Work Text:
When the call comes in, Vic stands very still. Prey animal instinct, play dead. Over the line: we’re sorry, you– well, there was a DNR in place– next of contact, we’ll need you to–
It takes a second, actually, to get the words out. Around them, all the walls are falling down.
“I didn’t know she was sick.”
( )
Nana had planned the funeral out already. Well, at least that’s over. Clutching the cigarette between their teeth, ashing into the kitchen sink. David hated when they smoked inside but, well–
Budget cuts, non-speaking appearances. There’s dust gathering on their side of the bed and his, too. The house yawning, wide mouth, chasm. Most of the time, sleeping bag under the desk, drip coffee, lukewarm. Imperceptible shake in their hands. Humiliating all around.
The whole thing had taken six minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Lighting a second. Finger hovering over the record of it. Static and agony, delete, block. Stale smoke smell, grief in the corner of their vision.
( )
Parent-teacher conferences, meaning: two chairs left empty. Negative space. Vic grew up in absences and, well, that explains a lot. Nana liked to say they were raised by dogs. It was funny because Vic used to crawl to her, bitten and bruised. It was funny because—
( )
Jut of the car in the dark, driveway floodlights. Foot on the gas, white-knuckle grip on the wheel. Migraine ache. Two meetings with HR where they'd asked why, Vic, do you keep coming back? You can’t access the studio without express permission, you know that, right?
After the fifth time, all hope lost. A set of keys appeared in their dressing room. No further comments were made. Bianca said the crew thought they had a haunting till they figured it was them and jesus, you've got to be fucking joking, sleeping here, really? Recently, there's been no shortage of questions. E.g, what have I done, to deserve this?
They leave the house because they know it’s not their home. They go to the studio because–
( )
Cocaine breakfast, curling under their desk. Five minutes rest, eyes closed, complete fucking nothingness. For six days a week, Vic is a person. For six days a week, barely sleeping, post-human. Crew tend not to look them in the eyes anymore. It doesn’t matter, anyway. What claim do they have, to the show? What do they matter? It’s Vic who’s bled, it’s–
The sharp of their knees pressed against their chest. Swallowing down bile. Back home, they used to put down lame animals. Back home, there’s nobody left.
( )
1,985 unread emails, talk of campaigning. Thinking about the guests for too long makes their head hurt. Most things do, these days. Chewing on aspirin, ignoring the solutions. Office clock tick-ticking. Bianca called them three times at 4:02AM but, well, Vic was already long gone by then. Outlook 365, urgent.
They’d explained it, once, to someone. Handling talent like handling dogs. Don’t turn your back. Don’t tame a wild animal, they never learn. You know what these guests can get like, don’t you?
David, once, pressed against their ear, breath hot, hands on their hip:
“You’re fucking feral, huh– You’re—”
In had been a quick wedding, in truth.
( )
Bianca knocks twice before opening the door, stands there, half-haloed. Vic sniffs and tries not to look at her for too long. Mine eyes dazzle. They’d invite her in but that’s a line already long crossed.
“What did you take?”
“That’s no way to–”
“Cut the shit.”
“I didn’t take anything. We need to start shooting now.”
“You left the ashtray out, by the way. I had to open all the fucking windows. You need to pull it together–”
“I’m the host, Bianca. Don’t– I’m doing this for us.”
“For us?”
“Just let me handle it.”
“You can’t handle anything right now, Jesus– You can’t even stand up straight.”
And what does Bianca do, anyways? Hold their leash, choke them by the collar? Jesus christ, Jocasta, learn a gentle touch. There’s still a scar, actually, on her collarbone, puncture mark. Barely noticeable unless you’re looking. You have to train it out, that habit to bite. Vic never loved anything they didn’t want to sink their teeth into.
And if you were, maybe, to look closer, examine the white of it, the neat little wound, you might be able to say, ah, that, there, looks like the left canine of—
( )
Concealer, suit jacket, sharp click of their heels. Nana died alone in St Judes Hospice and, well, that’s just the way it goes. When Vic was younger, getting the bad shakes, curled. It was impossible to try and fit all of them inside of their body. Six years old, bruising. Creak of floorboards. Splinters under the pads of their fingers, knuckles scraped raw.
The noble house had begun to fall apart, all the knights had left. Rivers of dust, beer can castles. Where was the King? The errant Queen? The townspeople began talk. On the throne, the orphan heir. The crown fit wrong on their head, two sizes too large.
It was Nana, anyways, who led them from the crumbling ruins. It was Nana who–
( )
“They’re worse now, right? I’m not going crazy? Jesus, I mean it’s a paycheck but this whole thing is fucked.”
“It’s a job–”
“You saw it, though, right? They were– I went to ask about the props and they were, like, shaking in the corner. It was unreal.”
“At least they didn’t try and fire you–”
“That would’ve been better. I mean, they look like they’re a second away from keeling over, dude. The yelling was fine, y’know? I didn’t love it but Bianca used to be able to handle them. Poor kid.”
“I’m sure she’s alright–”
“Vic, I mean.”
( )
Pre-shoot, post-shoot. Here’s everything you wanted. It’s easy to believe the guests are magic because they’re made of too many sharp edges to be natural. Zeke lingers, after, and scuffs his sneakers across the carpet. Vic doesn’t have the patience, Vic stands and watches as everything tilts off its axis. There was a lunch break but, well, we should be careful about figure, public personage–
“D’you wanna, like, play something?”
Record scratch. The way he’s making firm eye contact with the floor. His mom should be here already, jesus, they’re not paid enough to deal with this. Bianca, who’d pulled them aside: just don’t, he’s young, okay? Go easy, please. I know you don’t know what it’s like to be a kid but they need a gentler hand.
“I’m– I have to get home.”
“Aran said that you basically live here. Can you just stay– Mom is getting the car, I don’t know where to go.”
“Right, look, we’ve got people who can help– Can we get someone, here, please? He needs–”
“Jesus, just say you don’t fucking like me. You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?”
“I like you, that’s not fair, Zeke. I’m just, I’m busy. I have to keep everyone here in check and–”
He looks wretchedly, impossibly, young. Vic swallows, once, and tries to remember how to act. Nana liked to let them out, shut the porch door. Hours spent clawing at locks. In college, it was the type of thing they learnt not to mention.
“Just go.”
“No, right. I can– I’ll stay, for a bit.”
“Do you know Pokemon?”
( )
Throwing up twice in the bathroom, quietly. Bloodshot, starburst. Warm, aching, weight of their body. It would be easier to be nothing at all. They just don't quite fit right in their skin.
Sleeplessness, self-medication. Saltwater tears, cracked lips burning. Looking at the face in the mirror and whimpering, please, please. Cool porcelain, faucet drip, trying to find a way to suffocate loss.
Zeke had left with his mom, and she’d said oh, honey, I know that was hard, you did so well, huh? You’re so brave–
( )
Bianca drives them home, small mercies. Vic smokes out of the window and tries not to notice the flex of her hands on the wheel. The house is emptier with them in it but there's nowhere else to go.
“Have you heard from your father–”
“No.”
Red light. Juddering halt. The speedometer had started to steadily tick over a hundred, hard press of her foot on the gas. Vic wasn't trusted to drive, but it didn't mean Bianca was much better.
“You took the car–”
“There was prep work, I needed to be in the studio.”
“At two in the fucking morning?”
“I'm trying to– We have expectations, now. The award–”
“Don't start about the Webby, Vic. We all know. You're a real winner, okay? Is that what you want me to say? You're doing so good? You don't fuck us all halfway to hell and back every goddam day?”
Slight pause. Throwing the filter out onto the tarmac and looking at the line of her jaw, soft hollow of her neck.
“I'm not fucking you.”
“Yeah, well, you moved up the family tree.”
( )
January 13th
Vic: just checking in, hpoe everything O.k. miss you.
March 21st
Vic: camera manat work nearly tripped me over
Vic: hahah
Vic: have u herd from Katie?
Yesterday 21:34
Vic: nice sunset over la
Vic: is it nice were u r
Today 01:22
Vic: can u call mepls
Vic: important
Vic: please mom
( )
College, meaning: rapid readjustment, growing pains, addict habits. Boyfriends were exchanged out every six months, John-Matt-Dan. Making the right noises, practising the perfect o of their mouth. It’s just sex. It was easier to be liked when they learnt how to lie just right.
Frat party appearances, smiling without showing the sharp of their canines. Under flashing lights, colours melting, pupils shining like dimes. John-Matt-Dan resting his hand on the small of their back, stubble scratch, tequila taste.
Bianca had smoked out of the window and laughed at the whole thing. You’d do anything to claw your way up, huh? She used to wear her hair shorter then, Marlboro Golds and MMDA. Vic half-lounged on the bed, watching the lines of her waver with summer heat. Are you going to come over here or not? I can always leave–
( )
Half an hour to make dinner. Silence at the table, Bianca saying nothing as Vic sits down without a plate. Dull scrape of her fork. Family meals were a tradition that David had insisted on right up until he was nowhere to be found.
“We should say grace–”
“They were talking on set about Zeke. You stayed with him after–”
“I didn’t hurt him.”
Slight widening of her eyes, white-knuckled grip on the knife. Faintly longing for her to run it straight into their stomach. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been inside them before.
“I never said you– Jesus. No, it was nice of you. Why would you have–”
“He gave me a Charizard.”
“Right.”
What David liked: compliance, ready and willing. Wedding photos hanging in the hallway, frozen grin, bridal veils. He’d taken their hand at the altar, my wife, and they’d try not to flinch. Chameleon blues.
And the first time they’d met, sweat tracing down the nape of their neck. Bianca left the restaurant early, deadlines, graduation looming. Vic, not quite knowing the game, yet, but knowing when an opportunity was being offered. You’ve got some good ideas, kid, I’d love to see what you do next, and the slow creep of his hand. They never stood a fucking chance.
( )
“I need to speak about funeral arrangements, I called once already. Can you– Okay, no, I know, I’m in contact with a solicitor– What do you mean? I know it was arranged for the weekend but it needs to be moved, can you listen, please–”
( )
Glare of the clock, 3:02AM. Leaving the bed because, well, it wasn’t like they were going to sleep anyways. In the bathroom cabinet, uppers, downers, everything in between. Washing a handful of pills down with water, drinking it straight from their hands. No point in showering because they know they’ll never be clean. Tar-stained teeth, old scars.
In the makeup chair, pains taken to disguise the hollow of their cheekbones, filing down sharp edges. The guests, sometimes, startling at the sight of them beforehand. The corpse, walking.
( )
Pacing till the sun starts to rise, ambers, yellows. Post-it notes across the table, fragments, bright blue pen writing: guests need to feel at home. Bianca coughs, once, as she enters the room because all they’ve got these days is their rituals. Don’t shake the cage, don’t spook the animal. Vic never flinched in front of her but there are other ways to translate damage.
“Sleep well?”
“I need to contact David–”
No response, fridge door slam, spark of the hob. Eggshells cracking, everything spilling out.
“Bianca, you’re not helping–”
“You chose this.”
“We're family.”
The pan set down with a dull thud, echoes of it through the silence of the house like a gunshot. Senses at eleven, tasting the tension with their tongue. When they were the right kind of high, Bianca used to make them beg just by running her hands over the ridges of their spine. Now, though, across the countertop, miles away, muttering:
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Vic?”
( )
Time passing in shudders and jolts. Narcotic blur. Credit card by the bedside table, key by the sink. Shivering, arctic, howling winds. Looking guests in the eye and trying to remember how they got there. Sorry, like I mentioned–
Off camera, Hayes saying: come on, boy. Letting themselves be led. I can be anything you want me to. I'm the dirt under your shoes. I'm the bur stuck to your side.
( )
“A couple of us are thinking about leaving. There’s a new show starting up in fall, some sitcom bullshit, probably won’t last a season but–”
“I’m alright, thanks.”
“Bianca, come on. This is a fucking car crash–”
“The numbers have been going up–”
“You know that isn’t what I mean.”
( )
They come back to consciousness on the carpet, in the end. All the lights are out. Ghost-town. Flashbomb light of their phone. Five missed calls, B. Half-crawling to the table. Shattered glass feeling, grey edges, black spots. Lie down, Michaelis, it’s all coming at you now.
The phone rings once, then twice, before she picks up. Dull roar.
“Can you come and get me?”
Her breathes on the line. Cradling the screen against their ear. Century-long seconds. It was never like they were going to call anyone else.
“Beg for it.”
“I need you. Please. I need–”
( )
Long, hot, summer of their youth. Blood in the packed dirt, arid soil, no chance of growth. Katie who liked to weep, quietly, and startled at the sight of Vic. She didn’t like them much. Nobody did. They returned to her anyway. Love meant taking table-scraps, knowing your worth.
The fourth time their nose was broken in, it healed all crooked. The damage made them distinct. When Mom arrived it was clear it was already over. Katie looked back, once, the boys holding on to the hem of her dress, stained, ruined, and Nana laughed, the sound echoing across the dust bowl, the wasteland.
It was no wonder Mom chose her. Vic’s black eye swelled with the heat and made seeing hard. Their head hurt from where the older kids had kicked it. They wanted to go home.
( )
Leaning on her across the ocean of the parking lot. Needing support just to stand. They haven’t been this close since–
“Are you going to say thank you?”
Her hand, burning slowly into the small of their back. Old routines. Biting their tongue hard enough it bleeds, copper tang, bright red. One foot in front of the other. Miles and miles of tarmac.
The car, slowly emerging from the fog of the night, gleaming, shining.
“Vic, say thank you.”
Stumbling.
“You don’t get to do this to me–”
“You asked me to.”
Bundled into the passenger seat. Idling engine. Comedown aches, death throes. They’ve lost without ever having realised it. Bianca swallows, once, and rests her hands on the dash. Vic tries to wrangle want back into the hollow of their chest.
“You’ve been a real cunt.”
“You used to like that.”
“Things change.”
“Do you want me to beg again, Bianca? Will that make it feel better? Daddy's wife on their knees for you–”
“You didn't seem to mind it that much.”
Black of her pupils, kill shakes. Twelve years of history, pulsing, expanding. The thing was that she always knew how to cut them just right. Trench warfare, enemy lines. It was over the moment they let the line ring. The white flag, waving, shining. I'm all yours. The problem with Vic is they're too many things to be themselves. Easier to be somebody else's.
“Hurry up and fuck me."
( )
In plain terms: they are killing themselves.
( )
Bianca ghosting her hands over the bare of their skin. Panting, half-keening. Aware enough of their own desperation to be cruel, crush of their teeth against her clavicle, iron taste.
“Hurry up–”
“Ask me nicely, Vic.”
“I’m not–”
“You’re like a fucking animal, Jesus, behave. Are you going to be good?”
In response, moving downward. In response, Bianca gripping their jaw hard enough to bruise, press of her body, close but never close enough. Vic, choking off a whine. Fucking lethal.
“I can be good.”
“For me?”
“For you.”
( )
After, taking her to their mouth, tasting themselves on the knuckle of her ring finger. It’s the only way I can have you, these days. Bodily contracts, sham marriages.
( )
At the first wrap party, David by their side, chill in the air. Most of the crew declined to meet his eyes, frowned at the sight of his hand, outstretched. He left after half an hour, Vic looked suitably aggrieved for five before slipping, quietly, out of the back door. One cigarette turned to three.
He’d gotten them a whisky at the bar, funny if only because every sip they winced. As his grip began to sting, the glass set down on a sidetable. Across the room, Bianca caught their eye. Nothing needed to be said. By 12:02AM, if you had been looking, you may have noticed the light on from under the door of the breakroom, two shadows, moving.
( )
After, Bianca, waiting, sheets pooled around her waist, half-lit by the moonlight, barely real:
“This is when you run.”
“I could– I can stay, tonight.”
( )
“You get a good man and you don’t fucking come back, you get that? You’re not my kin to keep. You’re nobody’s child. I don’t want you here any goddamn more. College, are you fucking joking? Look at me when I’m talking. College? You think they’re going to teach you shit? Make you all pretty? You can’t fix what’s wrong with you, Vic. Why do you think you got left here? Don’t start getting ideas–”
( )
After, Vic resting at the end of the bed, too wired to sleep, three pills found in the lining of their jacket, swallowed dry. Scars shining silver in the moonlight, hollow of their ribcage. How do you define human? They’re more medicine than man, recently. They’re all jumbled up.
Bianca, sleep-rumpled, watching them through half-lidded eyes, wise enough to be cautious of the stray in the bed:
“He doesn’t love you, you know that, right?”
“Do you?”
“No. I don’t know. You married my fucking dad, Vic.”
“It hasn’t stopped you.”
“It’s not like we were ever going to. What does love matter?”
If Vic was keeping track, they’d say the second-first time it happened was four days after the wedding. Since then, ten, maybe twelve. Concealer routine. David never noticed because he was busy fucking other people too. They worked well, in that regard. He hurt them just enough to make them want to stay.
“It matters to me.”
“No it doesn’t, Vic. I’ve known you long enough to call that. All you want is someone to hand you the knife. We’re going to end up a fucking murder-suicide.”
Hollow laughter, Vic starting the long, slow, crawl, back up towards her. Murmuring:
“Which one are you?”
( )
Yesterday 15:42
Vic: call me
Vic: mom shes dead
Vic: it isnt aboutme
Today 02:23
Vic: i neverfucking did anything tou
Vic: why
Vic: i couldve been a good kidd
( )
The third day was thirst. They’d gnawed at their lip till they could taste iron. Scratched at themselves until they could drink. Their throat had been so dry.
There’d been a dog-bowl of water on the second day. It sat in the corner, now, and laughed as they licked it, the metal cool against their tongue, and offered them nothing. Vic would have felt degraded, maybe, but they were too far away from themselves too. Swallowing down saliva. Creating their own comforts. They gave what food they could find to Katie because they knew it would be wasted on them.
On the fourth day, Nana had returned, saying:
“Christ sake, Vic. You’d think I fucking abandoned you. No, don’t be dramatic. You have to start taking responsibility, nobody is coming to save you, god fucking knows–”
It was ironic, of course, in hindsight. Someone had come. Mom just hadn’t chosen Vic too.
( )
In the morning, Bianca makes two bowls of cereal and watches as Vic’s turns to mush. Natural fucking disaster. Women and children first. Leave them to be crushed to pieces by whatever the fuck this is. Tsunami under the name of care.
They manage one spoonful and then leave to throw up. Pure acid. Counting down from five before brushing their teeth out with baking soda. It's all an appearance game. Pearly whites. Hundred thousand dollar face. David liked to joke they were his biggest investment. Vic just ran his card through and tried to remember to play guilty. Rhinoplasty, filed canines, docked tail.
She doesn't say anything when they come back out. Worse, probably, that she knows them well enough to communicate through Kellogs. God save us all. They just fucking slept over.
( )
“-Asked them about the set decor and they nearly bit my face off. Jesus. Someone needs to get them under control. Either that or put them down. I’m not taking any more of this. Threw a goddamn paperweight at me. Piece of shit. Bianca isn’t any help either, showing up with hickies the size of Mount Everest as if we all don’t know what they’re doing behind closed doors.”
“Mate-”
“Look. I’m not- I feel bad, alright? I feel bad that they’re taking half of Columbia up their nose before we start shooting or whatever the fuck. It’s pathetic. Doesn’t mean I gotta like them.”
( )
Over the first break, blank white walls of their dorm, postage stamps. Dear Nana, I'm writing to say. Nana, I'd like. Nana, everything there, I leave to you. Bianca left them her room key and Vic held it so tightly the edges cut into their palm. They applied for internships and ended up dishwashing. Fucking one of the chefs so he'd share his coke. Fucking one of the waiters because she smoked out back too and hit them hard enough once their front tooth chipped. Home comforts.
In the end, they lost five kilograms and developed calluses. Wire wool scrubbing. Murky water. Not knowing anything apart from the fact they weren’t going back. They were anyone’s to keep.
( )
“Don’t start getting ideas.”
“It’s just cornflakes. You’re not going to eat them, anyways.”
( )
Here’s how it goes: Vic, unimaginably cruel, completely fucking out of line, Bianca, snarling, incendiary. God-awful soap opera shit. Every day a Sisyphean effort. Poor script, worse acting. Pushing their back up against boulders and trying not to meet her eyes. Jesus christ. Just let them be crushed.
They want her in a way that means total fucking annihiliation, nuclear fallout, two scorch marks on the concrete. Natural Geographic clip of a death spiral that she sent them once when they weren’t really talking, attached message: r u up. Vic had replied yes, unlocked the door, and started to brace for the crash. It wasn’t like they were letting go.
( )
Halfway undressed, fumbling with buttons, Bianca biting their bottom lip, pushing them down onto the carpet. Sharp hold of their acrylics on the bare of her back. Trying to be quiet, shoot break, door locked, laptop screen still blinking, Google Calender. Desperate to ask, sometimes, do you think about me the same way? Haunted, irreparably fucking wounded. Recently, they haven’t been all that well.
“Jesus, can you shut the fucking phone off—”
“You have perfectly working hands.”
“I’m otherwise occupied-”
“You’ve got one free.”
Whining, despite themselves, as she moves.
“Sorry, did that–”
“Shut up.”
“Vic, hey. No. What the fuck is this?”
“Can you just–”
“I’m not fucking joking. Funeral care?”
( )
She never liked their boyfriends but accepted it regardless. Vic didn’t know how to explain that they were just cashing cheques, holding insurance policies. Invasive species in the nascent college ecosystem. Dom Pérignon at dinner, ketamine dessert. Adam owned three houses and crashed his car with them in it, burning tires, flames licking the engine. For an hour, they sat by the side of the highway, Vic’s temple bled steadily, and he was too high to do anything but laugh. They broke up after sophomore year.
He asked, once, what their deal was, I mean, you know Bee’s a fag, right? You gotta be careful, Vic. People like that– It’s no good. They were largely worried about the fact that he was able to spot that anything was going on between them at all.
( )
“No, back the fuck up, don’t touch me. I want you to explain, now, why you didn’t think this was something worth mentioning–”
“It isn’t like we’re really talking. It was– She was mine. Not yours. Don’t be unreasonable about this, Bianca.”
“Unreasonable?”
“Don’t make this bigger than it needs to be, okay? We need to go back to taping, Jukebox is probably–”
“Vic–”
“He’s out there right now. There are bigger things to focus on. People are watching us, now. There’s– I’m important. The show is– We’re looking at campaigning, you know that. This isn’t college, there are more important things than feelings. Just– Just keep it together. We’re all fucking managing.”
( )
Managing, meaning: raw to the touch, discordant, passive suicidal tendencies. It isn’t hard to look at them and know in a few years they’ll just be someone who was famous once. Off Euclid Ave, billboards with their face on it, for your consideration. They didn’t know when they’d lost themselves. They didn’t know how to be found.
( )
“Bianca, hey– Don’t walk away. You’re not leaving.”
“I met her, you know? She was on the fucking show.”
“I’m not going back there–”
Kicking their feet against the floor, angry as a child.
“-Can we just- Just stay here, Bianca. Stay.”
“You know, I was– I really thought you were trying, last night. I thought– You used to like me.”
“I do like you, Bianca– I– I did this for us, we’re together. That’s what matters.”
“Why don’t you trust me enough to talk, then? You like me but you– I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing with you anymore.”
“Stay–”
“I’m not fucking leaving, Vic. You don’t have to keep pushing to test me. You don’t have to–”
“Look–”
“Just– what happened?”
( )
Nana liked to say Vic was lucky she didn’t just let them burn. They disagreed but it was hard to think straight in the hospital, morphine drip, fat white ache. The nurses gave them ice chips and packaged sandwiches. The doctors said things like third-degree and skin grafts. There were no mirrors in the room, which really should have been the first sign.
Katie called biweekly, Grandpa, twice, and Nana, occasionally, slurred. They knew that they were never going to recover. Vic pick up the phone, you goddamn snake. What are you telling them, what game are you playing?
( )
“Nothing happened– She was good. I love– I loved her. I did, Bianca.”
“She was good?”
“She never meant it, it was– You know. I don’t understand why you’re asking me about this.”
“I wasn’t, Vic.”
( )
Bianca didn’t ask about their damage but they kept their shirt on when they fucked and made sure she didn’t see the back of their neck so, well. Still, sometimes, in the dark, running their hands over the knots, tracing silently. There were solutions, to the aching, the stretched tissue, but they all required somebody else to know. Long-sleeve summers, cigarette-burn skin, smoking just to know that it wouldn’t hurt anymore.
( )
They don’t realise they’re crying until it’s already too late. Bianca takes half a step forward, reaches a hand out, dealing with dogs, and Vic makes a desperate sort of keening sound. It’s been a long day. It’s a been long fucking year.
“Stay with me.”
“For a minute.”
“Please– Can you just pretend?”
( )
From across the room she’d stood, deep indigo, pupils shining like dimes, dilatation. Hey– Hi. Sorry, I’ve seen you around campus, I’m– and Vic rested their hand on her waist like a boy. Have I met you before? You look someone famous–