It's Just Us [🗸]

our pansexuality

***

JAMES

I climb up the stairs, slowly and carefully, the sounds from the chaos below slowly being drowned out. 

By the time I reach the top of the ornate staircase, I exhale a breath.

The silence is an improvement. For the first time since I stepped foot in this party, I feel like I can breathe. The atmosphere infuses my lungs, my eyes trying to adjust to the dimness. 

My gaze flickers around the area. A hall, a couple white doors lining each side.

I take some cautious steps, running a hand through my curls before carefully tracing the walls I pass. It's dark, barely any light shining through except whatever light made it upstairs from downstairs.

My hand leaves that doorknob and I speed up until I hear muffled noises.

Dark, dim lighting. Muffled sounds. Something out of a fucking horror movie. 

That being said, if I see even the slightest sign of danger, I'll be gone in seconds, finally putting seven torturous years of track to good use.

Although, now that I think about it, I probably shouldn't have spent the time at home watching The Conjuring. I trill my lips. 

Too late to do anything about it now.

I'm passing by the second door when I hear another noise. A soft, low, breathy sound. 

Fuck.

I inhale and exhale, steadying myself. Creaking the door open carefully, I hold in a breath. The room's somewhat dark, every silhouette blanketed by blackness. 

There's a whisper, soft and careful. Lucid in the darkness. 

"Hey," a voice is soft, barely travelling through the atmosphere, so faint it's difficult to catch wind of it.

My mind toils with thoughts, my eyes catching onto two figures in the room. They're blanketed by the darkness, only a few inches apart. I catch snippets. A hand on a waist. The brush of a cheek. A half smile, clear teeth.

Then, there's a kiss. Slow, a faster pace, careful.

I let out a shaky breath, eyes widening. The figures are passionate. Passionate like they have all the time in the world. Touching each other like they'll run out of oxygen if they don't. The night belongs to them.

I catch a sliver of a gray sweatshirt, dark sweatpants, Vans pressed onto the map of a beige carpet. Familiar curls, muddled eyes. Will McClain. I inhale, exhale, taking a step back.

Because Will McClain isn't with the vivacious redhead from half an hour ago. I recognize the tall stance of the person that stands across from him. I recognize the sliver of dark hair, the dark irises.