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MB Saucy Side: Insecurity (Talia Version)
🕑 Added 2023-11-30 23:43:36 +0000 UTCI don’t want to be here.
The thought occurs as a man bumps into you, spilling neon green liquid down your shirt that smells at once acrid and sickly sweet.
“No worries,” the man slurs, eyes glazed and mind already elsewhere. He shoves past you, more alcohol sloshing over the rim of his plastic cup and onto your sleeve as he throws his hands in the air and does what might’ve passed, were he sober and more coordinated, as an old-school hand jive. Other bodies writhe around him in offbeat synchronicity, lost to the primitive pulse of EDM music.
For a brief moment, annoyance forces its way to the forefront of your mind. Several heads swivel in your direction: two on the dance floor, three more at the bar. Eyes widen with disoriented confusion as their musically/chemically-induced highs are interrupted by the persistent presence of your thoughts. The bouncer who you tagged earlier as an Empath frowns as he senses the unease from another Ment nearby, even though he himself is too far away to hear your thoughts.
I really didn’t want to deal with this tonight.
Cursing under your breath, you shoulder your way through the crowd and into the center of the dancefloor before the Ments can spot you. This warehouse is a small venue, far smaller than you usually prefer, making it harder to disappear.
But not impossible.
You usually find it easy to get lost in the music, your mind going blissfully void of everything but the accelerating tempo and forceful lyrics, diction blurred by synthesis. Focus on the sounds intently enough, and nearby Ments can’t differentiate your thoughts from the music. It’s freeing, the way that you can turn invisible despite being surrounded by people.
Usually, it’s freeing. Tonight, however, you’re tired. Your shirt sticks to your front, the sickly-sweet scent of spilt alcohol mingling with odors of sweat as a dancer next to you, clearly not a devotee of deodorant, presses too close and rolls her body against yours.
You’re out of brainrange from most the nearby Ments now, but a new head turns in your direction. The Ment’s hand raises to her temple as if struck by a sudden headache, but you recognize in her confused expression the proof that she can hear you.
Damnit. Why can’t I stop thinking tonight?
Shutting off your brain isn’t usually this hard. Nearby, pills are surreptitiously traded between sweaty hands, the exchange illuminated by glowstick bracelets. Idly, you wonder what would happen were you reckless enough to try one of the yellow capsules promising oblivion. But your mind is vulnerable enough all on its own; Nick would murder you if he ever learned that you were foolish enough to experiment with sketchy drugs from a dubious source in public. For all you know, if you got high than every Ment in vicinity might experience a simultaneous psychedelic trip.
Granted, that possibility is almost amusing enough to make you cast caution to the wind. Given enough shrooms, could your brain cause Ments to see visions? It seems like it would be a good way to establish your own cult . . . were you willing to let your mind be even more vulnerable, which you’re not. Being in public is dangerous enough for you when sober.
Dancers jump in the air as the current song ends and a new one immediately begins, smoke machines going into overdrive. You wince as someone steps on your foot.
The Ment with the headache is still scanning the crowd, searching for your presence. She hears that you’ve noticed her, your futile thought of Please don’t let her look this way immediately causing her to turn in your direction. You duck behind one of the dancers, a woman whose neon orange hoodie and dark black skin makes you think of Halloween. You wonder if the holiday coordination is deliberate, despite it being mid-July, after spotting the black cat earring dangling from her right ear.
The woman grins as she realizes that you’re attempting to mirror her movements in an effort not to be seen by someone. You can’t make out most of her features due to the flashing lights but unlike most of the surrounding partiers her gaze is still sharp and clear.
She leans in so that you can hear her voice over the music. “Hiding from an ex?” she queries. “Let me know if you need me to cha-cha-slide you to the exit.”
Despite the Ment still alerted to your presence, a laugh slips out of your lips at the absurdity of her statement. Her grin widens, teeth flashing blue beneath the strobing lights.
“I’m serious!” the woman exclaims. “It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve waltzed my way out of trouble!” Her fingertips tap against your elbow, demonstrating her willingness to guide you out of the crowd should you so desire.
Clearly, your plans to disappear into music tonight aren’t working.
“Why not?” you say recklessly. “I like a little trouble.”
The woman throws back her head in a full-bodied laugh that creates a pleasant warmth to spread in your belly. You grin, inordinately proud to have been the reason for her amusement.
“Well now I think that I like you,” she says, still chuckling.
She holds up a hand, inviting you to accept it. Once your fingers interlock, she proceeds to wrap an arm around your waist, drawing you close enough for the proximity to be unnerving although not as near as some of the couples grinding up against each other next to you.
Her head tilts to the side, eyes questioning as she seeks confirmation that this is okay. In response, you place a hand upon her shoulder as if about to engage in a foxtrot. She laughs again.
She says something just as the DJ launches into a new song, louder than the one before, and her question is lost beneath the noise. You nod anyway.
With surprising grace, the woman weaves the both of you between flailing limbs and jostling bodies. It’s not an intricate dance, but her steps are smooth and confident. A few times, she pulls you closer to avoid bumping into someone, but her hand on your hip relaxes once there’s enough space. You almost wish that she’d pull you closer, which is a ridiculous notion because you’re only ninety-eight percent certain that she isn’t a Ment.
A Ment would’ve said something by now, though. The woman, who is probably your age or a few years older, doesn’t stare at you like an oddity whose thoughts she’s overhearing. She clearly just sees you as someone who needed help, maybe a newbie to the house music scene dealing with a panic attack or a bad trip. Her kindness surprises you almost as much as your willingness to take advantage of it.
Within a few minutes, you’ve both reached the exit. It’s quieter here, the coatrack blocking you from the view of any nearby Ments. Still, you tug on your new companion’s sleeve, leading her out the door and into the back alley.
This should be safe. Out here, you should be out of the brainrange of the Ments still within the club.
“Are you okay?” the woman asks, glancing down to where you’re still holding onto her sleeve.
You let go, embarrassed to have been caught holding on like a kid afraid of losing their parent at Disneyland.
“I’m fine,” you lie. “It was just noisy in there.”
Her small grin is amused without being derisive. “I think that’s kinda the point.”
“It is,” you concede. “I just wasn’t feeling the vibe tonight, I guess.”
She nods as if your explanation makes perfect sense.
“Thanks for pulling me out of there,” you add, your hands twisting awkwardly in front of you. “It all felt . . .”
“Overwhelming?” she fills in gently.
This time it’s your turn to nod.
“I’m just glad that no one was bothering you,” the woman says. “Given the way you were acting, I was worried that someone was being a pest.”
“They weren’t doing it deliberately.” Truth blurts out of your mouth before you can reign it back in.
Her brows raise, the silver stud on the left brow gleaming in the moonlight, but she takes your avoidance of her gaze as a cue and refrains from asking follow-up questions.
“So,” she says lightly, “do I get a reward for the rescue?”
Heat races to your cheeks at her suggestive purr, your mind flooding with images of the ways that you could potentially reward her. Images that you really, REALLY hope that no Ments are close enough to be privy to. Just in case, you shuffle a few feet away from the door and further into the alley.
Your companion catches your shoulders before you can trip over a half-eaten hotdog. Shee holds on until you regain your balance, then lets go and splays out her fingers in a hands-off gesture.
“I meant your number!” she explains hastily, not needing to be a Ment to pick up on your interpretation of her words when your awkward response more than advertises the raunchy direction of your imagination. “Just your number. I don’t know who you were trying to avoid inside, but I’m not trying to pressure you or anything.” She runs a hand over her head, her black hair cropped so close that at first glance you’d mistaken her scalp for cleanshaven. “Shit,” she mutters. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable!” you blurt, feeling an urgent need to ease her misplaced guilt. “Just . . . flustered.”
Her lips slowly curve upwards in a smug smirk. “Flustered?” she repeats. She leans in, close enough that you can smell mint gum on her breath. “I can work with flustered.”
You lean in forward as well, pressing your lips to hers before you can reevaluate the situation and conclude that kissing a strange woman in a dark alleyway behind a rave feet away from several Ments is probably not a smart life decision for someone with your circumstance. Your kiss is fumbling and awkward, fueled in equal parts by gratitude, desire, and your lingering wish to lose yourself in something tonight even if it’s not music.
You want to forget. Forget about the argument with your parents, forget that tomorrow is the day you learn whether or not you were accepted to Aeon. You want to forget that Sally said she no longer wants to go to art school and that her change of heart is probably your fault because you wanted to join Unity and she won’t let you do it alone. Forget that you’re terrified that you made the wrong decisions about your future. Forget that you’re broken.
The stranger cusps your chin, tilting your head to adjust the angle of your kiss so that she has greater access to your mouth. Her tongue slips between your lips, and you taste mint but shockingly no alcohol. It doesn’t matter, because the kiss itself is intoxicating, her intensifying exploration of your mouth leaving you dizzy and weak-kneed.
You want more.
You tug at the strings of her hoodie, pulling her closer and silently demanding control of the kiss. Your tongues parry, neither willing to concede the upper hand, until she lets out a gasped whimper as, struck by frustrated inspiration, you suck in her lower lip.
Electronic music pulses from the warehouse within, your heartbeats throbbing in rhythm with the muffled beat. Her hand drifts to your throat, and your pulse flutters against the back of her knuckles, suddenly out of sync with the music, as she traces down the line of your neck.
“What’s your name?” she asks, voice hoarse.
The question douses you with a pail of icy water. You recoil, too caught up in your own anxiety to reassure her that your reaction isn’t her fault and that she didn’t do anything wrong. Of course, she would ask for your name; that’s something people usually do before they start sucking each other’s face off. But your name isn’t just a name, it’s a burden. It’s a reputation that doesn’t fit, a legacy that you didn’t inherit.
Why couldn’t she have just let you remain a stranger? You were pretending to be normal, damnit, and had half convinced yourself that your family didn’t matter. Even though you know that she didn’t mean it that way, that she had just wanted something to call you by, your brain keeps repeating Wiseman, Wiseman, Wiseman over and over again like a cursed mantra.
“I have to go,” you blurt, suddenly needing to be alone. Out of sight from her concerned gaze, because if she can’t see you then maybe you can keep pretending that you don’t exist, even if only for one night.
“You don’t have to tell me,” reassures the woman who temporarily helped you forget. She sounds concerned, and part of you wants to love her for that.
But the illusion is shattered now. You’ve remembered who you are, and you can’t bear to witness her disappointment were she to learn your identity as well. Because you’re a Wiseman, but you’re also very much not.
“I have to go,” you repeat, already backing away. “Thank you for tonight. It was fun.”
“Fun.” The woman’s laugh isn’t as enthusiastic as before, a hint of hurt darkening her chuckle. “Well, I guess it’s not bad as far as Yelp reviews go.” She rubs the back of his neck. “Did I do something wrong? I thought that we were on the same page.”
The same page. You want to laugh, or cry, at the idea that you could even be written within the same book as someone so normal and perfect.
“I’m sorry,” you say, turning away before the hurt in her brown eyes causes you to second-guess your decision.
Someone kind enough to rescue a panicking stranger at a party deserves a normal relationship, and normal is something that you’ll never be.
* * * *
Two months later
“Clarebear, you stewed prune, are you harassing one of the first years again?”
The question comes from a woman your side, who must have snuck up while you were busy contemplating Clarence’s need for therapy.
The newcomer regards you from beneath hooded lids, but a mischievous sparkle in her brown eyes belies any initial impression of lethargy. Rather than pinned to her collar, the three silver stars denoting her class year have been repurposed as piercings along her upper right ear. Something about her feels vaguely familiar, setting you at ease despite your usual wariness of strangers.
For whatever reason, this woman doesn’t feel like a stranger.
“Cadet Parker,” Clarence’s voice drips with venom. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”
