When Illicit Affairs was announced as the winner of Best Play, Rasmus had momentarily thought, This is it.
This was the thing that would finally, finally make his parents proud of him, that would make them consider his career as valid. The thought was enough to get him choked up with dizzying emotion, to make him not think twice about tightly holding onto Cora's hand when she reached for him.
But after only a minute, as the kick of adrenaline was just starting to ebb away ever so slightly, he realized, No it's not. It wasn't enough—it was never going to be enough. They could win Best Play, but his parents would still be asking why he wasn't the one up there accepting an award. He could win an award and they'd be asking why he hadn't written the whole damn play.
But then Cora had looked over at him, her cheeks stained with fresh tears, and smiled at him with genuine fondness despite how much they disliked each other, how poorly they sometimes treated each other. And he thought, Damn them. I can be proud of myself.
"Are you ready to celebrate?" he asked her later as they were leaving the theater.
There were probably a million afterparties held after the Tonys, but they were going to one hosted by a group of producers who worked across several shows, which meant that it was likely going to be packed. But perhaps that was a good thing—Rasmus didn't adore having too many pairs of eyes on him at once when he was out of character.
"I am," Cora replied, then dropped her voice so that only he would hear. "But if it happens to suck, you're helping me plan my escape route."
He laughed under his breath. "Deal."
Outside, the weather was much more bearable now that the sun had been chased out of the sky for the night. The slight breeze that blew against them was still warm but didn't carry that miserable edge of humidity it had possessed earlier, which was the best anyone could really ask for on the East Coast in the summer. Now that people were dispersing in different directions instead of all converging on the theater, the stroll to their afterparty was much calmer than that towards Radio City earlier in the afternoon. Cora and Rasmus were both quiet, still absorbing everything that had just come to pass.
Considering that they had just come from the show without detouring, he had assumed that the party couldn't be too crowded yet, so he was caught off guard when they stepped inside and it somehow looked like it had already been going for hours. Champagne was flowing; people were in the throes of celebrating. He could barely hear himself think over the volume of the music combined with the hundreds of different conversations going on around them. Surely the only way this many people were already here was if they'd left the awards early or hadn't come altogether.
But Rasmus didn't actually care that strongly about who was here or where they came from—the fear of missing out on some unknown something was basically the only thing that brought him here. He suspected that the same was also the case for Cora. He was a little more keen on being here now that their show had actually won an award, however, so he grabbed two flutes of champagne from the nearest waiter and handed one to her.
"Cheers, Coraline. To somehow not fucking this thing up yet."
Her eyes, which had been surveying the party with a sort of wonder in them, came back to him and stayed there as she held her glass up and grinned. "Cheers."
His toast sounded like a joke, but he meant it sincerely—maybe it was just his imposter syndrome whispering in his ear, but he truly had no idea how the two of them were possibly managing to lead a Broadway show, much less a Broadway show that was being received well and just won a damn Tony Award. Their senior year showcase felt like it had happened just five minutes ago and yet here they were in a room of people who combined had invested millions, if not billions, of dollars into Broadway shows; people who had directed and designed for productions all over the world; people who had worked with all the great stars of the stage and screen; people who had decades of performing experience on their resumes. And Cora and Rasmus had been invited to be here because they supposedly belonged.
He wasn't sure yet if he felt like belonged or not.
On a regular Sunday night, he would be by himself in his apartment doing something totally mundane. Cooking dinner for himself. Talking to his sister on the phone, probably. Maybe drawing or reading a book. He purposely tried to give off the air of being a much more interesting person than he actually was, but the truth was that most of the time, he would much prefer to be by himself than at some party with a group of strangers. He'd outgrown the mindset that feeding off of random people's energy was going to make him feel any better about himself.
The familiar faces from Illicit Affairs all made their rounds to greet Rasmus and Cora, of course. They got dragged into a very long conversation with their producers; Anne and the whole creative team came to say hi. But none of these people could stick around to talk for very long when literally everyone at the party wanted to congratulate them for their win.
Eventually, when he'd had as much champagne as he was comfortable drinking and Cora had just a few droplets left in her glass, he leaned over and quietly asked, "Wanna get out of here?"
He didn't entirely know why he was asking her to come with him instead of going off on his own. But she was a familiar face and being all by himself on what was meant to be such a joyous occasion sounded kind of depressing.
Her eyes widened as she turned to look at him, as if leaving was something scandalous. "And go where? What if someone comes looking for us?"
"I don't think we're being babysat, Cora," he pointed out. "And we can always come back—we don't even have to leave the building. I think there's a lounge area by the pool if you want some fresh air."
She shrugged a little bit. "Alright, I guess it doesn't hurt to check if we can go up there."
After sneaking out to the elevator with an unnecessary amount of stealth—in reality, no one was likely to be paying them any attention—they discovered that pool access oddly didn't require a room key. Rasmus clicked the button numbered 28 and Cora finished off the last dregs of her wine as they ascended to the twenty-eighth floor.
Stepping out of the elevator brought them to the bar, which was very abandoned at present since all the bartenders were busy dealing with the chaos downstairs. He could see through the glass wall that the pool deck was also empty, but the door to the outside opened with ease when he pushed on it.
A faint whistle slid out of his lips. Even for New York, the view was impressive. They were high up enough here that the view wasn't just the sides of other skyscrapers—it was the rest of Manhattan sprawling out in front of and beneath them. He walked over to the glass railing that surrounded the entire pool deck and leaned his forearms on it, enjoying the peace and quiet after a day that had been very loud.
"This was a good idea," Cora hummed from a few feet to his side; it was only then that he noticed she'd joined him.
"I tend to be full of those."
"I'd disagree with you on that one," she teased, but the lightness of the smile she gave him made it clear that it was all in good fun.
A grin tugged at the corners of his lips as he looked at her. Her lipstick was starting to fade a little bit and the waves in her hair were falling more loosely now that several hours had passed, but God, she was still gorgeous. Infuriatingly gorgeous.
But then he noticed that her face was looking pale again, her cheeks missing their usual rosy hue. He frowned—he'd thought she looked ill earlier because she was anxious, but that didn't explain what was happening now.
"Did you eat dinner?" he asked suddenly.
It was Cora's turn to frown. She stared at him in confusion. "Why?"
"Because you look like you're about to pass out."
"I'm fine. And for your information, yes—Anais brought me some snacks while I was getting ready."
Rasmus stilled. That was what constituted dinner to her? "...A couple of snacks doesn't cut it after you've been working out for two hours. No wonder you've looked so lightheaded all night."
"I am fine," she repeated, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly. "Would you please not make a big deal out of this?"
For a moment, Rasmus was silent. Cora was glaring at him, trying to be threatening. But she didn't look threatening at all. Panic rose in his throat as it dawned on him that he desperately wanted her to be okay, but not for his own benefit anymore.
He wanted her to be okay just because she deserved to be okay. Because she was a human being. "I just–"
"So what if I forget to eat a big dinner once or twice? It's not going to kill me," she stopped him, attempting to put the discussion to a firm close. But then she sighed just a little bit like she knew she was getting carried away.
"Look, I know I told you to act like my friend," she told him. "But you can back off. Seriously."
For some reason, that made him irritated as hell.
"This isn't about me, Cora," he snapped, but his voice got a lot quieter as he confessed, "I'm worried about you."
Just saying those four little words made him feel astoundingly embarrassed, so it didn't help when she scoffed at him. "Since when do you have the right to be worried about me?!"
A strangled, irritated huff came out of his mouth. She always did this; she'd always been like this. Always believing that she was so high above him. He could still feel the mark of every judgmental stare she'd given him from middle school to college, constantly scrutinizing every last microscopic one of his flaws. And she hadn't even known the half of it—she hadn't known that he came to class in a sour mood because his dad had been beating up on him the night before and he was scared to death to let Ava out of his sight lest someone hurt her. She hadn't known that the reason he spiraled into drinking and smoking and partying was because he hadn't seen any other way to cope.
Cora Kline was so damn conceited.
"Can we not act like adults for five minutes?!" he lashed out, running an irritated hand through his hair. "Seriously, is it so hard for you to let me try to be a decent person without being a bitch about it?!"
She slammed a hand on the railing, her fingers gripping onto it like a vice. "Oh, great. So I'm a bitch now. And you wonder why I have trouble believing that you'd actually ever care about me?"
"Why do you have so much trouble believing that I might not be the same person I was four years ago?!"
"Because you're still a jerk, Rasmus! That's why!"
"And you're any better?"
Cora finally turned her face from him, letting out a long hiss of a sigh. Her breaths were heavy with anger, her shoulders trembling with each one.
"Why?" she muttered under her breath. "Why do I even try? No one is forcing us to do this. No one is forcing us to spend a minute of time together outside of the show. Why am I so damn set on playing friends?"
Her eyes were still firmly locked ahead of her, so Rasmus had believed that she was only talking to herself. But then, still refusing to turn his way, she whispered, "I don't understand the things you do to me."
He might have laughed at her had he not understood exactly what she was talking about. The past couple of months had been some of the most confusing of his life—one second they were on the verge of ripping each other's throats out; the next, playing house together like nothing was wrong. The only thing he grasped was that it was impossible for them to just stay quiet and stay apart. It was like every single time he was around her, he felt this primal, carnal urge to pick a fight with her.
Rasmus came a little closer to her, trying to see her face. Trying to wrap his head around what the hell any of this was. And words that he hadn't willed to come out of him escaped his throat anyway. "You turn me into a person I don't understand. And I hate it."
Finally, she turned her chin up to meet his eye instead of looking at the ground. And he realized that she was doing the same thing as he was—searching his expression for an answer. Her lips parted. Her eyes wandered until they eventually rested on his, full of fire.
"I hate you, too," she whispered, but her voice was shaking with uncertainty. "So please tell me why the hell I haven't walked away from you yet."
Fuck. For a split second, Rasmus was frozen. And then he was kissing her, his lips crashing against hers and his fingers gripping the fabric of her dress as he pulled her against him. Cora made a small noise in the back of her throat, but she wasn't stopping him. No—she was urging him onward, deepening the kiss as he backed her up against the railing.
He thought it'd be like what it was onstage. It was nothing like it was onstage.
This wasn't emotionless, it wasn't rehearsed. It was raw, unplanned, inelegant, frantic. Fingers tangling into hair, gasps against lips. And it was glaringly obvious that there wasn't that stiff corset between them anymore—Rasmus could feel every curve of her body, every last inch of her pressed against him.
With a jolt of horror, he realized that the urge he was feeling all this time was never to fight her with words. It was to do this—to capture her mouth with his, to ravage her with kisses until they were so high on it that they forgot all about loathing each other.
He broke away from her, breathing heavily and more shocked with himself than he'd ever been in his life. Slowly, he stepped back.
And Cora—
"You bastard," she snarled, the last syllable coming out as more of a gasp. She was still catching her breath, but that didn't stop her from looking like she wanted to tear his head off and throw it down into the streets of Manhattan.
But she didn't hit. She didn't scream. She wasn't interested in giving him another second of her time.
She grabbed her wine glass off of the table she'd set it on and stormed back into the building, disappearing from his sight.
He didn't dare try to follow.