Chapter Text
When the lyrics said Pump the base, one more time for the thirteenth time, Rosalyne decided once and for all that she would never step foot into a freshman party again.
The stench of sweat and beer hoarded the living room, remeshing it into a mass of pure insanity with second-hand smoke and a dire odour. Rosalyne could not believe that merely a year ago, she would have found all this fun, exhilarating: a ruse of rebellion packaged neatly into college experience.
Now, it felt nothing but drab.
The guy next to Rosalyne whistled piercingly at the dance-floor, almost leaving her left ear deaf, and when she turned around, the sight afore made her so queasy her eyes began to water – from an emotion that was closely related to fright.
In neon lights, flashing red, blue and magenta, Childe, bare-chested, swung his shirt in the middle of a pit full of people while performing a strange ritual that he must have imagined was dancing. He looked lost to his moves: a tectonic-looking abomination mixed with a grasshopper’s best attempt at a courtship display. It looked so unnerving it was almost endearing. Almost no one noticed him – amongst the pit of drunken bodies, he blended right in, the crowd forming an almost mesmerizing ritualistic dance. Although, if any existing ritual included dance moves from Fortnight – Rosalyne adamantly refused to be a part of it.
She was just beginning to feel her upper lip involuntarily curl in disgust when, across the makeshift dance-floor, she caught a terribly quaint and almost kindred expression.
A short guy with an awful haircut stood on the other side of the room, holding a red solo cup and staring at Childe. He looked frozen mid-walk, like Childe was such a disturbing sight to behold that it paralysed him. His hair was purple under the neon lights and his expression was static, trapped in between appalment and maybe despair. Still, seconds passed, and he did not tear his gaze away.
And that was– Interesting. Interesting in the same way as watching a bug writhe under the killing ray of the sun projected through a looking glass. Not that Rosalyne would know. Rosalyne would never do such a thing. What she would do, though, is meddle. Meddle and scheme. After all, she was so, so gravely bored. And thus, when the guy who was just whistling at the dancefloor turned to her and said: “So, do you come here often?” and the lyrics said Pump the base, one more time, Rosalyne made a beeline towards the purple-haired guy, making sure to step on as many feet as she could during the process.
“I like your haircut,” said Rosalyne, because she was nasty enough to lie when bored or annoyed.
The guy jolted, looking away from the direction of Childe as if he was just caught doing something he shouldn't have been. And oh, he should not have been. He gave Rosalyne a once-over and at that, she realised, with quiet delight, that they shared something very dear to her: a guarded meanness that was as instinctual as it was carnal.
Up close, the guy was very peculiar. Not handsome, not beautiful - but undoubtedly picturesque, like he was ripped out of somewhere very tragic and placed upon the floor of that vile house completely by accident. He was also much, much shorter than she first estimated.
“Do I know you?” he said, in a very suspicious tone. It made Rosalyne’s lips twitch.
“You don’t, yet. I’m Rosalyne,” with that, she offered him a hand, at which he stared upon as if she offered him a bag of meth, instead. He did not shake it.
“Kunikuzushi.”
“A pleasure. How do you like the party?”
“It’s... fine,” Kunikuzushi looked around, beseechingly. It all felt so amusing that Rosalyne giggled, giddy with deviousness and maybe that one drink that she had when there was nothing better to do.
“The music is nice, isn’t it?”
“I suppose. Sorry, I have to-”
And before Kunikuzushi had a chance to make an excuse and slip away from her vulturous grasp, their conversation was interrupted. By somebody very drunk, very delirious, and very, very talkative. Finally, her plan was set in motion.
“Did you see my moves?! Somebody gave me their number! Oh, can I try that?” Childe, sweaty and breathless and loud, almost crashed into Rosalyne’s side. He was a tangle of limbs with a drunken limp. She moved away just at the right moment and, being the great actress that she was, gripped Kunikuzushi’s bicep as if trying to keep her balance. His attempt to flee rendered itself unsuccessful.
“Hello, Childe,” said Rosalyne with the utmost condescending tone she could manage.
She could feel more than see how Kunikuzushi stiffened immediately. At that, a rush of moral conscience surged up inside her, momentarily, unbidden, and made her consider finding another unlucky soul to torment. Fortunately, just as she was about to let go of the guy, she noticed that Kunikuzushi was staring. Staring so intensely that it looked like he got frozen again. His knuckles around his red solo cup had gone completely white.
Childe’s shirt, which he apparently tugged back on after his disgrace on the dance-floor, was almost see-through. It was damp, and gross, and completely unseemly. If it were up to Rosalyne, she would have closed her eyes and not opened them again until Childe was out of sight indefinitely.
Kunikuzushi’s gaze seemed to be transfixed on that same wet, disgusting shirt.
Morality surrendered.
“Hi, Rosie!” Rosalyne’s eye twitched. “So can I try that?” Childe pointed at the cup in Kunikuzushi’s hand.
His finger swayed. Kunikuzushi’s eyes followed the movement. The poor guy’s face contorted in apprehension but it had the same phantom quality as a mirage: underneath, he looked absolutely and utterly mesmerized. That was actually much worse than Rosalyne anticipated. She reckoned it would be fun – interacting with a comically drunk Childe had only ever led to disappointment from one end and morning embarrassment from the other. For Rosalyne, it had always been pure voyeuristic joy. But that, all that, was suddenly just pathetic. It was a trainwreck in motion.
“No.”
“...What?”
“No.”
“I can’t?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
Rosalyne followed the exchange with the fervour of a chair umpire. Childe’s gaze was unfocused but determined. His poise was, in all senses of the word, unstable. He struck.
“You’re so pretty. I’ve been watching you all evening.”
When all three of them registered what words left Childe’s mouth, they froze simultaneously: Kunikuzushi - in seeming horror; Rosalyne - in solidarity; and Childe - in a drunken realization.
Seconds passed without any one of them uttering a thing as the lyrics said Pump the base, one more time, and the song finally changed. Rosalyne could swear that she felt her brain shrivel up, and, overcome by the imminent desire to turn around and leave, she almost threw her hands up in the air in surrender. Just as she was about to drag Kunikuzushi away with her, however, Childe finally broke out of his stupor.
Shakily, he reached his hand towards Rosalyne, his eyes bulged and, in slow motion, she had to watch the remnants of her grandiose plan crumble to dust as Childe bent over, heaved, and delightfully emptied his stomach onto Kunikuzushi’s shoes.