Chapter Text
Duncan never planned on going to prom. He hated things that took effort, and with all the suits and hair, the tickets and corsages, the dancing and the date, prom was a whole lot of effort. Yet there he stood, like a posh peacock, in a turquoise waistcoat with his hair slicked down, spiking the punch as Geoff distracted Principal McLean.
"And what do you think you're doing?" a shrill voice called from behind him.
In his panic, the flask he was holding slipped into the bowl.
"See what you did, Princess?" he groaned as he fished the around for it. "Now, the graduating class of Wawanakwa High School are going to have to drink vodka and whatever was on my hand."
"You're so disgusting," she grimaced. Still, she moved in front of the table, blocking him from any supervising faculty members in sight. "I asked you to get me some punch ten minutes ago. Now, it's been infected with neanderthal dirt."
He rolled his eyes as he handed her the paper cup he'd been guarding beside him. With a spiteful tap to her shoulder, he shoved the pre-spiked juice into her chest, blushing as she beamed with surprise. Under the disco ball's glow, she fluttered her lashes and smiled into the cup.
Despite how much he despises this hoity-toity bullshit, he was killing this prom stuff. He managed to buy tickets without Little Miss Class President beating him to the punch. He showed up—on-time—to her house. Impressed the shit out of her mother with the corsage and boutonniere he picked out. He borrowed his brother's car and cleaned the everlasting fuck out of it: piss bottles, used condoms, and rotten leftovers be damned.
He survived week after week of dress shopping, talking Princess down from this god-awful purple ballgown. He suggested no more than three black dresses per store, which Courtney would reply that it's prom, not a funeral. To which he'd respond, it would depend on who you ask. He conceded when she settled on this turquoise sling gown that made her tan skin glow.
She was stunning. Like the sparkle of the rising sun as it shimmered over a calm lake. He was breathless.
"Doesn't it matches like your eyes?" she gleamed, smiling so hard her cheeks reached her lashes. He couldn't help but smile with her.
Sometimes, she was so cute she made him forget how wicked she can get. Like right now, she looked absolutely unreal with her hair half up-half down pulled to the side. A few strands decorated her neck. Streamers and their a metallic glow haloed around her. She giggled while handing him a few napkins to dry off his hand; no doubt taking deep pleasure in the dopey look on his face.
He stepped around the table. Their eyes never leaving the other's: a brontide of color, teenage angst, and for a brief second, the feeling of the impossible becoming possible. At the beginning of senior year, Duncan would have said he never knew a day where he didn't loathe her prissy ass, but he, also, never knew a day where he didn't think about her. He thought they were too different. But truly, they were inevitable.
He pulled her in by her waist. The hand resting on her cheek was sticky with residue punch. Her hands slowly inched from his waist to his chest. His heart thumped underneath her thumb.
"Mami said you look very handsome tonight," she hummed. "She almost didn't recognize you when she opened the door. She didn't think you owned anything worth dry-cleaning."
A gentle smile spread across his face. "And was she the only one?"
Courtney's cheeks grew rosy. Her eyes wistfully casted downwards as she shook her head.
"Come on, Princess, I'm wearing a tie for you. Don't I deserve a little bit more from you? I want you to admit that I'm hot."
He cradled her chin until teal meet brown again. In the reflection of he eyes, he expected to only see his own emanating smugness. Except his smirk didn't sit as confidently as he had hoped. Only when an exhale absconded from his nose did he realize that he was holding his breath.
"I, too…think you look very, very handsome, but…"
Oh God, here it is. He braced for impact.
"I do kinda—just a little bit—miss the, um, mohawk."
Masking his sigh of relief with a delightful snicker, he pulled her closer, rubbing his thumb over the deepening blush of her cheeks. Her lips shook as she inhaled. Her hands slightly tightened over his waistcoat as he reflexively leaned in closer.
How had he held out for so long? How could he have no idea what she tasted like?
"I…" he whispered, terrified by the sincerity in his voice. "…really want to kiss you."
She giggled into his sternum before wrapping her hands around his waist. Unabashedly, she gushed, "Maybe I'll let you during the slow dance. But go wash your hands first. They're sticky."
As he ran out the auditorium, it was like he was floating on air. All he had to do was go to the bathroom, scrub hard, and then come back and kiss his girl. It's prom night. And Duncan's the happiest he's ever been.
"I mean being his date is one thing, but this is way beyond the limits of the bet, right?" Heather's voice carried from the atrium. "God, it's like she can't help but overachieve. This was supposed to be fun, but now I just feel sad for Duncan. Gross."
"I don't know. I think she might really like-like him." Bridgette fidgeted with her dress. "If she's faking it, she's taken it too far. The guy clearly likes her a lot. He's wearing slacks."
He didn't know why he was hiding. Hell, he didn't even know exactly what they were talking about. Yet, he couldn't fight the adrenaline pumping through his chest as he inched closer to their conversation. Oh God, here it is. He braced for impact.
Heather barked a laugh, "Please, Courtney could never like-like Duncan. You'd think she's showing him off to all her Ivy Bound friends and her debutante sisters? I'd be surprised if she'd show any of her prom pictures to her kids."
"He's met her mom," Bridgette offered in his defense. "That's gotta mean something, right?"
"Knowing her? It was a calculated risk. Look—she told me that after prom, she'd tell him about the bet, and it'll be over. I'll be out of 50 dollars, but at least, I'll have my dignity. Can't say the same for her though."
It felt like a boulder had been dropped in his chest. Subconsciously, he rubbed at it, trying so hard to soothe the pain and discomfort that threatened to come spilling out of his throat.
It had all been a lie? The banter, the flirting, the touching, the late night conversations, the fluttering lashes, the coy blushing? All fake?
But he remembered the godforsaken butterflies. He remembered how gently she had let him hold her, and how softly he let himself be held in return. It all felt very real to him.
Suddenly, he understood Harold and all those times he had mercilessly locked him in the janitor's closet. How he lured him with the semblance of trust and the promise of finally burying the hatchet, and how it clashed with the pang of betrayal as the door slammed between the two.
Him and Courtney were much more alike than he thought. And that's what hurt him the most
Stepping from the shadows, he retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his waistcoat's pocket. The two girls gasped, too stunned to even muster up a half-hearted lie, much to his disappointment. Silly him, he still desperately clinged to hope.
"So, Princess has been playing me the whole time?" he asked to no one in particular. "Damn, gotta hand it to her though: she's nothing if not thorough."
When he stepped outside to smoke, he could barely hold the lighter still. The flame bit at his finger as he finally lit a cigarette. He deeply inhaled, rubbing at his chest. But the ache was still there.