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“Oh my god,” Blue whispered, her lips dangerously close to Gansey’s ear, “If I have to hear one person talk about the nobility of attending public school, with that look on their face.”
Gansey winced. If it was Adam, this would be the time to squeeze his shoulder, offer him a fist bump, remind him of all the useful connections they were making. But touching Blue was forbidden. Dangerous. And he didn’t know what Blue had hoped to gain from tonight.
He should have bailed the moment Adam realised he’d be stuck in Henrietta.
He offered her his best self-deprecating smile, “Sorry about them. I think we’ve said hello to just about everyone we need to, though.”
She pulled a face, took a sip of half warm champagne she’d been nursing almost an hour, and promptly choked. Gansey bit back a laugh, but she seemed to hear it anyway, and glared at him.
“I need to get rid of this,” she murmured.
“I think there’s a table over by the bar,” he said, pointing across the room.
She leaned in towards him, “Where?”
He swallowed. “Allow me,” and he swept the glass from her hands.
Her arm linked with his, you weren’t going to leave me by myself, were you?, they wove their way across the room, circling through the crowds, avoiding the swirls of fake laughter, the fake smiles that would fixate on him a moment too long before grabbing at him, begging just a moment from the son of their future congresswoman. The whole thing felt remarkably claustrophobic, and he was relieved to break through to the other side.
“We could,” he said, eyeing the room, glass safely delivered, “not go back,” nodding towards the door.
Her smile was so bright it hurt, ached, and he fervently wished that he could kiss her.
"That would be great," she said.
He led her out onto the porch, the cool air settling against their skin. She brushed past him, her touch quick and fleeting, but unshakeable. He stared after her as she moved down into the garden, into the moonlight.
“What?” she asked, catching his eye.
“You look,” beautiful, “very pretty tonight.” He cleared his throat.
“I should hope so, it took ages to get the skirt to sit right,” she joked, but there was colour in her cheeks, and she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Jane,” he said, and she looked at him, “You look beautiful.”
“Well,” she replied, voice slightly strangled, blush still rising, “You look lovely as well.” She smiled. And he breathed. And then she continued, her voice returning to normal, “Of course, I still think that the jeans and t-shirt look suits you best.”
He laughed, low and genuine, “What?”
She shrugged, “It’s nice, sometimes, to see you as just you.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing with this then,” he said, and shrugged off his jacket, before folding it neatly and hanging it over the railing.
She laughed, delighted, and a warm, pleased feeling settled in his stomach. If he listened to that laugh every single day for the rest of his life, it still wouldn’t be enough.
“Come here,” she said. And he did.
She pulled him close, reaching for his tie. He watched her hands as she fumbled with the knot, and he reached up to steady them. It was only after, loosened tie lifted over his head, clutched in one of her hands, other resting still on his neck, that he looked up and met her eyes.
She gave him an uncertain smile, and tucked the tie into his pocket, and he stayed very still while she undid his top button.
"There," she said a little breathlessly, "Now you look positively unkept."
He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Her hands stayed right by his collar, and she made no move to pull away. His had fallen to his sides, and he wondered what she would do if he reached out to touch her, or if that was still forbidden.
"Just how you like me," he said, too late, too rough, too raw.
And then he moved his hands to her waist, because it was much too late to think about how dangerous this was.
"Gansey," she said.
"Jane."
"I," she started, and then seemed to think better of it, "This song is very pretty."
He could just make out the sound the sound of violins. Chopin, he thought, but he couldn't be sure. Ronan would know, he'd always had a better ear for music, even if his taste was appalling.
"It's a waltz," he told her. And she glanced, startled, back at the house.
"They're not actually dancing in there, are they?" she asked. He laughed, and she finally pulled back so she could punch his arm. "I don't know what strange things you people get up to at rich people parties."
"Mostly it's standing around, trying to look very important." He hesitated, reminded himself that it was too late to play it safe. "We could dance. Out here."
She scoffed. "You might be able to."
"I can show you."
"Okay," she said, voice soft, and slipped her hands around his neck.
"It's just, if you follow my feet, yes, just like that," and he couldn't help but notice that every time they moved the gap between them seemed to grow smaller, "and then we turn," and he could feel the weight of her in his arms and -
"Shit, sorry," she said, tripping over his foot and falling against him.
"It's okay," he told her. "I'm sure my foot will make a full recovery."
"How'd you learn to do that, anyway?" she asked, while they both held very still. “It doesn’t seem like something you’d find useful.”
"School," he confessed.
"School?" She sounded delighted.
"One line of sweaty private school boys, one line of disgusted private school girls."
"Does that mean Ronan and Adam?"
"Before Adam's time, but Ronan, yeah. We had to learn line dancing too."
He could feel her body shaking with laughter, and she rested her head on his shoulder. "Tell me there are pictures."
"None that survived," he told her. He paused, "Do you want to try again?"
She shook her head, "Can we just stay here for a moment?"
And they did. Music drifting out, washing over them. He closed his eyes, and let his head rest on hers, his arms tightening around her waist, while the stars above them danced across the sky.
And, christ, if he could ask for anything in the entire world, right at that moment, the only favour he could think of was for it to never end.