>> Ivy Langley waking up after heaven help me for the way i am
To the surprise of absolutely no one, Ivy awoke with a terrible headache, a painfully dry throat, and a limited recollection of the night before.
On nights when she planned on misbehavior she tried to be good to her future self. She'd at least remember to keep some water at bedside along with a bottle of ibuprofen, and she'd generally choose something on the cozier side to sleep in. But she hadn't expected to be spending this particular night in her own bed; how she'd ended up here, still in her prom dress, no less, was at the moment an absolute mystery. She cautiously sat up. Her eye was caught immediately by the twinking rhinestones on the silver crown sitting on her bedside table, catching the light of the sun from her window; that part of the evening was still quite clear in her memory, and she was happy to see it hadn't been a dream. Not that it mattered much, after the fact, but the pictures would be lovely. Memories. Maybe more important to a her in ten years than the her that existed right now.
She swayed slightly as she stood, her feet feeling a bit sore and awkward standing flat on the floor after a full night in heels. Her shoes lay next to her door, obviously kicked off in a hurry, and she crossed the room with cautious steps to look in her full-length mirror.
Not... horrible. Pretty bad, but not horrible. To be expected after falling asleep in a full face of makeup; she'd have to check how much had transferred onto her pillow, though that was the maid's mess to deal with. Her dress appeared to have avoided any rips or stains, not that it would have mattered, as it would hardly be proper to ever wear it again. She removed the pins that held her hair in place, allowing her long hair to fall in waves onto her shoulders and over her back. The tight updo could only have been contributing to her headache, though the feeling of her hair touching her bare skin immediately annoyed her. She had some spare ponytail holders in her clutch, she thought.
Where on earth was her clutch?
Her search took her out of her room and down the stairs, the tell-tale scurry of maids who hadn't expected her awake rumbling downstairs, looking for somewhere else to be. She took the opportunity to grab a glass of water and some painkillers before discovering her clutch discarded on the couch closest to the front door. She made herself comfortable, so long as she was down here already; lounging on the couch, she pulled her hair up in a sloppy bun and idly unlocked her phone, unsurprised to see a stack of texts from Myles. It was a bit of a tradition between the two of them. Not that he didn't have his own fair share of nights spent drunk enough to make his memories questionable, but hers were far more common, and he'd taken to messaging her if anything important had happened so she could remember it the next day.
> Soooooo
> I'm not sticking around or anything
> Gonna get Declyn and gtfo
> But stuff is going down w/ Wyatt and Bret
> Idk how bad it is but
> Bad
> But like don't feel too bad bc it was going to happen eventually anyway
> I can come over tomorrow if you want to talk about it or not
> Gonna go now tho, <3 you
> Drink some water when you wake up
Ivy remembered.
Maybe. Maybe she was imagining things out of what she'd just read, but she swore she remembered, now. If not the actual actions, the feelings. Boredom, apathy, sadness, anger, hatred, in some order or another. Wounded pride. Spite. She remembered the look on Bret's face, most of all, because of how badly she wanted his expression to change, how desperately she wanted his features twisted in grief, and how she'd gotten—
Nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing except for single. Presumably. The words hadn't been said, but they hadn't needed to be.
Not that any of that really mattered, now. She and Bret were always going to break up, that was a foregone conclusion, despite how long it had taken her to accept it. No, what mattered was the gigantic elephant in the room that she'd been too drunk and stupid to give any consideration to at the time. What mattered was the person she supposedly actually cared about, and then threw under the bus without a second thought.
Wyatt. What had she done to Wyatt? What the fuck was wrong with her?
She could have just broken up with Bret. She didn't need an excuse to do it. She could have walked up to him, said "we're over", and gone back to swanning around on Connor's couch doing nothing in particular. Well, she probably would have been best served going home at that point, but the particulars weren't important. The point was Wyatt's name needn't have been invoked. Sure, okay, she wasn't going to be dragging him to bed with her five minutes after the breakup; sadly some level of decorum probably needed to be involved. But give it a week or two, let it seem like it was happening organically, and then if Bret complained it would be nothing more than sour grapes. She refused to let him control her actions. He certainly wouldn't be controlling Wyatt's. He hadn't exactly managed either in the past.
She could have done that. It would have been easy. But she felt the bitter taste of spite fill her mouth again. In that moment it hadn't even felt like a choice, had it? Setting fires beat building bridges, every time.
Ivy scrolled to Wyatt's name in her text history. Nothing much to see there; nothing at all since that first time, back in March. Their last real conversation had been way back, when she'd told him about Tyrell, when Bret had lied to her face and Wyatt had run right to her aid and barely asked questions. The signs had always been there. She stared at the screen for a long moment before carefully typing her messages, careful with every word:
> oh my god wyatt
> i got home and passed out i dont remember shit myles told me
> i cant believe i said that i dont know what the fuck i was thinking
> im so sorry
> are you okay?
She was, honestly, surprised to see the messages so quickly go from "delivered" to "read", with a response following closely behind:
yeah jus dandy dont have a brother ne more <
She put the phone down, then. She didn't have a response to that.
my soul? so cynical
i'm the bad guy, duh (twoshot)
my soul? so cynical
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
The day passed slowly.
Standing up, to begin with, had been a chore. Ivy had been so engrossed in her messages, remembering what had been, imagining what could be, that by the time she decided that perhaps the best thing she could do for her own sanity was to get something to eat, maybe take a shower so she could invite Myles over later, she had forgotten just how shitty her hangover was. It reasserted itself quickly the moment she dared to move. She groaned, her headache once again drumming a heartbeat rhythm into her skull, but she persisted, squinting at the increasingly irritating light as she shuffled toward the kitchen. There would be help around to cook something, if she wanted that; unfortunately that would take time she wasn't currently willing to wait through. She grabbed a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch—a sad girl breakfast if there ever was one—and then decided to roll with the aesthetic and claimed a pint of red velvet cake ice cream from the freezer.
It would be replaced by the next morning, unless she asked for a different flavor. That was how things went.
The only thing that prevented her from following her less-considered instincts and going with hair of the dog as her hangover survival strategy was her not having the hands free to carry her phone, her bounty, and a bottle of wine back to her room. Well, she could have with some finagling, but considering the challenge was at least enough to make her reconsider. She collapsed back into bed with an impressive amount of melodrama that would sadly go unrecognized before prying open the pint of ice cream and, in a stroke of genius, putting some Cinnamon Toast Crunch on top. She was a genius. An extraordinarily pathetic genius. This entire affair was so undignified that she wouldn't even let Myles see her in this particular state, but whatever.
Whatever to everything, honestly. School was basically over. She was prom queen. She didn't have to worry about Bret anymore. Wyatt was... there wasn't anything she could do about Wyatt. She shot a text message to Myles tentatively inviting him over for later in the afternoon, mostly because whatever apology she owed him would not sound strong enough over the phone, and settled in with the laptop procured from her side table and her collection of unhealthy snacks.
She distracted herself. An old movie. Pinterest. She ran out of ice cream. She eventually dragged herself back out of bed, finally shed her prom dress, having successfully dusted it in cereal crumbs, and took a shower, which did wonders for both her headache and for her clumping day-old mascara. Myles should be over in an hour or so. She looked half-presentable after getting dressed, missing the makeup and stockings but present brushed hair and a cute oversized sweater/circle skirt combo. She shoved her prom dress in her closet to be dealt with at a later date and brushed the crumbs off her bed to be dealt with whenever she left the house and the maids changed the sheets.
They were probably just going to drink again, anyway. She was probably going to cry about how she ruined everything. It was going to be overwrought and stupid and she was going to hate herself for it. Maybe it would make her feel a little better, though, because every time she glanced at her phone she felt a dull ache in her chest that refused to be soothed.
She was wondering if she'd ever think of a thing to say that was worth anything at all when her phone buzzed.
She assumed Myles was just early, which would be a bit unusual for him, but not unheard of. The pain in her chest hardened into a solid lump when she saw that the message was not from him at all, and immediately looked away, fearing the worst, before chiding herself on how childish that was. Anyway, how much fucking worse could it get?
...
Ivy exhaled a breath she felt like she'd been holding for hours.
> okay thats good at least
> just let me know if you need anything
She shouldn't say anything else. They shouldn't talk for a little while, regardless, give it a little time to settle, though she knew Wyatt. If he didn't hate her he wouldn't stay away for long. It seemed like he might not hate her. He should probably hate her. She wouldn't have been remotely surprised if he had hated her. This might not mean anything. But he wouldn't have bothered messaging again if he hated her. Right? Yes?
She shouldn't get her hopes up, but she would. She shouldn't tell Myles, but when she was dead drunk in a few hours that wouldn't mean much.
Maybe it didn't mean anything, but her heart beat a little faster, anyway.
>> Ivy Langley continued, chronologically, in Sugar, We're Going Down!
Standing up, to begin with, had been a chore. Ivy had been so engrossed in her messages, remembering what had been, imagining what could be, that by the time she decided that perhaps the best thing she could do for her own sanity was to get something to eat, maybe take a shower so she could invite Myles over later, she had forgotten just how shitty her hangover was. It reasserted itself quickly the moment she dared to move. She groaned, her headache once again drumming a heartbeat rhythm into her skull, but she persisted, squinting at the increasingly irritating light as she shuffled toward the kitchen. There would be help around to cook something, if she wanted that; unfortunately that would take time she wasn't currently willing to wait through. She grabbed a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch—a sad girl breakfast if there ever was one—and then decided to roll with the aesthetic and claimed a pint of red velvet cake ice cream from the freezer.
It would be replaced by the next morning, unless she asked for a different flavor. That was how things went.
The only thing that prevented her from following her less-considered instincts and going with hair of the dog as her hangover survival strategy was her not having the hands free to carry her phone, her bounty, and a bottle of wine back to her room. Well, she could have with some finagling, but considering the challenge was at least enough to make her reconsider. She collapsed back into bed with an impressive amount of melodrama that would sadly go unrecognized before prying open the pint of ice cream and, in a stroke of genius, putting some Cinnamon Toast Crunch on top. She was a genius. An extraordinarily pathetic genius. This entire affair was so undignified that she wouldn't even let Myles see her in this particular state, but whatever.
Whatever to everything, honestly. School was basically over. She was prom queen. She didn't have to worry about Bret anymore. Wyatt was... there wasn't anything she could do about Wyatt. She shot a text message to Myles tentatively inviting him over for later in the afternoon, mostly because whatever apology she owed him would not sound strong enough over the phone, and settled in with the laptop procured from her side table and her collection of unhealthy snacks.
She distracted herself. An old movie. Pinterest. She ran out of ice cream. She eventually dragged herself back out of bed, finally shed her prom dress, having successfully dusted it in cereal crumbs, and took a shower, which did wonders for both her headache and for her clumping day-old mascara. Myles should be over in an hour or so. She looked half-presentable after getting dressed, missing the makeup and stockings but present brushed hair and a cute oversized sweater/circle skirt combo. She shoved her prom dress in her closet to be dealt with at a later date and brushed the crumbs off her bed to be dealt with whenever she left the house and the maids changed the sheets.
They were probably just going to drink again, anyway. She was probably going to cry about how she ruined everything. It was going to be overwrought and stupid and she was going to hate herself for it. Maybe it would make her feel a little better, though, because every time she glanced at her phone she felt a dull ache in her chest that refused to be soothed.
She was wondering if she'd ever think of a thing to say that was worth anything at all when her phone buzzed.
She assumed Myles was just early, which would be a bit unusual for him, but not unheard of. The pain in her chest hardened into a solid lump when she saw that the message was not from him at all, and immediately looked away, fearing the worst, before chiding herself on how childish that was. Anyway, how much fucking worse could it get?
...
Ivy exhaled a breath she felt like she'd been holding for hours.
> okay thats good at least
> just let me know if you need anything
She shouldn't say anything else. They shouldn't talk for a little while, regardless, give it a little time to settle, though she knew Wyatt. If he didn't hate her he wouldn't stay away for long. It seemed like he might not hate her. He should probably hate her. She wouldn't have been remotely surprised if he had hated her. This might not mean anything. But he wouldn't have bothered messaging again if he hated her. Right? Yes?
She shouldn't get her hopes up, but she would. She shouldn't tell Myles, but when she was dead drunk in a few hours that wouldn't mean much.
Maybe it didn't mean anything, but her heart beat a little faster, anyway.
>> Ivy Langley continued, chronologically, in Sugar, We're Going Down!
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."