Chapter Text
You just can’t catch a fucking break.
You can’t even count how many times you’ve sat across from someone - a sympathetic doctor, a sympathetic police officer, a sympathetic high school principal - and said that sentence to yourself inside your head. Ever since you can remember, you’ve been so unbelievably unlucky that it’s downright stupid - or actually, these days you prefer to just say that unlikely events follow you; it sounds a lil’ nicer and separates ’you’ from ’the events’ and in that way, protects your fragile psyche. Because who the hell wants to accept that they’ve simply been born under the proverbial unlucky stars and that’s it? Not you!
But be that as it may, yeah - unlikely events are drawn to you like Charlie Sheen to hookers and coke. Not all of the events, of course, are serious and dramatic: some of them are actually pretty funny - like the fact that you were born with a full set of teeth - or just merely baffling - like when you found out that on the day when your birth certificate was processed in the Office of Vital Records, there was a glitch in their system, resulting in you ending up having the same first name, second name and last name in official state records. Meaning that if your parents had, for example, named you Susan, officially the world would know you as Susan Susan Susan. Your family found out about it accidentally as a result of another glitch - this time in the IRS system - when they received a letter notifying them that a three-year-old Susan Susan Susan was about to be the subject of a tax audit.
A significant part of the events have, however, been more tragic and life trajectory-changing than hilarious. For example, when you were about to start junior high, your best - and only - friend had to move because her dad got a job out of state, leaving you in a truly shitty situation of having to start in a new school without knowing anyone. Sounds pretty standard, yes? Could happen to literally anyone, right? The randomness, in this instance, stems from the fact that the job was not technically out of state - it was in actual fucking outer space. The girl’s dad was a pilot who got a job at NASA as an actual friggin’ astronaut so the whole family had to move to Cape Canaveral in a hurry; the Columbia space shuttle had just imploded so suddenly NASA was accepting applications again. Morbid? Yes. Unlikely? You bet. You guess that’s a risk you take when you befriend the daughter of a pilot but when you two met, his dad worked for fucking JetBlue and the most remarkable thing about him was that he could fly his family to Anaheim free of charge once a year! In any case, that was undoubtedly a major contributing factor to you having a pretty lousy time in seventh grade and onwards.
That, however, was nothing compared to how your life changed before it really even got started. You lost both your parents - yes, both of them - when you were just eight months old. How did they die? During a fucking bank robbery. And they weren’t technically even a part of it: some geniuses decided to rob a Wells Fargo branch in broad daylight and they put a little bit too big of a chunk of C4 in the door of the bank’s vault so when they detonated it, the four-thousand-pound solid steel vault door flew through three concrete walls and one shop window like a bullet and your parents and the cart they were buying ice cream from in a nearby park happened to be right in the middle of its flight path. Y’know. Splat. You were sleeping in your stroller next to your parents and the door missed you by three inches. The odds of that happening? One in a fucking billion. Something like that will for sure fuck you up permanently and give you a never-ending experience of not belonging anywhere - and a permanent fear of parks and banks and vaults and ice cream vendors - but you honestly have no real complaints about your life with your aunt and uncle who took you on and raised you as their own. They were nice and kind to you and you’re sure they tried very hard to not believe it when you kept telling them that bad fucking luck follows you around like a shadow.
Until, of course, you got skin cancer. When you were fourteen. And fucking goth. It was so inexplicably asinine, you’d literally seen less sun than actual vampires; Dracula was Miss Hawaian fucking Tropic compared to your ass. Even with all the weird, tragic shit that had happened to you over the years, you just couldn’t believe it: you’d literally, out of the fucking blue, gotten the worst type of melanoma that usually only affects 87-year-old Florida-based grandpa’s who’ve never even heard of sunblock and think SPF stands for Sun? Purely Fun! You’d never in your life had so much as a tan - let alone a sunburn - or used tanning beds or had any kind of family risk of skin cancer. It made no sense. Your doctors were puzzled but also secretly elated because they’d get to write papers about you - it’s true, your pasty ass was featured in an issue of The Lancet and you were the saddest case study in the American Academy of Dermatology Annual Meeting that year - but you, on the other hand, were just… shocked. Depressed. Scared. You started gaining a reputation in your part of town as a walking bad omen and other kids started avoiding you, and it didn’t exactly help that the goddamn cancer had set up shop mostly on your upper body and the extensive surgery you needed had left you looking like you were wearing the topographical map of Southern Europe on your chest and shoulders like a fucking poncho. You hated your body and you felt like you had every reason to do so. All it had ever done for you was attract implausible illnesses and carry you from one tragedy to another.
Western medicine, however, proved its superiority once again as the surgeries and radiation therapy worked and you were cancer-free by the time you hit sixteen. Sort of. Your melanoma was the aggressive type that has a tendency to make come-backs - because of course it was - and you were just desperately waiting to get to the ten-year-mark from your first treatment without a relapse: you were told that after that you’d be in a safe zone, a zone where recurrence was unlikely.
Unlikely.
’Unlikely’ is your middle fucking name so needless to say, you’ve been having check-ups at your dermatologist every six months - and you’d get them every three months if your insurance would cover it. Now, here’s some homespun wisdom about deadly diseases and other unfortunate setbacks in life: they don’t make you stronger. There’s a very real chance they won’t give you a brand new perspective on life or make you appreciate the little things or turn you into this sage, ethereal saint-slash-survivor that’s full of gratitude and a passionate will to live and who everyone always refers to as, ”Oh that girl? Yeah, she fought cancer and won”. Jesus, you don’t fight cancer - at the end of the day and even after all the treatments in the world the cancer will do whatever the fuck it wants and all you can really do is just pray to whatever deity you still believe in. And if you luck out and, y’know, don’t die, all of it might still be way too much for one person to carry and all the accumulating difficulties might suffocate you slowly until you’re depressed and anxious and pessimistic and just one more debilitating blow away from jumping off the Empire State Building and finishing the job yourself.
But of course with your ability to attract the unseemly, you’d probably be the first person to survive the fall and you’d spend the rest of your life as the most confused paraplegic in the world.
So you just get by somehow, y’know - take it one day at a time and do whatever it takes to not be constantly preoccupied with death and afraid to step outside your house because you’re sure there’s a satellite orbiting the Earth right now with your name on it that’s just one malfunction away from crashing on you. It’s honestly not that bad - and fortunately you’re not short on distractions: you draw, you paint, you collect vintage 80s My Little Ponies, you binge-watch every episode of every TV show made after 2006 over and over again until you remember all of the dialogue, you study Klingon with the other nerds online and most importantly, you listen to music. God, music has always been the thing that has kept you from completely falling apart and every now and then - when you’re feeling extra adventurous - you go see your favorite bands live. After all, you’ve only been on one gig where the main water pipe of the venue burst during the first ten minutes of the band’s set, turning the night into a horror show of watery panic and drenched, angry metalheads. What are the chances of that happening again, right?
And today is one of those titillatingly exciting nights when you’ve decided to throw all caution to the wind and attend a motherfucking metal festival. It has everything you love - Norwegian black metal and other people who are just as pale as you are - but also your two arch rivals - direct sunlight and a wide, open space that’s perfect for rogue military drones to catch and murder you. It’s a bit of a gamble, you’ll admit, but the real reason you’re going is to see Anthrax live for the first time ever; they’re your favorite band and the guys are all old as fuck so this just might be your only and final chance to see them live. You’d spend all of eternity kicking yourself if you missed that - and as an honorary vampire, eternity really does mean eternity.
And… well. You also desperately wanna rub it in someone’s face that you’re planning on using your ticket after all: your dirtbag ex-boyfriend. Here’s another nugget of that corn-fed wisdom you gain when death swoops by you much too often: life is not fair and balanced. Back in your late teens you seriously thought that since you’ve been slapped with cancer and had most of your loved ones taken away from you - in addition to miscellaneous other sources of misery and discomfort - surely the rest of your life is gonna be nothing but sunshine (the proverbial kind, not literal) and happiness and endless hordes of nice, non-sociopathic men who only want good things to happen to you. Right? You’ve done your time; now you just wanna sit back and enjoy the strokes of luck and cute guys the universe has been saving specifically for you. That didn’t go exactly as planned; you’ve sometimes honestly felt like guys can smell your fear and vulnerability and that’s why you’re such a douche magnet. It’s not like all of your exes have been pure evil - they haven’t, mostly they’ve just been inconsiderate and juvenile - but your most recent little diamond in the rough? He most certainly was. Let’s just say that the nicest things he ever said to you were that you’re bad in bed and your surgery scars are ugly. He was a real treasure, that one.
But anyway, you two had been planning on going to the festival together but since you’d finally managed to scrape the remains of your self-esteem from the bottom of a nearby cesspool and dump his worthless ass, you found yourself clutching a one-day ticket to Aftershock and no one to go with. It was already much too close to the day of the festival and everyone you knew already had plans - or if they knew you really well, they probably said no because they just didn’t wanna be killed in a freak combine harvester accident on the way over there. One time - that happened one time, and your cousin is doing just fine with one leg!
Anyway.
You weren’t exactly thrilled about the prospect of going by yourself - it actually gave you debilitating anxiety and the occasional night terrors leading up to the weekend - but you felt like you had to: your ex had been parading all over his socials how his homies have come to his rescue in his time of need and consoled him after ”he got his heart broken” (feel free to insert the ”Sure, Jan” eye roll gif here) and are now going to Aftershock with him. It was infuriating. The thought of missing your all-time favorite band - possibly for good - and sitting by yourself at home when that douchenozzle is having an amazing time with his friends was just too much. It got to you. You had to go, and if you end up catching instant stage three melanoma as soon as you get there, at least it’ll happen among your own tribe of people in your place of worship: the moshpit.
After three outfit changes, two showers, a generous serving of SPF 1000, a Xanax and one more check on Weather.com that there are no surprise meteor showers to be expected above the festival grounds, you’ve finally made it to the gates. As you’re standing in line, your anxiety is starting to take over again - you’re already feeling so fucking awkward and weird and out of place and you’re not gonna survive five more minutes of this. You dig out your phone from your bag to check the time. Shit, Anthrax doesn’t go on for another three hours! Christ. You don’t even need the sun or a satellite or a meteor or a harvester or a poisoned corndog to kill you; you think you might die today out of sheer fucking anxiety.
But speaking of the sun: it seems like for once you’ve actually lucked out - there’s a thick layer of gray clouds on the sky, preventing the death rays from getting to you. It even looks like it might rain a little at some point, which is excellent, because it’ll probably make your attire stand out less. You look around you to see how other people have dressed and your hand goes instinctively to your throat. Ever since your surgery, all you ever wear are black turtlenecks to hide the disaster the surgeons left behind: your chest and shoulders are nowadays more scar than skin due to the amount of tissue they had to carve out. The skin grafts did not cooperate with you and you were basically left with itchy, bumpy, painful and huge areas of flesh that used to resemble human skin. Your ex was right: it does look ugly. He didn’t have to tell you that every day, though. But in any case, the black turtleneck is your uniform, your shield and your confidante. Got a job interview coming up? Black turtleneck. Wedding of a cousin (not the one-legged one because that side of the family doesn’t really talk to you anymore)? Black turtleneck. Hot date? Black turtleneck - and the clothes only come off in the dark. And now that you steal glances at the masses of festival goers in the balmy California evening? You see some incredibly sexy fishnet creations and awfully cute black tank tops - which instantly make you green with envy - but you actually don’t stand out that much. Everyone’s still wearing black. You smile a little to yourself. You’re with your people.
But unfortunately the awkwardness doesn’t end when you get through the gates to the festival area, no ma’am: now you stick out because you’re so alone. All you see are happy metalhead couples holding hands and loud groups of friends getting drunk together and taking selfies - and then there’s you, just standing around awkwardly and not having the slightest clue what to do with your hands. What the hell do you normally do with your hands?! Now you notice that there are actually so many people around you taking pictures and you can’t run away from all of them at once so you’re pretty sure at least one group will have you in the backdrop of their photos, looking like a frightened and much paler version of Nosferatu. Maybe you need to move.
You head for one of the booze tents and down an espresso vodka. And then another one after that. Alright, you start feeling a bit better - y’know, relaxed - but you still feel like you need to do something. Everyone else seems to just be waiting around for their band to start playing - and based on the amount of Anthrax T-shirts everywhere, you’re all here for the same thing - but they have people to talk to while they wait, you don’t. So standing around isn’t an option. You start heading towards another booze stand and on the way there you spot the merch line. It’s like a mile long. Oh god yes, that’s perfect! That’s how you can spend at least an hour or possibly two without looking sus; no one’s gonna pay attention to one more metalhead just standing in line all bored and shit and waiting for their turn. And in case the line moves quickly, you can just buy a T-shirt, pretend you forgot something and then go back to the end of the line. Yes! Your plan is flawless.
After spending what feels like an eternity in the slowest merch line in the history of mankind - after about thirty minutes the line had moved maybe five feet so you definitely didn’t need to worry about doing it twice - you get to the merch tent, buy your T-shirt and then realize the Anthrax show is about fifteen minutes away. You made it! You honestly can’t believe you made it: the awkwardness didn’t kill you, a swarm of bees didn’t kill you (at least not yet, they still have time though) and you’re about to see your favorite band live soon. You walk towards the outskirts of the crowd gathered in front of the main stage and choose a spot that has the least amount of people close by. You honestly don’t mind seeing the show from like a mile away: if an out-of-control helicopter happens to crash at your feet mid-gig, at least this way you’ll be taking the minimum amount of people with you when you die. You glance at the sky - even though you can’t see the sun, you know it’s about to set and the gray clouds have streaks of orange and purple mixed into them. You breathe in the warm air. You’re happy you came here.
You suddenly feel someone tap you on your arm and you’re so spooked by it that you almost jump two feet in the air.
”Hey. Um. I’m sorry to bother you, but. Um. Are you by any chance here by yourself?” a tall stranger then asks you, green eyes looking directly into yours.
What the hell kind of a question is that?
You stare at the man in disbelief and narrow your eyes at him. Did he actually walk all the way over to you with the intent of roasting you for being at a festival all by yourself? It’s honestly not that weird and anyone who thinks so needs to shut up. You were also not prepared to talk to anyone today so it takes you a moment to reorient yourself to be social again and choose English over Klingon when you answer him.
”Why the fuck do you wanna know?” you say with your trademark bitchy voice that is guaranteed to get rid of 99% of unwanted, malicious attention. You learned it during that one summer when you were feeling very positive about your upper body for a change and wore a skimpy tube top in public. Never again.
After receiving a response he obviously wasn’t expecting, the stranger panics immediately and stammers nervously, ”Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Shit. I’m kinda random and awkward sometimes, y’know - sorry. Did I say ’sorry’ already? Oh god. Um, I didn’t mean to, like, weird you out or anything. Y’know. Sorry”.
You take a very dubious look at him. What, uh… what exactly is going on here? The man is huge - like enormous giant Viking lumberjack huge - and sort of intimidating-looking and he’s blinking a lot and you can even see his cheeks turn a little rosy right on top of his immaculately groomed beard as he’s apparently trying very hard to remember how he was supposed to answer your question. He looks so… deflated. It’s like looking at a Great Dane that was told he’s not a good boy. It’s fascinating but not nearly endearing enough to get through your defenses. If he’s not here to mock you, then he probably wants to steal your organs and sell them on the black market or something. Joke’s on him, though: your stuff is worthless on account of the cancer. And he wouldn’t get far anyway, that satellite will probably hit both of you any moment now.
”I just. Um. I was watching you earlier - but not in a creepy way or anything, I swear! - and I, uh. Just wanted to come over and talk to you. Y’know. And see if you’d maybe like to hang out with me and my friend and watch the show with us or something. Y’know?” he finally says after he gets his shit somewhat together and points to a guy standing on the other side of the festival crowd. You can see from a distance that his friend has a blonde, curly mohawk - oh god - and huge satellite dish ears and he’s waving at you with a dorky smile on his face. You wanna shave his friends’ head so bad. You look back at the tall stranger.
”What do you mean ’you were watching me earlier’? It sure as hell sounds creepy”, you retort accusingly and emphasize your point by crossing your arms and glaring at him. And you swear to God - if he says ”y’know” one more time, you’re gonna kick him in the nuts. The guy laughs nervously and pushes his glasses higher up on his nose with his index finger. You swallow. His hands are enormous. You might not win this fight if it turns physical.
”Yeah, I guess you’re right. Probably no way to stare at someone without bein’ a lil’ creepy, y’know”, he smirks and you have to gather all of your willpower to hold your kicking foot in place. ”It’s just that - it’s been actually really hard to not notice you. Y’know? You being the most gorgeous girl here and all”, he continues and smiles at you shyly.
Well okay then. Now you obviously know he’s not here to steal your kidneys. The motherfucker came over to make fun of you.
”Ehehehe that’s so funny, tell another one! Or better yet, don’t. Get out of my fucking face before I cut you”, you snap at the guy and turn towards the direction of the stage, signaling that you’re done with the discussion and just wanna watch the fucking Anthrax show in peace. Your asshole ex couldn’t ruin this for you and you’re not gonna allow this goddamn clown to ruin it for you either.
The dude obviously has a death wish because he’s not leaving.
”Um… excuse me?” he says and stares at you, eyes and mouth gaping open with confusion. You roll your eyes.
”Did you want that in writing or something?” you sneer at him and mutter ”Dickhead” under your breath - but loud enough that he definitely heard it - and finally the guy seems to catch on. He starts to chuckle.
”Ohhh. I get it. You think I’m joking, don’t you? Well, shit. When I was walking over to you I honestly didn’t think I could ever have a shot in hell with you but looks like my chances are getting better as we speak”, he snickers - not maliciously - and you spin around angrily to face him again.
”What the hell are you talking about?” you bark at the man, deeply irritated and already exhausted with this whole exchange. You wish he would just leave you alone already. You’re also definitely not using your inside voice anymore so more than a couple of heads turn to your direction. The guy glances at them nervously and now it’s time for you to chuckle; looks like this particular bully doesn’t enjoy attention.
”I’m talking about the fact that you obviously haven’t noticed the way every single guy at this festival has been gawking at you all evening. Like literally all of them, including me. And your reaction to me pointing out the blatantly obvious fact that you’re gorgeous tells me that you don’t believe me, which means that I’ve actually managed to stumble on a hot girl who has no idea she’s hot. Which means my awkward ass might actually have a chance after all”, he grins at you - still not maliciously. Hm. You actually liked him more back when he was a bumbling moron. Now he sounds annoyingly sincere and convincing - y’know, very sure of his own argument. But naturally you still don’t believe him. Duh. If anyone’s been staring at you, it’s probably because they were just wondering why the zoo let you out of your cage for the weekend. Or who dropped the ball and opened Dracula’s coffin by mistake. Or what an extra from Michael Jackson’s ”Thriller” video is doing at an Anthrax show. You got a bunch of these.
”Okay, no one’s been gawking at me and you’re crazy”, you announce and give him a shitty, joyless smile. He just snickers again, shoulders jutting and everything. What shit is he on? You start feeling he’s much better medicated than you are.
”You’re so cute when you’re wrong”, he chuckles and actually manages to make you blush. What the hell is happening over here?! ”Y’know that animated Tex Avery wolf from those, like, ancient cartoons, with the bulging eyes and shit? Nah, you’re way too young to know what that is. But basically every time you’ve walked past a bunch of guys today, that’s what their faces have looked like - just eyes bulging out of their sockets and jaws dropping to the floor, y’know. It’s actually been kinda funny to watch. And pretty hard to miss. Especially since I probably looked exactly like that too”.
You’re… out of words, apparently. You seriously don’t know what to say and every sarcastic retort you have dies in your suddenly very dry throat before you’re able to force it out. Who does this guy think he is, walking up to you like this and being all lowkey adorable and shit and showering you with obviously false compliments like it’s his day job? Jesus. You know - you know - he’s just laying it on thick - not one single guy in the entire world would ever even look twice at you - but it’s his insistence that’s getting under your skin. Guys just don’t hit on you, ever. And this tall doofus is hitting on you hard.
”I… I know the wolf, for fuck’s sake - everyone does. The rest of what you said is just nonsense, though. But thanks for letting me know. You can go away now”, you say and his presence is suddenly making you so flustered that your hand instinctively travels to your neck again before you can stop yourself, making sure the turtleneck is still covering you all the way to your chin. Damn it. Maybe you shouldn’t have done that in front of him: it might open you to questions and you never tell strangers why you choose to dress like Steve Jobs, they gotta earn that information over time. The doofus has definitely become slightly more interesting, but you still wish he would just take off. You turn towards the stage once again, but the guy suddenly takes a long sideways stride and situates himself right in front of you. And way, way too close to you. He’s looking down at you with intent eyes and a mischievous smile on his lips.
”Nah. I’m not going anywhere. I’m gonna stay right here and make sure you can’t see anything and ruin the show for you, so you should honestly just admit defeat and join me and my friend Corey. We got a much better spot and he’s also really funny - he can crack jokes and make you laugh while I gawk at you like a cartoon wolf”, he says with a flirty, confident voice - it looks like he’s managed to find his mojo after his rough start. You, however, seem to have lost your mojo and your sense of direction because your head is spinning and your knees are about to buckle and you don’t know what planet you’re on anymore. The longer your little interaction goes on, the weaker he’s making you and you hate it. You’re practically just a trembling, blushing schoolgirl in front of his huge frame when you try one more time and say, ”Dude. I’m just… oh my god. Why can’t you just leave me alone and go bother someone else?”, trying to sound as bored and unfazed and unaroused as possible. The smile on the man’s face only deepens and he says:
”Because you’re cute as fuck and I wanna keep bothering you. And I know I’m finally getting to you because you haven’t told me to go fuck myself or threatened to cut me for at least a minute and a half now”, followed by a self-satisfied little chuckle and a grin so wide that his eyes behind his glasses turn into half-moons. Oh god. You’re not getting rid of him, are you? You glare suspiciously at him one more time. Would it really be the worst thing if you joined them? It’s just standing around and possibly some headbanging - you might as well be adjacent to these two idiots while doing it. And if either of them get too vexing or something, you can always just take off and disappear into the crowd; there are literally a hundred thousand other people right next to you to give you cover.
”I’ll join you two for exactly five minutes. Alright?” you finally sigh at the guy and try to stare him down, but you can’t - you’re completely unable to look into his eyes anymore without becoming violently turned on. Shit. This is such a bad idea. The guy becomes visibly elated and chirps, ”Really? Awesome! You’re so not gonna regret this!” as you two start walking towards his friend. You’re already regretting this.
”And oh damn, I just realized I haven’t introduced myself - my name is James, but everyone calls me Jim”, he continues and somehow - you have no idea how - you then feel his hand on your lower back. Nope. Nope. Nope. You shake him off immediately. Jim’s reaction is also immediate: he takes one look at your perplexed face and stutters, ”Oh shit, I’m so sorry! I - I got too excited - sorry! Can you just, like, forget that I did that?” with an apologetic, pleading voice. You decide you’re gonna let him believe that his touch was unwanted - when the reality is that you’re actually so touch-starved and horny and desperate that you’d completely forgotten what the gentle caress of a man feels like and you were mostly just confused and surprised. You actually wish he’d grabbed a little lower.
”You do realize that you’ve now said ’sorry’ to me like eight times today?” you mutter at him and he gives you a relieved laugh.
”Uh… I’m sorry?” he says jokingly and for the first time today - actually, for the first time in several days - you laugh. It feels kinda… good. You feel like you’re accidentally living someone else’s Saturday evening. Jim laughs too and it’s so infectious and goofy and dumb that you start giggling a little harder. Jesus, you can’t stop yourself! Seriously, what is he doing to you?
Fortunately you two get to Jim’s friend quickly before your manic giggling gets any more embarrassing and you shake hands with each other and exchange a couple of opinions about Anthrax’s body of work and listen to Corey crack a couple of jokes - Jim was right, he is funny - and then it’s time for the show to finally start. Everyone’s faces in the audience turn towards the stage as the first riffs blast from the monolithic speakers, all except one’s; Jim is not interested at all in the intro to ”Among the Living” - he’s just staring at you, completely unabashedly and with a big smile on his face.
Well, he did say that’s what he was planning on doing.
Maybe halfway through the gig you realize that you’re having a fucking ball: Jim and Corey are so much fun that it’s unreal. The three of you are enjoying the music and the vibe and the crowd is going insane and Corey’s TikTok perm looks hilarious when he headbangs and Jim is being so friggin’ cute that you’re about to burst like a suture made by a first-year med school student. You still have your guard up, but when he does this unbelievably dorky move where he’s behind you and then moves real close to you, like so close that you can practically feel his dick press up against your ass, and then you turn your head and glare at him and he’s like ”Oh sorry - it’s the crowd, y’know” but there’s literally no one behind him or next to him and he also proceeds to make absolutely no effort to move away from your ass? You let him. You don’t shove him away, you don’t bitch at him, you don’t even roll your eyes at him - and you roll your eyes at everything! You just let him press up against you with his warm body and give you the kind of chills that even your turtleneck sweater can’t hide. You’re becoming drunk on him.
At some point Corey disappears for a while but he returns after a couple of songs, holding three bottles of beer. He gives one to Jim, one to you and takes a gulp out of the third one. Jim chugs down half of his beer at one go, but you just stare at your bottle in distress.
Uh oh.
”What’s wrong? You don’t like it?” Corey asks you with a concerned voice. Jim looks at you as well, puzzled. Fuck.
”Um. Yeah, no- it’s just that. Hm. So, like”, you start, but don’t know how to go on. How do you politely tell a new friend that you’re afraid he’s slipped something into your drink? ”The bottle is, um, opened. And I didn’t see it being opened”, you finally cough out without making eye contact with either of the guys. Good lord, this is awkward. Corey stares at you with his icy blue eyes and then sighs.
”You think I’m trying to roofie you? Wow. Alright. Alright. Give me that for a moment?” he says, takes the bottle away from you and takes a swig from it. Then he looks at you pointedly and passes the bottle to Jim, who also takes a big chug from it. Realization is starting to hit you. You’re so mortified you wanna die.
”Everything’s fine, baby. It’s obviously good to be cautious, y’know”, Jim says with a sweet smile and hands you the bottle back. ”But if you want, I can also just run out and get you something else? It’s no problem”, he continues, but you shake your head and accept the beverage - the show’s nearing its end soon and he’d spend the rest of the gig in the concession line if he leaves now. The beer is obviously not spiked so you take a sip of it and smile coyly at Jim, your face turning pink at the fact that he just called you ’baby’. The three of you go back to enjoying the show in the darkening night, Jim taking the opportunity to slide his hand onto yours and squeezing it.
After exactly two more songs you start noticing… something. You can’t put your finger on it, but you’re not feeling very well. Everything around you starts to sway and the edges of your vision are starting to become blurry. You try to rub your eyes but the blurriness is not going away. Hm. Maybe you’re just tired - it has been a pretty eventful day.
Then your legs kinda fail you and you lose your balance and fall directly onto the back of a big guy standing in front of you. Jim catches you but the dude still turns around and gives you an annoyed frown and you try to apologize, but all that comes out is just slurred non-words. Oh god, what is going on? You’re just losing control of your body limb by limb and you can’t stop it. Did someone roofie you after all? But you’ve only had those two shots of vodka hours ago and that beer that was obviously not laced with sleeping pills. Maybe you’re dehydrated or having an aneurysm or something? You’d be terrified but you just feel so sleepy. You feel Jim’s strong arms around you, swooping you into his embrace.
”Hey, sweetheart. Are you okay?” he whispers into your ear and you feel his hand pet your hair gently. You try to nod - you’re fine, you don’t need to alarm him - but you’re not sure your head is actually moving. You bury your face into his chest. He’s so huge. Huuuuuge boy. Hjuuuge boi. Hnjgdshjj buoiuhgfj. Hghjkugl. Jim chuckles - did you just say all of that out loud? - and he coos, ”Oh baby. I think you’re done for the night. Let’s get you someplace where you can sit down and drink some water, okay?” You just keep slurring something, your body and brain half-asleep already, and you kind of register Jim and Corey start leading you out of the crowd. How nice of them! You’re so lucky to have two strong guys take such good care of you. You’re always so lucky. Yes, that has always been your thing. Luckyluckylucky. Lucky Luke. ”Lucky” by Britney Spears. ”Lucky” by Radiohead. Lucky. Your eyes are open just enough to see a concerned security guard stop the three of you and ask, ”Hey, what’s wrong with her? She doesn’t look good” to which Jim replies, ”I think someone spiked my fiance’s drink, I’ve never seen her like this! We just called an ambulance and we’re taking her to it now - the security in this place sucks, y’know that?” and the guard lets you go and then you’re moving again.
Huh. When did you and Jim get engaged?
You drift in and out of consciousness as someone picks you up, places you down and picks you up again and you’ve lost track of time and space and your surroundings a long time ago. You come to momentarily when you feel a cold, hard surface against the side of your face. Are you lying on the ground? Or on a really cold floor? You see Jim and Corey’s feet, they’re both standing in front of you, and you try to turn your croggy, heavy head so that you can see their faces. They’re just… watching you. Why aren’t they helping you?
”So. You happy with this one?” Corey asks Jim. You can’t read the tone of his voice. Jim smiles.
”Yeah. She’s perfect”, he says and tilts his head while studying you. And that’s when sleep finally devours you.
But not before you see a fiery, acidic shade of yellow flash in both Jim and Corey’s eyes.
You really can’t catch a fucking break, can you?