butterflyfactor | (no subject)

It was the first time since her arrival that Layla had been in a crowded place and not had anyone ask about or comment on her tattoo. The lace and feather butterfly mask she wore covered it completely. It added to her general feeling of well being- not the anonymity, because no one there knew or cared who she was regardless of her garb- because she did, she felt good. A pleasant buzz ran through her. She hadn't been drinking. She didn't dare, because she wasn't prepared for the sort of lack of control that came with booze, but not just observing the crowd but being part of it was pleasantly novel.

Potentially overwhelming, as well. She slipped out of it and down the hall, finding a few strands of silver and blue beads pushed into her hands by other party goers, and absently wound them around her fingers as she stepped outside the compound doors. The party had already spilled outside- Mardi Gras wasn't the sort of even that contained itself easily or well- and she watched the dancing and drinking from her place leaning against the wall, a little farther out of the light than anyone else.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"No," she said, flushed deeply pink, not just from embarrassment, "it's not you." She brought both of her hands up, to her face, not quite covering it, but pressing her fingertips hard against her temple, her forehead.

"I'm sorry," she panted, breath still wild, "i-it's not-"

This is why I don't explain things. Well, that's not true. Typically, I don't explain things because I don't need to, it serves no purpose. Apparently, now, I don't explain things because I'm really fucking bad at it.

"Then what?" he asked, concern giving way to plain confusion as he got to his feet. He'd been in a race against his better judgment for most of the night, but some part of him still hoped to salvage what they'd had all of a second ago, basic instinct overriding the guilt that threatened to make its presence known at any moment.

"Me," she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes, knowing that she actually looked as distressed as she felt, and hating that, thoroughly.

"It's me, I- I can't, please, Jamie, I'm sorry, but I can't."

I must be drunker than I thought. If this same conversation were happening while I was sober, the sting of rejection would be gnawing at me from the inside out. As it is, it hasn't quite sunk in yet what she's saying, and instead of guilt, I feel anger. That'll change in a few hours time, I'm sure, when it finally hits me what a singularly bad idea all of this was in the first place, but for the moment I take comfort in it, using it as a crutch.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked. "Jesus Christ, Layla, I know cryptic is sort of your default state of being, but now isn't the time." Panting, he ran his fingers through his hair, pushing back the memories of her having done the same thing just a few moments prior. Overwhelmed, he took a couple of steps back. "You know what? Just... Just forget it. All of it. Never mind. This..." He let out a bitter laugh. "Just forget it."

Edited 2010-02-21 08:27 (UTC)

The all of it is a little ominous. It would be even more so if he was sober. That doesn't mean it doesn't sting, though.

"Jamie..." she started, knowing she had no way to finish the sentence, no way to stop him from running. She had nothing.

"Whatever," he said, throwing up his hands in defeat as he turned away, back into the light. He might've been drunker than he thought, but he was nowhere near drunk enough to deal with this. After months of wallowing, he'd finally tried to move forward, and she'd gone and derailed that attempt with just one word.

Layla watched him go, arms crossed over her chest, hands on her shoulders. After a few minutes, she sank down to a crouch, leaning back against the wall, and closed her eyes.

Yeah. That went well.