keep your eyes on me - part 3.
part three. :) feedback is lovely as usual. ♥
--
Hot. Bright. Loud.
Sweat. Lights. Music.
Her hair is damp, her makeup is likely smudged and she knows that she’s covered in glitter. But that sounds quite magical, so she wipes her arms on her cheeks and scrapes her fingernails over her skin to catch it and pulls at her hair, threading it with glitter.
She does rather hate this song, but the beat is good and she knows she needs this.
There’s already vodka staining her blood and she might have breathed in something by accident (she promises) a little earlier, but it makes it better and she cares for nothing else.
--
“....Hi, can’t talk right now, sorry! Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you, thanks!”
He sighs.
Beep.
“Uh, hi, Cassie, just checking you’re all right,” he begins nervously. “I didn’t see you after school and I really had to get home; if you’re upset with me I’m really sorry. Just - call me back?”
He tries to think of something to say, but nothing comes. He presses the end-call button, and places his phone down next to his History homework, suddenly restless.
Is she okay? Is she at home? Is she angry with him? Did she want to walk home with him? Was she just running a little late? Is he an idiot?
Well, yes, but he’ll save that argument for another time.
“Barney, love,” his mum calls up the stairs. “Dinner’s ready!”
“Okay,” he replies loudly, dropping his biro back onto his exercise book and shoving himself away from his desk.
He glances down at his silent phone for a second before picking it up again and stuffing it into his pocket.
--
There’s live music now, and it’s really great, and she screams just as loud as everyone else. She doesn’t know the time, or how many drinks it is now, or how the hell she’s getting home but it doesn’t matter.
It’s the most freedom she’s ever felt.
--
He’s texted her three times and called again.
Nothing.
His homework is done, he’s talked to his mum and greeted his dad; the only thing he can do now is worry.
He hates it when she’s upset with him. She ignores him or speaks mere syllables, she doesn’t smile. She leaves his gut clenching and a horrid taste in his mouth. When she cries it’s even worse - the guilt gnaws at him, reminding him constantly that he hurt her, caused those tears, when he should be making her smile.
That’s what best friends do. They make you smile.
Eventually he’s curled up beneath the covers of his bed, looking through his photos of her. She’s pouting in some of them, making him grin, and then she’s just smiling, in that perfectly blissful way of hers that sets his stomach flopping and heart racing.
He doesn’t mind the utter cliché of his situation because she makes it all right to feel the way he does.
--
She stumbles once, twice, on the quay, giggling and hearing it echo round the silent harbour.
“It’s going to be a good day,” she sings, spinning around and regretting it. Her stomach turns and she lets out a squeak before promptly losing most of her food and drink of her evening.
“Oh, God,” she moans when she straightens, feeling a little more sober. “Dad’s going to kill me.”
Blinking, she assesses her location.
“Barney,” she murmurs, staring at the familiar estate agents’. Walking shakily to the door, she pulls her phone from her handbag and finds it alight with messages from him. “Oh no.”
Are you okay?
You’re not upset with me, are you? I’m sorry I left school without you, I had to get home.
She finds his number and bites her nails while the phone rings.
--
“B-Barney? I’m sorry, sorry, I -“
“Cassie?”
He shoots upwards in bed, clothes creased and hair a mess. He must’ve fallen asleep.
“Cass! God, where were you? Are you all right, I was worried and...”
Her voice is slurred.
“Cassie?”
“I went to a club, Barney,” she says quietly, wearily.
“W-what the - Cassie,” he groans.
“It doesn’t matter, Barney,” she mutters, and there is a pang in his chest.
“I know - but I was worried,” he says. “You didn’t tell me.”
She sighs, and he wants to hug her.
“Never mind,” he says gently. “I’ll open the door for you and get the kettle on, all right?”
“Thanks, dear,” she mumbles, and the automatic endearment leaves a warmth inside him.
He ends their connection and heads downstairs quietly; he fills the kettle and turns it on before clomping down the next flight of stairs to the doorway and then unlocking the front door.
She’s bathed in moonlight, specks of glitter blazing on her skin. Her makeup is ruined; her eyes are surrounded in a black, smoky mess and her hair is almost as bad as his.
He hasn’t really seen anything this beautiful.
“’Lo, Cass,” he says hoarsely, and she wobbles over the threshold and into him. “Whoa, okay, girlie.”
He helps her up the stairs, nose wrinkling at the stench of alcohol mixed with buckets of sweat. She’s clearly exhausted, her club-high over.
The kettle’s steaming when he’s propped her carefully in a chair at the table, and he bustles about making tea for both of them. She’s slumped, auburn hair glowing faintly in the light from the kitchen. She’s still sprinkled with glitter.
She sips her tea daintily when he places it in front of her, clearly savouring it.
Tea makes everything better.
“Is that helping?” he asks her, finding her hand and squeezing it.
“Yeah,” she says almost inaudibly. “Lots, thanks.”
“Cassie,” he tries, still holding her hand. “I’m not upset, promise. I was just worried about you. It’s all right that you went there, really.”
She smiles a little. “I should have told you.”
“Next time, yeah?” he murmurs.
She looks at him for a moment, obviously not expecting him to expect a next time, but then she nods.
“I will.”
“Great,” he exhales loudly. “C’mon’, you take my bed and I’ll sleep down here.”
“N-no,” she blurts out. “Could you stay with me?”
He blinks, hardly daring to hope he’d just heard that. “Are you sure?”
“I want you to,” she says, and that’s all he needs to hear.
“Sure,” he smiles and helps her up. “I’ve got a t-shirt or something that you can borrow to sleep in.”
“Can I have the rocket one? It’s really sweet,” she mumbles, eyes closing and body drooping.
“Of course you can,” he squeezes her shoulders, and they do make it to his bedroom eventually.
--
--
Hot. Bright. Loud.
Sweat. Lights. Music.
Her hair is damp, her makeup is likely smudged and she knows that she’s covered in glitter. But that sounds quite magical, so she wipes her arms on her cheeks and scrapes her fingernails over her skin to catch it and pulls at her hair, threading it with glitter.
She does rather hate this song, but the beat is good and she knows she needs this.
There’s already vodka staining her blood and she might have breathed in something by accident (she promises) a little earlier, but it makes it better and she cares for nothing else.
--
“....Hi, can’t talk right now, sorry! Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you, thanks!”
He sighs.
Beep.
“Uh, hi, Cassie, just checking you’re all right,” he begins nervously. “I didn’t see you after school and I really had to get home; if you’re upset with me I’m really sorry. Just - call me back?”
He tries to think of something to say, but nothing comes. He presses the end-call button, and places his phone down next to his History homework, suddenly restless.
Is she okay? Is she at home? Is she angry with him? Did she want to walk home with him? Was she just running a little late? Is he an idiot?
Well, yes, but he’ll save that argument for another time.
“Barney, love,” his mum calls up the stairs. “Dinner’s ready!”
“Okay,” he replies loudly, dropping his biro back onto his exercise book and shoving himself away from his desk.
He glances down at his silent phone for a second before picking it up again and stuffing it into his pocket.
--
There’s live music now, and it’s really great, and she screams just as loud as everyone else. She doesn’t know the time, or how many drinks it is now, or how the hell she’s getting home but it doesn’t matter.
It’s the most freedom she’s ever felt.
--
He’s texted her three times and called again.
Nothing.
His homework is done, he’s talked to his mum and greeted his dad; the only thing he can do now is worry.
He hates it when she’s upset with him. She ignores him or speaks mere syllables, she doesn’t smile. She leaves his gut clenching and a horrid taste in his mouth. When she cries it’s even worse - the guilt gnaws at him, reminding him constantly that he hurt her, caused those tears, when he should be making her smile.
That’s what best friends do. They make you smile.
Eventually he’s curled up beneath the covers of his bed, looking through his photos of her. She’s pouting in some of them, making him grin, and then she’s just smiling, in that perfectly blissful way of hers that sets his stomach flopping and heart racing.
He doesn’t mind the utter cliché of his situation because she makes it all right to feel the way he does.
--
She stumbles once, twice, on the quay, giggling and hearing it echo round the silent harbour.
“It’s going to be a good day,” she sings, spinning around and regretting it. Her stomach turns and she lets out a squeak before promptly losing most of her food and drink of her evening.
“Oh, God,” she moans when she straightens, feeling a little more sober. “Dad’s going to kill me.”
Blinking, she assesses her location.
“Barney,” she murmurs, staring at the familiar estate agents’. Walking shakily to the door, she pulls her phone from her handbag and finds it alight with messages from him. “Oh no.”
Are you okay?
You’re not upset with me, are you? I’m sorry I left school without you, I had to get home.
She finds his number and bites her nails while the phone rings.
--
“B-Barney? I’m sorry, sorry, I -“
“Cassie?”
He shoots upwards in bed, clothes creased and hair a mess. He must’ve fallen asleep.
“Cass! God, where were you? Are you all right, I was worried and...”
Her voice is slurred.
“Cassie?”
“I went to a club, Barney,” she says quietly, wearily.
“W-what the - Cassie,” he groans.
“It doesn’t matter, Barney,” she mutters, and there is a pang in his chest.
“I know - but I was worried,” he says. “You didn’t tell me.”
She sighs, and he wants to hug her.
“Never mind,” he says gently. “I’ll open the door for you and get the kettle on, all right?”
“Thanks, dear,” she mumbles, and the automatic endearment leaves a warmth inside him.
He ends their connection and heads downstairs quietly; he fills the kettle and turns it on before clomping down the next flight of stairs to the doorway and then unlocking the front door.
She’s bathed in moonlight, specks of glitter blazing on her skin. Her makeup is ruined; her eyes are surrounded in a black, smoky mess and her hair is almost as bad as his.
He hasn’t really seen anything this beautiful.
“’Lo, Cass,” he says hoarsely, and she wobbles over the threshold and into him. “Whoa, okay, girlie.”
He helps her up the stairs, nose wrinkling at the stench of alcohol mixed with buckets of sweat. She’s clearly exhausted, her club-high over.
The kettle’s steaming when he’s propped her carefully in a chair at the table, and he bustles about making tea for both of them. She’s slumped, auburn hair glowing faintly in the light from the kitchen. She’s still sprinkled with glitter.
She sips her tea daintily when he places it in front of her, clearly savouring it.
Tea makes everything better.
“Is that helping?” he asks her, finding her hand and squeezing it.
“Yeah,” she says almost inaudibly. “Lots, thanks.”
“Cassie,” he tries, still holding her hand. “I’m not upset, promise. I was just worried about you. It’s all right that you went there, really.”
She smiles a little. “I should have told you.”
“Next time, yeah?” he murmurs.
She looks at him for a moment, obviously not expecting him to expect a next time, but then she nods.
“I will.”
“Great,” he exhales loudly. “C’mon’, you take my bed and I’ll sleep down here.”
“N-no,” she blurts out. “Could you stay with me?”
He blinks, hardly daring to hope he’d just heard that. “Are you sure?”
“I want you to,” she says, and that’s all he needs to hear.
“Sure,” he smiles and helps her up. “I’ve got a t-shirt or something that you can borrow to sleep in.”
“Can I have the rocket one? It’s really sweet,” she mumbles, eyes closing and body drooping.
“Of course you can,” he squeezes her shoulders, and they do make it to his bedroom eventually.
--