Chapter Text
As much as she’ll never admit it, Book isn’t the social type.
Not in the whole butterfly-metaphor way, anyway. She talks just fine with other objects, with her friends, she can make a room comfortable or start casual chat…
But in big, grand social events? She may as well be a fly on the wall.
The Freesmart dance parties (well, the one she never got to really go to) were already a huge push out of her own comfort zone. She did not know how to dance, she did not know how to mingle in the ways that a rickety bunch of popular girls did. But she stepped out of her box for a brief moment, gathered the courage to be something new, and was immediately swept away with the wind by an arrogant matchstick.
So much for being part of the team.
Book settles herself comfortably at a seat, placing a red solo cup with a rim caked in lime and salt atop a dirtied table cloth.
Loud music blares through her non-existent eardrums, watching various objects manage their eccentric dance moves on an ever color-changing floor beside her.
Book holds back a snicker. How ridiculous they look. A swarm of drunken objects all bumping around strobe lights, looking like a mess. She could imagine its fun, to their deluded minds at least.
She takes a sip of her own drink, making sure to land her lip atop the remaining salt crystals, smacking her tongue against the roof of her mouth after with a disgusted scrunch of her face.
She remembers why she never accepts night-out invitations.
“That bad?”
A familiar voice calls, beside her. It’s nobody on the dance floor, as the novel’s been staring at it this whole time and analyzing the absolute hooligans making fools of themselves out there.
Book recognizes its owner immediately. How couldn’t she? She responds in kind.
“It’s a margarita. About the same as any drink.” Book, a lighter, friendly demeanor now about her, places the cup back on the table bearing abandoned paper plates and personal phones.
A red cardboard tag pushes in a chair beside her, sitting upon it with a quick, short hop. As they do, their string reaches above the table, dragging the placed drink toward them. They peer into the cup with one text-eye, swishing the liquid around curiously. “I wouldn’t know.”
Book’s mouth stands open for a moment, “Right.” She knows Taggy doesn’t have the ability to taste, so there’s no reason for them to know anything about consumables. She knows this, yet somehow during conversation it always flies over her head.
“Why’d you get it then, if you don’t like it?” Price Tag asks, analyzing the bottom of the cup next, then the outside. Book can see that they’re eyeing the salt rim, no doubt wondering what difference it makes to the drink. Actual taste, or just extra flair?
Book leans a comfortable elbow on a table. “It’s a social thing, I guess. I don’t think I’m finishing that, but… like… everyone else has one, so…”
Price Tag listens, then follows Book’s gaze, leading to the dance floor. “Does it seriously do all that? Like, drive you crazy? It’s just a liquid.”
“Vomit’s just a liquid, yet we almost ended the world with it.” Book shrugs.
Price Tag laughs. “Who’s we? Need I remind you we were trapped in a steakhouse the entire time the apocalypse was going on.”
“Oh, pish-posh! You—”
“PISH-POSH???” Price Tag stands up in their seat, an agape expression beholding their print. They laugh. “Golly, Book! Who are you hanging out with? Who speaks like that?”
“GH— WHATEVER!” Book crosses her arms, feigning offense. “My point is that what you eat and drink is actually very integral to the body and can in fact have dire effects! I’m a monograph on psychoactive toxins, you know!”
Price Tag’s string backs up, gesturing defensively, “Alright, alright! Ms. Genius, I’m just curious. I’ve never actually… been able to get drunk, so… it’s strange. To see everyone else like this.”
Book visibly calms, assuming a more slouched position. “You’re not missing out on much. Just makes most people more loose, they tend to describe. It’s really just the alcohol going to your brain, ‘starts stimulating the dopamine and serotonin in there. So they’re more… comfortable, than they normally are.”
Price Tag nods sideways, an instinctual action from them. Book used to find it confusing, as due to their text-based nature, their nodding is horizontal, so it’s easy to mistake it as a shake of the head. She’s gotten used to it now, luckily.
“You plan on joining them?”
Book waves a hand. “I just told you I’m not drinking the rest of that.”
Price Tag’s eyebrow(s) shifts to a slant. “No, I mean, on the dance floor. Just because you’re not filled with dopitonin or… seramine doesn’t mean you can’t party.”
Book mouths a tiny ‘oh’, before hesitating. There’s an obvious disturbance lingering in her head, conflictions fluttering through her pages.
She stays silent long enough for Taggy to notice. “…Do you not dance?”
The novel’s quick to defend herself. “OF COURSE I DANCE! Just not… in front of people.” She pays no mind to the accidental pun just muttered, their past team’s title falling off her tongue in natural dialogue, just as it had the day they made it.
Another following silence. Interrupted only by the DJ queueing up another song, loud bass reverberating across the hotel ballroom. The crowd cheers for it.
Book speaks up once more, admitting defeat. “Okay I don’t dance. Probably. I’ve never tried to since… word, years ago, maybe. BFDIA’s time.”
Price Tag knows that’s a long time. The specifics are lost on them, though, only hearing of past seasons through rumor and spoken word and whatever Book is comfortable sharing with them. She doesn’t like saying a lot about her past.
Book finishes, “If I tried to, I don’t think it’d be at this giant event, with everyone staring… I’d make a fool of myself.”
“You know, I think everyone’s already doing that.” They respond.
“Hah, yeah… I guess.” Book trails off, purposefully brushing aside the topic of conversation.
Price Tag thinks, for a little while. They let the two simmer in the sound of pop music, plastic cups clinking in chaos, chatter filling their ears.
They do bask in times like these, truly. It’s a rarity for Price Tag to really feel included in any given environment. Sure, wherever Book is, they’re always destined to have a great time, but they always end up a little… trapped. By her side.
Again, not that that’s a bad thing! Price Tag internalizes, before realizing they’re rationalizing themself to nobody. Not like anyone could read their mind.
…Could they? They wonder if anyone in the cast has telepathic abilities never revealed to the world.
…
If you’re reading my mind, throw a cup in the air.
They wait.
They wait, and nothing happens.
Aw, man. ‘Would have been really cool if you revealed yourself.
…
Just saying, I would have kept it a secret.
They wait longer.
The song changes again.
…This is stupid.
They recognize that.
Back to the actual topic. Social battery. Book. All of that.
Being in an event surrounded by so many, even if Price Tag is technically still sitting in their secluded corner with their friend, there’s some kind of solace knowing that they belong here.
That this whole celebration, the party Two had promptly decided to host following the whole “Defeat One” debacle (and quickly got out of hand), was something they had a righteous spot in. They were still in the game. And by the viewers’ gracious hand(or leg), those watching think they belong here.
That is kinda cool.
Maybe it’s newbies’ luck, as Book’s been describing it. Sure, Winner’s fresh to the season too, but they’ve had connections. Price Tag’s brand-recovering new. Like a hit fashion item in a newly released collection, worth millions that customers flock to the stores for and yell to take their cash.
—Or a new volume released in a highly-rated story title, pages upon pages of fresh lore that sells out all the shelves of libraries and bookstores.
Price Tag’s thoughts run back to their friend. They tend to do that. They’re not sure if it’s instinct, or something else, or if they just really need to get to know more people.
This realization of mental focus makes them snap back to reality, briefly, just to look at Book.
They notice she’s begun to hum, rocking her shoulders back and forth.
Her humming is barely audible over the bass and the singing-along of drunkards flooding a seizure-inducing ballroom, but Price Tag notices it.
They’ve never heard her sing.
They’ve never seen her dance.
They want to.
They almost wish she’d actually finish that drink of hers, maybe she’d grow comfortable like she says it does, maybe she’d join in with the crowd up front and belt her heart out, maybe beckon Taggy to come along with her as she rocks her cover to the beat.
Maybe she’d actually release the pent-up movement threatening to spill out of her tapping finger against tablecloth, swaying head following music. Taggy can tell she’s restraining herself.
They can imagine her smile. Her hand offered to their string.
They would say yes in a heartbeat.
Embarrass themself with her.
Not give a care to what anyone around them thinks.
The others don’t matter. They never have.
She’s enough to calm any raging storm. She’s worth every misstep, every missed chorus queue, every outside glare followed by a snicker.
They imagine she’d look beautiful. As she always does.
…
If only. If Price Tag could just… dissolve everyone else from the dance floor, just to see her, they would.
It’s not that much of an issue. It’s whatever Book’s comfortable with. If she doesn’t want to dance, then she won’t. They wouldn’t force her to do anything.
They just can’t help, mind scattering into a million thoughts about that well-read girl…
A dream…
…
…but, maybe…
…
Price Tag gets up from their seat.