Sofia Petrova | Alexander Littlewood

Throughout all of the insanity, Sofi did nothing. His words were bullets that ripped through her, leaving her emptier than she had been before–before she’d come here, before he’d returned, before everything she’d endured prior to this season of her life, which in all honesty felt like one never-ending season of traumatic experiences that hadn’t stopped since she was young. And all she did was sit there and take it, letting his displaced anger and grief stick to her like a label. Of course it was true, if anyone was saying it and it was remotely negative about her. She’d grown to adopt every single one of the cruel things said about her, and to never see one bad flaw in others. It was a coping mechanism of some kind, of what she didn’t know.

Tears streamed down her face silently, her face strong, neutral, just like Rena’s. The only difference was that Rena had lived through more than Sofi, and she had a callousness that gifted her the capability to control her emotions more. To Sofi, she seemed rock solid, invincible, able to endure anything without showing the slightest sign of weakness. She knew she’d been living in the older woman’s shadow for years, and that she could never be her. Even if she wanted to be, even if she wanted to try. Maybe Alex would love her if she was a dead ringer for the one he truly loved, if she was a poorly-manufactured replacement. With genuine resignation, she realized she could never be Rena, or anyone other than the pitiful, tortured soul she had tried and failed to claim. She was hers, despite any genuine desire to claim any identity.

“Maybe you’re right,” she whispered softly. “It’s my fault, I ruined everything, and I’m sorry. But don’t let yourself believe that I look at you like you’re a monster, because I don’t. Don’t mistake my concern for your wellbeing for disgust, just because Rena doesn’t have any kind of reaction to it at all. She’s not well, Alex. She needs a lot of time to heal from everything that’s happened to her. We all do. But what you think I’m doing to you, all that idealizing and expecting you to be someone you couldn’t live up to being, I think that’s what you’re doing to her. She hasn’t been the person you remember her as in a long time, not since the beginning, when she was in love with the idea of love and couldn’t coexist with it without worshiping it. Fuck, Alex, don’t you realize that I’ve been the one here picking up the pieces the whole time? I’ve saved your life more than once. At the cube, at the church, probably tonight,” her rambling dropped to a concerned whisper. “You don’t have to love me, but for the love of God, stop loving people who help you confirm the things you believe about yourself. You do a good enough job of that on your own.”

She was already eye to eye with him, and his face had paled significantly, flushed and furrowed. He was thinking, hard, about what she’d said, or maybe it was just pain. Maybe he’d only hung on to one or two of the statements she’d said, and she hoped that if that was true, one of them had been the last one. He didn’t have to believe her about Rena, it was okay if it looked like she’d said that for personal gain. He would figure it out sooner or later. She probably wouldn’t be in his life then, she knew he only knew how to leave and to cause himself more harm. To separate himself from society and then blame society for treating him like a villain.

She studied him for a second, then pressed a soft, gentle kiss to his lips. It lingered a few seconds before she pulled away, bracing herself for whatever explosive behavior he decided to exhibit. He’d break down crying, for all she knew. “For the record,” she said gently, “I look at you like you put the stars in the sky. And I’m not going to let you push me away because you’re hurting.”

Rhett Grahams | 23 | Western | Heather

Rhett winked straight back, looking her dead in the eye. "Then it's a date. See you 'round, Heather." As her figure disappeared from view, he let out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding. (The reason he hadn’t realised was that he'd held it for less than a second, meaning that it was less a halt in breathing and rather a pause.) The woman had a strange quality about her - it fascinated him that she hadn’t immediately dropped all her walls for him. He wasn't arrogant, nor offended; it was just that without trying, everyone always seemed to like him. He constantly struggled with being understood, though. Maybe it was something to do with the flat plains of Ohio, but despite being easily the most popular person everywhere he went, no one truly knew him for who he was. No one could ever understand the depths of his soul. (They were very deep.)

He shook his head, his coarsely-cropped blond waves barely moving. He still needed to set a reminder to find and then go to a barber nearby. In that last moment of absolute angst, it had seemed like a fine idea to cut his own hair, but in the light of day, it was blindingly clear that he was not cut out to be a hairdresser. For now, though, his cowboy hat could cover the mess of his impulsive decisions.

Catching Constant’s reins - although it wasn’t necessary, given that their instant bond meant that she followed him wherever he went - Rhett led her away from the round pen in the direction of the barn. (Rather, the barn of many that she was stalled in. He was still getting used to how gigantic the property was; even in Ohio, with all that spare space hanging around, the stables had never been this big.) The mare needed a good groom, a hoof check, and extra desensitisation to prepare for their upcoming show.

The yard was bustling by the time he returned, giving him the opportunity to greet all the friends, acquaintances, strangers, and everything in between, that he’d missed while tacking up. Half of those greetings ended up in various languages that he could barely name, meaning that he caught some very confused faces until he offered the English translation. After swiftly sorting out Constant and turning her out in the field, he took the chance to find his countless assigned horses and bond with as many as possible before the planned trail ride. Although there were other Western riders at the centre, he must’ve been the most experienced by far; or, at least, the only one both Kholo and assorted owners trusted with their horses. He wasn’t about to complain; the more hours spent in the saddle, the better. It gave him extra time to think of absolutely nothing and absolutely random things - some examples that came to mind were capybaras, Italy, the confusing way that Ohio seemed to be so large while taking up no space at all, and not least of all his incredibly grief-stricken and traumatic past. All in a day’s work.

Rhett was about to dust off his Versace chequered shirt and leave the last of his project ponies to fetch tack, when he heard a distinct sob coming from a nearby stall. The buzz had died down by now, meaning that it was impossible to miss. Poking his head around the door, he set eyes on Heather curled up against the wall, crying softly in her knees.

Without even thinking - as usual - he leapt parkour-style over the door and crouched beside her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders. “Hey, hey, shh,” he soothed. “What’s wrong?”

Conrad/Julian/Cam | Sophie

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Conrad scoffed at the piece of his paper in his hand. Somehow, in between the delirium the farm had been in the last four weeks, Kholo had been ill-guided into picking Cam as the replacement chaperone. Of all the riders on the property, his younger brother was hardly the most qualified in both the showjumping circuit and the involvement of minors who he wasn’t allowed to flirt with. He’d almost argue the opposite; that Cam was the least experienced, the least knowledgeable, the least patient of the bunch of relatively incompetent he had the misfortune of teaching. The most shocking part, though, was that according to the message that had accompanied the sheet, Sophie had even recommended him for the position.

Not that the older Aussie wasn’t grateful that he was let off the hook. Though he would have loved to have seen some of his more promising young prospects compete - and, now, watch the catastrophes that would inevitably follow Cam around - this at least meant that he could focus on his own horses, and the students that were staying behind from the circuit. Dealing with people in general was never his forte, and when those people lacked even less common sense and had no sense of rationale? No, he was satisfied that he wasn’t elected to be on the trip as someone with responsibility. But of all the options, of all the possibilities that Kholo could have chosen, he was still baffled as to how she’d landed up at the conclusion that Cameron Fairfield was the one to trust with a gaggle of young teens and female chaperones of a similar age.

“Well, you can’t say I’m the wrong choice,” the flirt in question replied, eyes half-closed as he reclined against Conrad’s door. If he didn’t know his brother better, Conrad would’ve guessed he’d only just showered. It was eternally infuriating that Cam somehow managed to keep his appearance up despite anything that was thrown his way. “Watch out, love.”

Conrad didn’t even acknowledge that he’d registered those remarks. Without glancing up from the fresh set of forms he’d been assigned to fill out - as head of the showjumping faculty, apparently anything to do with said riders was his responsibility - he pointed to the doorway. “Out.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I was on my way.” Cam ambled out with his usual strange mixture of carelessness and purpose. “Enjoy.”

Conrad let out an irritated sigh the moment his brother was out of sight and earshot. To no one in particular, as he collected the scraps on his desk into one neat pile, he muttered, “I do not get paid enough for this.”

——

Julian walked side by side with Sophie, discussing travel plans with as much energy as he could muster after the past weeks’ chaos. Against both his wishes and his better judgement, he’d been roped into attending half of the near-raves and organising the remainder. He maintained the opinion that it was entirely Cam’s fault, and had nothing to do with the sense of impending doom that he was trying to avoid. Somehow, it was easier to handle the knowledge that he was bound to fail someone in some sense of the word while drunk, high, or both.

The only unfortunate consequence was that now, about to board a twelve-hour flight full with kids he was supposed to be helping with, his head felt like it was about to explode from a first-class hangover. All he could hope was that everyone else would be too stressed to notice, or that his plastered smile would hide anything else that threatened to show.

A familiar blond figure was lounging against the wall, chatting up to one of the newer riders who clearly wasn’t yet aware of Cam’s notorious reputation as a tease. At this point, from Julian’s view, Cam was sheerly doing it for the fun of it; he had no intentions of hoodwinking the other person, given that just about anyone who interacted with him knew that he meant nothing of it.

Still, the brunette seemed to be falling for his sugar-sweet lines he’d used a dozen times before. Before the situation could escalate too much, Julian slipped between them. “Cam, old fella,” he greeted, clasping the other man’s hand in a fashion he still wasn't used to but seemed to be the only way that Cam ever said hello. Turning away from his friend, he faced the girl - Leah, if his memory was correct. With the recent influx of riders, he couldn’t keep up. “So I have no idea what this flirt has been telling you-” he gestured towards Cam, who was standing there with a self-assured grin “-but if it makes you feel any better, he usually only goes for blondes. Nonetheless, he hasn’t meant a thing he’s said, I can tell you that much. I’d suggest keeping clear unless you think you can handle him.”

Cam simply grinned, and pulled Julian into something that made him think of the alpha male greetings half the men he knew insisted on doing. Being Cam, however, it was hardly a perfect replica. With a mumbled greeting and another fist-bump-inspired move, the Aussie quickly turned his attention to the person who was clearly of far more importance than his friend: Sophie. “Yeah, just about most of them,” Cam replied easily.

Julian zoned out for the rest of their conversation - if one could call it that, what with Cam’s aggressive flirting and Sophie’s shy charisma - until the necessary riders had assembled. He followed his elected pair of people for the trip with tired devotion, only separating for a few minutes at the airport to swallow the anti-anxiety tablet that made trips like this bearable. It also happened to be enough, combined with his sleep deprivation and overall exhaustion, to just about knock him out for a large portion of the flight.

Myra / Sophie | Cam, Julian

The plane touched down at about three the following afternoon, after a full night of wrangling kids in the spaceless, timeless void of airport time. They were on the beautiful island of Santorini, in the middle of which the large festival was occurring. The sky was bright blue with clouds floating in the warm Mediterranean breeze. The weather was perfect, the kids had, so far, been pretty perfect, and despite understandable exhaustion, Sophie felt perfect. So many opportunities could be in front of her, over these next two weeks, she could feel it in her bones. Maybe she would have some kind of whirlwind romance with a famous show jumper, or someone would accidentally discover some of her writings and offer her a job working on this island forever as a novelist. It might be worth it, she considered, with the scenery around her. Still, she loved her job at White Oaks, and she wasn’t convinced anything could take it from her. Anything except maybe this beautiful island.

The trip was long, but remarkably less chaotic than Sophie had anticipated. The July weather had been clear from Virginia all the way to Greece, making the flights easy. They’d been able to wrangle the kids and manage meals and plane tickets and luggage and all of the insanity of the airport with surprising tact, as if they’d all done it before. Sophie, having some experience with adolescents from her pre-Virginia days as a nanny, even considered the kids to be somewhat saintly, all things given. The one who needed the most looking after was Cam, who she and Julian quickly realized was prone to wandering. Somehow, he always made it back before the flight, but he was little help when it came to the kids. This left Sophie uneasy about what would occur when Julian left to ride for Kholo’s client, and she was left to co-parent with Cam. With her short attention span, she wasn’t able to process it for long, however.

The day ahead of them was simple, but having twelve young people to chaperone made it all the more complicated. All they had to do was check into the hotel, and then they were available to unpack, eat dinner in the ballroom, and explore the town. Julian was leaving in the evening for a formal event hosted by his client for all the riders who were in for the festival, but it started around eight and, generally, Sophie had no plans to be out later than that. She had the bedtime of a grandmother, and no intention of being up past eight or nine. Surely the kids would be fine having a curfew of around that time, what kind of trouble could they get into in the hotel if the chaperones set strict rules about staying in their rooms past that time?

…

“Myra, are you okay? That looks bad,” one of the housekeepers looked up from where she was standing in the kitchen to monitor the young woman’s movement. Blood was gushing out of a gaping wound on her forearm, which she was holding over the sink. “Should I call an ambulance?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” she replied coldly, wincing. She put a washcloth over it, then wrapped it with gauze, then an ace bandage. It bled through in less than a minute. “Is Jensen here?”

“I believe he’s out on the tennis courts practicing,” came the concerned reply. Yet, Myra was out of the house, still clutching bloody fabric to her forearm before the woman could say anything more.

Myra found her step-brother exactly where Maria had said he’d be, practicing tennis alone on the courts. She wasn’t exactly sure how he could practice alone, but here he was, and assumably, had been for hours. Like all of the heirs of the Eliopoulos dynasty, Jensen was not one bit excited about the gala tonight, and especially not the theme. Masquerade wasn’t even really a theme, at least, according to him, and even if it was, it was overly cliche and unexciting. Even more so than past years and past competition galas they’d hosted. When the european dressage championship was hosted on the island months prior, the theme had been something just as tacky–beach themed or something stupid. Something that was hardly a theme, and seemed to have been formed on Cyrus’ mistress’ last fraction of a brain cell. It didn’t suit anyone, and it wasn’t going to be any different than any other event the family had hosted on their expansive estate.

“Jensen, I need you to take me to the mainland,” she called from across the yard, clutching her arm. He almost rolled his eyes at her thick accent when she spoke English, but it was somehow better than her father’s. At least someone had learned something from all Cyrus’ failed marriages, because he sure hadn’t.

“I don’t feel like driving the boat right now, can it wait?”

“I’m bleeding pretty bad, I need Christos to stitch it up in time for the party.” What was understood between the pair of them was that if even the slightest thing went wrong with any of the heirs, everyone would face their father’s vicious wrath. Myra would shoulder anything to keep Cyrus away from the more vulnerable members of the family, and she knew, deep down, Jensen would too.

“Myra, even if I drive as fast as I can towards Santorini, we wouldn’t make it back in time-”

“Then you’re going to help me stitch it up with a needle and thread. I’ll go to Santorini tomorrow to get it taken out.”

He winced, thinking about the kind of pain it would cause her, then agreed, sighing. “I’ll get Maria to get me what you need.”

—

Three hours later, everyone was at the party, for better or for worse. It was held on the Eliopoulos’ private island, just off of Santorini. The estate was massive, filled with anything you could think of, and screamed of their massive amounts of wealth. The mansion was filled to the brim with festive decorations, and easily hosted over a thousand guests between its beaches, the large, sprawling green yard, the gardens, the courts, and the mansion itself. Everything was primarily housed outside on the lawn, which had been set up with stringed lights, tables, and chairs. People started arriving at a quarter to nine, fashionably late, as expected.

At nine, Myra, Jensen, and their younger siblings stood at the top of the mansion steps, waiting for Cyrus so they could make the grandiose entrance expected of them. Myra had used makeup to conceal the bruising that was beginning to result from the large flesh wound in her arm, but had been largely unable to prevent the fact that it needed to be wrapped in a bandage. She knew it would be a topic of conversation, but nothing she could do would prevent it from occurring. Unless Cyrus wanted her to bleed out on a table, that’d make for a nice gala.

“Where’s dad?” Myra slipped her arm gingerly into Jensen’s, saying it softly so no one else heard.

“Making a stellar impression on one of the maids,” Jensen replied sourly, mocking his father’s words. He straightened his tie with his free hand, glancing around before adding, “if he doesn’t show up soon, we’re all fucked.”

Rhett Grahams | 23 | Western | Heather, etc

“I mean, you’re dripping on my shirt.” Rhett wasn’t totally sure if this was a situation where he had to be tactful, but decided to wing it nonetheless. “You’re not exactly feelin’ the finest of fiddles, if you get what I’m saying.” He sincerely hoped she did - it had been so long since someone had understood him, truly understood the depths of his soul that he knew he could never reveal. He’d been teased all through high school for using his ma’s figures of speech, though he’d still managed to come out on top and in general be a popular person. (His school hadn’t given out valedictorian trophies, so he decided to make one himself. It stood in the prized position on his bedside shelf, right next to his string of Best Western Rider (Ever) prizes.)

His accent was ebbing and flowing - his polyglot background meant that his language varied depending on his mood. But since he was certain Heather wouldn’t understand Norwegian, he had to keep it to some type of English. Situations like these usually brought out the Italian in him, though he wasn’t even sure what dialect he was thinking in at that very moment.

“Damn, bro. That’s rough.” As usual, his astounding support skills had spurred another murmur of crying from Heather. He patted her back not unlike the way he’d reward a horse, in a manner he thought was comforting. It was the burden of the goodhearted: he couldn’t go anywhere without finding someone to make cry and then comfort. Life was far too short for everyone not to fall madly and immediately in love with him.

“Tell me ‘bout ‘em,” he eventually asked, once her tears had paused pong enough to guess that she might be able to get a proper answer out. He was nothing but a gentleman; he’d never ask a woman a question while she was unable to reply. (He’d learnt the hard way that for some arbitrary reason, asking a girl to slow-dance was considered rude when she was making out with her boyfriend. He still couldn’t figure out why, and he even had the beer-stained shirt to prove it.) “The horses, I mean. Prince, right?” He leaned closer to her, tucking a strand of russet-brown hair behind her ear. His soulful eyes met hers, and for a second, it almost felt like the familiar flatlands of Ohio. It almost felt like home.

Rhett stayed with Heather for a while longer, until he deemed her suitably cheered up and ready to go. They ended up postponing the trail ride until the next day - a sudden downpour of rain, not unlike her tears, had interrupted their plans. (As well as the fact that Rhett had spent two hours talking to her, eating into the time he’d allocated for “deep contemplation” and “eating a corndog by the lake with the bros”. These could very easily be combined to make up for lost time.) On the bright side, he’d managed to get Heather’s phone number.

[bestie rhett] has sent an image.

[bestie rhett] corndogs hit different after many vai a farti fottere

[bestie rhett] *philosophical breakthroughs. the life of a polyglot amiright

Julian Sears | Myra

Three connecting flights later, their plane touched down on Greek soil. Somehow, they’d managed to keep all dozen charges in a relatively living state through no fault of their own; in his opinion, the two boys who Cam had made cry with an ill-timed joke about their father were considered an outlier. (Julian later found out via Sophie, who inevitably fell into the therapist role, that he had passed three months prior. Needless to say, Cam had yet to learn the tact necessary to safely interact with just about anyone.) The Aussie was quickly turning out to be just as much as a dependent as any of the other children; he didn’t want to think about what would happen once he was gone. Not only would Sophie be single-handedly responsible for the twelve kids, she’d have to take care of a significantly wilder delinquent: Cameron.

There was barely any time to shower, think about unpacking - he didn’t get any further than opening his suitcase and contemplating his life choices for a solid ten minutes - and rehearse what was necessary before the event he was supposed to attend. He wasn’t even sure what it was - Kholo had forwarded one email, but either the invite was vague overall or he’d only received a part of it. Whatever it was, he had to be prepared to network with anyone and everyone with a vaguely important name. (He was here for the riding, he reminded himself. Whatever and whoever it took: he was here for the riding.)

Between the Uber being late and himself not being ready even by the time the driver arrived, Julian ended up making a strategically late appearance to the event at hand. He’d found out a little too late that it was supposed to be a masquerade - and not for the first time, blessed Kholo beneath his breath when he found a mask of sorts in his luggage. Naturally, his lateness had all to do with the logistics of cutting out as many crowd experiences as possible, and not at all related to his inability - or refusal, he couldn't’ decide which - to keep track of time when tired or hungover.

Somehow, he was perfectly respectable both in clothing and character by the time he made it to the Eliopoulos island. (One of Cyrus’s many, if the whispers he’d heard around the circuit were anything to go by.) Lights any brighter than the decorative lanterns strung across the lawn would have shown up the washed-out nature of his usually tawny complexion, and he was convinced that any smells would trigger his already-churning stomach, but on the outside, he was presentable. Presentable enough, and that was all that truly mattered.

A few of the riders present were familiar, though the vast majority seemed to be from other circuits and countries altogether. His America-centric achievements were worthless, in the presence of others who he knew had earned their position ten times as much as he had. (He was still convinced that, vaguely, it was nepotism.) Whatever it was, he wasn’t complaining about his luck. Even if it was by fluke, he’d grabbed it with both hands. Didn’t that count? Wasn’t that enough, in some sense of the word?

Julian mingled with the crowd, faking a smile and waving off drinks like a true father’s son. The apple may have fallen far from the tree, but he wasn’t about to let the opportunity to conform pass him by. With Cyrus nowhere to be found - once again, if the rumours were true, he was unlikely to see his employer until he actually did something substantial - and avoiding anyone he recognised with a passion that he refused to show on his face. Strangers were safer - they knew nothing when he met them, and if he steered the conversation in the right direction, he could keep it that way. Equestrians were absolute snobs, he’d give them that much; there were a few targeted questions that could make anyone ramble about themselves for hours without remembering who asked them about it. And given that a large amount of the guests were drunk and ridiculously easy to probe, he was in luck.

Julian squeezed past a group of young adults, in an attempt to find a quiet part of the gathering. Though in all honesty, he doubted that was possible - the murmurs were impossible to escape, but at the least he could find somewhere quieter than his current position. People were pressing in from all sides - somehow, although there was half an island to fill, it seemed that everyone had decided to stand directly in his way. An elbow met his back, and he only just masked the flinch. There were too many people, too many whispers, and somehow they still weren’t louder than his head.

Feeling his heartbeat rising, Julian pushed past another pair of just-passed-middle-aged men in suits that he thought he recognised but chose not to. A flicker too fast, it seemed.

“Excuse me–” The contents of the champagne flute, which now lay shattered on the grass beneath them, dripped down his chest. “Shi- I mean, so sorry, sir. Let me get you another.” He offered a smile, eyes firmly focused on the ground. Handing him a fresh glass from a waiter's tray, Julian pretended not to notice the man’s glassy eyes or slightly wobbly stance. “Enjoy the evening.” He had to disappear before he was pulled into conversation, or worse - recognised. (He was certain, now, that that’d been one of his father’s business partners. Either way, he didn’t intend to find out.)

The gala didn’t exactly have outskirts, but he must have stumbled upon the thing that resembled it the most. If only that, it was the furthest from the speakers that were intent on reverberating vague orchestral music into the night. Here, he could breathe without the possibility of conversation: the only guest nearby who wasn’t already involved with another was a girl who didn’t look too eager to engage.

The masks made it near impossible to recognise people that he hadn’t met beforehand, and so he didn’t even try to identify where she might fit in. She was a person who didn’t look drunk out of her sanity, and he was in desperate need of quiet companionship. In his eyes, it was a perfect situation.

“So, what are you here for?” His gaze flickered on her arm, which was covered in some type of bandage, before abruptly pulling upwards. It hardly looked like a conversation starter that she’d be invested in.

Myra Eliopoulos | Jensen Eliopoulos, Julian Sears

Myra had been moving from space to space, restless and unwilling to be tied to any one conversation for any length of time. The only reason she was truly here was to cover for Cyrus, both by keeping up his public image in his presence and absence. She still hadn’t seen him all night, but it was a large crowd and she’d lost track of Jensen and her other brothers, too. Of course, Jensen had learned to get lost in the crowd like Myra, to avoid being seen and drawing attention to himself for the sake of his own sanity. One misstep and he’d surely face at minimum Cyrus’ wrath, not to mention whatever sort of public shaming and humiliation the crowd of elites decided to throw his way. She was the same, solely a trophy to put alongside all of her father’s other accomplishments. Something valuable, something rare, something shiny to capture the eye of Cyrus’ business partners. She was accomplished and beautiful, and she knew the right questions to ask and conversations to discuss. She knew the figures to flaunt and the ones to omit as far as their business and its success, and who to charm and how to do it. But it wasn’t anything more than a big facade, a thin layer of pretty wallpaper over years and years of cracked drywall and chipped paint. It made her sick to her stomach.

Still, it was a formality, and an obligatory part of having the Eliopoulos surname. She weaved in and out of clusters of people in the crowd, stopping every now and again to drink with a client of her father’s or dodge advances in an acceptable way that did not indicate the disgust she felt on the inside. As every second passed, the smile on her face grew more and more false, and the intelligent spark in her eye became dim and distant. The searing pain from her forearm was shooting up her shoulder and down her hand, and the stronger it became, the worse of a job she was doing hiding it. She was mentally a thousand miles from this island, or was it a prison? The line between the two was dimming by the moment.

“So, what are you here for?” She glanced up slowly, not reacting in the slightest to the sudden question. It probably wasn’t meant for her, for words were buzzing around the atmosphere at the speed of light. To her right a group of older men were talking about stocks, and behind her one of her father’s closest colleagues was strong-arming his escort using tones he thought were hushed, but were more slurred and audible than he seemed to notice. To her left, a man stood alone, seeming out of place. His clothing didn’t seem as if it was his–whether it was the color combined with his calm, intellectual aura or the way it fit, she couldn’t tell–and the way he was clutching his mostly-full glass told her that he was afraid of losing control of the situation. Surely, he was brand new to this elitist scene.

“I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.” Her bright blue eyes traced the ocean, looking well past his tall stature. The words weren’t hers, they were another’s who seemed as if he were her in a past life. She was hardly invested in the superficial prompt he posed, and she didn’t feel obligated to entertain him. Still, she didn’t like the way she felt her father’s colleague’s gaze burning into her back, and though the man beside her didn’t seem like much, he was more physically threatening than her. A bit of minimally stimulating conversation was a fair exchange for the presence of physical protection. “Let me guess, you’re one of the new working students here for the summer?”

Cameron Fairfield | Sophie, Julian

“You need to put it back.”

“But-”

“I’m running half an hour late on a function that determines my employment, and this is the shit you pull.”

“It’s just a lil baby!”

Julian fixed him with a glare that was clearly meant to deter him, or maybe distract him from the tiny kitten mewling in his hand.

“It’ll go back this evening, I swear?”

His friend - whose face was definitely raining on his parade, and didn’t seem to understand how exciting a kitten could be - massaged the bridge of his nose, eyes half-closed. “You know what,do what you want. Sophie can clean up this mess.”

Cam’s face broke into an even broader grin. “Thanks, man. You’re the goat.”

—

Despite the forty minutes or so that he’d left them unattended, the kids hadn’t done too much damage. Other than a bloody nose and a few grazed knuckles, and one broken sculpture, they were perfectly unharmed. Cam really didn’t understand what Sophie had meant when she’d told him to supervise them. They were old enough to look after themselves, weren’t they? Besides, they were doing a decent job of it so far.

Still, as he made his entrance - his flinging of the door could only have been better if there were two - Cam was almost grateful to be back. There was nothing quite as gratifying as the adoring attention of a dozen unsuspecting fourteen-year olds. Soph must’ve been out of her mind when she told him they could be a handful. Gesturing to gather around, he uncupped his hands to show them his finds. (Of course, he’d ignored all of Julian’s advice. That man was a spoilsport when he was sober.) Variations of “it’s a kitten!” to “what the fuck” from the emo of the lot scattered around the borderline riot that now surrounded him. (Vaguely, he wondered whether he was supposed to reprimand them for cursing, but his social standing within the group was far more important than whatever rules Sophie had set out.) Immediately, half of them started begging to hold it, sounding not unlike the distressed mews that the centre of attention was emitting at that point.

“Okay, okay. Hold up, darls. You gotta be gentle, okay?” Cam handed the screeching cat - who was doing its best to cling to his hand - to the closest kid who looked least likely to break all its bones. “You can chill with him for the arvie.” Clamours of questions about the time frame immediately erupted, from which he backed away immediately. “I don’t make the rules, jeez!” His shameless flirting with the assistant at the pet shop down the road had only bought him three hours max, in her words. (The outdated German notes might’ve helped, too, though he’d run off before she figured that one out.) He was convinced he’d be able to push it to five, which left more than enough time to entertain them for his shift, and all the time in the world for him to either explore or pester Sophie. Ideally, both.

Cam ducked out of the room while they were all too enamoured with the kitten to notice, shutting the door with a resounding click. Sophie’s room was just down the hallway from his - apparently, she “wanted a nap”, and “could do with some rest”, but he couldn’t believe she was telling the truth. Who slept during the day, anyway? (it was truly disappointing how many people missed out on his genius, he thought, biting back a line about staying up all night that would’ve been lost on the hotel employee that passed him.)

It took exactly thirteen seconds for Sophie to answer his knock. Judging from the look on her face, it might’ve sounded a little urgent. It took a couple minutes to explain that no, none of the kids were injured (excluding said nose and knuckles) they hadn’t set anything on fire (yet) and as far as he knew, they were doing perfectly fine.

“Besides, Soph,” he commented, once she was looking significantly less freaked out about the prospect of deflecting multiple lawsuits of murder and child endangerment, “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. They’re doing just great on their own, even with an animal.”