@andthorns

it's not fitz's first funeral, but it's the first one that he cares exactly a medium amount about. he never would have wished this upon marcel, but it's no secret that marcel and fitz weren't exactly the closest pair (and in fact, marcel threatened to strangle him a few times) - so fitz feels a passive sadness, the way you do when your local mailman dies. it just so happens that at the funeral procession itself, once fitz has been rearranged and shuffled in the haphazard crowd, he ends up standing next to none other than mari for the actual speeches. "of course you're here," fitz whispers to mari with a roll of the eyes, quiet enough to not be noticed as the eulogies begin. "what, do you need marcel to proofread something from beyond the grave? what are you working on, 'the secret life of a french snitch: an autobiography'?"

it's really quite odd, hearing the boy genius described with such a fond tone, having to remember that despite chan being a morbid little monster in fitz's presence, that's not what he's like all of the time. it feels like fitz is at a house party and there's a cat, and he tries all night to cajole the cat to let fitz pet it, going pspspspsps and drumming his fingers along the wooden floors, and then dom shows up and the cat plops into his lap without hesitation. all of which is to say maybe fitz is a little jealous of this fact, that fitz tries so hard to get those laughs out of chan that dom's talking about whereas dom probably earns them just by virtue of existing. how is fitz supposed to live with not being the most magnetic thing in every room?

"yeah bro, totally," fitz says, flaunting a big smile to hide his increasing uncertainty. fitz places his skateboard back on the floor and hops back on it, balancing on it from one foot to another, mainly just to do something with his ever-thrumming body. "one more chan-related question and then i promise i'll forget he ever existed," fitz says. "that birthday party tallie's hosting is coming up, i'm sure you got an invite. anyway, i was thinking over what to get him as a gift, and i noticed he doesn't wear a watch - do you think that'd be lame, getting him one as my gift? like, i don't know, has he evolved past the need to tell time?"

despite the fact that chan had said essentially the same thing and despite the fact that chan had tried to reduce fitz to head game, comma, decent, dom, as the world's worst best friend and local love-lover, grins entirely too knowingly. 'unless he said something to you?' oh, fitz may as well be flashing him a diamond with talk like that. in dom's version of the front porch test, there's always chan: the question simply became of who else would accompany them. "no, christ, i plead the fifth. i'm such a horrible liar, chan would brick my laptop if i said anything even close to leading."

perhaps rightfully. dom is way too sappy to deal in the collective chanfitz attempts at aloofness, and he laughs, warning, "it's real fuckin' cheesy. you sure you wanna hear it?" he dusts off sugar granules from his hands and holds them up, palms forward, in a gesture of you asked for it. "he was assigned to tutor me in math. i maintain that he got stuck with me, 'cause even when we were kids, he still had that real... self assured vibe. like, he knew what he was doing and expected you to catch up." naturally, this worked out well for a self-doubting rule-follower like dom. "plus, making chan laugh is the best. it's like getting membership into a super exclusive club, i mean - you get it."

fitz puts his hands up defensively, not wishing to incur the wrath of the secret society of lesbians that emilia no doubt belonged to. "hey, we become fools in love. how was i to know if your definition of foolery was or was not of the uhaul variety?" which reminds fitz of the fact that actually, he's never seen a uhaul in-person. it's one of those aspects of middle-class living that fitz has never had a chance to experience, but he's curious about it, like something you'd want to go see in a museum.

"see, that's where you and i differ," fitz says. "i dare to ask the question: is it even a kiss if there's no one to tell?" right on cue, the french girl from across the room finally looks up and locks eyes with fitz. she smiles at him, the kind of smile that indicates fitz might be getting laid tonight after all. "huh. maybe i didn't strike out as bad as i thought," fitz says. "hold that thought, emilia bedilia. you can explain how scissoring works to me another day. i have a baguette to butter." he raises his cup of booze in emilia's direction and then he's off, about to use some pickup line that involves the phrase 'eiffel on my tower'.

[ end ]

"maybe not," emilia agrees, her eyes trained on the girl across the room, "but regardless, i really don't think i could possibly talk you up enough in any sort of genuine way." after a pause, she glances back at fitz. "i don't u-haul, by the way. do i seem like the kind of person who would u-haul?" she may seem like it, she realizes, with the way she quickly cozied up to dove. there was no way for fitz to know that emilia let his sister in so profoundly because she had figured out her darkest secret.

a roll of her eyes indicates her disgust at his suggestion to 'watch,' though the small smile tugging at her lips gave away the humor she found in his comment. she shifts her weight at his next question, contemplating how to answer. the last person i fucked was your best friend seems a little too brash. and who's to say fitz didn't already know? none of your business would be simple and effective, but a bit too distant and perhaps oversensitive. "i don't kiss and tell," she begins, "but if you're so curious, you should know that i don't keep my sexual exploits exclusive to our little circle. if you haven't seen any signs of me getting laid, then maybe you just aren't looking in the right places."

SPOTTED: FITZ ANDERSON-CORRA AT MARCEL DUPONT'S FUNERAL

"god, it really is a pure, unforeseen tragedy... this funeral doesn't even have an open bar!"

this feels weird, very weird. their professor is fully dead - murdered, of all things - and instead of discussing any of the implications of that, fitz is standing around, shuffling his feet, wondering if his next question should be 'do you think chan like-likes me?'. maybe it's crazy, but maybe it's incredibly healthy, finally discussing something else after talking about nothing but stabbed in the back this and murderer on campus that conversation after conversation.

"woah woah woah, double date?" fitz asks, the term jolting his attention back to the conversation. "oh yeah no, nah, no, me and chan aren't - like sure, yeah, we fuck around, but that's not - i mean, unless he said something to you that he didn't say to me?" fitz feels pathetic, schoolboy with a crush when he's usually the fuckboy prince of australia. "me and chan are very whatever, i don't think he has any interest of spending time with me while the sun's up." he grabs another couple gummies and devours them, ripping with his molars and chewing thoughtfully. "you and chan are kind of an odd pair," he remarks. "how come you guys became friends instead of like, the nerd and the jock who shoves him into a locker?"

"hey, man." this is the best, i'm sure many would agree, of knee-jerk reactions to the sudden presence of a pink-buzz that dom could manage. fifitz, true to form, announces his presence in many ways at once. the scrape of plastic wheel on rough concrete, the faint blare of music that floods from his headphones, the nickname— “wait, what did you call me?”

dominic is a strong believer in an offense routine. a regular sleeps schedule, an accurate water intake, navigating without a map whenever possible to keep his brain's grey matter... soft, or whatever it's supposed to be. in reality, today's daily run and nyt puzzle have a snowball's chance in hell at keeping him alive long enough to see him greying and finally out of the public eye, but a man can dream. that’s what fitz has caught him in, a contemplation of what the fuck do referee and candy cane have in common?, and thus understandably, eager to exit.

“fuck an açaí bowl, i think i’d settle for like, a sole sprig of broccoli. he’s definitely broken the world-record for most orange dye consumed without contracting real-life scurvy.” dom is contemplative a moment, looking between the silvery glitter on his own skin to fitz's flawless looking complexion, before he's leaning in, mouth agape for the gummy a la worm to be deposited into. "i worried he was gonna give our dorm room ants for like, years. i'd say we could do dinner, but... shit, scale of one to ten, how much you think asking him out on a double date'll make him break out in hives? worth the risk?"

"the big thing?" he asks. he lifts up the covers and looks under them, swaying his head back and forth in consideration. "eh, he's actually just above average, but i appreciate the shoutout." of course, he knows that tallie is most likely not referring to his dick, but he can't help it - his natural instinct is to not take anything too seriously, because then it matters. he's faced death before and jokes were the only thing that got him through it, fitz figures it's a good strategy to employ again.

he plucks the joint back from tallie and takes a deep inhale before considering what she's saying. "i mean, i guess the alternative is everyone at the banquet going ape-shit, which also wouldn't be the move," he says. "what do you think campus is going to be like tomorrow?" then, he thinks to ask the important question: "do you think my exam on thursday's getting cancelled? cuz i reeeeeally wasn't planning on studying for that shit."

tallie takes a hit, letting the smoke curl in the dim moonlight as she passes the joint back to her ex-boyfriend. though, it's not particularly fair to call fitz that. ex, yes, but he also is somehow still one the most important people in her life. one of the most life-changing moments of their young lives just happened and she didn't for a second think about calling her mother, what seemed more prudent was leaning on fitz. was ending up in bed with fitz. it's normal for them and it's not some secret. she doesn't have to hide the time she spends with him. it's a relief and a reprieve and it makes sense that this is where they are, "i was more a fan of the mushroom risotto balls, but the tostinis slapped too." she hums nonchalantly, able to read the tone, but not wanting to lean in to the heaviness of it. that's not the person she is. it's not who she's supposed to be.

"are we gonna talk at all about the, ya know, big thing?" she asks, not pressing, only if he wants to. for fitz, she can lean in a little. he knows her better than most, probably better than anyone else in praeditus, "it's really fucked that the dean was all like 'stay in your seats.' like, girl, fuck you, i'm getting the hell out of here. they take unserious things too seriously and serious things too unseriously here, like, christ."

fitz is all cheeky grins, even as aileen shoves him off with a look of disdain. "i guess that's the concerning part, isn't it?" fitz says with a smug eyebrow raised. "i mean, if i noticed your wandering eye when i've got my my interests usually vested elsewhere," on tallie or chan or gen or hell, even dom, "how long do you think it'll take for others to notice? for your loyal boyfriend of two years 'that's never done anything wrong' to notice." fitz bats his eyes innocently as he regurgitates what aileen says word-for-word. he doesn't mean any harm with his words, not really, he just likes to stir the pot a bit for the drama of it all.

"so look, i'm gonna go try talking up frenchie again," he says. "and you don't have to worry about me opening my pretty little mouth about your outside interests. but if you ever want to tell someone the dirty, dirty details of what's going on in that head of yours, you know where to find me." with that, he's bounding off to the other side of the room, ready to put on his best fake french accent in another attempt at flirting.

[ end ]

aileen had met a lot of douchebags in her life, more specifically during her time at the meraviglia. however, none of them had come close to the fitzgerald anderson-corra. as hard as she attempted to conceal her disdain for him in a public setting, she simply couldn't find the energy to, definitely not tonight anyway. at his suggestive tone, she can almost feel herself about to upchuck. "you couldn't afford me, even if you wanted to, fitzgerald," she retorted with an eyeroll. then, she took a lengthy sip of her alcoholic beverage to offset the strong urge to puke.

once she felt fitz wrap an arm around her, she shoved him off of her almost immediately. though, she made sure to make it look like a playful push, not wanting to bring too much attention to their interaction. the last thing she wanted was someone starting bogus rumors about aileen starting a physical alteration with fitz. even if she couldn't stand the male, she had to approach the situation with tact, for the lingering eyes and lurking ears were everywhere. "is that what you think is going on? you know, you've been paying an awful lot of attention to me. i'd say you and gen were almost tied with my other admirers. i wonder how dom would feel about that. who do you reckon he'd believe, his manwhore, loser friend who only thinks and talks with his dick, or his loyal girlfriend of two years that's never done anything wrong?" the latter might have been a stretch but he didn't know that part.

fitz has done more walks of shame than he can count, so much so that he might be more used to seeing the school grounds during these wee hours of the morning than during the afternoon. today's walk feels different than the rest, however - perhaps something to do with the fact that the knife in his dead professor's back is fresh in fitz's mind. he doesn't know where to begin to process all of that, and so like most hard things fitz opts to simply not do it. instead, he lingers on the last few hours he spent with tallie, as well as on the long conversation he'll have to have with dove.

that is until chan park's voice interrupts his thoughts, a voice which he worries is a hallucination until he turns to see a soaking chan running up to him. they're the only two people on the quad, and like everything else in the last six hours it feels surreal, like they're actually the only two people left on this island, everyone else packed up their bags and left to go somewhere professors weren't getting murdered. "you know, when i told you that you feature in my wet dreams, this isn't quite what i meant," fitz says with a lofty smirk. chan takes his glasses off to wipe the water from their rims and it's so fucking stupid, this attraction fitz holds for the smallest things, like the sight of chan's eyes when they aren't hidden behind thick glass, like the way chan's hair curls against his head reminds fitz of a vine clinging to a root. "sure," fitz concedes, "i suppose i could fit you into my busy schedule. but i'm afraid it'll cost you - you know how the economy is these days." before chan can protest, fitz leans in for a kiss. fitz can't help but wonder if chan can taste tallie on his lips still - he doesn't know why, but fitz hopes he can.

and then they're off, very singing-in-the-rain sans the singing, their shoulders rubbing against each other as fitz lets chan hold the umbrella (it's the price chan pays for being significantly taller, the bastard). "some night, huh?" fitz says in way of conversation. it already sounds like a line that every praeditus member will have on repeat in some version for the next week. "are you alright, by the way? you know, your rendezvous with the trashcan and the corner?" he hesitates before he says his next line. "i was worried about you." another hesitation. "if i'm being honest, i worry about you kind of often."

location: halfway between the grand library and chan's apartment for: @ofasphodel

the morning after that night at the church, it rains. it doesn’t just rain, it pours, a momentous thunder followed by cracks of lightning, as if the sky itself is splitting in two just like their dinner group did last night. a sentimentalist would say that the rain is proof that the earth mourns the official news of marcel dupont’s passing, but chan wouldn’t be surprised if mother nature, like many women, isn’t all that depressed by dupont’s passing at all.

the problem with the rain is that chan is ill-prepared for it. after standing and chatting with the group, making his way through the pack of herbal cigarettes with an increasing desire for the real thing, he didn’t go home, but instead found his way to the grand library. from there, he did a line in the bathroom, then stayed up the rest of the night to reread nietzsche’s on the genealogy of morality (twice). at the tender hour of 4:53am, he ventures out the library doors, and there it is, the pouring-thundering-earth-falling-apart rain versus chan sans umbrella. he breathes a heavy sigh, accepts his wet fate, and begins the walk back to his apartment. about two minutes into walking through flooded streets, two things happen: 1) he realizes that there isn’t a dry part of him left with last night’s white shirt soaked through to the point of transparency, and 2) he sees a bright gold umbrella in the distance accompanied by a familiar face, a mecca of its own making. “fitzgerald!” he calls down the road. he jogs as best as he can toward the other man, the rain clouding his glasses. once under fitz’s umbrella, he catches his breath, wipes the water and humidity from his lenses. “you’re up early,” he says in lieu of greeting. “you rarely do anything especially pressing, so i don’t suppose you would mind walking me back home?"

gen is waxing philosophy and fitz fucking hates it, wobbly as he is both mentally on these many shots of liquor and physically on these unevenly paved side streets (he curses the italians and their commitment to ancient architecture). "you're talking about you and me like there is a you and me. how similar are we, really? when was the last time you felt a real thing, genevieve?" he asks, the sound of her full name foreign on his tongue. maybe it's a little too harsh, a little too mean, but he's annoyed and drunk and so not in the mood for this conversation, this conversation that gen is still dragging on, bringing up all sorts of memories of the dead that fitz never asked for in the first place. aren't there enough ghosts haunting this island already?

"sure thing, genjamin," he says with a sigh. he's as tired as gen says she is, and he doesn't like the person this conversation has turned him into, so different from the happy-go-lucky, funniest-guy-in-the-room version of fitz that their dinner club usually gets to experience. "let's go home. only question is," he leans in, lowers his voice, ever the leading man to her hollywood starlet, "whose home are we going back to?"

gen,  gen  who  would  normally  write  someone  off  for  brushing  her  in  the  hall,  who  would  tear  someone  down  with  surgical  precision  for  spilling  a  drink,  laughs  as  fitz  crashes  into  her.  it’s  ungenlike,  but  it’s  vivid  in  a  way  that’s  impossible  to  doubt.  she’s  reached  the  destination  of  her  revelry,  that  weightless  euphoric  feeling  that  could  be  adjacent  to  joy  if  it  wasn’t  so  warped  around  the  edges.  entirely  artificial,  of  chemical  origin,  but  just  as  sweet.  it’s  familiar  like  a  ghost.

she  catches  her  balance  on  fitz  and  her  hand  remains  near  the  sharp  edge  of  his  cheekbone  while  she  speaks,  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  fire  in  her  eyes  like  she’s  the  next  prophet.  “  but  fitzy,  the  fact  that  it  could  all  slip  away  is  what  makes  it  actually  fucking  mean  something,  my  brother  used  to  say,  ”  and  she  doesn’t  even  know  if  her  face  looks  sublime  or  stricken,  she  can’t  even  feel  her  face  anymore,  “  he  used  to  say  how  we  weren’t  really  like  real  people,  we’re  living  these  fake  lives,  we  are  —  people  don’t  live  like  this  —  and  we  can  go  our  whole  lives  chasing  this  feeling  but  it  doesn’t  actually  mean  anything  unless  you’re  willing  to  let  it  burn.  it’s  like  spinning  a  roulette  wheel  without  any  money  down,  it  doesn’t  matter  —  ”  and  she  stops,  because  she  can’t  talk  about  him  anymore,  even  if  the  party  only  exists  so  it  can  be  haunted  by  his  memory.  

she  doesn’t  even  pause  to  wonder  if  fitz  knows  who  she’s  talking  about  when  she  mentions  her  brother.  if  she  was  sober  she’d  probably  hope  that  he  didn’t.  (  but  doesn’t  everyone  she  meets  know  about  him  even  if  his  name  never  leaves  her  lips  ?  was  it  ever  something  she  had  a  choice  about  ?  like  some  dark  and  unavoidable,  spilled  ink  on  the  family  name.  the  news  crews  were  there  to  get  footage  of  his  funeral,  page  six  ran  the  grieving  sister  in  the  $1000  dress.  )  instead  she  lets  her  face  fall  to  his  shoulder,  forehead  pressing  against  his  warm  skin,  before  raising  her  head  again,  “  i’m  so  tired,  won’t  you  take  me  home  now  ?  ”  she  sounds  like  an  old  hollywood  starlet,  like  nothing  is  wrong  and  everything  is  fine  because  that’s  how  it  always  is,  and  she  smiles  like  it’s  true.

@talliebernal

when the dust of that night’s events settles, what’s left is fitz and tallie. and even though they stopped being fitzandtallie in freshman year and now exist only as fitz and tallie (or tallie and fitz, if you’re a feminist), fitz still thinks about tallie like a safe house, a harbor he can always dock his ship. not the way dove is, of course – tallie is a piece that fits in him quite well, dove is his other half – but there is something to be said about the fact that fitz chooses to go home with tallie instead of being alone. falling into these familiar set of sheets, kissing and touching and giggling all the while, fitz can pretend like nothing exists outside the walls of this bedroom.

the clock reads 3:04am when fitz sits with his back against tallie’s bedframe, passing a joint back and forth between them as a post-fuck reward. in what is perhaps a first for fitz, he doesn’t feel much like talking, but he’s also deeply uncomfortable sitting in this silence - and needless to say, there’s no fucking way he’s going to sleep after all that. “so,” he says, pulling the word apart in his mouth. “the ricotta tostinis at the banquet were mighty scrumptious, huh?”

never one to resist an indulgence, fitz does as he's told and reaches into the drawer, palming a handful of skittles and sprinkling a few of them into his mouth. "you know me, changaroo. i don't need sophisticated," he says in between chews. he almost leaves, too, but then chan gives him that looks and it's like - well, what's fitz supposed to do, not stay in this bed forever? the dangerous thing about the looks chan gives him is that they feel a little unlike any other look that fitz receives from his plethora of late-night lovers. because chan's look prompts a convulsing in his gut, something akin to his intestines tying themselves to each other, something like knowing that the boy genius with endless knowledge at his disposal still chose your body to be the one he studies.

"oh, up for another round, huh? have i ever demonstrated any problems with being up?" fitz says with eyebrows raised. he grabs chan's notebook once again, this time to toss it on the floor - and really, it blends right in with all the other books and papers lying astray. then, using the skittles still in his hand, fitz starts at chan's collarbone and places the pieces of candy in a careful line, heading downward to his eventual destination. "now, if you hold still, i'd very much like to taste the rainbow..."

[ end ]

to be clear, chan didn't intend to make a habit out of this. fitz caught him off-guard one time last spring, and so they just-so-happened to hook up. then fitz caught him off guard again — and again, and again, and a few dozen times more after that. the truth now, perhaps, is that chan is a red-blooded human being who enjoys easy sex as much as the next guy, and it doesn't hurt that fitz is attractive in a way that makes chan want to dissect him like a frog, just to see if his ventricles are as beautiful as the rest of him.

"eureka, you've done it. i'll be sure to call leonhard euler up from beyond the grave and tell him i'm very sorry, but fitzgerald anderson-corra is the new foremost mind in analytic number theory," chan drawls. he reaches for the notebook, puts it back to his rightful place on his lap. "i'm not hungry," chan says. he hasn't been hungry, truly hungry, in months, due entirely to the grade-a appetite suppressant that courses through his veins every time he does a line. to those unaware of his bad habits, however, he just comes off as a tortured genius who doesn't have the time or energy to eat properly. "there are skittles in the drawer if you're looking for a breakfast of champions." he nods to the nightstand. "if you want anything more sophisticated, you'll just have to leave. don't forget your shirt this time." he opens his notebook and starts looking through it again. "unless you're up for another round," he says nonchalantly, looking back up toward fitz.

@voteoakes

although skating started out as a vanity hobby, a way for fitz to entice the baddies with the whole he was a skater boy vibe, it quickly turned into one of fitz’s fool-proof stress managers. not academic stress, of course (fitz didn’t believe in all that), but the kind of stress that comes along with losing a brother or, in light of recent events, a professor with whom you shared a complicated relationship. he weaves across campus, skirting against bannisters and curbs when the opportunity strikes, his 5-grand headphones blasting tunes all the while. i like them girls with big butts and golds in they mouth / i come from the back road and a dirty house. admittedly, it was hard to relate to certain hip-hop lyrics as a billionaire’s baby.

at the sight of dominic sitting on a nearby block, fitz slows his swerves until he’s at a halt in front of the other man. “yo domma momma, what’s popping?” he asks. “you’re looking awfully contemplative, something gotcha down? besides, you know…” he trails off. “the obvious.” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out whatever snack is lingering in there, which happens to be a pack of sour gummy worms today. “can i offer you a gummy a la worm for your troubles?” before he gets a response, he dangles three over his mouth and drops them unceremoniously. “i nabbed them from chan the man’s kitchen,” he says between undignified chomps. he follows it with a chaser of a water bottle squirt straight down his throat. “have you ever seen him eat a protein source? or like, a fruit? he knows everything except the essentials of the food pyramid - somebody needs to get boy genius an acai bowl intervention, stat.”

at the mention of aileen's demand for cost, fitz doesn't pretend to be shy. the thing about having unlimited money at your disposal for the entirety of your life is that fitz hasn't exactly made friends with the word 'no', but he's made great friends with shelling out as much currency (whatever that may mean) as his patron demands of him. "oh don't you worry, queen aileen. i'm willing to pay top dollar," fitz says, his voice suggestive - he doesn't even totally mean anything but it, suggestive just happens to be one of his default modes.

"oh come on now, you don't mean all that," he says to aileen, throwing an arm around her shoulders. he does this with the knowledge that she could very well bite the limb off if the right opportunity strikes. "first off, nobody on this planet, let alone this campus, would believe that my dick is mid. you've got way too many testimonies going against your favor there. secondly..." he leans in closer, dims his voice to only a whisper. "are you sure the mid dick you're talking about isn't dom's? listen, bro code requires that i pledge my allegiance to that dick, but just between you and me, that eye of yours likes to wander." he leans out, shit-eating grin spread from one cheek to the other. "have anything you want to talk about, aileenoween? one horny chick to another?"

she had been debating whether or not to come to the party, considering she wasn't in a particular mood to entertain anyone in her friend circle. tonight, all aileen wanted to do was to drink, smoke and potentially even end the night with powder up her nose. the latina didn't have a vice for partying like some people she knew, but she wasn't exactly the good girl that she had purported herself out to be.

she was about to get herself a drink until she saw fitz making his way over to her, which quickly led to her turning her face away from him. much to her own chagrin, it had been too late to feign as if she hadn't seen him. he had already called her attention in front of everyone, so there went her plausible deniability about not seeing him. "you need a favor from me? that's going to cost you," she retorted as she poured herself a drink before giving the woman he'd been referring to a once over. she was definitely out of fitz's league and then some. then again, she wouldn't have been surprised if he had managed to seduce her anyway. it was fitz, after all. "what if i do the opposite and tell her the truth? that your dick is mid. think she'd believe you took my non-dominic virginity?" she taunted in a mocking tone with a smug smile.

"oh come on now, emilia bedilia, not everyone on this campus knows you're choosing chicks over dicks. you could totally pass as one of my late-night lovahs, just don't say anything about u-hauls or girl in red," he says with conviction. unlike the other members of praeditus, who either love to hate fitz or hate to love him, emilia has somehow always been comfortable in that sweet balancing act between the two. fitz and her are friendly, certainly not at the besties level that he perceives emilia and dove to be, and that's just fine with him. he and dove are allowed to have some differing interests, after all.

fitz grins at emilia's threats, knowing they're hollow. "i'd be just fine with that, as long as i get an invitation to watch," he tells emilia with a cheeky wiggle of his eyebrows. "when was the last time you got laid, miss 'what if i talked her up'? i don't exactly see you with honeys hanging off your arm in the hallways. don't tell me you woo them once and then they never want to walk emilia street again?"

while she generally tried to avoid situations in which she'd get plastered, parties were inexplicably part of the university experience. still, there was a balance to it: go too hard and she'd spill her guts, but abstain and she'd stick out like a sore thumb. damned if you do, damned if you don't, so emilia does - though she is intentional about exercising caution. the drink in her hand is the only one she'll have tonight, a cup of cheap champagne that she sips slowly, savoring it so that it will last her as long as possible.

fitz's presence here doesn't come as a surprise to her, not at all - of course he would be here. what does surprise her, though, is how quick he is to buddy up to her here, when dove wasn't around to be the bridge between them. but, of course, all is revealed in time - he simply had some ulterior motives. em's gaze follows the direction in which he's pointing and she takes in the sight. "hm." is all she says, at first, taking a slow sip of her drink and letting the pause marinate. and then, finally, "i don't think i'm exactly the poster child for getting 'god-like dick,' fitz." she tilts her head towards him, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "and what if i went over there, talked her up, and she comes home with me instead of you? what then?" she would never risk having a one-night stand again, but then, fitz doesn't need to know that.

@doveacorra

the news breaks early the next morning that marcel dupont is dead – but, of course, this isn’t the anderson-corra siblings’ first rendezvous with loss. when phoenix died, it took everything in fitz not to fall apart. he spent that whole summer locked behind closed doors, trying to keep his mind from ripping at the seams in the confines of his bedroom, with only the maid kept as company to grab his plates and bring him new meals. this time, fitz is a seasoned professional in dealing with death, and he’s determined not to become the same hollow husk of a person as he once did before. dove needs him, and as such, he’s going to be the kind of solid soil that his sister can nestle her shaky roots into. 

“love dove,” fitz calls from outside dove’s bedroom. as soon as he stepped foot in the door that morning, he asked the private chef to put together dove’s favorite meal, and now he stands with a dish tray, knocking on dove’s door. he knows that she needed to process last night, but he’s hoping that she’s ready to talk now, or at least listen to a joke or two of his. “it’s me. can we chit, perhaps chat, maybe even chit-chat?”

fitz is a party boy, one that thrives in the grandiose of a party's midst, of the warm bodies pressing against his and the liquor making fiery streaks against his throat's most tender nerves. fitz the party boy loves to dance and twirl to the beat of the song because he is defiant and whimsical and electric (and not at all because he is disorderly and confused and sad). fitz the party boy thinks that maybe his heart hurts, except he lost it in the punch bowl two hours ago. fitz the party boy can't be sad when he's at a party because nobody feels sad at a party, silly party boy.

now, walking home and firmly devoid of the party as his shield, this is fitz's least favorite part of the night. the after is too quiet, too cold, too open to all the ways the night could end. the after reminds fitz a little too much of the drives home he used to make with phoenix at the steering wheel, fitz sticking his head out the window. back then, you couldn't have told fitz that they weren't invincible.

it's better to do the walk home with another person, harder to get lost in fitz's thoughts of the past. except, this is definitely not what fitz wants to be hearing right now. do you ever think about how easily we could lose everything? fitz doesn't have to think about it, he already has — sixteen years old, staring at a lifeless body from the endless height of a rooftop. "i'm not scared of anything," fitz says instead of the truth. he balances on the sidewalk curb as he walks, one foot in front of the other in a careful line. "i'm hot as fuck, i'm funny as fuck, i'm rich as fuck. what could possibly take that away from me? what could someone possibly catch me doing that i wouldn't embrace with open arms? i'm shameless and reckless and everyone's wet dream. we're not all trying to be politicians now are we, miss genfk?" he loses his balance and tumbles into gen, nearly knocking them both over. he doesn't apologize, just laughs it off like he does everything else.

GENEVIEVE'S  HEELS  RESTED  in the crook of  her  finger  as  they  wove  their  way  through  the  old  stone  streets,  dim  street  lights  guiding  the  way  and  casting  a  dull  yellow  gleam  on  the  buildings  around  them.  it  wasn’t  a  long  walk  from  clementine  to  the  expensive  part  of  town  they  both  lived  in  (  as  if  nearly  all  of  the  town  wasn’t  the  expensive  part  )  but  the  melange  of  substances  thrumming  through  gen’s  bloodstream  made  it  feel  as  though  they  were  suspended  in  time,  floating  through  the  quiet,  copper  lit  streets  of  the  island.  heels  off,  she  walked  tucked  underneath  the  slightly  more  sober  (  a  margin  only  existent  due  to  his  drugs  of  choice  or  lack  thereof  )  fitz’s  arm,  the  two  chatting  in  a  moment  of  their  scattered,  substance  fueled  camaraderie.  “  do  you  ever  think,  ”  gen  began,  a  rare  and  honest  lilt,  fueled  by  the  drugs  in  her  system  and  the  quietness  of  the  street,  “  about  how  easily  we  could  lose  everything,  ”  pluralis  majestatis,  gen’s  thoughts  only  truly  on  herself.  “  one  photo,  in  the  wrong  dress  or  doing  the  wrong  thing.  one  bad  moment,  looking  like  an  idiot.  getting  tied  up  in  the  wrong  job,  or  the  wrong  marriage,  or  a  fucking  missing  persons  case.  the  way  your  reputation  could  just  unravel  at  any  moment,  it’s  like  standing  on  the  edge  of  a  cliff,  ”  she  bit  her  lip,  eyes  unblinking,  straight  ahead,  “  i  think  maybe  i  fucking  love  it,  it  makes  me  feel  like  an  actual  real  person.  alive.  ”

( @ofasphodel )

"how can you call it a strike out when i barely got the chance to bat?" fitz asks with a dramatic sigh. nevertheless, he takes out the very familiar ten dollar bill from his back pocket (he had folded it into a paper crane earlier, but now it looks more like a flattened pigeon) and places it in lili's hand.

at lili's diagnosis of her condition, fitz pauses to consider. "right, right, i do see where you're coming from there, i'm now also questioning if you're the right billboard to sell all of this," he gestures up and down to his body, the sacred product. "so maybe such is life and i have to give up on a french kiss for tonight." he slumps against the wall, contemplating defeat as he takes another sip from his drink. "you're not in the mood to fuck tonight, are you?"

lili raised an eyebrow at her friend’s energetic greeting. ❝           strike out already ? ❞ she glanced to her wrist, pretending to consult a watch that wasn’t there. ❝ i think this is a new record, fitzy. you probably owe me ten dollars. ❞ the same crumbled-up bill they’ve been passing back and forth from bet to bet, no doubt. of course, he mentioned the favour, and lili already knew where he was going.

the red solo cup raised to her lips as he rambled off the plan he expected of her. as if she could possibly drown herself in the jack and coke she held in her hand. ❝ fitz, babe, ❞ she started, shoving the now empty cup against his chest. ❝ i’ve had your dick before. ❞ quickly replaced by the one that had been in fitz’s hand as he approached. ❝ and i’m basically a walking advertisement of someone at their darkest hour. in fact, ❞” she paused, pretending to think. ❝ i think your dick caused it, actually. i was a ray of fucking sunshine before you. ❞ the smirk on lili’s lips hidden by the rim of fitz’s cup as she helped herself to a sip.