MB Saucy Side: Insecurity (Ferro Version)

I don’t want to be here.

The thought occurs as a man bumps into you, spilling neon green liquid down your shirt that smells at once acrid and sickly sweet.

“No worries,” the man slurs, eyes glazed and mind already elsewhere. He shoves past you, more alcohol sloshing over the rim of his plastic cup and onto your sleeve as he throws his hands in the air and does what might’ve passed, were he sober and more coordinated, as an old-school hand jive. Other bodies writhe around him in offbeat synchronicity, lost to the primitive pulse of EDM music.

For a brief moment, annoyance forces its way to the forefront of your mind. Several heads swivel in your direction: two on the dance floor, three more at the bar. Eyes widen with disoriented confusion as their musically/chemically-induced highs are interrupted by the persistent presence of your thoughts. The bouncer who you tagged earlier as an Empath frowns as he senses the unease from another Ment nearby, even though he himself is too far away to hear your thoughts.

I really didn’t want to deal with this tonight.

Cursing under your breath, you shoulder your way through the crowd and into the center of the dancefloor before the Ments can spot you. This warehouse is a small venue, far smaller than you usually prefer, making it harder to disappear.

But not impossible.

You usually find it easy to get lost in the music, your mind going blissfully void of everything but the accelerating tempo and forceful lyrics, diction blurred by synthesis. Focus on the sounds intently enough, and nearby Ments can’t differentiate your thoughts from the music. It’s freeing, the way that you can turn invisible despite being surrounded by people.

Usually, it’s freeing. Tonight, however, you’re tired. Your shirt sticks to your front, the sickly-sweet scent of spilt alcohol mingling with odors of sweat as a dancer next to you, clearly not a devotee of deodorant, presses too close and rolls her body against yours.

You’re out of brainrange from most the nearby Ments now, but a new head turns in your direction. The Ment’s hand raises to her temple as if struck by a sudden headache, but you recognize in her confused expression the proof that she can hear you.

Damnit. Why can’t I stop thinking tonight?

Shutting off your brain isn’t usually this hard. Nearby, pills are surreptitiously traded between sweaty hands, the exchange illuminated by glowstick bracelets. Idly, you wonder what would happen were you reckless enough to try one of the yellow capsules promising oblivion. But your mind is vulnerable enough all on its own; Nick would murder you if he ever learned that you were foolish enough to experiment with sketchy drugs from a dubious source in public. For all you know, if you got high than every Ment in vicinity might experience a simultaneous psychedelic trip.

Granted, that possibility is almost amusing enough to make you cast caution to the wind. Given enough shrooms, could your brain cause Ments to see visions? It seems like it would be a good way to establish your own cult . . . were you willing to let your mind be even more vulnerable, which you’re not. Being in public is dangerous enough for you when sober.

Dancers jump in the air as the current song ends and a new one immediately begins, smoke machines going into overdrive. You wince as someone steps on your foot.

The Ment with the headache is still scanning the crowd, searching for your presence. She hears that you’ve noticed her, your futile thought of Please don’t let her look this way immediately causing her to turn in your direction. You duck behind one of the dancers, a man whose neon orange hoodie and dark black skin makes you think of Halloween. You wonder if the holiday coordination is deliberate, despite it being mid-July, after spotting the black cat earring dangling from his right ear.

The man grins as he realizes that you’re attempting to mirror his movements in an effort not to be seen by someone. You can’t make out most of his features due to the flashing lights but unlike most of the surrounding partiers his gaze is still sharp and clear.

He leans in so that you can hear his voice over the music. “Hiding from an ex?” he queries. “Let me know if you need me to cha-cha-slide you to the exit.”

Despite the Ment still alerted to your presence, a laugh slips out of your lips at the absurdity of his statement. His grin widens, teeth flashing blue beneath the strobing lights.

“I’m serious!” the man exclaims. “It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve waltzed my way out of trouble!” His fingertips tap against your elbow, demonstrating his willingness to guide you out of the crowd should you so desire.

Clearly, your plans to disappear into music tonight aren’t working.

“Why not?” you say recklessly. “I like a little trouble.”

The man throws back his head in a full-bodied laugh that creates a pleasant warmth to spread in your belly. You grin, inordinately proud to have been the reason for his amusement.

“Well now I think that I like you,” he says, still chuckling.

He holds up a hand, inviting you to accept it. Once your fingers interlock, he proceeds to wrap an arm around your waist, drawing you close enough for the proximity to be unnerving although not as near as some of the couples grinding up against each other next to you.

His head tilts to the side, eyes questioning as he seeks confirmation that this is okay. In response, you place a hand upon his shoulder as if about to engage in a foxtrot. He laughs again.

He says something just as the DJ launches into a new song, louder than the one before, and his question is lost beneath the noise. You nod anyway.

With surprising grace, the man weaves the both of you between flailing limbs and jostling bodies. It’s not an intricate dance, but his steps are smooth and confident. A few times, he pulls you closer to avoid bumping into someone, but his hand on your hip relaxes once there’s enough space. You almost wish that he’d pull you closer, which is a ridiculous notion because you’re only ninety-eight percent certain that he isn’t a Ment.

A Ment would’ve said something by now, though. The man, who is probably your age or a few years older, doesn’t stare at you like an oddity whose thoughts he’s overhearing. He clearly just sees you as someone who needed help, maybe a newbie to the house music scene dealing with a panic attack or a bad trip. His kindness surprises you almost as much as your willingness to take advantage of it.

Within a few minutes, you’ve both reached the exit. It’s quieter here, the coatrack blocking you from the view of any nearby Ments. Still, you tug on your new companion’s sleeve, leading him out the door and into the back alley.

This should be safe. Out here, you should be out of the brainrange of the Ments still within the club.

“Are you okay?” the man asks, glancing down to where you’re still holding onto his sleeve.

You let go, embarrassed to have been caught holding on like a kid afraid of losing their parent at Disneyland.

“I’m fine,” you lie. “It was just noisy in there.”

His small grin is amused without being derisive. “I think that’s kinda the point.”

“It is,” you concede. “I just wasn’t feeling the vibe tonight, I guess.”

He nods as if your explanation makes perfect sense.

“Thanks for pulling me out of there,” you add, your hands twisting awkwardly in front of you. “It all felt . . .”

“Overwhelming?” he fills in gently.

This time it’s your turn to nod.

“I’m just glad that no one was bothering you,” the man says. “Given the way you were acting, I was worried that someone was being a pest.”

“They weren’t doing it deliberately.” Truth blurts out of your mouth before you can reign it back in.

His brows raise, the silver stud on the left brow gleaming in the moonlight, but he takes your avoidance of his gaze as a cue and refrains from asking follow-up questions.

“So,” he says lightly, “do I get a reward for the rescue?”

Heat races to your cheeks at his suggestive purr, your mind flooding with images of the ways that you could potentially reward him. Images that you really, REALLY hope that no Ments are close enough to be privy to. Just in case, you shuffle a few feet away from the door and further into the alley.

Your companion catches your shoulders before you can trip over a half-eaten hotdog. He holds on until you regain your balance, then lets go and splays out his fingers in a hands-off gesture.

“I meant your number!” he explains hastily, not needing to be a Ment to pick up on your interpretation of his words when your awkward response more than advertises the raunchy direction of your imagination. “Just your number. I don’t know who you were trying to avoid inside, but I’m not trying to pressure you or anything.” He runs a hand over his head, his black hair cropped so close that at first glance you’d mistaken his scalp for cleanshaven. “Shit,” he mutters. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable!” you blurt, feeling an urgent need to ease his misplaced guilt. “Just . . . flustered.”

His lips slowly curve upwards in a smug smirk. “Flustered?” he repeats. He leans in, close enough that you can smell mint gum on his breath. “I can work with flustered.”

You lean in forward as well, pressing your lips to his before you can reevaluate the situation and conclude that kissing a strange man in a dark alleyway behind a rave feet away from several Ments is probably not a smart life decision for someone with your circumstances. Your kiss is fumbling and awkward, fueled in equal parts by gratitude, desire, and your lingering wish to lose yourself in something tonight even if it’s not music.

You want to forget. Forget about the argument with your parents, forget that tomorrow is the day you learn whether or not you were accepted to Aeon. You want to forget that Sally said she no longer wants to go to art school and that her change of heart is probably your fault because you wanted to join Unity and she won’t let you do it alone. Forget that you’re terrified that you made the wrong decisions about your future. Forget that you’re broken.

The stranger cusps your chin, tilting your head to adjust the angle of your kiss so that he has greater access to your mouth. His tongue slips between your lips, and you taste mint but shockingly no alcohol. It doesn’t matter, because the kiss itself is intoxicating, his intensifying exploration of your mouth leaving you dizzy and weak-kneed.

You want more.

You tug at the strings of his hoodie, pulling him closer and silently demanding control of the kiss. Your tongues parry, neither willing to concede the upper hand, until he lets out a gasped whimper as, struck by frustrated inspiration, you suck in his lower lip.

Electronic music pulses from the warehouse within, your heartbeats throbbing in rhythm with the muffled beat. His hand drifts to your throat, and your pulse flutters against the back of his knuckles, suddenly out of sync with the music, as he traces down the line of your neck.

“What’s your name?” he asks, voice hoarse.

The question douses you with a pail of icy water. You recoil, too caught up in your own anxiety to reassure him that your reaction isn’t his fault and that he didn’t do anything wrong. Of course, he would ask for your name; that’s something people usually do before they start sucking each other’s face off.  But your name isn’t just a name, it’s a burden. It’s a reputation that doesn’t fit, a legacy that you didn’t inherit.

Why couldn’t he have just let you remain a stranger? You were pretending to be normal, damnit, and had half convinced yourself that your family didn’t matter. Even though you know that he didn’t mean it that way, that he had just wanted something to call you by, your brain keeps repeating Wiseman, Wiseman, Wiseman over and over again like a cursed mantra.

“I have to go,” you blurt, suddenly needing to be alone. Out of sight from his concerned gaze, because if he can’t see you then maybe you can keep pretending that you don’t exist, even if only for one night.

“You don’t have to tell me,” reassures the man who temporarily helped you forget. He sounds concerned, and part of you wants to love him for that.

But the illusion is shattered now. You’ve remembered who you are, and you can’t bear to witness his disappointment were he to learn your identity as well. Because you’re a Wiseman, but you’re also very much not.

“I have to go,” you repeat, already backing away. “Thank you for tonight. It was fun.”

“Fun.” The man’s laugh isn’t as enthusiastic as before, a hint of hurt darkening his chuckle. “Well, I guess it’s not bad as far as Yelp reviews go.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Did I do something wrong? I thought that we were on the same page.”

The same page. You want to laugh, or cry, at the idea that you could even be written within the same book as someone so normal and perfect.

“I’m sorry,” you say, turning away before the hurt in his brown eyes causes you to second-guess your decision.

Someone kind enough to rescue a panicking stranger at a party deserves a normal relationship, and normal is something that you’ll never be.

* * * *

Two months later

“Clarebear, you stewed prune, are you harassing one of the first years again?”

The question comes from a man your side, who must have snuck up while you were busy contemplating Clarence’s need for therapy.

The newcomer regards you from beneath hooded lids, but a mischievous sparkle in his brown eyes belies any initial impression of lethargy. Rather than pinned to his collar, the three silver stars denoting his class year have been repurposed as piercings along his upper right ear. Something about him feels vaguely familiar, setting you at ease despite your usual wariness of strangers.

For whatever reason, this man doesn’t feel like a stranger.

“Cadet Parker,” Clarence’s voice drips with venom. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”