Some People, I Suppose

-in the jungle dances-

a/n: dedicated to alex; back-to-school exchange fic. prompts: advanced placement classes, classic muscle cars, knit sweaters, and an "illusion of darkness."

i literally came home from school friday and re-wrote the entire thing (new plot and everything— straight up genius, yo) because the previous version was the embodiment of failure and shit.

okay, so, i just finished it and it's terrible, and will be edited tomorrow morning when i'm completely awake. i apologize in advance for any grammar mistakes.

disclaimed. pairing: aw shucks, it's massington, isn't it? you bet it is.

It starts with jeans.

They're a touch shapeless now, and tatty white fibers actually proliferate at the knees like pliable candy, but they're notably comfortable and don't wring my waist so whatever.

I decide to wear them to Alicia's birthday party on Friday, in spite of being glaringly aware that she'll be weaving profanities into her sentences all night (I wouldn't put it past her to do a bang up job of driving me off her balcony either)— she hates these jeans.

When I show up at her door, her signatory pout convulses radically before plunging into a rutted grimace. "Massie…" she sighs in lofty tones, her pretty eyelashes blinking away the staggering displeasure. "It's a costume party."

I look her over with what is with any luck an indifferent simper and cut a blithe hand through the air. "Oops."

Alicia groans heavily and her peridot-toned fingernails fist around my hair as she drags me inside. "We'll tell everyone you're dressed as a poor farm-girl, about as à la mode as a giraffe."

Sardonically, I roll my eyes. "Funny, 'Leesh," I snap with vehemence as I trail behind her orange stockings.

It's really not, that bitch.

[-]

Being socially-inept and as graceless as a knit sweater, parties aren't by and large my idea of pleasurable entertainment.

Habitually, I lurk around a group of human equivalents to hyenas and hide in the mass of pitched laughter and stealthy gossip.

Before long, the stench of the room (sundry colognes, spun eau de toilette, and flimsy finger-foods) becomes too overpowering to stomach, and I tear away to the door, pushing past perspiring dancing and tasteless costumes.

The fresh air is a wonderful thing to draw in, and I'm about to sit and peel off my clammy socks when someone screeches.

It's unassuming intuition to jump up and run to the noise; I'm tripping and lurching about with windswept hair and an agape expression but ultimately, I find the source of the sound behind an imported Carambola tree.

I see Cam Fisher drunk at seventeen and ostensibly incensed, fists flying and swears flaking from his tongue. One hand swipes across the jaw of a head of chocolate hair (Landon Crane, perchance?), and the scream handles my ears again.

My fingers scrabble in my pockets for my phone, judging it essential to inform Alicia that one of her guests will be presumably be unconscious in roughly t-minus sixty seconds.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" My fingers stop their gritty seeking and I look up.

The initial scene that rolls before me would have been engaging on television, but at this juncture I'm petrified.

Derrick Harrington has Cam compressed against the tree and is spitting into both of his ears ("Calm down, Cam." "Fucking cool your ass, Cam." "Calmdowncalmdowncalmdown") and Cam struggles until he's scarlet-faced and his legs give out.

The phone slips through my fingers.

Derrick spots me then, a wilted Cam in his arms, and inclines an eyebrow. "I could use some help— his brainless ass isn't going to walk itself back home, am I right?"

"You're right," I whisper.

Derrick Harrington is a pretty boy, with intriguing eyes soft like caramel and unshorn fair hair. He's smart too, always skidding by with straight marks in assorted advanced placement classes. He likes soccer. He likes girls. He doesn't know my name.

"Take his arm," he instructs, all business and no blasphemes now. My teeth find my bottom lip and I'm so befuddled I could draw blood.

"Where are you taking him?" Something in my voice breaks and my fingers fly to my throat in degradation.

"I got my license retracted last month. Can you drive? Cammie needs to get home." Derrick appraises me hopefully with a sweet, sweet smile of red (his lips) and white (his teeth) eddies.

I want to leave— I should leave; Cam and Derrick aren't good boys, but malicious ones who mutter nasty things to girls about the bulk of their breasts and the amount of adipose tissue under their skin. "Sorry, but I'm not very comfortable—"

"Aw, come on, cowgirl." He adds the last bit after assessing the jeans and directing a winning grin in my direction.

"Dreaming big, huh? I'm actually a poor farm-girl," is my mocking counter. Derrick factually guffaws, and I look away. "What are you supposed to be, anyway?" A cynical frame has lipped the tone of my words.

He's in all black, for the most part— he carries an eerie illusion of darkness about him, like Hugo Strange from the Detective Comics (nevertheless, still lacking the grotesque glasses).

"Something evil, I dunno. Are you going to help me or not?"

His smile wins me over— I help him.

[-]

Cam stirs five minutes into the ride, and the fault-finding follows shortly after. He gripes about being tired, about his headache, about Derrick, and about me.

"Fucking drive like you mean it," he says, and then, when I make a sour face, he continues, "You look constipated."

"Constipated people don't give a shit," I'm nippy to retort. Neither of them get it; typical.

[-]

It's pouring rain Derrick and I have to haul Cam inside because he's on the point of passing out again.

My jeans— my wonderful jeans— are sodden and drenched and water seeps through the rugged cotton twill textile and drips down my legs.

Once Cam's bandaged in his sheets, Derrick rummages through a drawer at the far wall while I inadvertently stare at his hair.

"Here." He tosses me a rugged pair of sweatpants. They aren't my jeans, but they're worn and soft and fleece.

"He won't mind?" I whisper, nodding towards the dozing heterochromic.

Derrick shakes his head. "He'll be all right." Then, his hand shoots out and he smiles. "Thanks for the ride. I'm Derrick."

Of course. I shake.

"I'm Massie."

[-]

'Hi, it's Derrick. I have your pants. Call me when you get this. Bye."

(beep)

It's a few days later and I should hardly be in high spirits after that message— my dream man drives cerulean muscle cars and has at least some degree of class. I can't like Derrick.

[-]

My doorbell rings on a Saturday.

I'm wearing my Batman nightdress and my eyelids are still thick and heavy from sleep. I'm clear beyond pissy and my hair could outdo the Eiffel Tower in density and height. A nightmare, I could be.

When I open the door, Derrick's shuffling his feet on the mat and blushing retiringly. Funnily enough, I care.

Cringing in mortification, I sigh. "Good morning," I manage to voice numbly. "I'm not interested in buying, thanks," is what follows in a thwarting attempt at wit.

"Ha ha," he drawls dryly. Derrick produces a cardboard box from behind his back and carefully hands it over. "The other pair kicked the bucket after the rain occasion, so I got these; they're the same size."

And it ends with jeans.

a/n: *dies*

yeah, sorry alex.

but reviews are really appreciated.