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There are too many people.
The ballroom is too crowded, and there are groups of people everywhere, surrounding me with blinding smiles like sharks circling their prey.
I try to think back to why I’m even in this situation but my mind feels dull, probably from the small flutes of champagne that I’ve been downing throughout the evening.
They are all wearing perfectly tailored dresses and expensive suits. They keep on talking to me, congratulating me, introducing themselves and telling me that they ‘hope it goes well’ and that we ‘make a nice couple’.
I just nod.
I don’t know what to say, therefore it is a relief that they don’t seem to expect me to say anything at all.
I have tried to ask what they’re talking about or what’s going on, but when my mouth opens no words come out and before I can try again, there’s another new crowd of people come sweeping in to introduce themselves and repeat the process.
My head hurts. The lights are too bright and everyone is too loud. I just want it all to be over, but for some reason I’m frozen on the spot, unable to leave.
An elderly woman wearing a lilac dress walks over and starts talking at me. She reaches out to shake my hand, and I simply watch as she clasps my clammy palm and then the polite expression slides off her face as she drop my hand like it’s made of ice.
I half wonder if it is; it feels freezing. I’m far too cold, but also overheating too.
It’s only momentarily though, and she quickly recovers, forcing a fake smile on her face before walking away to go and talk to someone else.
It’s only the, that I spot Kitsey. She’s standing on the other side of the ballroom with a group of guests by the bar. She’s wearing shimmery blue dress and elaborately done hair, laughing at a joke that someone’s just told, that’s when things begin to slip into place.
Marriage.
I’m going to marry Kitsey, and this is her engagement party that her godmother (possibly the lady in the lilac dress?) has organized for her.
So now I’m stuck in a ballroom with chandelier lights that are far too bright and a swarm of people that are complete strangers to me. Except that I’m supposed to get to know them, because they all know and love Kitsey, and I’ll probably be expected to show up with her, at dinner parties or other tedious events.
And Kitsey has decided that it’s best for her to get married to me, despite the fact that she is really in love with Tom Cable, simply because it’s convenient and her family seems to approve.
Right.
I don’t know how many more hours of this I need to get through, because there isn’t a clock in here and I’m not wearing a watch. There might be dancing soon, but I don’t want to dance and even if I did, there is no one that I could dance with.
I don’t really know what to do. Just standing here feels like it takes a lot of effort.
I want to go home. But I also don’t really know where home is anymore; It certainly isn’t the neat apartment that I live in, and it hasn’t been the antique shop for a while now. I keep pretending, acting like I know what to do, where to go, but I really don’t.
Maybe I just don’t belong anywhere.
Part of me wants to see my mother because she would always have good advice to share, but she hasn’t been around for a long time now and I don’t think that I’m still the type of person who she’d want to give advice to.
I’m a mess.
I am as selfish as my Father always was, and if my mother met me now, she would probably hate me. That’s a lie, she would definitely hate me. I used to believe that if she had lived then everything would have been alright.
Now though, I’m not so sure.
Maybe it’s just me. I make too many mistakes and I do my best to escape accountability for all the problems that I’ve caused. I chose not to follow my Mother all those years ago at the museum, and then the explosion happened and everything good in my life was destroyed in the rubble.
Now I am alive… and she isn’t.
I’m not sure if I really want to live the type of life that I’ve chosen. The antiques, the drugs, the painting that I stole and then lost. I scam people, I’m a natural liar, and one day everyone that I will love will finally realise that. I’m a fraud, it’s as simple as that, no matter how much I’ve tried to convince myself otherwise.
I don’t know if I can possibly carry on like this, it all feels so suffocating. I dislike almost everyone that I know, I can’t seem to help it. Why am I like this? Why do I always want to run away?
And why do other people never love me enough to try and follow?
I can’t escape now though, I’m rooted to the spot. Frozen in this nightmarish existence.
It doesn’t feel quite real; everything’s too loud, sharp lights that feel almost blinding, and the steadily growing chatter that fills the room.
I have an unshakeable feeling that it is real though. I’m not imaginative, and my usual nightmares tend to default to my mother in the exploded museum, or my father and his constant anger. This is unfortunately very real; I am trapped here.
Kitsey glances at me then, piercing blue eyes boring into me. I feel insignificant and worthless under her icy gaze. It feels like Kitsey is assessing me, like she usually seems to be, and as always, she ends up disappointed by me.
Her face falls and the laughter dies on her tongue. I try to offer a faint smile, but from the small frown etched across her pretty face, I don’t think I was very successful in conveying a sense of happiness.
Oh well.
She can’t be worried about me managing though, because she’s quick to regain her cheerful demeanour. Someone around her says something to her and her mask is up in less than a second, giggling at whatever joke that has just been shared. Her eyes slide away from mine, and she stays exactly where she is. I watch her as she reimerses herself into the conversation by offering a bright remark that makes all her friends chuckle and smile.
It’s obvious that she’s not willing to rescue me, and why should she?
I remember faintly our argument from a few days ago, the one that lead me to realising that this marriage isn’t going to be about mutual love or understanding. It will be about safety and security. Us being married will please Mrs Barbour (whom I care about, because of how she looked after me like one of her own children after my mother died) as well as Hobbie, who seems to think that I’m in love with Kitsey. Hobie assumes that because of that I will be happy, he’s happy for me because he thinks that I’m in love.
He’s wrong though. I don’t think I’ll be happy, no matter what I do. I wish I could just restart it all.
I scan the room again, desperately hoping for someone to save me.
I spot Pippa in the crowd and feel a sudden glimpse of hope. She is wearing a green dress with a grey shawl and although she isn’t exactly smiling, she really does look like she’s is happy. I want to run over to her, share in that tantalising glimpse of happiness that she almost seems to radiate.
But she doesn’t see me. She’s talking earnestly with Everett, her boyfriend, smiling at him and touching his arm. Everett is just listening, an odd sort of smile on his face as if he doesn’t quite understand what she’s saying.
Sadness flares in me, sharp and unexpected. I bite my lip until I taste blood and look away from them.
How can Pippa be happy?
When my mother died, my world shattered. It was the thing that separated the good part of my life from the other bittersweet things that happened later on.
I think… I think that I keep trying to tell myself that Pippa is the only other person why could possibly understand, the only other person who’s fallen apart from that explosion.
And maybe she is. I know that for a while she was hurting, and in some ways she probably still feels some of that pain that I still feel. But she is also stronger than I ever was. She rebuilt her life. I think that I have always envied her for being able to do that.
I don’t want to hate her for it though, she still is one of the few people that I actually trust. There was a point when I thought that trust meant that I was in love with her. I don’t really think that anymore. Fuck, I don’t know if I’m actually capable of loving anyone.
I am trying to let go of the idealised version of her that still exists in my head, but I don’t think that I’m there yet. I don’t understand Pippa, even if I sometimes tried to convince myself that I did. She’s happy now, that’s the important part, even if it takes someone like Everett.
I don’t think I would have ever made her feel happy. What happened at the museum was like a shipwreck, and I thought that since we were thrown into the water together, that we would stay there waiting for a lifeboat.
I was wrong.
I wonder how long I would have tried to cling on to Pippa’s wrist, before I realised that she had learned to swim away. I’m drowning now. I used to blame her for that, but…how are you supposed to help someone else swim, whilst you are drowning?
Pippa isn’t a bad person, it’s just that I am no longer her problem anymore. That’s pretty stupid actually, seeing as we were only ever friends. She and Hobie were the people who were closest to a family for me, but I know that Pippa doesn’t really know how to act around me anymore.
I resent it, but I think that I’m starting to understand. Then again sometimes I hate it, and I get stuck on wondering if that means that I hate her.
I don’t really. I only have enough hatred to aim at one person: Myself, if that wasn’t already obvious.
Pippa and I don’t know how to act around each other anymore and I don’t think she’d be able to get me out of this party even if she tried. I think we might have been closer at one point, but I honestly can’t tell anymore if that’s actually true or if it’s just what I want to believe. Our entire friendship has been based off lies anyway, I don’t think that pattern between us is likely to change anytime soon
A lady with a bright yellow scarf is asking me a question, but I’ve lost my focus now and all I can do is stare blankly at her as she and her husband wait expectantly for me to reply. I shake my head as if to clear it, but it just makes my vision blurry.
“I’m sorry.” I mumble.
I hurriedly glance around for somewhere to sit down but there doesn’t seem to be any tables that are free of people. I swallow and attempt to steel my nerves; I simply need to try to just get over what ever this is. I need to get through this evening.
Everything’s so bright. Why are there this many lights?
I sympathise now, with Hobies love of his workshop where he’s only surrounded by antiques and tools instead, of people who need far more maintenance than furniture ever could.
“Did you hear what Barbara said?” The gentleman snaps at me, an expression that’s both impatient and irritable on his face.
I blink dumfoundedly at the couple standing in front of me. The yellow scarf lady is looking at me impatiently and her husband is scowling at me. I don’t know what to do. They’re all looking at me for an answer, but I don’t have one because my throat has dried up and instead of speaking, I only seem to open and close my mouth a few times, trying and failing to force any words out that could posssibly save the situation.
When it becomes obvious that I’m not able to explain, I choose to walk away. Of course I do. I really do hate myself in that moment, ignoring the sounds of the couple who are calling me back.
This should be a simple action, one that leads to leaving this crowded room or maybe even a bit of fresh air. I really need to breath. Why the fuck am I not breathing properly?
I don’t escape of course. Instead, I back away from the couple awkwardly and instead end up bumping into a waiter. The waiter moves his hand expertly to stop the Hors d'oeuvre from falling of the tray (I’m lucky it wasn’t Champaign he was carrying) but bumping into him sends him falling into a few of Kitseys friends who are standing behind him.
Nothing is broken, luckily, but I’ve caused enough of a scene that people are now sending me hostile looks and I can see one of Kitseys friends whispering something about me to the girl next to her. They’re all staring at me, surprised or hostile.
“Are you alright sir?” The waiter asks me anxiously, as if he’s the one who’s caused the problem, despite that the collision was definitely all my fault. I try to nod but I can tell that it comes off wrong. I try to push my way through the swarm of people as carefully as I can, as if navigating my way through a wasps nest.
Why am I acting like this? I haven’t drank nearly enough to be able to blame my clumsiness on alcohol, and I haven’t taken any pills at all today, even though it was a tempting idea.
There is no logical explanation.
It’s just all the people in one room… I have always had an intense dislike for crowds but I’ve never felt so much fear over a situation like this. My hands are shaking even as I’m desparetly trying to stop them, and I can feel myself growing dizzier by the moment. They’re looking at me, whispering to each other. I hate it.
My head hurts. I feel like I’m waiting for an explosion just because then there would be a valid reason behind my irrational sense of panic.
Fuck.
Maybe something really is going to explode. Maybe I can sense it, and soon everyone in this room is going to die. I’m thinking unreasonably, but I can’t really bring myself to care right now. I never care about anything. Perhaps I have managed to become completely apathetic.
“Potter!”
Suddenly an arm is slung casually around my shoulders and I look sharply to see who it is, only to be faced with Boris standing there, grinning at me.
“Am very happy to see you!” He says.
I flinch at the sound of his loud voice but I also shift closer, so that I’m leaning against his side, almost hiding behind him. The corners of Boris’ lips turn down in a frown as he studies me closely. I’m not surprised; I probably look like an absolute wreck right now.
His eyes scan over me, and for once his confident posture falters and his dark stormy eyes hold familiar worry that I remember too well from our days in Vegas. I want to reassure him that everything is okay -that I’m okay- mainly because I should be, seeing as nothing bad has actually happened and this is just a party, so I should be absolutely fine. But for whatever reason, my mouth is too dry to say a single word, let alone to force a lie out that would be elaborate enough to convince him that I’m alright.
“Are you all good, Potter?” Boris removes his arm from my shoulders, instead reaching out to press a cool palm to my forehead. “Are you hurt?” He asks quickly, looking me up and down for possible injuries. When he doesn’t find anything, he just waits, frowning slightly as if waiting for an answer to his questions.
There’s no use in him waiting. I don’t reply. Instead, I prefer to stay silent.
I wonder why Boris is still here. Why is he still acting like he’s actually concerned about me? We aren’t two lonely boys left alone together in Las Vegas. Boris has contacts, probably friends too if he really wanted them. Why is he still talking to me?
Boris does not need me, not like I need him... I don’t know why he always acts like he does. I don’t know anything. My head feels painful just thinking about it.
His voice carries concern, something that I am unused to from anyone who isn’t Hobbie or Pippa. But I don’t really know why he’s speaking so softly right now, because Boris isn’t obligated to care about me. I still don’t know why he hasn’t left yet.
“Talk to me, Theo. Speak words.” Boris encourages, reaching out and poking my cheek worriedly, “Are you okay?”
I can’t remember the last time that he called me by my actual name, but it sounds lovely in his accent. It makes me want to ask him to repeat it, but I don’t.
The good thing is that just then, my voice chooses that moment to start working again.
“No.” I whisper, unsure of what else to say. To be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out that I’ve got some sort of illness or unknown injury from how weird I feel. Maybe I’m just dying on the inside. It certainly feels that way; my chest feels tight and sore. My head won’t stop hurting, even my thoughts are too loud. I instinctively move my hands to cover my ears, muffling all of the sound that’s going on around me.
Boris just nods at the waiter and tells him something whilst pointing at Hobbie.
Then he looks back at me and says something else that can’t hear -I think it might be in Russian- before he slips his arm through mine, and guides me with a surprising amount of care, tugging me behind him as he whisks me out of the room and shuts the door behind us.
I gasp as soon as we’ve left, filling my lungs with oxygen as if I’ve been starved of air. I feel as if I really have been slowly drowning and I’m only just coming up for breath.
I repeat, drawing in more air, as much as I can in an effort to prevent this awful suffocating feeling, that seems to linger on my skin causing me to involuntarily grimace and shudder. I’m sweating too much, I feel like I’m burning up, so I shrug my expensive jacket off and throw it onto the floor.
Then I give up and allow myself to finally sink to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest tightly as if I’ll somehow be able to protect myself from whatever this is. I’ve felt like this before; this strange mix of dread and sadness that consumes me slowly. I can’t help feeling guilty for letting it get this bad again. I feel exhausted.
I just stay slumped against the wall, trying really hard to breathe like a fucking normal person and to stop hyperventilating. Unfortunately, the more that I try with increasing desperation to calm down, the worse it all seems to get.
Boris slides onto the floor beside me and opens his arms wide. I fall into them without even questioning it, far too tired to object. He’s the only other person that I’ve ever allowed to see me like this; broken, miserable and alone.
This happened after I left Vegas too, and whenever I sensed myself beginning to panic, I’d rush to hide in my bedroom if possible, or lock myself in the nearest bathroom until it was over. I was all alone - there was nothing else that could have done.
Except I’m not alone now, because Boris has wrapped both his arms around me, instantly holding me carefully in a way that no one else has since he did, all those years in Vegas ago. He starts whispering words from other languages which I don’t understand, but in his voice, it all sounds melodic and reassuring even if I have no idea what he means.
I’m fucking weird - he’s possibly even worse- I don’t even fucking care anymore, about any of it. I just want someone to hold onto me until the room stops spinning. And Boris is the only person who I trust to do that.
I can’t remember the last time that I felt properly safe. Immediately, I bury my head in his shoulder and try to breathe in and out a bit more normally.
I think I might be hyperventilating. It’s all going too quickly again, my vision is blurry and I feel unsteady.
“Calm.” I hear Boris’ voice murmur in my ear. “Just breath, Potter. You are with me now. It is okay.”
It really isn’t. I don’t know if anything will ever be ‘okay’ again, everything in my life seems to progressively turn sour.
Boris is breathing in and out with exaggerated slowness, pausing as he waits for me to follow. Begrudgingly, I try to copy him.
He rubs my back, which somehow helps my breathing to even out as I finally allow myself to relax ever so slightly. My head is resting on his chest and I can smell the cigarettes smoke that clings to his clothes, mixed with the scent of the apple cologne that he wears.
Luckily, my breathing sort off slows down a bit after about ten minutes, albeit still quicker than usual. How can people do this so casually? How can everyone just breathing and out steadily, without even thinking about it?
A few moments ago it felt like an impossibility.
Boris shifts a little and it’s only then, that I realise how I’m probably being stupid and clingy. My nails are digging into his sides in a way that must be uncomfortable, if not slightly painful. The last thing I want to do is be selfish enough to actually hurt him.
Reluctantly, I loosen my hold on him and try to get up, but he pulls me back to him and wraps his hand around my own, thumb loosely brushing against my palm.
A stray tear slips out trails down my cheek. My breathing is still shallow and I’m crying properly before I even realise it. I wish I could cry nicely, but it’s a mess of tears and loud sobbing.
I lose track of time entirely as I let myself fall apart. I cry until my throat feels raw, my eyes burn, until finally the tears ease up rather abruptly.
My head is still resting against his chest, and I relax slightly more as I listen the steady beat of his heart.
I let out a sigh of relief and unclench my fists. Boris is here, he’s right next to me, presence reassuring and strangely comforting. I stay at his side and it’s as if all the years that came between us slowly fade away
For the first time this evening, I’ve been rescued.
I feel Boris’s hand brush against my face, gently tucking my hair behind my ear and slowly smoothing his hands over my tear stained cheeks. His hands are firm, and there are small scars dotted around his knuckles.
Most of my memories are of us are loud and chaotic, a sharp contrast to how he is now. His movements are slow and unexpectedly gentle. He cradles my face in his hands, bright eyes locked with mine, and he’s so close that I can feel his breath against my cheek. I’m not sure if I’m breathing enough, because he’s looking at me, dark eyes as intense as ever. Boris stares at me for a long moment, eyes searching my face and lips slightly parted as if he wants to say something.
I watch him do this, but I don’t feel tense like I would with anyone else, I just feel weary yet also strangely calm too.
His gaze flickers down to my lips for a brief moment, and I wonder if he’ll kiss me again like he did when we were younger. Back then I managed to pass it off as a spur of the moment thing but if he properly kissed me now I’m not sure how I would react. I think I might want him to but at the same time, that familiar feeling of being in love with my best friend, still scares me slightly.
Then his lips quirk upwards to form a smile. I’m willing to bet that there are at least half a dozen chandeliers in this house, but I swear that his smile is brighter than all of them. His lips are red like wine and chapped as well. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him, and then I feel a pang of guilt for even considering it. I don’t need to make, whatever this thing between us is, more complex than it already is. It would be wise and definitely safer to stay away from someone like Boris Pavlikovsky. My Mother would certainly not approve of him, nor would Mrs Barbour or Hobbie for that matter.
Despite all this, I stay wrapped in his arms because it feels tight and secure. So, I suppose I must have somehow become overly sentimental, because I am leaning on him savouring every moment of this whilst it lasts. I think I might even be smiling at him.
I really am fucking useless.
He seems to change his mind, at least about kissing me on the lips anyway, veering upwards instead and pressing a chaste kiss to my forehead. Then, he envelopes my hand in his, and gives it a quick squeeze. It feels calming, and I trace a faded scar with my thumb,
Boris seems to take my smile as a cue that things are okay again, and a relieved grin breaks across his face.
“Your hands are so tiny, Potter.” He teases, “Pretty and delicate.”
“Fuck off.” I mumble, no bite in my words. I say it more out of habit than anything. I don’t move my hand out of his. He must notice this because his smirk grows wider in triumph. I try my best to scowl, but it doesn’t really have any effect on him. That isn’t really surprising, I suppose.
“You love me really.” He says cheerily, winking at me.
I remain silent; not drunk enough to agree with him out loud, yet too weary to try and object to his words like I usually would.
I really wish that I didn’t love Boris Pavlikovsky. He is unsuitable and angry, loving and unexpectedly kind. He confuses me more than anyone else ever has, yet I think he might be the only person why actually understands me; I admire him for that, even I don’t know what the fuck I’m on about most of the time. Boris is the only persons who has stayed with me without needing an explanation.
‘You love me really’
His words spin around my mind like a broken record. It’s just a joke anyway, he probably doesn’t intend to cause my heart skip a beat at those four words. Maybe that’s my real problem, how I obsess over small, insignificant things as if they’re actually mean something. But Boris doesn’t mean anything by what he says, he’s probably just doing his best to comfort me.
I look away from him, letting my gaze fall to the floorboards instead.
I wish that I really was just apathetic. But I’m not. I want someone to care about me, but it’s always felt like no one has. Except for Boris. He cares about me, unconditionally, in a way that’s more than a little unhealthy. I don’t deserve to be worried over, yet for some reason, he hasn’t left yet.
I did leave him, all alone in Vegas all those years ago. Yet he’s back here now and I don’t really understand why, but I know that I feel grateful for it. And part of me despises that, it’s pointless to care about someone so much, as if trust is as breakable as glass, something destined to be smashed to smithereens someday.
And I think that I do love him. It feels almost dangerous to love someone so much, so I try my best to ignore it. If I told Boris then he could hate me, and I don’t think that I could bear that.
Instinctively I shift closer, closing my eyes and let myself rest my head on Boris’ shoulder. He slings his arm around my shoulders again presses another kiss to my hair.
“Thank you.” I whisper.
Boris nods, before letting out a loud cackle of laughter, probably at my hesitation. I love that he never pretends to be subtle. I allow myself to smile at the sound of his laughter and it feels good.
“I take you to your home now, Potter.” Boris says eventually, “I think you have had too much party for one night.”
I guess home could be wherever Boris decides to take me.