eight's a date. (Chris)

[musk]

How about getting your butt whooped in a game of pool?
Loser buys dinner. See you at the front gates at 8 ?

There was a pool ball setting on Chris Nightingale's pillow. It was a black eight ball, mildly scuffed with a note written in the unmistakable metallic ink of a silver sharpie. And where Claire's note had mentioned eight o'clock, she hadn't written anything. Merely used the 8 already imprinted on the billiard ball and placed a question mark next to it.

And at the very bottom, it said
Love, Claire.

[Ϛ Christopher Nightingale]

The little black ball had been on quite the journey. Even disregarding the move from wherever Claire (presumably) nicked it from, to whichever mid-points she visited, and then to Chris' pillow, it was quite the traveler.

When he found the ball on his pillow, he was, needless to say, puzzled.

When he read the message on it, he was, needless to say, ecstatic.

It was when he began thinking, using that accursed, worry-mongering brain of his, that things really began to head downhill. The two 'voices in his head' (the shy, kind one that assumes the best of everyone and everything regardless of negative experiences, and the sarcastic, cynical one that is pessimistic beyond measure because of the pain he's gone through in the past) were going at it like never before, making him seriously believe, if only for awhile, that there were really two 'hims'.

Oh my god, is this a date?

No. Since when are you dating?

The ball was in his hands as he sat on his bed. He enjoys the feel of it. Smooth, and yet not without defining marks. How many dates had this ball experienced?

Since... now, maybe?

No. It's just pool. You played pool with your friends, were you dating them?

Well, no. But it's also dinner.

Playing back and forth from hand to hand, now, the ball is no longer the focus. The ball is a stress relieving tool. The movement is therapeutic.

You eat dinner with your friends, too.

Yeah, but... she wants to buy me dinner!

Actually, she wants you to buy her dinner. There's no way you're winning.

Are you saying she's using me? That's terrible!

Wouldn't be the first time.

Still in his hands, and moving with him as he nervously paces back and forth across the room. Pacing is something he does when he's uncomfortable; when he's on the phone, or when he's waiting.

So? Claire isn't like that.

You barely know her.

I have a feeling.

I bet you 'had a feeling' with the other girls who pretended to care about you, too. And the guys who pretended to be your friends.

It's with him as he's standing at the window, looking out at the gates, where he's supposed to meet Claire in a matter of minutes. It looks gloomy outside, even though the sun is shining.

Not cool. Claire isn't like that.

Fine. Claire is perfect, and it's a date. Happy?

He can't look outside anymore, and so the ball comes away from the window with him. The sun hurts his eyes. The brilliance is too much for him. Is she too much for him?

...no.

Yeah, thought so.

It's not like that! I just don't know what to do! What if I think it's a date and she doesn't?

Wouldn't be the first time.

But she said "Love, Claire."!

The ball is in one hand, the only picture of the two of them that he has is in the other. It's a candid shot, they look happy. The picture always makes him smile. Even now.

You don't love your friends?

Of course I do! But... what should I do?

Play it cool? That's what you're best at, right?

Har har. Seriously.

Try to play it cool? At least don't fall on her again.

More smiles, despite it all, as he remembers their first meeting. But the fall was still a fall, and his grip on the ball tightens.

...damnit, I'm so screwed.

Assume the worst. Then you won't be disappointed.

What's the worst?

Figure it out yourself.

All sorts of possibilities come to mind unbidden, as usual. He feels like throwing the ball out the window, into the sun that makes everyone else so happy, but him so uncomfortable. He feels like giving up.

Gah, now is not the time for this. I need to... what am I going to wear??

And suddenly he snapped out of it. Threw the ball back on his pillow. Glared at his chest of drawers like a man on a mission, and here we are.

Casual?

Of course. Do you ever not?

Well, there was prom.

Yeah. Load of fun, wasn't it? Especially that after party.

...shaddup.

He dumped the content of his dresser on the floor and stared at it all, as if willing it to form an outfit of its own free will. Needless to say, it did not, and he had to figure it out on his own.

Which he did, but he didn't have much time to spare. Quick brush of the hair, quick check for deodorant (there, good), and he was out the door at a what was too fast to be a walk and too slow to be a jog...

...and back in again. Hurriedly, he grabbed the ball from his pillow, pulled a cardboard box from under his bed, stock full of mementos from his past, and put it in, carefully sliding it back and taking off again.

And the 'date' hadn't even started yet.