¨ sugar and spice. (--open.)

[Elliot is on the edge.]

It was terribly girly, the way the were together.

It was true that Elliot didn’t really have girlfriends. Sure, she had Peyton, who always seemed to bring out gossip and giggles in the Almasian, but otherwise, they wasted most of their time strung out or with the boys, or both. So for the most part, Elliot had never been able to be irrational and frivolous and just silly like most girls were with their other halves. True, her very best friend was maniac about his hair and The Hills, but otherwise he was still a boy to the very core, and left Elliot Davis with the occasional feeling that she was missing something. Maybe that was part of the reason that she was always so eager to forgive her sister, because they had been best friends once upon a time, and sometimes Elliot just honest to god missed that.

They spoke about Dorian once, and while the entire situation bothered the pretty blonde enough that she felt like there was a great wide chasm burning it’s self into the pit of her chest, Elliot Davis had always been terribly good at displacing things, and as such, she could tuck away the grief for another night easily enough. They spoke about Dorian, and they spoke about the dad, but never their mum, and Mae asked about school even though she didn’t care and Elliot asked about work even though she didn’t want to care. They made tedious small talk just to get it out of the way as they holed up in Elliot‘s dorm to get ready for the night ahead, and eventually they were left with ridiculous, but hardly tedious, girl talk.

Mae kept asking awfully intrusive questions and Eiji and normally Elliot would oblige her sister with gossip, but this wasn’t a fling, and he certainly wasn’t just a boy, and so she was trying her damnedest to be a little more careful. Elliot, in turn, wanted to know all about the L.A. boys, and the swanky photographers and parties, and Mae was more than glad to boast.

By the end of it all, the sisters finally emerged from Elliot’s room looking hot, at the very least, and drop-dead wow, at the best. Between Mae’s Hollywood makeup capabilities and Elliot’s closet, they had definitely done all right. Mae looked up to her usual standard of gorgeous and deadly with a dark corset and a silver dress that barely reached her legs. Elliot had gone a bit simpler, with a striking top and jeans, though she would have been lying if she said the dark jeans were inhumanly tight and she still looked fantastic in them. They had slipped out of the school easily enough, only to saunter into the Club just past ten, walking hand in hand with matching black pumps and causing the patron’s to set down their drinks and turn their heads for a better look.

The Davis sister breezed past the rest of the club goers so that Mae could find enough bar space to lean over the counter and holler for her ‘red hot lover girl Rae,’ as she put it, and demand that the Scot sing her a song before the night was over. They put back a few drinks and made ga-ga eyes at some of the boys who couldn’t help but stare, just for fun, before the most terribly girly song came on and Mae was rushing her sister out onto the dance floor. Now, Elliot liked the blues, and an awful lot of screamo, as the kids today were calling it, while her older sister had a huge soft spot for all things alternative and indie. This was hardly the kind of song you would find on either girls’ playlist, and yet, girls nights out always call for a bit of spontaneous lunacy.

And so they were out on the dance floor, jumping and laughing and singing and just being all sorts of ridiculous and unexpected, and underneath the flashing lights, it was a little easier to see them as teenage girls, instead of every other label they had been forced to wear, and as sisters instead of rivals.

[bishop]

Bishop Heart was a closet dreamer. During the day, he hurt, and when he thought about it, he found that things weren't so different in the night. Separation, loneliness and his constant stoicism was like salt on the wound; while he wasn't a social pariah, he had been something near human and warm back when. He still craved companionship even though he convinced himself that he was better off alone, that he didn't even remotely need anyone else, especially not a girl or a best friend. That was a load of bullshit, because Bishop had once been one half of Duke and Bishop, and he had once had girlfriends, and people to care for and keep around him; he had once had a family, and he had been whole.

In the nights, some nights, he would fight; organized fights or brawls that he either started or ended. Bishop made sure to learn only the dirtiest of street fighting, a little Krav Maga maybe but none of that extreme kung fu shit which wouldn't allow him the same sort of satisfaction as ramming his knee into someone's nose. But he dreamed, secretly, sometimes during class but mostly while he lay in bed and tried not to stain his pillows. He liked to think of a day where he could stop repenting, where he could see his sister again, where he could maybe find it in himself again, those senses of touch beyond violence, and meaning beyond silence. Bishop Heart was an idealist.

Tonight couldn't find him in the Library, finishing not-to-be-due-for-another-week-or-two projects. He wasn't in the rings or an alley, and he definitely wasn't trying to pretend that falling asleep alone wasn't* one of the more lamer things he'd ever done. He was in The Cave, feeling completely out of place and desperately trying to drink away his self-doubt and regret. Bishop was not a dresser; he was more about practicality and the days where he took the time and effort to notice his looks were long gone. He wore a Mossimo flannelet, which didn't really look like a flannelet at all, except for the flannel design; it was short sleeved and went over his shoulders and arms like broken threads over a rock. He looked good though, despite his country vibe, which actually made him appear quite local. His expression was another thing; despite his utter blandness, his eyes were worn and foreign, and he kept on drinking from his mug like it was going out of style.

He sat with his back to the bar, on a stool that was surrounded by some girls. One of them had come uninvited but he had barely looked at her. His silence had translated as some sort of acquiescence, and she had brought along all her friends. They now clustered to the free side of him, on the arm that wasn't nursing a beer, and he still pretended not to know them. Beggars can't be choosers, or something to that effect came to mind, but they reminded him too much of other, unmentionable things, so he continued to keep his distance. Elliot and the positively lethal threat she was dancing with, though, was something else.

He recognized the blonde, even with the hordes of people hiding her. They were friends, tentative on his part and charitable, in his opinion, on hers. Elliot had this charming way about her*, that let him forget the dangers of pretty girls, and while it should have been alarming, he was grateful. He doubted she spotted him though, and so merely gestured for another pitcher.

[Elliot is on the edge.]

"Well, aren't you the center of attention?" She sounded out of breath, but content as she spoke from somewhere behind him, aiming her words over his shoulder as she smiled, sidling up to the bar. The song that had induced such a surge of estrogen and insanity had ended, and the two sisters had been heading for air, and more importantly, a drink, when some slim, European boy with an accent Elliot couldn't discern caught Mae's attention and before she knew it, the older girl had disappeared, back onto the dance floor, leaving the blonde to fend for herself.

"Fancy seeing you here." Her smile was genuine, the flush in her cheeks making no attempt to fade. She liked Bishop, found him sweet and refreshingly real, benevolent, valiant enough for his times and altogether good - in truth, he reminded her tremendously of Eve.

"Is this seat taken?"
She gestured to the empty bar stool besides him with another charming smile, looking something like hopeful. Reaching up to smooth a few of her wild curls, Elliot bit her lip for a half-second before ordering herself a Martini, not in the mood for anything too dangerous tonight.

[bishop]

To say that he was surprised was an understatement. Bishop had been perfectly, almost but not entirely content with knowing that he'd be spending the night by himself; he hadn't expected Elliot to notice him, but he supposed that that was the way things went, everything working against him to prove him wrong, or rather, correct that he needed more than just himself to get by. His expression went unchanged though, despite the three pitchers in him and some nasty, tequila shots, because he couldn't have the girl, or anyone else, thinking that they got the drop on him easily.

"Not by choice," he muttered, somewhat darkly and without any care that he might be heard; "hey."
He grinned at the blonde, his usual reservations for facial expressions void, and plus, Elliot always seemed to encourage the better part of him. He nodded his okay at the stool, not really able to voice anything in that moment. Bishop couldn't exactly be accused of social awkwardness, he was just too cool and collected for that, but right then, all the appropriate things to say seemed to have avoided him, and he sat staring into his glass dumbly.

He blinked, and the daze cleared; reaching out to actually pull the stool back for her, and then Bishop was pleading his case.
"I hate clubs," he was explaining, when really, he hated people; or tried to anyway, but he had never been as good as Duke in that act.
"This isn't really my thing;" he had just wanted to get drunk and pretend for one night that he could have been somebody other than his usual two-dimensional self, and he was failing dismally.

"What are you doing here?"
He settled for something safe, a middle ground, and returned his attention to the girl; his eyes a little duller, but warm, and an unchecked quirk riding his lips.

[Elliot is on the edge.]

His grin was contagious, and as he pulled the stool out, the expression grew. She hopped up onto the seat, careful to exude as much grace as humanly possibly, eyes on the bartender as he scurried around the tiny rectangle of space he had been allotted behind the bar, mixing her drink.

"I'm not much of a fan either," she admitted, despite how much time she seemed to spend in the damned places. It was Mae's fault really, as were most of the small tragedies in Elliot's daily life. "The music is absolutely terrible." She laughed, looking over at Bishop with a small, gentile sort of smile, hesitant but happy. The bar keep set the triangle glass in front of her and for a half second, the train of thought halted, leaving no room for any notions save for her drink. Taking a long sip, the blonde smiled at the coarse bite of Gin before looking back to the boy beside her, smile a little warmer now.

"It's my sister's birthday tomorrow," she explained, turning around on the bar stool to face the thick crowd. "So she dragged me out to celebrate, though I'm sure she could of had just as much fun without me." Elliot's cool baby blues finally stopped dissecting the crowd, having located her sister. Pointing a few manicured nails in the direction of her model sister, the Almasian smirked. Mae had her long, long legs wrapped around some broad-shouldered, Ambecrombie type, her brilliant and wolfish smile in full effect.

"It's times like these that I seriously doubt we're related."

[bishop]

Bishop had to bite back an honest to God whistle. He didn't think it was possible, for people like Elliot, people like Almasy and Foyen and Oliver, to be replicated, to be any more of them as individuals; they were decidedly one in a million, unique, startling, singular. Elliot's sister though, seemed to prove him wrong. It was kind of paradoxical, the subtlety being that he could just tell the two were related; the blatancy lay in the demanding quality of her, that tug to pay her attention. Elliot was like that too, when he really thought about it, and it wasn't that her pull was any lighter, it was just that her sister particularly resembled a man-eater.

"I don't doubt it," he told her, and it was a complete testament of his person that he didn't even appear remotely attracted to Mae, or Elliot even, for that matter.
"It sounds nice," Bishop commented, actually genuine, "how you're here for her. Bet the bar helps." He tipped his beer in her direction, a mini-toast.

There was a beat, where he took the time to take a long draw from his glass, till it was empty and he gestured for another one.
"I'd wish her, you know, but she looks pretty busy." He glanced back at the floor again, and couldn't help the flicker of amusement marring his usual, indifferent expression.