Cool.
Cool.
Since when did Preston Maddox say cool? Before I have a chance to question his sudden vocabulary switch-up, I spot some familiar faces from our group approaching, so welcome them with one big wave. I try to catch Preston's eye as we make our way down the stairs, but he's already way ahead.
Once downstairs, my first stop is the bar. Margot and a few others join me while the rest of our group, including Preston, head straight to the dancefloor. It seems silly in hindsight because the guy's not some alcohol-induced werewolf, but I was holding onto this fear that Preston having more than a few drinks would lead to the re-emergence of Zack. That he'd not be able to stop, that he'd go too far or revert to a version of himself that would make him feel like a stranger. Tonight has buried that fear for good–buried Zack for good.
It's nearly midnight and Joe's reverted to his role as timekeeper, this time for my birthday. We're huddled in a tight circle as he's yelling his countdown into the questionably musky air, and as the clock strikes twelve, I figure I best not mention I wasn't actually born until two in the morning. Margot's screaming happy birthdays into my ear as she wraps her arms around me, then lifts me from the dancefloor to spin in circles.
'Welcome to non-teenage life!' she shouts in my ear.
Everyone's throwing happy birthdays at me, total strangers included, and I'm so distracted by the chaos that I forget I'm supposed to be avoiding Preston. I've not glanced at him since I stepped onto the black and white dancefloor because after our revelation upstairs, I've got no idea what I'd say to him, or how to even look at him.
He's standing directly opposite me in our circle, the club's neon blue lights turning his eyes a deep teal colour, and they're on me. His gaze is so focused, so direct that I'd bet everything I have on him watching me the entire time I've been trying to avoid watching him.
I'm so sure the music has stopped–that the world has stopped–because his, 'penblwydd hapus,' is the clearest, smoothest sound I've heard all night.
Only, when Joe loudly interjects with, 'is that Welsh? Does it mean happy birthday?' I realise I was wrong.
I trip back into reality with a laugh, then answer him with, 'yep!'
Margot says something, but I don't hear what. I smile in the hope that it'll do, and it does–she turns to Joe to start speaking with him while my eyes are pulled back towards Preston. From that moment on, he's all I can look at. Every movement, every quirk of his lips, every hand gesture, every nod of his head, every laugh. Every single thing.
I can't stop looking.
I don't say anything to him. We don't say a single word to each other after his penblwydd hapus, but I can't stop looking. We both can't stop looking, from quick glances between dancing bodies to lingering stares over strangers' shoulders.
It's one-thirty and Preston's gone. He's only momentarily left for the bar with Margot and Joe, but if my accelerating heartbeat is anything to go by, my body hasn't quite gotten the message that he's returning. It's as if I've lost all ability for logic–as if my body doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to react to the loss of his presence. It's ridiculous, but I don't know where to look. I went so long trying not to look at him, but now he's gone, I've forgotten how not to.
I feel his hand before I hear his voice. He brushes it across the back of my arm with such delicacy that I question if I imagined it, his thumb lingering on my elbow. I don't know how I know it's him, but I do, and my assumption is confirmed when he murmurs into my ear.
'Upstairs.'
By the time I've turned around, he's gone. I glance back to the rest of the group, briefly frozen before shouting something about heading outside. My legs carry me across the dancefloor and towards the red stairway until I'm walking up it, until I reach the top of it.
He's there, as promised.
He's gazing at the floor, his hands in his trouser pockets and a faraway look in his eyes as he leans back against the empty lobby's wall. If he notices me, he doesn't show it, at least from what I can tell through my view of his side profile. The music from downstairs is more muffled than when we were here before, although the sound of my blood pumping in my head probably has something to do with that. I keep walking.
'Hey,' I say as I approach, and he lifts his head.
'Hi,' he replies, standing upright as he turns his body to face me.
We don't say anything else; we don't need to.
I reach for Preston's hand as he reaches for mine, and I'm not sure if he pulls me into him or if I push myself forward, or maybe it's both. I don't know. I don't know, or really care because I'm kissing him as if it's all I'm capable of doing, as if I need it to stay alive.
He releases my hand to cup my cheek, but I have to touch him–I need to know he's real–so I press my palm to his chest until I can feel his heart hammering underneath his shirt. He tastes of the sweet alcohol he's been steadily drinking throughout the night, and everything about him is warm–his body, his touch, his presence. I can hardly bear it; I need him closer. I lift my arms to wrap them around his neck and brush my fingers across the back of it, his hair as soft as silk as he places his other hand on the small of my back.
'I'm going to–I need to...' he murmurs, but continues kissing me moments later. 'I need to head home before...'
More kisses, this time dotted along my jaw, then my lips again until finally, he stops. He pulls away ever so slighlty, and although my eyes are still closed, I feel him swallow.
'Sorry.'
He lowers his hand from my face, but not before stealing one final kiss on my temple. I open my eyes as he steps backwards–steps away from me–and he's turning around. He's turning towards the lobby's exit, but I want to demand that he stays. I'd beg; I'm so desperate for him not to leave that I'd be willing to beg, and I don't care how pathetic it'll look. I will.
Only, instead of pleading with him to stay as he starts treading towads the exit, I say, 'I'll come with you.'
He hesitates without turning to look at me, and I don't know what he's thinking–I never know–but if I had to guess, his instinct is to tell me not to. His instinct is to order me back downstairs, but he can't find the words–he can't find any words because he doesn't say anything. Still without turning around, he nods, and when I follow him outside he doesn't stop me.
He doesn't stop me when we pass my flat on the way to his, either. We keep walking–walk straight past it–without saying a word to one another, nor do we utter a thing during the ten minute journey to his house. He's always a few steps ahead. Enough to notice any sudden absence of mine, but with a purposeful space between us as if he's afraid of something. He's flexing his left hand–the one he used to cup my face at the club–and I can't stop noticing it, can't stop staring at his hand.
We keep walking and Preston still doesn't stop me, not even when I ascend the steps leading to his house as he unlocks his front door, not even when I follow him upstairs. By the time we reach his bedroom, the journey to it feels like a dream. The whole night feels like fiction, and I'm suddenly so sure that nothing else in this world is real outside this room.
The door hasn't fully shut when we start kissing again. My back is against the wall, centimetres from the doorway, and my hands are in his hair while his steady my waist. Something vibrates–his phone–Preston's phone vibrates, thwarting me back into reality as he releases my mouth to remove it from his pocket. With a quirk of his lips–lips I desperately need back on mine–he flips it around for me to read. It's exactly two o'clock.
'Penblwydd hapus,' he whispers with a kiss behind my ear.
I'm giggling as I guide his mouth back to mine, then take his phone to place it on the bookshelf beside us. I don't know if it's the alcohol or sheer impatience, but I'm tugging at the hem of his shirt, willing it off him. He follows my lead to pull it over his head, and I use the opportunity to yank down the zip at the side of my dress so that it falls to my ankles.
His lips are on mine again, and within moments, he's dotting kisses along my cheekbone, my chin, my neck. I move from the wall and tug at his belt to guide him deeper into the room, unable to stop myself despite being terrified by the prospect of moving too quickly, of him finally putting an end to everything, but he doesn't. He doesn't stop me.
Without a break between kisses, he slides his hands down my back, and I wordlessly lift myself up so that I'm straddling him, my legs wrapped around his waist. I can feel his heartbeat again, this time through my own chest as I press it against his warm skin, and it's loud, quick, erratic. He's alive–he's never felt more alive.
He walks me to his bed before gently lowering me to it, my back hitting the mattress so softly that I barely feel it. I pull him down so that he's leaning over me before he can contemplate hesitating, and as we begin kissing again, I unfasten my bra, my fingernails nearly piercing my skin with urgency.
He moves his mouth downwards again, but doesn't get any further than my neck before he tears it from my skin. He lifts his head and his green eyes meet mine, searching them, and I panic. It's dawned on him; he's realising what's happening–what we're doing–and he's going to stop it. His lips part, but I'm already speaking before he can make a sound.
'I want to.'
He swallows, and I don't think about it–I'm not really sure why I do it–but I inch forward to kiss his Adam's apple. When I return my head to the pillow, his eyes are piercing into mine as if examining them for a lie, as if there's any doubt what I said isn't the indisputable truth.
'Please,' I try again.
He remains still, and only now do I notice how heavy his breath his, how heavy mine is, and how perfectly in-sync they are. My body is screaming for his lips as his eyes flick downwards, then return to my face.
'I really want to,' I whisper.
He shifts his eyes down again, then lowers his head to press his lips to my neck, exactly where I kissed him moments earlier. My skin is buzzing as he pulls away, only this time, it's so that he can return his attention to my mouth.
'I do too,' he murmurs with a kiss.
I wake up to an unfamiliar song–an eighties one, I think, with an energetic beat but a jarringly haunting melody. That, and some shuffling, paper rustling, and a muttering sound–a voice. I open my eyes, only to squint at the sunlight pouring in through the opened window at the other side of the bedroom.
'Have you seen my physics book?'
Preston's voice is different. Off-kilter. As I pull myself up and my eyes adjust to the light, I spot him sitting on the wooden floor at the end of the mattress, his back to me, and I don't think to question how he knows I'm awake because moments after noticing him, I notice the mess. His books, usually in carefully organised piles or slotted into his bookshelf, are strewn across the floor as he mumbles under his breath, his words undecipherable. Despite my half asleep state, what's happening immediately dawns on me.
He's panicking.
'Preston. Hey, Preston, it's–' I say, suddenly wide awake as I reach for the first item of clothing I see; a burnt orange jumper draped over his desk chair. 'It's okay. Preston, hey.'
He doesn't hear me, or doesn't listen.
'It's here somewhere–I know it's here, but I can't find it. I've seen it. I had it. I know I had it.'
With the jumper now tossed over my torso, I shuffle to the end of the bed and reach for him. I'm careful–I know I need to be careful–so I keep my touch light, my fingers barely grazing the fabric of the hoodie he's wearing as I move my hand across his back and rest it on the side of his arm.
It's at this point I notice the blood.
His right hand's index finger is wet with blood. He's scratched it. I know he's scratched it because I've seen him do it before, in that exact spot. Some of the pages of his opened books have drops of red on them, and my chest is tightening, my throat closing up.
'Preston,' I repeat, trying desperately to keep my voice even. 'Listen to me. Please. It's okay.'
He doesn't turn to look at me, just keeps shuffling through the opened books in front of him as he says, 'you saw it. When you first came here in October. Blue–It's–it's blue with–'
'Preston.'
My voice is firm this time, and while he stops rambling about the book, he resorts to muttering under his breath again. With no idea what else to do, I dart my eyes around the room because he's right–despite being aware that his search is a thinly veiled distraction, I know the one he's looking for.
His desk. It was on his desk, and so I spin around to find it untouched. Despite the books thrown across the rest of the room, his desk is perfectly organised and the book is there. It's exactly where it was six months ago.
'It's on your desk,' I say, 'It's okay. It's on your desk.'
He's shaking his head again, still refusing to turn around as he mutters, 'it's not.'
I don't move my eyes from him as I stand to quickly tread towards his desk, not even when I reach for the book. I'm grasping it tightly, my knuckles white, as I return to my knees at the end of the bed.
'Here,' I say, gently but directly placing it into his hands. 'It's okay. It's here.'
Finally, he stops searching through the books, stops rambling to himself, stops doing anything beyond staring at the book in his hands. We sit with the quiet for a minute. My hands are twitching with desperation to reach for his injured finger, but I know he needs a minute.
Finally, he turns his head to look at me, his gaze briefly vacant until he blinks. I keep his eyes locked into mine as I lower my hand to his, then brush my finger along the side of his, careful not to touch the wound.
'Can I fix this for you?' I whisper, and after a brief pause, he nods.