Just a Step - Part Two

Under the stage, if we can define the thirty centimeter step that separates us from the cover band, we shout at the top of the songs that are proposed, feeling the vocal cords burn in an effort to take notes that are a little too high.

From beer to vodka the pace was short, although I doubt that tomorrow morning, with the same ease, I will be able to get out of bed and drag myself between the classrooms of Saint Jeremy - but we got caught up in the idea of fogging, even if in small part, the mind and we have not known how to say no to alcohol.

Thus we find ourselves singing without stopping, ignoring the fact that then we should suffer the consequences of such a prolonged effort of the throat. We move from ballads to the most lively tracks without any problems, dancing in a completely uncoordinated way on the boards of the parquet that try to embarrass Caro who, given her high heels, thankfully, has not yet tumbled to the ground.

She laughs and struggles with my same motor incapacity, due more to the desire to have fun than anything else - tonight neither of us wants to appear charming or sensual, we simply needs to let ourselves go. I need to keep the problems with the exponents of the opposite sex far away, she... well, I have no idea and, for now, I like it that way.

Or at least that's what I thought so far.

My "friend" stops, she gasps for the effort and shakes a hand beside her face to get some air. Her gaze wanders a little around, but then she shouts: «Do you mind if I go and give my number to a person?» Caroline asks me, pointing to an indefinite point in the crowd behind her, perhaps trying to let me guess, more or less, something - but given the still minimal knowledge of each other, it is difficult for me to understand who or what it is.

However, returning to the focal point of the question, if I were to be totally sincere, yes, I'm sorry. I don't like being alone in the midst of so many strangers piled up in a "cramped" place, but at the same time I can't deny her to do what she wants - I could ruin the evening and this sort of friendship. Then I nod, making her a smile of approval that is not so true; but I doubt she can understand it, after all we are not yet so intimate as to recognize an insipid fold of expression.

If she goes to flirt, however, it will be up to me to leave the dance floor and ask Adrian for comfort, which, perhaps, will be so magnanimous to keep me company and give me another mug filled with beer. After all, in his eyes I am still Jace's puppy and this should generate in him the right dose of pity. Five years of difference from my brother are many, they can still make me look like a child at his friends eyes.

So I let go of Caroline's fingers, which I hold tightly in mine, watching just for a few moments her silhouette disappear in the chaos of The Elder and the Moon, now much more crowded than when we arrived.

While staring at her blond and amaranth bob bouncing with every step she takes, I suddenly feel overwhelmed by a bitter sensation.

What do I do now?

Getting back to singing and fidgeting in solitude has something wrong, sad, but staying still waiting for her return gives me the impression of being even more so, so, after a few moments of contemplation and existential doubts of low league, I find myself sigh and sadly turn.

Without Caro and her good humor to chase away the bad thoughts, those for which we have decided to go out in the middle of the week, the only one who can help me is Adrian, especially if equipped with some high-alcoholic drink.

So, between one shoulder hit and the next, I make my way to the counter, the ultimate destination for those who still don't want to go home - even if their feet hurt, their throats burn and their minds begin to crowd.

I cut out my corner in the midst of two strangers who turn their backs, intent on talking: one about football and the other about some university lessons a little too tricky. Here, I raise my hand in a desperate attempt to capture the attention of the bartender; after all, first I grab a glass, before I can sneak away.

The guys crush me, they don't care about my presence among them just like the owner of the place does, too busy swirling colored bottles over his head and filling goblets that he will give to everyone except me.

Then I try to lean a little more, to hoist myself on the wooden table to become a beacon among the rocks of people clearly taller than me.

But nothing, the result does not change.

And then I snort, giving up the enterprise - on one hand, destiny graces me, on the other it torture me.

At this point I find myself sticking the fingers in the bag, looking insistently for the only source of salvation and possible occupation of what has turned into a solitary waiting: the Lucky Strikes, red. Small sticks of pure pulmonary cancer in packet, minute poisonous sticks that cuddle me in the best and worst moments. Eight and a half pounds given to the skilled hands of tobacconists aware of the damage they are doing to my bronchi, but too hungry and human to be able to give in to common sense and tell me "you're corroding yourself!" - and how to blame them? After all, with the vices of tens of hundreds of people they manage to survive, because unfortunately the world is tyrant and indoctrinates selfishness.

The fingertips graze the wheel of the lighter, then two filters that, though few, I hope are enough to fill the time that Caro will dedicate to her evening flirtation.

I'm about to turn around, without paying real attention to the surroundings - in fact, I still cast some hopeful glances towards Adrian, who, though, not even with the x-ray view could notice me - and, before I can really realize the situation, slam against someone, a stranger who grabs me by the shoulders without hesitation.

I stand with my nose pressed against his chest for a few moments, knowing that if I were to move away now he would see the terrible redness on my cheeks and, so, I wait.

What is a bit of a mystery, since even he seems not to want to let go of me.

And then I try to take a deep breath, so as to give me the strength necessary to take the first step and wriggle, and yet, when his perfume fills my nostrils, something snaps and the desire to sneak away dissipates.

I know both this shower gel and the detergent with which Kiss's shirt was washed and, inexorably, raising my eyes, what I see is my sentence.

Seth.

For what reason is he here? And why does his look seem more annoyed than friendly?

I swallow with too much effort before uttering a shy greeting: «Hey», but it doesn't seem to get any results.

His pupils pierce my forehead, as if they were trying to open my skull and make me understand that he is furious with me - even though, I just can't imagine the reason.

Clutching me harder, and without returning the greeting, he decides that the inside of The Elder and the Moon is not the right place for a conversation, so it almost drags me out - he doesn't even give me time to understand, for this the feet seem unconvinced in wanting to move forward.

One of his strides after another, however, what welcomes us is the alley, now deserted, in which the pub is located. The icy air passes through it, caressing my slightly naked ankles, where the jeggins of my fifteen years try to tell me that, after all, I have acquired a few centimeters. I can't help tightening my arms to the chest in an attempt to pick up some heat, since the jacket is dangling over my shoulders and doesn't help as much as it should, but besides this, in a lament, I turn to the boy who has dragged me out: «What's the matter with you?!» The voice rises until it reaches a shrill note, but he doesn't seem to notice it, too busy staring at me over his shoulder.

«I could ask you the same question ... how come that you're so cute tonight?»

I bow my head to one side, trying to understand: «I don't think there is a written law that forbids me to wear makeup and put on something more... nice when I go out with friends» with one hand I try to indicate the shirt I am wearing, a black yarn with gold inserts whose neckline gives a glimpse of what a décolleté should be, but which, my second strictly b cup, instead turns out to be a sort of useless attempt to reach a sensuality not granted to me.

He shakes his head, chuckling nervously. He does not seem to take my words seriously, on the contrary, it seems as if I has made a bad joke.

«You know,» begins as soon as he manages to appease the hilarity: «after someone confesses that he has an interest in you, the last thing you do, if you haven't given him a real answer yet, is to get pretty and go out alone in a nest of men with hormones that pull in their pants!»

The confusion becomes even more destabilizing. Is he jealous? Does Morgestern know how to feel such a thing for a specimen of the opposite sex?

«What's wrong? And then, let's be honest, you are the last to be able to reproach me, Seth»my attempt to justify the situation seems to set his already unstable mood, so, perhaps driven by an instinct that I still can't understand, he grabs one of my wrist, taking me a breath from hisbody - and the chills I feel now, I doubt are caused by the cold.

A pleasant shake starts from the contact between our skins, amplified by dozens of times.

If until a few weeks ago the touch of this guy stimulated my heartbeat, after our first and fleeting kiss, it started to tingle every part of me, prompting me to want to hug him and feed on his warmth, the scent of his skin.

Is this what it means to fall in love and be reciprocated? Or maybe I'm too dominated by him to manage sensations logically?

«Is this the problem?» He asks me in a hiss, as his eyes soften in mine: «Is it because you fear that I could behave like a piece of shit that you avoid me?»

Also.

Mostly.

I'm afraid that Jace's fears may become real, that Seth will take my heart and break it like dry bread, feeding it to the fish of some smelly pond. I fear that I must find myself in my brother's arms crying because of the stupidity with which I believed in the splendid face in front of me.

I'm scared to renounce to his voice in his ears, his smile, the jokes he makes about my inexperience with life. I'm afraid of not having Saturday nights at his house anymore, his messages, the sweets he takes away from work at the end of the day, those with whom I've strayed for years.

What separates me from these fears is just a step. Only one.

By doing it I could lay my lips on those of the Devil himself, thus sealing an agreement in which, certainly, I will lose, an agreement that would give life to each of the things just listed.

But am I ready? I have no idea.

I wish it? Enough to be able to think of anything but him.

Are the risks I am facing worth him? In my dreams, yes. In the imagination that I built around his figure, loving and being loved by Seth means having a small bonfire in the chest, perpetually lit and ready to flare up.

«Shouldn't I?» I finally find myself saying, feeling the tears rise in the eyes. But perhaps I should have asked other questions, such as: why?

Why me?

Why now?

He loosens his grip, more disappointed than I expected. For a moment I am terrified of hearing his answer, of knowing that if I wanted to, I could escape from his fingers and return the usual and simple Jane Jaqueline Raven of all time - because one of many, an unnecessary notch on his womanizer's belt.

«I could never make fun of you, Jay. You've always been close to me, the emptiness you would leave is not as irrelevant as you think... and you're the missing half of Jace, all its merits are yours. If I lose you, I'll really lose everything» but despite what he says, trusting him is not so simple - at least not when talking about first love or when dealing with the bad boy of the situation.

After all we are not the protagonists of a love novel, the happy ending is more unique than rare in stories like ours: reality hits hard, without looking at anyone. It breaks bones, teeth and hearts with an almost annihilating ease, and I don't want to imagine the pain that awaits me.

But in the end I do that step: I reach out for him.

I let myself go to the illusion of his romantic sentence, I let his look bend me, so convinced of the words that, perhaps, tomorrow morning will no longer be so true.

I press my lips to his and I let the taste of tobacco and salt stuck between the wrinkles of the flesh, fill my mouth. Because even if I am afraid the adrenaline is a drug and to disappoint Jace means to be able to touch the consistency of a dream. Because as some of the greatest philosophers in history teach us, we are all prone to masochism: suffering, hurting ourselves and complaining makes us feel a little more alive.

And I am.

I feel every inch of me react to his, now - and it's overwhelming.