night is drifting further towards tomorrow and that brings with it welcome responsibilities like schoolwork and a new book and running the entire student council.
That last part refuses to move and allow her sleep, and for a brief moment she wishes that Shakespeare had had the decency to write her a sequel. How did Malcolm fare as King of Scotland? Was he a benevolent and long-lasting leader or did he crash and burn in a matter of weeks? History majors, she thinks suddenly, tossing to the other side of her bed. Malcolm had an historical equivalent – perhaps they can shed some light on what her future might hold?
But then she thinks of witches and prophecies and the strange way the one guy had lingered on her hair when she’d last seen the three. There’s something to be said for the past informing the future, and she definitely believes that – she’d be a fool not to. But maybe some pasts are best left untold, and some futures best conquered without consulting twenty-something year olds who speak only in riddles.
It’s over now – Macbeth has been slain and Macduff remains triumphant. And she hasn’t lost her family, she reminds herself firmly. While Alice curls her blankets tighter around her shoulders, shivers into the warm mattress and longs for sleep, Cara is safe with Lily, and Andrew has probably stumbled his tipsy way back to his bedroom, passed out on his bed still in his ridiculous pirate garb. His hat sits on her bedpost and she can just reach out and prod it with her blanket-covered toes, stirring its broad leather rim so that the hat tips sideways. It makes her laugh suddenly; a helpless bubble of giggles that disturbs the silence of her bedroom. It’s been sitting in her chest ever since Andrew paraded in and turned his dimples on her, gazing at her in a way that she can only excuse by alcohol (even if that feels like a lie). But she can’t think about that now. Can’t think about what’s been brewing for almost as long as they’ve known each other, even if they’ve both been too stubborn to recognize it - not when sleep is coming and treacherous dreams are beckoning her close.
Her last thought is that her next book should be something easier – something involving slumber, perhaps. Something where she can take a few days off and sleep for twenty hours; or twenty days perhaps.
That sounds nice.
And then she’s tumbling.
Tumbling, tumbling, tumbling in her dreams like her namesake once did down a rabbit hole – only there’s no white rabbit for her to chase nor Cheshire Cat waiting at the other side, only the sickening feeling that nothing can be resolved quick enough to stop her falling –
But then she wakes.
Her hand shoots out and sends Journey Through Bookland scattering onto the carpet and she almost cries out, scrambling after it before she’s properly awake. Her knees dig into the floor - rough edges against sleep soft skin - but she folds the book carefully into her hands and cradles it back together, running her fingers delicately over the edges and ignoring how her dress from the night before is now twisted painfully around her body.
Her heart is hammering loudly, still jumped up on the dream she can hardly remember – only the phantom feeling of weightless bones careening towards the concrete and the jolting sense of waking just in time, like a marionette tugged up by strings. The air in her room is frigid and for a startled second she wonders if a window is open, but her curtains are still and cover the windows, smothering the light that’s trying to creep through. It must morning, but she can’t hear anyone in the apartment. Cara is either still out, or asleep in bed, dreaming of cats and dogs and math equations. Alice stands slowly and rests the novel back on her shelves next to Poe. Her head is muzzy and makes thinking harder than it should be, but she’s not hung-over, merely tired; trying to process all that has happened over the last few weeks and the strange sensation that Ewan has actually been thwarted.
She steps quietly through the apartment, headed towards the kitchen for water and some crackers; or maybe pie. There’s definitely leftover pie from her emergency baking session on Wednesday evening. She gets halfway towards the tiny kitchen but stops short, heart hammering painfully again at the sight of a half naked pirate draped across her couch.
Andrew. Fuck.
Apparently he’d taken a page from Captain Jack Sparrow’s book and found it easier to pass out on the nearest available soft surface.
He’s fast asleep; his belt and red shirt draped messily over the back of the couch even though the sword still rests at his hip in its scabbard. He has an arm thrown over his face and pillows scattered over him and the floor like he’s been tossing and turning, but he looks peaceful and Alice has the sudden urge to kick him in the shin.
She aims for his foot instead and a few seconds later manages to wake him. He snorts indelicately and springs upwards, rubbing a hand down his face. Blurry eyes meet her own and then he blinks owlishly – once, twice, before grinning.
“G’morning,” he mutters, and then collapses back against the pillows.
“Why aren’t you at home?” she demands, jostling his legs around on the couch until he’s made room for her to sit. They must look ridiculous, hair and eye makeup askew, costumes twisted with sleep and eyes still blinking with an effort to stay open, but Alice has the sudden urge to be near him – his skin looks warm and soft and as annoyed as it makes her she wants to be close.
“Too far,” he responds simply, and Alice huffs gently.
“Yeah. How’s your head?”
Andrew pauses as if he’s only now remembered drinking, and then leans back so that his head rests on the back of the couch. “I’ve had better. But much worse,” he tells her.
“I’m fine,” he finally mutters and pushes himself forward again. Their shoulders jostle for space and Alice is once more reminded that Andrew has no concept of personal boundaries. There’s an entire couch they could be sitting on and instead he’s inched them so close she’s practically in his lap. No wonder Ewan thought there was something there, she thinks quickly. And no wonder Heather could see merit in it, she tries to ignore.
“Are you alright?” Andrew asks suddenly, breaking her inner debate, and Alice turns to him so sharply he seems to stumble backwards.
“It’s just, I worry sometimes – you push yourself hard. And things are about to get even crazier,” he says. There’s laughter in his voice, but it’s soft and a little critical. His eyes are warm though and Alice can’t help but nod.
“I’m fine. You know me. I like being busy. Having things to do.”
“Yeah, but an entire kingdom? That’s a lot, even for you.”
There’s something hidden in his voice, the quiet question of how much time will be left for their project, so Alice smiles boldly. “We should probably pick a nicer book for next week then – something less dramatic.”
“Treasure Island still stands.”
“How is that less dramatic, Prichard?”
“But – Pirates?”
Alice laughs loud and happy, and lets herself lean into his shoulder for all of a second.
“Hey, um. I was thinking about what I said last night,” Andrew murmurs seconds later, “about The Sopranos, and Breaking Bad and all of that, and – well,” he pauses awkwardly but Alice keeps watching him steadily, willing him to go on.
“Yeah?” she prods, but then her phone beeps once, and then twice, and she glances down and notices the emails that have accrued over night; suddenly remembers that she’s now the student president.
“I guess you’re pretty popular right now,” Andrew smiles, and his words sound genuine and not at all trite, as if he truly believes it. “You know what, don’t worry about it right now. You have enough to think about, madam president,” he adds, and she rolls her eyes at the title.
“Don’t call me that,” she tells him, swaying so that their shoulders brush.
“It’s true though,” he reminds her, “Aren’t you proud? Alice you won – you were great.”
And she pauses – thinks about everything leading up to the announcement and tries to decide if it was worth it, if the position is even one she truly wants. She thinks she does, in the end, and maybe that will have to be enough for now.
“I am proud,” she murmurs, “but I hate what happened,” she starts, staring at the carpet even after Andrew cuts her off with the wave of his hand.
“It happened, Alice. Cara and I might not have known what stairwell boy was going to do, but we made the choice to stick by you. That involves all the shit that comes with it, okay?”
His voice is soft. He has a hand resting close to her thigh in the space between them on the couch and Alice can feel his heat down her right side, radiating warmth. She doesn’t know how to handle this – whatever is bubbling between them could be excused last night by inebriation but now it’s morning and Andrew is all soft and supportive of her choices and practically begging her to collapse against his side with the curve of his dimples – stupid pretty boys, she thinks, and has to stop herself laughing awkwardly in his face.
He’s a good friend though – her best friend if she’s honest, and she can’t go without acknowledging that.
“Thank you, for...” and she wants to say choosing me. Wants to tell him that he made the right decision choosing her over Heather, even though she’s aware that’s a messed up way to look at the situation. It was never a competition between the two, and it never should be. And hadn’t he said it himself? It was for schoolwork, for his grades. But it feels like he chose her, and that sits warm and pleasant above her heart, dampening the worry and the guilt that stills swirls relentlessly.
“Always, Alice,” he smiles, and knocks his fist against her knee. He settles his hand there a second and she freezes, unable to pull away from the contact. But then his phone makes a startled noise, and Alice jumps, and Andrew hastens to stop the beeping. His face falls quickly and Alice knows immediately who’s on the other end.
“I should probably be getting home,” he mutters, and Alice nods and resists the urge to ask. She’s been responsible for too many personal matters being turned upside down – she doesn’t need to add to the list – but she stops him after a second with a hand to his arm before he can stand.
“What were you saying earlier?” she demands and Andrew pauses and then smiles, shaking his head quickly.
“Yeah. No. Nothing,” he finally tells her. “I need to think some things through anyway. I’ll talk to you about it later though?” he offers and she nods eagerly.
He stands and stretches and she’s greeted with shoulder muscles – everywhere -back and shoulder muscles; nearly bites down on her bottom lip to stop commenting on him putting on a show. Instead she busies herself collecting the rest of his scattered clothing, handing them to him distractedly and trying to ignore his lazy smile as he heads towards the door.
“Yeah, we can talk later. I’ll be here,” she chimes, “trying to figure out how to run my new kingdom,” and when he turns suddenly she falters, “You know. That was a joke? Because Macbeth –“
Andrew laughs and rolls his eyes – fond and familiar.
“I know, Alice.”
She tries not to blush. “Okay. I’ll see you later,” she tells him.
With a flourish of his shirt and sword, he’s gone.