To: chriscrossedmicah@gmail.com.uk
CC: djkinsey@gmail.com; mustlovedogs@gmail.com.uk; crossesoflead@gmail.com.uk
From: morgandmccallum@gmail.com.uk
Subject: Homecoming Party
Micah,
Hey mate, welcome back to London. So your sister asked me if I'd be willing to to do her a favor and throw you lot a homecoming party. I know how you feel about parties, but she's such a sap and really wants to properly celebrate your triumphant return to the UK. I figured a compromise. I've been bar tending at Deccord and my boss agreed to a little impromptu party in the VIP lounge so you'd be in the club and have your party too, bit of a win-win I thought. Heads up, though, Em went through you contacts (idk how she got your password) and invited some of the band's mutual friends already. Not entirely sure who, but she said something about Ani Tiernan and Soren Reid. Oh, and I'm pretty sure she asked your gf too. Let me know, it's never too late to cancel.
Morgan
To: morgandmccallum@gmail.com.uk
CC: djkinsey@gmail.com.uk; mustlovedogs@gmail.com.uk; crossesoflead@gmail.com.uk
From: chriscrossedmicah@gmail.com.uk
Subject: RE: Homecoming Party
I do actually think there are times that are too late to cancel like two hours before everyone's due to arrive, but I do appreciate the offer. No, it sounds excellent, definite win. Not exactly a crazy party I'll have to clean up but still enough so Dominic'll stop whining. And you know how much I love Club Deccord.
Thanks for curbing Emma, I'm sure she was a nightmare,
Micah
Dominic Kinsey (@Nic_Kinsey)
Someone values tradition. Thanks @Morgan_McCallum #wasntwhining #micahsmean
Micah Cross (@MC_Cross)
Excited to see @EmmaCross and @Morgan_McCallum tonight #funtimes #noplacelikehome #ClubDeccord #Nicwaswhining
Irish Rose (@rosieposie)
Party At A Rich Dude's House #kesha
Dorian Grey II (@DorianII)
"@rosieposie: Party At A Rich Dude's House #kesha" so...basically this is my life. But who's excited for this party?
Rosie was twerking, not well, mind you, but she was giving it her best shot even as she persistently downed what had to be her third Cosmo in the last hour and a half. If he was a better friend, Irial would stop her, but she'd started getting heavy handed with the drinks around the time that some big-breasted, purple-haired punk-rock chick had started whispering in Harry's ear while he bought her drinks. Quite frankly, Irial didn't have the heart to stop her downward spiral; after all, sobriety took away those beautiful rose-colored glasses that allowed her to twerk with abandon instead of bitterly eyeing the pair so he let it go.
Irial, on the other hand, was buzzed, barely, since he'd paced himself and downed two glasses of water between every girly cocktail he'd shot back at the bar. Plus he was a poor uni student on a rather small budget, though he'd yet to pay for a single drink between his ongoing flirtation with the bartender and his numerous dance partners, almost all of whom had taken his raunchy grinding and butterfly kisses as some sort of sign that he was looking to sleep with them, which isn't to say he wouldn't just that it had been too early to slip away from a perfectly good party just for a satisfactory one night stand.
Four hours in and he'd flirted shamelessly with every man—gay or straight—he'd come into contact with, had tried almost every drink special on the cocktail menu, and even found Morgan McCallum, the muscled apparently future David Beckham he played football with at Uni, publicly tongue fucking his girlfriend, Emma Cross, who was such a stereotypical Romanchial gypsy Irial almost couldn't take her seriously. She was all skin, tight clothes, and bling, loud but pretty, over the top and a bit of a hot mess; still, he had to give her credit, the photography major had some serious skill behind the camera if the numerous awards and recognition she was constantly being given was any indication. Naturally, though, he'd snapped a picture of the pair and posted it up on Instagram and Twitter.
Dorian Grey II (@DorianII)
Oh my God my virgin eyes! #keepitinyourpants #getaroom
Elisabeth Mann (@lisamanup)
@Morgan_McCallum apparently can't wait to get some. Patience, children, patience
Alex Haymer (@KittylikestheFishy)
lmfao @DorianII if you have virgin eyes, I like pussy
Dorian Grey II (@DorianII)
@KittylikestheFishy lies vicious lies. I'm sort of virginal if you catch me
Kayla Moulson (@rosesarered)
@DorianII hahaha im dying #notavirgin
Abraham Cross (@AbeMattiasCross)
@EmmaCross im telling mom
On Emma's behalf, Irial grimaced, looking up from the screen of his phone, eyes sliding across the room and coming to land on Rosie, eyes glazed, a sheen layer of sweat already covering her skin from being packed in so tightly and dancing so hard. Even as the song shifted from "Dirty Love" by Kesha and over to "We Can't Stop" by Miley Cyrus, her twerking didn't even pause. Unable to resist, Irial flipped over to take a quick Keek of the action, even as he made sure not to catch her face in the frame.
He chuckled, "I don't know about you, but I always thought twerking should be left to the professionals. Proof enough right there." Irial uploaded the video, linking it to his Twitter before finishing the last of his Long Island Iced Tea and dropping a tip for the bartender in the tip jar. Eyes lingering on Rosie so he didn't lose her, Irial slid his cell phone in his pocket and sidled up to Harry, throwing an arm around his neck and standing on his tiptoes to whisper in his ear. "I'm going to take a smoke. Keep an eye on Rosie."
Harry tore his gaze away from the girl in front of him and looked down at Irial, concern written all over his face, "She's smashed?"
"If by smashed, you mean drinking her weight in Cosmos and twerking nonstop and barefoot to Miley Cyrus, the answer is her liver's on life support and she makes Lindsey Lohan look sober."
Cursing, Harry nodded at Irial, preoccupied, eyes already scanning the crowd to find her. Job done, Irial peeled himself away from Harry without sparing his would-be hook up a glance. Little chance of that now, Rosie wasn't exactly a 'bad' drunk but she wasn't a good one either; the first time she'd ever gotten drunk with Irial he'd wandered around the club, wasted, for nearly two hours before he found her sitting in on the floor at the end of the hallway under a water fountain between the two bathrooms, knees pulled up to her chest and eyes staring unfocused. She was basically catatonic. He doesn't even remember how they got home.
Irial wove through the crowd, the one time he can ever take advantage of his almost dwarfish stature, and down a narrow hallway. Even in the back, the bass of the music was heavy, boisterous, raucous, its beat palpable. He startled and danced aside as the girl's bathroom door flew open and a gaggle of girls dressed in short, tight cocktail dresses and stilettos come barreling out, giggling and excited. Behind them, he caught a glimpse of a row of even more girls standing in front of the mirror fixing their hair, their makeup, their boobs; he rolled his eyes and continued on as the door slammed shut.
As long as he lived, he'd never understand girls, which Harry and Rosie both thought was hilarious. As if being gay meant that he somehow had to have an innate understanding of color coordination and an adamant love of Burberry (not that Burberry wasn't fantastic but still). He might like dick, but that didn't necessarily turn him into Michael Kors. The most he'd contributed during his sister's shopping trip for some primary school ball was that her dress looked 'really blue', which really couldn't get anymore noncommittal if he tried. Makeup wasn't his cup of tea. High heels looked like torture devices or the greatest secret weapon a woman could have in their arsenal. Unless an outfit was just unbelievably horrendous, he didn't care what brand, pattern, or color it was. And no, he didn't style hair; that's why his was just long enough to brush into his eyes when wet and not a centimeter longer than that.
Harry liked to tease him about being a failure at being a flamboyant homosexual, but Harry was certainly not one to talk since he was a bisexual Hipster with every Apple product ever invented, a walking stereotype if there ever was one. Irial—and Rosie, for that matter—simply didn't like to live up to expectation. Irial played football on the Uni team (in rainbow cleats, mind you, but still), didn't talk fashion with the girls like a token gay friend (unless it was about how awful someone else's was), and didn't scream clean-cut metrosexual if you didn't know otherwise.
Actually, he was pretty unkempt. His wispy, honey-colored hair did whatever it wanted to, stuck up however it wanted to, which was why beyond a small patch of fringe, most of it disappeared underneath a beanie anyway. Irial was scruffy, stubbly, partially because he just didn't have the time and partially because it helped him look like less of a child. Though, he did, admittedly, like in skinny jeans and plaid Speries. Either way, the rest of him was all sarcastic t-shirt, open button-ups, and the occasional Henley. He figured that if he managed to get up and clothe himself, that alone should be good enough for the world, and, up until this point in his life, it seemed to be.
Irial paused at the putrid scent of marijuana, wrinkling his nose even as he tilted his head, looking around for where it was coming from. His eyes landed on a cracked open door, and he doubled back, slipping out through the door and into an alleyway behind the club. The group of potheads stood further down the alley, blissfully passing the joint amongst themselves, and Irial rolled his eyes, stepping out into the fresh, open air of the alley only for his foot to collide with something squishy and solid, the momentum sending him flying when a pair of warm hands grab his waist and pulled him back flesh against a warm but hard body, steadying him.
His rescuer (and tripper) cleared his throat, and Irial tilted his head back, looking up at the man's shadowed face with narrowed eyes to find him blushing. "Sorry," the man said his voice throaty and deep, unexpected but yet not wholly. The guy was gorgeous but obviously young, not a day over eighteen Irial would guess and reminiscent of a young Heath Ledger but stretched out, taller and ganglier, with wavy chocolate hair that nearly fell to his shoulders and these deep, piercing tawny eyes that glimmer even in the dark. He was all muscle too despite appearance, which Irial can feel because he's still pressed to against the stranger, not that his body seemed to mind all that much, but he should.
"Alright," Irial said slowly, looking down to where the guy's hands are still holding tightly to Irial waist, keeping him pressed against the stranger's rock hard body.
Immediately, the guy let go like he'd burned himself, and Irial stepped away, missing the warmth of his body but way more concerned with his mental state. He turned, putting space between them and studying the blushing teenager while pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Taking out one, he offered it to the stranger, cautiously, "Smoke?"
The kid blinked and shook his head, "Oh, I don't..."
"Right," Irial replied, sticking the pack in his pocket and lighting the cigarette. He checked the kid out, blatantly, smirking as he took a drag and noted the way the kid shifted under Irial's gaze but didn't actually move, blushing deepening. "You're a Hipster," Irial said by way of explanation.
"I think I'd actually prefer Indie," he responded awkwardly.
Irial shrugged and smiled impishly, "Maybe, but that's yet to be determined hasn't it?"
"Sorry," the kid blurted abruptly.
Laughing, Irial nodded, "You said that already. What are you doing out here anyway? Not smoking, not stealing, not dumpster diving..."
"Dumpster diving?" He spoke, a surprised smile lighting up his face, "Does that happen often?"
"I have no idea. I'm a good boy," Irial replied smoothly, smirking.
Quirking an eyebrow, the kid's gaze trailed over Irial lazily, intently, heatedly, from his eyes, over his t-shirt and skinny jeans to his Vans and then back up again, slow and heated like he had all the time in the world to check out guys he almost killed in an alley behind a club. His eyes met Irial's, smoldering, his voice dropping and taking on a husky edge as he replied, "I don't believe that."
Swallowing, Irial took another long drag on his cigarette, begging his libido to calm down. before looking back at the stranger, "Well, at least in respect to hanging out in alleys."
He nodded and stepped closer to Irial, swallowing the distance between them too quickly for Irial's comfort and humming thoughtfully, "So you don't often meet boys in alleys, then?"
None like you.
Irial cocked his head and dropped his cigarette, stamping it out underfoot as his gaze roved over the boy's body and up to his blazing golden eyes as he steps closer, pressing them chest to chest, "I'll admit it's happened once or twice, but that's one reputation I certainly don't need. What would my mother think?"
"You're trying to save the planet?"
"Rescuing them from the streets and all that?" The boy smiled and nodded, still too close, heat too much, messing with Irial's head a little. Normally, he'd just fuck the foreplay, grab him by the back of the neck, and pull him into a hungry kiss that would set Irial's whole body on fire and would rid him of the tingling throughout his person that screamed for how much it just wants this kid. But he didn't and he can't because the kid's adorable and charming and barely looks legal, especially when he bit his bottom lip and nodded at Irial's words. Irial reached up without thinking, pulling the kid's lip from his teeth with way too much intensity and looking up to meet his eyes as he said, "Makes me sound like a right creep."
The kid huffed out a laugh, "Are you?"
"Are you?" Irial shot back, thumb skimming along the kid's bottom lip without his conscious permission to do so, "You still haven't told me what you're doing out here, love."
Sighing, he took a step back, looking down at his feet, and Irial exhaled shakily, quietly, a little overwhelmed, rocking back on his heels and watching the kid carefully. He squints at the toe of his boots, "Hiding?"
"Are you asking me?"
"No...yes? I don't know. Got tired of the crowd, I guess, the attention. It all gets to be a bit much sometimes, doesn't it?" He looked down at his shoes, a self-deprecating smile on his face. Irial blinked, hesitating because...what? This kid went from zero to sixty in milliseconds. Irial was more than a bit lost, but the kid continued, "I love it, though. I do. I should, right? I shouldn't complain?"
"I feel like this is no longer about the club, in which case, love, I have no idea what you're talking about."
His head shot up, and he blinked at Irial in surprise, "Really, none?"
"Should I?" Irial hedged carefully.
"Don't you?"
Irial shook his head. The kid might look like sex on legs, but clearly his mental state needed intense evaluation, "You come across as a tad bit mental, you know that?"
A wide grin spread across the kids face, "I'm Crispin."
"Are you on Acid? Actually...were your parents when they gave you that name?"
Crispin shook his head, still smiling and not the slightest bit offended, "Am I allowed to have your name?"
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Am I allowed to have your number?"
"I really don't think that's a good idea. Are you even legal?"
"Of course, I'm eighteen, how else would I have gotten into the club?" Crispin offered cheerfully, once against stepping into Irial's personal space, this time, though, his hands caught Irial's waist, pulling him closer and pressing their bodies together. Irial's breathing stuttered, but he kept himself calm, hands to himself. Crispin bowed his head, lips brushing against the shell of Irial's ears as Crispin whispered, "You live in London...?"
"Irial," he filled in automatically, He shifted, only succeeding in sliding their bodies against each other, and he inhaled sharply, closing his eyes and resting his head against Crispin's chest, digging for restraint he hadn't used in two years. Crispin slipped a finger underneath Irial's t-shirt, calloused pad of his thumb, sliding over the smooth skin of Irial's hip; he took a steadying breath, who even was this kid? "Yes, sort of, I'm studying here?"
"Are you asking me?" Crispin responded cheekily.
Irial's lips quirked in a slight smile, "Cheeky. You're an absolute menace, you know that?" Crispin laughed, and Irial smiled, shaking his head. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he didn't step away from Crispin as he pulled out his phone.
Harry: Rosie's wasted. Going home. Where r u?
Shaking his head, Irial put his hands on Crispin's chest, trying to push him away, "I've got to go be a good friend and all that."
Crispin nodded but whispered, "Please let me have your number?"
"No," Irial laughed breathily, "something tells me that would be a really bad idea."
Pulling away slightly, Cripsin frowned down at Irial before a look of determination passed over him, "If I find you again can I have it?"
Shaking his head, Irial looked up at Crispin, "You've watched Serendipity one too many times. In the real world, you can't find someone knowing only the city they live in and their first name. It's not possible, especially someone like me who believes the best way to live life is anonymously."
Crispin tilted his head and studied Irial before smiling impishly, "Then it shouldn't be a problem, should it?"
Laughing, Irial poked Crispin's stomach and nodded, "Alright you, fine. If you can find me again, you can have my number, but I highly doubt you will, love." Irial patted his cheek and walked around him over to the door, ignoring the persistent vibrating of his phone in his back pocket. Harry was going to rip him a new one for making them wait on Irial when Rosie was this drunk; at the door, he glanced back at Crispin who'd turned to watch Irial leave, eyes still smoldering; Irial smirked, "Best of luck."
"Nice arse," Crispin retorted.
Irial laughed and shook his head, ducking back into the hallway. His lips curled into a smile with far too much amusement as he murmured fondly, "What a little shit."