Strung Out Chapter 9

[miri1984]

Title: Weird is Relative
Words: 2600
Characters: Andy, Sorcha, Nathaniel, Sigrun, Merrill
Summary: The logistics of snogging when BOTH of you are wearing heels that you're not good with is sometimes a bit difficult.
Title art by: Yamisnuffles

Beer is good. I like it. It makes me warm and fuzzy and stops me from hunching over the table in a desire to hide my scar or my boobs or both - not that it would help either. It also gives me the courage to ask and answer questions. Unfortunately Andy gets in first.

“How do you know Sebastian?” Andy says, leaning back in his chair and crossing one extremely bare leg over the other. There’s something… hypnotic about the flash of sparkle on his high heeled boot as it bobs up and down.

“Not fair,” I say, grinning. “I was going to ask you that and I know your story will be more interesting…”

He laughs. “You presume,” he says. “Sebastian and I don’t have much of a history. He was on the opposite side of a rally I went to once.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Did you punch him?” He shakes his head.

“No. Just might have wanted to. But we always tried to be non-violent in the wardens. Nate will tell you that.”

I smirk. Nate would love a chance to get thrown in jail. It would piss Rendon off no end… except of course that Rendon would probably have pulled strings to get him out before everyone else and… no… that would have made Nate even angrier. 

“What was the rally?”

Andy loks troubled. “Pro-choice I think,” he says. “They all blend into one after a while. Kind of glad I stopped going frankly. I mean… it’s important, I always believed that, but after a while it feels like banging your head against a brick wall.

I agree, but silently. It feels selfish when I think about it - but there’s only so much a body can do. The one issue that really hits home for me makes people look at me though I’m crazy for the stance I take on it, so I tend to stay out of politics as much as I can.

“But you haven’t told me how you know Sebastian,” he says, taking a sip of his beer.

“We used to go out,” I say, and he splutters a bit. I grin and shrug. “I was in high school. Not the stupidest thing I did there.” I consider for a moment. “Probably one of the stupidest things though.”

Andy gives me a knowing smirk. “So what happened?”

I shrug and match his smirk. “We broke up.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I got sick of him trying to convert me,” I say. “Also - no sex. Got a bit tiresome. All that grinding and sexual frustration. I figured I could do without that during my HSC.”

Andy laughs that easy laugh that I never stop wanting to hear. 

“Are you two going to dance or snog?” Isabela saunters back with Leto in tow - his trademark scowl in place, which looks pretty fucking appropriate given his costume.

“Are those our only choices?” Andy says, but he’s leering at me as he says it and I feel myself flush.

“You could always go into the toilets and fuck,” Isabela says, as though this is something she does every day.

I know for a fact that it isn’t.

“If you choose that option please do us the courtesy of not informing anyone of it,” Leto says.

“Shouldn’t you be spitting on us and shouting about Anarchy?” Andy says as he gets to his feet.

“Do not tempt me,” Leto mutters, and I can’t help but laugh. Andy holds out a hand to me and we make our way to the dance floor. Isabela and Leto steal the couch we were sitting on. Which I now know was her plan all along, and Andy raises an eyebrow. “How long have those two been an item?” he says.

I glance back at them to see Iz has one hand on Let’s knee and the other tangled in his soft white hair, their mouths very much occupied.

“You know what? I’m not sure,” I say. “Something’s been going on for a while, but I’m not sure what they think the something is…”

“Isn’t he the barista at the Hanged Man?”

“Yup. Makes a fantastic latte.”

“Nice tattoos.”

“Yeah, don’t tell him that. He gets all angsty and depressed whenever they’re mentioned. Never tells me why though.”

“He doesn’t seem like the most communicative of guys. I wouldn’t have pegged him as Isabela’s type.”

“Isabela has a type?”

Andy laughs. “Point.”

The music is, appropriately, a mix of eighties and nineties pop. Later on Sigrun and the Legion are going to play, but it’s still early and for now A-Ha are belting out over the speakers.

“Do you really want to dance?” he asks.

“No,” I say, “but wasn’t our only other option…”

“Isabela has no business dictating rules to us,” he says. “It’s not like she ever follows any.”

I laugh. “True.” We go out onto the balcony via the bar, Andy pulling money out of some spot in his costume that defies the laws of time and space in order to pay.

“Did you bring something else to wear?” I ask when we get outside.

He nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Not that I generally object to the outfit - but I don’t fancy getting bashed up by St Paul’s boys on my way home.”

“You really don’t feel uncomfortable dressed that way?”

He gives me a small smile. “Of course I do,” he says. “The trick is to use that. Chances are everyone else is far more uncomfortable looking at me in it than I am wearing it. So it just makes it more fun.”

“You’re a little strange.”

“I could say the same about you,” He turns towards me and there’s heat in his gaze and I fumble, suddenly, for something to say.

“So why don’t you?” I say.

“You’re a little strange.”

I take a drink. I truly have no idea what to do right now. The signals are all there - he’s flirting, I’m doing whatever my equivalent of flirting is that somehow, occasionally, nets me sex or at least a kiss, but it’s still quite early in the evening and if we start snogging now does that mean it has to be sustained until we go home or do we go home early and then there’s the fact that for all intents and purposes he’s in drag and I’m practically naked and there are three other spice girls in there who are going to be upset if we leave and…

“Hey?” his voice is gentle and I look up at him. “Something wrong?”

I give a shaky sigh. “Sorry,” I say, “I’m just… bad at this…”

His lips quirk. “I don’t think so. Although…” he steps closer and I have to stop myself from stepping away from him. “That depends on what you really consider this is…”

I can smell cologne on him. It’s not that one that every other guy at Uni seems to think is great, but something muskier - it does things to me - or maybe it’s because I can feel heat coming off his skin. He reaches out with his free hand and touches my elbow, just the tips of his fingers…

“What…” I say, then swallow. “What do you think it is?”

He smirks and takes another step closer to me, so that I can feel the scratchy cloth of his ridiculous union jack tunic against my chest.

“Well now,” he says, voice low, “I have a few ideas.”

I tip my head upwards, knowing how this goes, even if the steps are a little skewed. His lips brush mine and I have a second to wonder if the hot-pink of his lipstick will clash with my own, slightly darker shade before my internal monologue shuts off with a splutter and a healthy dose of guh.

The kiss deepens for a second before I feel a dangerous tilt and Andy breaks it off, clutching at the railing behind me and laughing breathlessly. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” he gasps. “The last time I kissed someone in heels they were a lot taller than you…”

I blink and then let out a guffaw - feeling him lean against me, pondering the statement. “Do you often kiss people when you’re in drag?”

He grins. “Sweetheart, if you don’t end up kissing someone when you’re in drag, you’re doing it wrong.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He reaches up and tucks a strand of my hair away from my face - letting his thumb linger on my cheekbone. His eyes are dark but he pulls back from me a little regretfully - at least I hope so.

“What is it Nate?” he says over my head, and it takes a lot for me not to spin around in indignant rage. Bastard of a violist, he said there was no problem with this…

I don’t spin round - mainly because it would require greater experience with heels on my part. Dignity is important. Instead I settle for my most penetrating glare.

I have a good stock of glares, but Nathaniel Howe is just too good for them.

He smirks.

“Merrill said to tell you Sigrun and the Legion are about to start,” Nate says, tucking a braid behind his ear. His perfectly made up face is slightly smudged and I wonder why. Maybe he’s been exchanging tongues with one of the Proclaimers. Cailan at least has an “if it moves, snog it, if it doesn’t, snog it before it does…” attitude, and pretty blond hair. Which, judging from Andy, is Nathaniel’s type.

“Really?” I say. What’s probably closer to the truth is that Merrill has bounced from foot to foot and said “Oh, I know Sorcha didn’t want to miss this!” and Nate has taken it as an excuse to eyeball me snogging his ex - but I should probably learn to give the guy the benefit of the doubt.

Andy places a hand in the small of my back and leans forward, his breath tickling the hair at the base of my neck. “We don’t want to miss her,’ he says, voice low and shiver-inducing. I think my knees buckle slightly. I know there’s an audible,embarrassing gasp that escapes me as I feel the gentle press of lips where his breath was a few seconds before.

Yes. Yes I do want to miss it.

“No,” I say. I don’t. Not really. He raises an eyebrow at me, but nods, grinning.

Sigrun has an amazing voice. It’s rich and dark like the finest coffee, and I always feel a pang when I hear it, remembering what Beth’s clear soprano had sounded like paired with it back at school. Sigrun and she had sung together a lot even though Beth was younger, and I can’t help but wonder if things had been different - if there could have been two mics up there instead of one - another member of the Legion weaving harmonies around their gothic sound, making it lighter, more cheerful, full of melody, like she had been.

I swallow and push the image out of my head. It was hard, sometimes, not to be resentful of Carver and his total refusal to take part in anything musical. He says he has no pitch but I think he’s lying. I know my baby brother felt like the odd one out for always picking sports when the rest of us avoided them like the plague.

In any case, the brief pang I feel for the loss of my sister is rapidly swallowed up by the press of Andy’s warm body behind me as Sigrun croons and Oghren’s rich bass line thumps out across Manning Bar. They do a few of their own numbers first before launching into a set of eighties pop covers and before long we’re dancing and laughing and Merrill even convinces us to do the Spice Girls dance - the crowd claps and cheers us and I felt like I haven’t had this much fun since… ever…

An hour later - maybe two - things are getting fuzzy from the alcohol - and I find myself up against the wall with a very insistent Andy pressed against me. I’m beginning to lose all capacity for thought - if he asked me right now I’d go home with him and part of me thinks I should and another part is screaming at me not to. There’s one thing that’s always been consistent in my relationships (with the exception of Sebastian, naturally) they all turn bad as soon as sex enters the equation - or if not bad… (I should remember to count Rory when I think about relationships, there was at least one time I did things right) then at least… different. I really really don’t want this to go badly. Somewhere between him calling me beautiful and the ridiculous boots, he’s made me care about this a whole lot more than I thought I would.

I put my hands on Andy’s chest and push him back a little. A slight frown touches his face.

“You ok?’ he says, and I smile and nod, not trusting my voice right now and fighting the overwhelming urge to pull him back down again.

“I…ah…I’m keen not to…” He raises an eyebrow

“Not to…”

I’m trying to put words together and failing. “I’m sorry. I’m… bad at this…”

He dips his head and kisses me again and I gasp, forgetting everything I wanted to say in the press of lips and skin. 

For a moment, at least, until he pulls back and smiles at me again. He doesn’t say anything, but his face is open - reassuring - and I suddenly feel… safe - safe enough to say the words that come next without feeling like they’re every bad romance cliche in the book rolled up and delivered with ham-fists.

“Can we take this a little slower, do you think?”

He grins. “I’m in no rush,” he says. I let out a breath of relief, and he shifts from foot to foot, suddenly looking a lot younger. “But… it’s still… going right?”

I laugh and nod. “Please!”

His smile is relieved. “Thank god,” he says, smoothing his hand over one of my shoulders. “To be honest I was half expecting you to run screaming from this as soon as you saw my knees.”

I make a show of looking down at his legs. “They’re nice knees.”

“You don’t think I’m too weird for you?”

I blink. My head, which is… very much swimming in beer right now, starts to spin. How does one reply to that? We all think we’re weirder than everyone around us. We all are. The depths of my weirdness probably haven’t even begun to surface for him.

And my father had always taught us that to be weird - to be different - wasn’t necessarily the curse everyone else thought it was.

“Weird is relative,” I say, instead, poking at his stomach. “And in my case I don’t think there’s any such thing as too weird.” I reach up and cup his cheek, which is stubbled again. Obviously his perpetual five-o-clock shadow isn’t something he has a choice about.

His look turns a bit sad, then and he shakes his head. 

“I hope that’s true,” he says softly.