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 knock me off my feet, ft. mikkeline
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She wasn't - baffled, per se.

She'd sidled into the city hall at nine thirty a contradiction of aesthetics, sporting a pale blue dress atypical of her usual wardrobe. Her jacket she kept on, gold sequined bomber keeping her shoulders warm as she wandered the room - though she'd accepted a mask with her usual optimism and pushed it up onto the top of her head at once, ribbon tied neatly under the singular bun she'd pulled her hair into.

That was perhaps the most significant change, though Cecily still wobbled on her heels as she meandered from one corner of the hall to another. Classy venue aside, there was an unconscious dissonance that kept her from truly latching onto any social groups just yet; following the feeling, she ended up at the edge of the dance floor a moment later, elbows propped on a bit of railing as she looked down at the orchestra.

Which... was the problem, actually. Well, not the problem, but classical music just wasn't her thing.

She couldn't even decide whether or not to tap her foot, though when the orchestra struck up a livelier tune she gave it a try and managed to bob up and down for half a minute. At a few odd glances from passing students she stopped, sheepish, contenting herself with drumming her nails gently on the rail instead. It was a formal event and not a gig, after all, and some decorum was called for.

But... how were people even dancing to this?

In her musings she ended up staring much too hard at the gentle spins and sways of the students on the ballroom floor, not noticing when someone approached her from the crowd to her left.

(Like, was classical dance really all just spinning?)

- - -
welcome to twenty-gay-teen
>outfit<
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what if we rewrite the stars say you were made to be mine nothing could keep us apart you'd be the one i was meant to find it's up to you and it's up to me no one can say what we get to be so why don't we rewrite the stars maybe
She lived in moments, that much she could assure was true.

As one might imagine, Mikkeline cared particularly little for the monotonous in-betweens of daily life. It is lacking, she thinks, of a certain je ne sais quoi that she can find no where else except in moments like this where there is just a different feeling. She's a terrible journalist, she admits as she ascends the staircase leading into the hallowed halls of Peachtree's esteemed town center, for her lack of better descriptors.

( She was about to say hall for the third time in the same sentence, but even in her thoughts it is somehow embarrassing to reveal her almost pitiful command of the English language even to herself. )

The words elude her still as she places the mask carefully as to not disturb what little eye make-up would be visible, tucking the ribbons holding it in place into loose, red curls. Though, the question arises briefly as to the purpose of having masks at all when it could be plainly seen who was who by their voices and behavior alone.

Ambience, maybe.

Manicured hands are folded together at her center as she moves through the room, taking in the decor and the precious others that attended. Head tilts back, gaze following the ceiling as she makes her way to the edge of the dance floor and narrowly misses getting spun into by a couple waltzing the night away. Was it a waltz? Or ... uh, was it a tango? Ugh, enough with this formal shit. If she had to be in some kind of Mood all evening, she'd rather be home.

A total lie, but like: being pretentious was like super hard.

The skirts of her gown shift with her every step, Mikkeline careful not to step on the sheer fabric and tear a hole in it. Especially when she catches sight of a rather familiar-looking figure off beside the music. Hands change to grab fistfuls of her skirts and her heels clip-clop against the polished marble when her careful steps turn into a sprint because oh, thank god she's here.

The night might be survivable after all.

Skirts are dropped back to the floor and her run slows, Mikkeline attempting only slightly to keep from making a sound as she makes her way up behind the other. Hands lift to cover her eyes, a childish grin playing on painted lips and a giggle to follow. "Guess who, gorgeous?" A pause as she just barely registers there is only a single bun, not the trademark twin buns she had become accustomed to seeing.

"I'm gonna really hope this is you Cecily, otherwise; this is going to be really weird and I'm like supes sorry."

cecily wolfe!
455 words!
they're like. disgustingly adorable.
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Upon some more intent examination, it was all spinning.

It was almost hypnotic, what with the swirling of skirts and the glimmer of masks in the crowd. Couples and groups moved like eddies of water, flowing together into a singular rhythm that drew her in the longer she puzzled over it.

Then the ballroom blinked out, as cool hands pressed over her eyes and she jumped. "Wha-," but she didn't quite flail, instead hearing a chirping voice that settled her nerves at once.

The other girl, though, seemed to hesitate at the last moment, prompting a stifled giggle of Cecily's own as she raised her hands to tug gently at the ones on her face. "No no, it's me!" Pulling herself carefully free so as not to snag mask, hair, or makeup, she turned in place to stand face to face. "Do I look that different? One bun's better than none, or so I-,"

Her words dried up in her mouth and died. Not because she'd also suffered a mistaken identity, no - it was Mikkeline through and through who stood in front of her, sure as daylight even with the mask still over her eyes; but therein lay the problem, draped in burgundy silk and somehow gentle in all her fierce radiance and devastatingly, apocalyptically pretty.

"So I," Cecily said, intelligently, while her stomach pooled somewhere at the soles of her feet. "So I, uh, thought."

Muster, Cecily. You can do it.

And she could, since after the initial burst of glittery feeling in her chest she could focus properly on how unbelievably well Mikkeline had put her outfit together. "Okay, I'm going to need to see your license because you gotta have a permit to look this good." Crossing her arms, she tapped fingers mock-impatiently against the gold sequins of her sleeve, frowning for half a second - before breaking into a giddy grin, raising fingers gleefully to her cheeks as she bounced on her feet. "Oh my gosh, where'd you even find this dress? When'd you find it? You're like, on fire, Micks!"

- - -
on fire in a good way, i'm sure.
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what if we rewrite the stars say you were made to be mine nothing could keep us apart you'd be the one i was meant to find it's up to you and it's up to me no one can say what we get to be so why don't we rewrite the stars maybe
Oh thank God, she didn't half-sprint across a ballroom in this dress to surprise the wrong person.

It would have been a kind of embarrassment that was not unfamiliar and not the first of the night — of this, she is certain — but she can't help the sigh of relief when fears are assuaged by her confirmation that this was, in fact, Cecily Wolfe. A darling, really, just as beautiful to the eyes as her personality is to her sensibilities.

So, Mickey — pardon, maybe it was more apt to call her Mikkeline on a night like this — laughs as hands drop from the other's eyes the minute they're tugged away because she's thankful she hasn't made a fool of herself so soon into the evening. Slender digits dare to curl about her hands for a gentle squeeze. Arms drop to her sides and hands fall away the minute she turns around, lips parting to argue in turn. "No way! Different, yes, but like in a good way. Like a Covergirl kind-of, but definitely better than Covergirl." A thoughtful look towards the ceiling before she drops her gaze back down.

"Like those Maybelline commercials, except it's not like maybe her but maybe it's Maybelline. It's like definitely you, not Maybelline." A pause and a curious tilt of the head. "Do you even use Maybelline or is ..." Mickey blinks owlishly back at Cecily, raising an eyebrow. The question of what did she say only half-comes out before laughter overtakes voice and the redhead proceeds to give a little spin to show off of her dress. Gown? She's almost 90 percent confident it's like taffeta or something.

"What? Oh, this? Just a little something I grabbed out of my closet, n-b-d." She sways side-to side. Yeah, right. She wishes it was just something she grabbed out of her closet. It was probably way more than she really should have spent for a New Years party all things considered, but if it got this much of a standing ovation? She might just do it again.

"Forget about me, what about you? You look so good. That dress is," She kisses her fingertips in an exaggerated fashion before dropping her hands to her hips. "C'est magnifique!"

cecily wolfe!
370 words!
~reunited and it feels so good~
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Mick's hands lingered on hers and the nerves melted away, warmed by the glowing cheer that was the senior's presence. Instead, giddiness set in like champagne, or what she imagined champagne to be - bright and golden, maybe, fizzing in her veins and the hollow of her chest. "Maybe it's Cecily? Ooh, no-," she backpedaled at once, twirling a finger as if calling for a redo. "Maybe it's Mikkeline, hello? Perfect match."

"Though, like, honestly?" she pointed to the pale shade of lipstick on her own lips, grinning. "Same old color. If it isn't broken..." She left the statement hanging, gladly trading the subject for the glory of Mikkeline's dress. Upon closer inspection the burgundy was shot through with the elegant sheen of a brighter red, glimmering like a bird's iridescence under the soft ballroom lights.

Mickey's bashful lie - like, it had to be a lie, right? A white one? - made her smirk a little, if only to commiserate. "Totally last minute, right? Same." Her jacket was the same she wore to any show, and usually the most ostentatious part of her outfit - but tonight she was more than a little aware of the open air at her ankles, as she shifted and felt the soft chiffon of her skirt slide against her leg.

Cinderella blue wasn't usually her thing, but she laughed freely at Mikkeline's praise, smothering the sound into her curled fingers to be at least a little polite. "Oh, gosh. I, like, wandered all over for a weekend before I found this?"

Impulse seized her then, giddiness fizzing into something ethereal as she remembered turning nervously about in front of the mirror at home. Quickly, she put her hands back, shrugging her jacket partway down her arms so the loose off-shoulder sleeves of her gown were visible - then a click of one blocky, bow-accented heel and she spun gently, showing off the lightweight, candy floss spin of her skirt.

"Ta-da," she joked, when she was standing still again. As if to punctuate, a large clock at the front of the hall chimed soon after, announcing ten-thirty in between the strains of the orchestra's next piece.

Had she been wandering around that long? It had certainly felt so, though with company time seemed to stroll at its usual pace again. She turned a curious glance over her shoulder, looking back at the wheeling dancers one more time - "But like, now that you're here, how do you feel about dancing to..."

Nose scrunching, she ruminated for three seconds before making the wildest guess possible. "...Mozart?" Reaching out, she tugged Mickey gently closer to the banister and pointed, following the path of one couple as they swept along the ballroom. "Like, I'm just used to moshing. That's kinda scary."

Unless Mikkeline was in fact very into ballroom dance, a possibility that Cecily realized a half-second late. "Uh. And also pretty?"

- - -
me cranking time onward toward
midnight: ulterior motive? what??
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what if we rewrite the stars say you were made to be mine nothing could keep us apart you'd be the one i was meant to find it's up to you and it's up to me no one can say what we get to be so why don't we rewrite the stars maybe
So, comes a roll of the eyes at the mention of Mikkeline and she punctuates her annoyance with an 'ugh'.

She bore no fondness for her name. It sounds like it belongs to some batty old shrew — a fact that she must unfortunately admit is true because it's her grandmother's — not a teenage fashion icon.

But, at the very least: she won't deny it sounds pleasant to hear from her because it doesn't sound like how it's supposed to sound because Mikkeline is supposed to sound like Mikke-line, not Mikkeline but it's cute so she doesn't feel like correcting her either — she barely even registers the comment about her lipstick before Mickey goes ahead and opens her big mouth. "You're so cute, I don't think I'll ever get over it."

Arms change to cross over her chest, changing the weight on her feet and the skirts move to follow with a slight sway. "Oh yeah, totally. You know me. I totally forgot and just grabbed whatever I found on the floor. Didn't smell, so that's how you know." Mickey replies with a dismissive wave of the hand before allowing herself to take in the sights — ugh, please choke her because she sounds like a fuckboy with a capital F — of cotton candy blue and the way fabric drapes itself against her curves.

A trained gaze follows along her clavicle, the dip of a cleverly placed cut — haha, ooh girl, is it hot in here or is it just her? — it looks like the entire thing was cut out and torn from the sky because it's too soft, too pretty of a blue against her fair skin and small shoulders and it's almost like she was born to wear it.

Correction: she was born and the dress was crafted for her.

Mikkeline only realizes she's staring for longer than is reasonably acceptable when the clock strikes and lulls her out of whatever lurid fantasies she incurred. Hand lifts and she clears her throat, the redhead returning her full attention to the other. Dancing? Er, well. She was never very good at dancing. Or well, she was alright at if you considered standing and wiggling around slightly dancing.

It was passable at the other school dances, at least, and part of her is only slightly embarrassed that she seemingly didn't get the memo to take a crash course in ballroom dancing like the rest of campus had. Apparently.

"Tell me about it. I'm pretty much only used to punching faces and taking names at concerts. Dancing is so not my thing." Another wave of the hand and a sigh. "But, I mean. I'm willing to try if you are." Mikkeline offers her most dazzling smile before allowing herself to take a step back and fall into her neatest curtsy. She straightens, then takes Cecily's hand with only the quietest of giggles. Ruby red lips are placed ever so gently against the back of her hand and she lifts her gaze to match hers.

"May I have this dance then, my lady?"

cecily wolfe!
509 words!
she shifted into MAXIMUM OVERDRIVE!
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She nearly squeaked then, though out of a habitual happiness rather than nerves. "Micks, oh my Lord." Mikkeline was flattery dressed in fiery curls on any day, or at least Cecily's experience said so; speaking with her always turned naturally to such near-competitive compliments, until they somehow escaped the topic.

Well. That was how it usually went.

"Um, Micks, you're staring."

Her smile turned a shade shy as she tilted her head, bending her knees to catch Mikkeline's lowered eyes. Though, even as she did so, opportunity struck her briefly as well - before really making eye contact her own gaze skittered away, brushing over a bared throat and vividly painted lips before flicking down.

... There really was nothing a little v-shaped notch in a bodice couldn't accomplish.

Then the conversation lurched onward and she spun toward the railing, chattering to hide the feeling of heat tickling the back of her neck. "Yeah, I just jump a lot?" Propping one elbow on the banister, she focused again on the orchestra, picking out the meandering notes of the melody and puffing a cheek slightly at how leisurely the pace was. "With this, and all the decorations, it feels like we're on a different planet."

Mickey's invitation was - not unexpected, really, but to presume had seemed foolhardy. It didn't stop her from pinking happily, as she felt the soft press of lips on her knuckles. "My lady, you certainly may."

Thus followed ten minutes of what approximated dancing; then twenty, and perhaps another ten, as they joined the couples on the floor. Cecily kept a modest distance at first, mindful of the hem of Mikkeline's gown; though as they gained momentum without courting disaster she grew ever so slightly bolder, lacing her fingers with Mickey's and spinning more freely to twist the full lengths of their skirts.

She found quickly that the music's slow sway hid a considerable effort that went into the dance, even if they were only meandering between the more accomplished couples. By the time of a mutually decided break near the refreshments, she'd quite happily shed her jacket, folding it over one arm as she sipped on half a glass of punch.

"Not bad for a couple first-timers, I think," she giggled, bumping shoulders gently with Micks. For the sake of ballroom decorum she'd tied her mask properly back on, amber eyes glinting from behind it as she surveyed the hall. "Sorry I stepped on your dress a few times."

- - -
and CAN you FEEL the
LOOOVE TONIIIGHT
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what if we rewrite the stars say you were made to be mine nothing could keep us apart you'd be the one i was meant to find it's up to you and it's up to me no one can say what we get to be so why don't we rewrite the stars maybe
Somewhere between a delicately held hand and the spinning — and holy shit, there was so much spinning — across the dance floor, the evening passes them by fast and she can't help but wonder why.

Seconds tick faster as she has her hand at Cecily's waist, mindful of the Cinderella blue garment and the golden sequins that glow beneath the carefully placed lights. Minutes and they're twirling across the floor in a careful box step with a few carefully placed apologies and clumsy missteps.

And then there's a twirl and arms are around waist and they sway side to side. It's nice. Except with all the glitz and glamour of the evening, she can't quite settle into being comfortable because she keeps finding something new to look at.

Look, she thinks. More like stares, Mikkeline recalls as pink floods her cheeks at the thought.

She must admit, at least, that the slowness of the music is a double-edged sword. It lets her get close, hold on a little longer than say the concerts they might have ventured to once upon a time. Let her think about the way her fingers fit perfectly between the spaces of hers, the curve of her waist. She is thankful for the quiet conversation in change for the shouting she became accustomed to during all the parties, the "dances" that were more like accidental raves than anything else.

There is a pleasure to be found in sophistication and she is quietly thankful to the student council for putting on such an affair because when else would they get to act like they belonged to a fancy, prissy country club?

On the other hand, the fact it is much harder to conceal how difficult it is to move in these heels is daunting. A point punctuated by the way Cecily steps on her floor-length skirts — but oh, look how easy that makes her accidental handsiness when she stumbles — and she nearly falls into some poor other couple ( are they a couple? ) on the floor.

Some odd ten minutes pass before they give it up, content to nurse glasses of punch in favor of exchanging more words and quiet laughter. Red is pressed against the cup, Mickey looking up over the lip to match the other's gaze. She only shrugs, taking a sip before lowering the glass again with a smile. "Are you sure that was your first time? It didn't look like it." Maybe Mikkeline should have been a little more transparent herself. She used to dance along with her dad once upon a time, but that was years ago and she was out of practice.

She was also much taller than him now. Much taller than most everyone, actually.

"Don't worry about it!" She adds, her attention returning to the cup. Suddenly, she's very interested in the way the punch sloshes around in it. A slow, thoughtful pause as she continues moving her cup now side-to-side as if though she had never stopped dancing herself. "So," She begins with a pop of the 'o', looking up again then down again then up again then down — "This was, fun?" Smooth. "But I was thinking," A pause. "I mean we don't have to, but I was thinking that y'know. It was fun and ... whatever."

Come on, girl. This is a good chance, take it! You're alone! Not doing anything that has to do with Cecily's act! Not doing anything for the newspaper club! You're just two chicks, standing five feet apart 'cause you're not gay! Except you really are gay! PULL IT TOGETHER—

"I mean I was just thinking maybe like. This was fun, so like maybe we can go have fun else where. Like. Together."

Ah, you're fucked.

Mikkeline, you idiot. You absolute fucking buffoon. "Like we always have fun together and," STOP SAYING FUN, YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING TOOL. "And I mean," Say it. Say what you mean! "I'd like if, like. We could do that."

The clock tolls eleven and it occurs to her now that between all the pauses and half-stammered words that it took her nearly ten minutes just to get them out. "I mean you know, as friends or ... y'know. Whatever."

Just kill her. Just someone do it now. Where's a deep web hitman when you need one? SOS please, someone help her. It's not healthy for her to feel this way oh Cecily's making it hard!

cecily wolfe!
734 words!
i said i was going to post tonight and i'm sorry it took me so long but i wrote extra to compensate. bear, if you're out there: DON'T ARCHIVE THIS THREAD YET I NEED MORE TIME—
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"Oh, totally," she was quick to reassure, voice and accompanying giggle echoing into her cup as she tipped her remaining punch. "I mean, I danced on my dad's feet a lot, but I don't think that applies here." Sweetness coated her tongue, blessedly free of the bitter tang of alcohol - she distinctly remembered seeing one or two of the bowls being spiked, though whether providence or prudence had led them to one of the so-called safe tables was yet to be determined.

They both seemed to consider their drinks regardless, Mikkeline's silence failing to alert Cecily as she instead hid a new smile in her cup. The ruby tinge of punch held a meager candle to Mickey's fiery locks, brushing against Cecily's elbow even now as she swayed a little close.

Because of the music, of course.

And by now the songs had finally coaxed her into truly listening to them, as different as they were. Violin and cello echoed peacefully from the speakers, melody and harmony twining around each other, and really how different was it from a hymn? The warmth was the same, sifting slow and warm up through her the longer she listened; already she missed the feeling of turning slow circles on the floor, hands at her waist - no, ribs, when she'd stumbled so badly and been caught, laughing, her own fingers curled gently in ruffled red silk.

"Hm?" Her inquisitive sound came on impulse, the illusion of attention springing up as she heard Mickey speak up. "What's on your mind?"

Fun, apparently, and in quintiplicate.

She kept her mouth carefully shut until the end, teeth pricking gently at bottom lip as she maintained surely the most pleasantly neutral listening face in existence.

(A blush, on her cheeks?)

No, surely she was the picture of composure. Surely she'd take a delicate breath and respond in kind, and surely when she pulled the words from where she'd tucked them she wouldn't squeak.

"Ah," she promptly squeaked, punch cup crumpling in her grip until she turned ninety degrees and chucked it into the nearest bin. "O-oops, uh, probably should have... recycled that."

Apologies for taking it in vain, but oh, dear God.

"You know I lo-," Oh no you're using that L word oh no it's too late to change it here we GO, Cecily- "Love doing... anything with you, Micks." Did she end that sentence right? It sounded more like a balloon losing the last of its air and dying. "In... including..." The words are right there! You practiced them! Just... do it! Just-

"The midnight fireworks show starts in half an hour!"

She grabbed Mickey's wrist and pulled, spinning the both of them toward the nearest exit. "Oh, can't m-miss the show! We should find a good spot!"

They followed the crowd past coat check and toward the park, the sudden press of noise making conversation difficult.

But thankfully, thankfully, when they were outside city hall she spoke up again, her voice as steady as she could manage. "U... um. I want to-,"

Teetering at the edge of a cliff sent an extra thrill through the blood, when one was in heels.

"I wanna be your girlfriend, Micks."

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what if we rewrite the stars say you were made to be mine nothing could keep us apart you'd be the one i was meant to find it's up to you and it's up to me no one can say what we get to be so why don't we rewrite the stars maybe
You know, maybe this wasn't so bad.

Maybe it wasn't so bad that she just totally fucking embarrassed herself because surprise, surprise! She was an actual kind of disaster. No, actually. Not just kind of disaster but like a huge disaster like what kind of idiot says fun like five times in a row. She's a journalist! A writer, albeit unprofessionally but a writer nonetheless.

Why couldn't she think of more than one word?

Fun, fun, fun. What was she? Four? A literal four year old asking her on a date? Did she even ask her on a date or did she just keep talking about it like they were organizing a fucking play date? Oh my god, she did. She totally just asked her on a play date like they were twelve. She prays, immediately, for the release of her soul from this terrible mortal coil. Maybe in death she could find the sweet, blissful freedom from this.

Maybe Lesbian Jesus, Hayley Kiyoko, could save her —

The smile on her face is so stupid and stretched from ear to ear, like she can't stop smiling. Why can't she stop smiling? Please, she looks like an idiot. The edges of her lips twitch as her grip on the glass tightens a little harder and her confident, watchful gaze looks for any reason that she should flee immediately. Or maybe pray a little harder that the floor swallows her whole. Instead, she finds an L-word and a hand at her wrist to tug her out of the room. Punch splashes onto the floor and she barely catches the excuse, the sound of Madame President screeching from across the way as they make their escape into the park and they're flying.

Or at least, it feels that way.

Because she doesn't quite register why Cecily's in such a hurry to leave the dance hall. Nor does she understand why she's tugged along, why she interrupted herself and Mikkeline is just about to interrupt. Ask if she could just leave because she's gone and humiliated herself because of course Cecily wouldn't be into her that way. There'd be no reason to be. They bonded over a mutual appreciation for flannel and the occasional shout-out to their boo Jesus and Yoncé.

In a single sentence, all the blustering and half-assed excuses disappear along with the rest of the air in her lungs.

"I," Shoulders relax, hand dropping back down to her side and the glass pitching forward to follow the cherry-red that spills on the steps of town hall. Girlfriend? Whoa. "Girlfriend?" She repeats with a quirked eyebrow. Sure. Of course. That was the end goal but weren't they going to jump into it kind of fast? They were friends beforehand and they liked going out together and everything was fun but to commit to ... well, she liked her there was no going around that but it was?

Heart leaps into her throat.

"I'd love that, but," And there it is. There's always a but because logic sweeps up to steal the night back and she remembers how dating actually works and — there's a quiet flutter in her chest, a hesitance in her breath as she's suddenly super conscious of everything that is happening. Every curl of the digits, flutter of the eyelashes and the painfully slow pauses between her words even though she's never really shut up much before about anything. Not around her but she's suddenly incapable of the English vocabulary and she still can't explain the way she feels. Not yet.

"Call me a traditionalist, but I want to do things right. So, let's go on a date after this. Like, a real date."

You know?

cecily wolfe!
618 words!
i've never written a post this fast in my life.
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After the cliffside came the plummet, meteoric and terrifying.

Punch splattered off the steps in a glittering spray, drawing a sharply bitten off complaint from the nearest couple as they pushed by. Pulling her shoulders in, Cecily shuffled aside, trying not to jostle as if she hadn't stopped Mikkeline on the steps of Peachtree's city hall and told her-

Well.

At least the punch was on the ground and not thrown in her face?

"Y-," she swallowed, once, trying not to make it a gulp outright. Of courage she had but one thread, glimmering like gold - and she knew gold, didn't she? Gold was a concert friend, draped over her shoulders pre-show and looped in rivulets over her wrists when she played. Gold was bright and brave, unafraid despite its delicacy; so even if the thread was frail she found it in herself and held on tight, spine straight as she kept her nerve. "Yeah. Girlfriend."

It was a little easier to parrot it, as always, the word passing from Mickey's lips (oops, better not board that train of thought quite so quickly) back to hers. It - it was just a word, which was an immediate delusion because Cecily was quite sure she'd written no less than seven songs about the importance of girlfriend and maybe only two, or three, or four of them had mention of-

"But."

She froze up, hoping wildly for - something. Anything? If the stone underfoot cracked open to devour her, she'd thank it, perhaps.

But she wouldn't, really, when she'd finally said what she'd needed to and felt, undoubtedly, freer for it. The moments flashed through her memory unbidden - scouting locations, trading coffees, linking arms to cross the street even if she should have turned toward home four blocks ago. When did Cecily Wolfe ever deprive herself of her favorite people?

So when Mickey asked her on a date again, she blinked, properly surprised this time. "U-uh... what?"

A real date?

Pin dropping half a second late, she spluttered, hands jumping up as if to grab Mikkeline's and stopping halfway there. "Y- um! Yes! I, of course! I-," Face flooding with heat, she took a fortunate step backward onto the next step without falling, slapping palms ineffectually against her mask as she squeaked yet again. "Oh my gosh. I skipped. So many steps there. This is so embarrassing."

It might as well have been her own heart spilled out on the steps, with how splendidly she'd shown her hand. Her one-card, incredibly simple hand.

God.

"I m-meant," she tried faintly to repair the perceived damage, pushing her mask up in hopes that the night air would cool her down. It left her blush truly on display, as she fretted - "I mean, I do want to date you, 'cause I really like being w-with you? And I said something else instead?"

Night air? Didn't know her. She'd just blush til she died, no problem.

But the thread glimmered and she glanced down, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her bomber because that was the most romantic pose she could assume, apparently. "I-I do want to be your... um, you know. Eventually."

"... Sooner rather than later," she admitted with a slight wince, honest to a fault even if she was in the process of maybe murdering their not-quite-a-relationship relationship.

- - -
they're DISASTERS
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