a secret i shouldn't have kept.

chapter. 3

🧡
part one
~• drunk at the bar •~

Well, this Scaramouche mother fucker is surprisingly pretty chill. I managed to convince him to stay after the concert with me. There's always some people who stay behind to get drunk at the bar after concerts, so workers have to stay after all the time. We're sitting at the bar right now, and Scaramouche seems. a teensy bit uncomfortable, but I'm trying my best to make sure that he's not. He's only told me a little bit about himself.

    "Why did you have me stay here, exactly?"

    "Because I want to get to know you. You're pretty. Plus, I saw you at the cat café last night."

    "Because I'm fucking pretty? Archons, you already sound like an asshole." Scaramouche sits up straight and slides off of his stool. I reach one of my hands onto his shoulder, and he immediately turns and smacks my hand away. Despite that, he steps towards me again, only to grab the collar of my suit. "Who do you think you are? Fucking pervert."
    Our faces are in such close proximity, and I truly don't believe that he notices. I grin and brush a strand of his hair behind his ear.

    "Maybe I am a pervert. Relax, honey, just let me get you a drink, hm?"

    "Almighty Shogun, fine. Try anything and I'll fucking murder you."

    "Mhm. You seem like the type who lives off of schadenfruede."

    "Schade what now?"

    "Oh, forget it. Sit the fuck down."

    Surprisingly, he does as I tell him to. I smile this time. He doesn't bother to look at me, though, rather at the wall, people next to us, or the table. The two shots of vodka I ordered us end up in my hands, and I slide ove over to him. He gives it a very strong look, then glares at me.
    "What is this?"

    "Vodka, милый мальчик."
    He doesn't even question my Russian comment, which leads me to assume that he doesn't know it because I know for sure that he would likely peel the flesh off of my face if he did know what I said. Scaramocuhe narrows his eyes at me, grabs the shot, and downs it. I decide to to the same. Firewater would be more effective in getting me black-out drunk, but I'm not sure if I should. I look at him again, and it turns out that he's asking for a glass.

    "What's on your mind?" I say to him, after he finished speaking to the bartender.

    "...A lot, actually."

    I move my seat closer to his, rest my elbow on the counter and look at him with my chin in my palm. The room is dimly lit, but enough to roughly see color, so my hair sticks out like a bright red flower in snow. Expect it's dark. Whatever, though. "You wanna talk about it, Scara?"

    "Don't call me that, you fucking man whore."

    Sheesh, he doesn't wanna open up. Sure, he's pretty and I would love to get in his pants, but not only get in his pants. I need friends. And he seems cool. Besides the fact that he's a total fuckin asshole. He takes his jacket off and rolls his eyes, and I even admire that. For some reason I can identify this energy that radiates off of him, he seems like he's the man whore here, but he's not necessarily wrong about me. I'd give anything to fuck right now- something, someone, I don't fuckin care. I would fuck anything.