On any ordinary day Tristan O'Hara would've thought his mustard yellow turtleneck, wine-coloured chinos, and tan Chelsea boots to be a rather striking ensemble on its own. With today's company, however, it almost seemed a little basic. Tristan wasn't lacking for fashionable friends, but Ivy Langley was truly a cut above the rest and he felt he needed to put extra effort in whenever he hung out with her – doubly-so if it was just the two of them. And so it was that a camel beret and turquoise, owl-printed scarf (two gems in his wardrobe he never wore) made their way onto his person. This was an outfit he would've scarcely thought to wear in the past – perhaps to a fancy dress party in French class – but today was already set to be a day of risks. Why not take another with his choice of outfit?
Tristan fished his wallet out of his pocket and counted through the notes as he leaned beside the pale green letter box that was the only thing to distinguish his house from its brethren. Truthfully, he felt a little embarrassed that Ivy was picking him up. He knew the O'Haras' small house was nothing to scoff at, but he doubted it could hold a candle to her own, infinitely-grander abode. He glanced back at the building that had been his home for the last half-decade, and suddenly the peeling paint and dirty windows seemed all the more eye-catching than before.
Shaking off his anxiety, Tristan finished thumbing through his money – he prayed it'd be enough to afford the bleach and other necessary products – and stuffed it back into his jeans, instead trying to redirect his focus on the day ahead of him. He so rarely got the chance to hang just one-on-one with Ivy – she was a popular girl and had no shortage of people lining up to socialise with her – and not only that, they were travelling down a route he'd never explored before. Ivy had an uncanny ability to wholly commit to whatever aesthetic she was embodying at any given time. It was a trait Tristan desperately wanted to possess himself; on a daily basis, he found himself swinging between wanting to wear oversized double-denim to cute blazers to chinos to full black to nothing but bright colours and sparkles. But whatever Ivy wore, she took full command of it.
This command extended beyond her outfits as well – when she'd first shown up to school with her tousled locks in a stunning pastel pink, Tristan had felt a fluttering in his heart and cogs beginning to stir in his mind. His own hair was fairly non-descript – he didn't hate it, but it didn't exactly spark joy or interest in him the way the coloured hair of Ivy or Marceline or Jonah did. And with a reasonably-close friend to guide him along the way, taking the plunge into the world of hair dye didn't seem as scary as it once had.
Ivy wouldn't be too far away now. He'd been waiting outside for ten or so minutes, but Tristan liked to be early places, even if it meant standing around awkwardly – it was a much better alternative in his eyes than being late or skating in with half a second to spare. As he waited for her to pull up, he elected to kill the last few minutes of idle time he had left by giving himself a once-over via his phone's camera, tugging at the end of a stray lock of hair and ensuring he didn't look like a total mess.
Would he suit having a shocking mane of lilac? Maybe not, and maybe he'd find himself impatient for it to return to its natural colouring in a week or two, but it was equally possible he'd look in the mirror once it was all said and done and see himself in a way he'd never before been able to.
At the very least, it'd score a few likes on Instagram.
With Plenty of Money and You
Autumn, 2017
>> Ivy Langley continued from you are not a human being
God, Tristan was cute.
But like, in the way kittens were cute. In the way where Ivy kinda wanted to take him home and keep him forever and like, dress him up and tell him secrets like one of those talking dolls she'd had as a kid. Not in the way that, inexplicably, a solid half the school seemed to find him cute; Ivy was fully aware she had a type and that Tristan didn't come within fifty feet of it. There was something intriguing about how irresistible other people found him, though- like, did they know something she didn't? There had to be something there. She should ask Myles. No, wait, that would involve actively picturing Myles getting fucked. Shudder.
This probably wasn't the best time for this train of thought, anyway, considering it was the middle of the day, she had actual concrete plans, and she was dead sober. And also she had a boyfriend or something?
Ivy turned onto Tristan's street with a wrinkled nose. It genuinely blew her mind that people lived like this. Not just theoretical people, but actual friends that she willingly spent time with. Her car was particularly ostentatious in this environment, not that it didn't stand out pretty much anywhere- a custom paint job on a Porsche convertible would do that. The extra $5k had been so worth it for the burgundy. She drove with the top down, her hair tied back to keep it from tangling in the breeze; she had had to make a slight adjustment to her outfit of the day when she realized how non-conducive berets were to convertibles. She'd kept it relatively simple today, anyway. Tristan's sense of style was just extra enough to meet her in the middle.
As she pulled up to his house, Ivy smiled. Her faith had not been misplaced. Tristan was seriously ridiculous and she kind of loved it for reasons inexplicable. She was kind of glad she'd ditched the beret, though; they'd look unbearable together if they matched on top of everything else. She studied him for the moment it took him to walk to the car. How would he look with purple hair along with the rest of that getup? Like, it wasn't really her problem, but if he was going to look completely stupid it was probably her duty as a friend to tell him so.
It'd be totally over the top, for sure. Which meant it'd suit him.
"Afternoon, darling," she said with a sweet smile as she unlocked the car door for him. "Love the scarf."
She meant it, too. Mostly.
God, Tristan was cute.
But like, in the way kittens were cute. In the way where Ivy kinda wanted to take him home and keep him forever and like, dress him up and tell him secrets like one of those talking dolls she'd had as a kid. Not in the way that, inexplicably, a solid half the school seemed to find him cute; Ivy was fully aware she had a type and that Tristan didn't come within fifty feet of it. There was something intriguing about how irresistible other people found him, though- like, did they know something she didn't? There had to be something there. She should ask Myles. No, wait, that would involve actively picturing Myles getting fucked. Shudder.
This probably wasn't the best time for this train of thought, anyway, considering it was the middle of the day, she had actual concrete plans, and she was dead sober. And also she had a boyfriend or something?
Ivy turned onto Tristan's street with a wrinkled nose. It genuinely blew her mind that people lived like this. Not just theoretical people, but actual friends that she willingly spent time with. Her car was particularly ostentatious in this environment, not that it didn't stand out pretty much anywhere- a custom paint job on a Porsche convertible would do that. The extra $5k had been so worth it for the burgundy. She drove with the top down, her hair tied back to keep it from tangling in the breeze; she had had to make a slight adjustment to her outfit of the day when she realized how non-conducive berets were to convertibles. She'd kept it relatively simple today, anyway. Tristan's sense of style was just extra enough to meet her in the middle.
As she pulled up to his house, Ivy smiled. Her faith had not been misplaced. Tristan was seriously ridiculous and she kind of loved it for reasons inexplicable. She was kind of glad she'd ditched the beret, though; they'd look unbearable together if they matched on top of everything else. She studied him for the moment it took him to walk to the car. How would he look with purple hair along with the rest of that getup? Like, it wasn't really her problem, but if he was going to look completely stupid it was probably her duty as a friend to tell him so.
It'd be totally over the top, for sure. Which meant it'd suit him.
"Afternoon, darling," she said with a sweet smile as she unlocked the car door for him. "Love the scarf."
She meant it, too. Mostly.
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Tristan instantly perked up as he heard the soft purr of Ivy's car approach, offering her a gentle wave and toothy grin as she offered him a greeting.
"Hey babe!" He chirped, approaching her car with a bounce in his step. His eyes flicked over Ivy as he gave her outfit a quick once over, and he found his fingers brushing over his scarf as she complimented it; Ivy knew his soft spots and just how to hit them. And it always worked, too, regardless of how genuine she might've been.
"Love the whole outfit. Stunning, as per usual."
He meant it, too – Tristan found it difficult to give out compliments if they weren't genuine. Although, in his experience there was always something nice to say, no matter how small or difficult it might've been to find, so compliments were not a rarity with him. Truthfully, part of what had factored into his decision to wear a beret over his perennial newsboy cap was the chance that Ivy might be wearing one of hers as well. As he opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, he fought back the spike of disappointment that rose within him when he saw she wasn't. He often found himself making a mental note of many of her ensembles and writing it down when he had the chance, attempting to make some recreation of it from his own wardrobe; it was always a happy occasion for him whenever the two happened to match.
He relaxed into the soft leather seat as best he could – it was hard to fully unwind when he was surrounded by such luxury and the thought of possibly damaging it was never too far from his mind. He contemplated the open-top nature of Ivy's convertible and chose to remove his headwear, hoping his hair didn't look to mussed up as a result. The beret had been a twenty cent bargain bin find, but it certainly looked worth more than that and it would've been hard to mask his sadness if a stray gust of wind took it from him.
And on top of that, letting his hair fly free in the open air might do it some good when it came to dying it. Maybe. Thinking back, Tristan realised how little he knew about how hair maintenance worked, despite the choices his own family had made. In her teenage years, his sister insisted on adding all sorts of highlights to spruce up her mousy brown bob, and there wasn't a lot of things his mother and his aunt agreed on, but looking back through old, grainy family photos of the two showed their mutual love for funky hair colours. They should've been natural people to go to, but he was much too nervous to bring it up out of the blue with them and there was little chance of the conversation naturally going in that direction.
At least he had Ivy, and there was no such familial nerves with her – even if she did oftentimes feel like an elder sister to him.
"I have like sixty dollars in cash. Do you think that'll be enough for the bleach and the box dye? I'm really not savvy enough with this sorta thing."
"Hey babe!" He chirped, approaching her car with a bounce in his step. His eyes flicked over Ivy as he gave her outfit a quick once over, and he found his fingers brushing over his scarf as she complimented it; Ivy knew his soft spots and just how to hit them. And it always worked, too, regardless of how genuine she might've been.
"Love the whole outfit. Stunning, as per usual."
He meant it, too – Tristan found it difficult to give out compliments if they weren't genuine. Although, in his experience there was always something nice to say, no matter how small or difficult it might've been to find, so compliments were not a rarity with him. Truthfully, part of what had factored into his decision to wear a beret over his perennial newsboy cap was the chance that Ivy might be wearing one of hers as well. As he opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, he fought back the spike of disappointment that rose within him when he saw she wasn't. He often found himself making a mental note of many of her ensembles and writing it down when he had the chance, attempting to make some recreation of it from his own wardrobe; it was always a happy occasion for him whenever the two happened to match.
He relaxed into the soft leather seat as best he could – it was hard to fully unwind when he was surrounded by such luxury and the thought of possibly damaging it was never too far from his mind. He contemplated the open-top nature of Ivy's convertible and chose to remove his headwear, hoping his hair didn't look to mussed up as a result. The beret had been a twenty cent bargain bin find, but it certainly looked worth more than that and it would've been hard to mask his sadness if a stray gust of wind took it from him.
And on top of that, letting his hair fly free in the open air might do it some good when it came to dying it. Maybe. Thinking back, Tristan realised how little he knew about how hair maintenance worked, despite the choices his own family had made. In her teenage years, his sister insisted on adding all sorts of highlights to spruce up her mousy brown bob, and there wasn't a lot of things his mother and his aunt agreed on, but looking back through old, grainy family photos of the two showed their mutual love for funky hair colours. They should've been natural people to go to, but he was much too nervous to bring it up out of the blue with them and there was little chance of the conversation naturally going in that direction.
At least he had Ivy, and there was no such familial nerves with her – even if she did oftentimes feel like an elder sister to him.
"I have like sixty dollars in cash. Do you think that'll be enough for the bleach and the box dye? I'm really not savvy enough with this sorta thing."
Ivy was rather grateful they'd pulled up to a stoplight as Tristan opened his mouth to speak. She needed the opportunity to give him the most withering look she could muster.
"Tristan. Hon. Sweetheart. Are you stupid or something?"
She meant it with love, and hopefully she didn't sound too mean, but honestly, where on earth had that idea gotten into him? She supposed he was coming to her because of his ignorance, so she couldn't be too much of a bitch about it, but whatever. Tristan was a big boy, he could handle her. She was in a bit of a mood today, admittedly. Like, she'd been going to Razor Sharp once a month for years now, and they knew full well that she didn't trust anyone but Natasha with her hair, but when she needed to make a slight adjustment to her touch-up schedule to accommodate Tristan they couldn't cancel Natasha's prior appointment for her? It was ridiculous. If one of the other stylists ruined her hair she would burn the place to the ground. On social media, anyway.
The light changed to green, and they were on their way again.
"No, no, no bleach, no... 'box dye'. Don't be ridiculous." Ivy wasn't actually sure how people went about dying their hair outside of a salon. She knew that dye and bleach were things you could purchase, but were you just supposed to slather them on your head and hope it worked? Why wouldn't you just go to a professional? Truly, it boggled the mind. She pursed her lips, pushing a loose strand of hair behind an ear with her free hand. There was a slight autumn chill in the air, just enough that keeping the convertible top open was perhaps not the best idea. It looked so damn good, though.
"We're going to Razor Sharp. I usually go every month, they're great there. Usually." She pouted a bit at the injustice they'd dealt her. "Don't worry about the cost, I have it covered, darling. You can buy me pizza after, we'll call it even, yes?"
Ivy had absolutely no idea how much a session at Razor Sharp cost. She had always put it on her card and was done with it. What was one more?
"Tristan. Hon. Sweetheart. Are you stupid or something?"
She meant it with love, and hopefully she didn't sound too mean, but honestly, where on earth had that idea gotten into him? She supposed he was coming to her because of his ignorance, so she couldn't be too much of a bitch about it, but whatever. Tristan was a big boy, he could handle her. She was in a bit of a mood today, admittedly. Like, she'd been going to Razor Sharp once a month for years now, and they knew full well that she didn't trust anyone but Natasha with her hair, but when she needed to make a slight adjustment to her touch-up schedule to accommodate Tristan they couldn't cancel Natasha's prior appointment for her? It was ridiculous. If one of the other stylists ruined her hair she would burn the place to the ground. On social media, anyway.
The light changed to green, and they were on their way again.
"No, no, no bleach, no... 'box dye'. Don't be ridiculous." Ivy wasn't actually sure how people went about dying their hair outside of a salon. She knew that dye and bleach were things you could purchase, but were you just supposed to slather them on your head and hope it worked? Why wouldn't you just go to a professional? Truly, it boggled the mind. She pursed her lips, pushing a loose strand of hair behind an ear with her free hand. There was a slight autumn chill in the air, just enough that keeping the convertible top open was perhaps not the best idea. It looked so damn good, though.
"We're going to Razor Sharp. I usually go every month, they're great there. Usually." She pouted a bit at the injustice they'd dealt her. "Don't worry about the cost, I have it covered, darling. You can buy me pizza after, we'll call it even, yes?"
Ivy had absolutely no idea how much a session at Razor Sharp cost. She had always put it on her card and was done with it. What was one more?
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Tristan's eyes widened as Ivy glared at him, fearful he was about to incur Ivy's wrath and with no chance of escape – unless he opted to throw himself out onto the open highway. And considering the fashion with which Ivy was able to tear some people down with just a few words, that wasn't an altogether unappealing option.
Luckily, her criticism wasn't as severe as he'd anticipated – just a comment on his intelligence and an explanation of exactly how they were going to get their hair styled. Tristan should've known better than to assume Ivy was a box dye kinda girl, but that didn't stop his eyes from bulging when the words 'Razor Sharp' parted from her lips. That was a salon he'd passed by on occasion, the sort of place he took moderate notice of but never expected to actually enter. And how could he? It was so far out of his budget even entertaining the notion of booking an appointment there was ludicrous; especially with how many cheaper options there were scattered throughout the city.
But here was Ivy, so nonchalantly offering not only to escort him there but to pay for both their stylings as well. He wondered if Ivy was truly aware of how much any of these seemingly flippant gestures meant to those close to her. It was moments like these where all of those nasty things said about Ivy melted away, and he was left with the image of a generous and darling friend in their wake.
"Pizza sounds good." He was glad Ivy had given a suggestion on how to even things out – he would've felt so indebted to her otherwise. Although a pizza each would go some way towards alleviating that guilt, it still felt like he'd need to do some gargantuan gesture for her somewhere down the line to even begin feeling like the scales of their friendship had once again been evened out.
He usually defaulted to the cheapest option when it came to takeaways, but if Ivy was going to just spontaneously gift him something like this than his usual $5 Hawaiian wasn't going to cut it. He made a mental note to look up a fancier option later on, lest Ivy not have any preferences herself.
In an attempt to distract himself from the newfound debt hovering over his head, Tristan turned towards idle small talk, hoping he could shake the image of Ivy spending God-knows-how-much out of his head.
"How's your weekend been going so far? Anything exciting happening in the Life of Ivy?"
He paused for a second, looking towards the sleek and shiny built-in car radio situated between the two of them.
"Oh, and mind if I turn the radio on too?"
Their music tastes didn't wholly align, but there was enough overlap there that he knew they could find a tune or two to sing along to without much trouble.
Luckily, her criticism wasn't as severe as he'd anticipated – just a comment on his intelligence and an explanation of exactly how they were going to get their hair styled. Tristan should've known better than to assume Ivy was a box dye kinda girl, but that didn't stop his eyes from bulging when the words 'Razor Sharp' parted from her lips. That was a salon he'd passed by on occasion, the sort of place he took moderate notice of but never expected to actually enter. And how could he? It was so far out of his budget even entertaining the notion of booking an appointment there was ludicrous; especially with how many cheaper options there were scattered throughout the city.
But here was Ivy, so nonchalantly offering not only to escort him there but to pay for both their stylings as well. He wondered if Ivy was truly aware of how much any of these seemingly flippant gestures meant to those close to her. It was moments like these where all of those nasty things said about Ivy melted away, and he was left with the image of a generous and darling friend in their wake.
"Pizza sounds good." He was glad Ivy had given a suggestion on how to even things out – he would've felt so indebted to her otherwise. Although a pizza each would go some way towards alleviating that guilt, it still felt like he'd need to do some gargantuan gesture for her somewhere down the line to even begin feeling like the scales of their friendship had once again been evened out.
He usually defaulted to the cheapest option when it came to takeaways, but if Ivy was going to just spontaneously gift him something like this than his usual $5 Hawaiian wasn't going to cut it. He made a mental note to look up a fancier option later on, lest Ivy not have any preferences herself.
In an attempt to distract himself from the newfound debt hovering over his head, Tristan turned towards idle small talk, hoping he could shake the image of Ivy spending God-knows-how-much out of his head.
"How's your weekend been going so far? Anything exciting happening in the Life of Ivy?"
He paused for a second, looking towards the sleek and shiny built-in car radio situated between the two of them.
"Oh, and mind if I turn the radio on too?"
Their music tastes didn't wholly align, but there was enough overlap there that he knew they could find a tune or two to sing along to without much trouble.
"Yes, yes, of course," Ivy waved him off vaguely. Whatever to music. She had a well-prepared rant to go on.
She sighed melodramatically, tossing her hair—a superfluous move considering the way the wind in the car was already blowing her hair back, but sometimes a point needed to be punctuated with a well-timed hair flip. Her lips moved into a perfect pout as she gave Tristan a sidelong glance because lord had she been waiting for the opportunity to gossip. Tristan was admittedly not the most discreet person in the world, but that was what made him so useful, and anyway, he was a smart boy. He knew full well how very against his interests it was to betray her trust.
... And also, scheming aside, he was a good friend.
"Well. Did I tell you about the country club formal?" It was a rhetorical question; she'd been going on about it for weeks. "I swear, I should invite you to the next one, they're honestly far more fun than they sound as long as you steer as far clear from the adults as possible and pack your own drinks- I'd have to lend you a suit or something, though, they're very strict on dress code."
She was getting off-topic; her expression had softened, which wouldn't do. Her pout reasserted itself.
"Anyway. I picked out a new dress for it, got it tailored and everything, had to turn down weekend hangouts with Myley, told a ton of people I'd be there. But obviously I couldn't show up by myself? Like, everyone knows I have a boyfriend. It'd be beyond scandalous." Of course, Tristan of all people knew that hardly stopped her most of the time, but whatever. This was different. High school gossip was one thing—the gossip of the Chattanooga elite another thing entirely.
"So I told Bret about it like a week or two ago? And he said fine, sure, whatever, and I don't think he was taking it seriously but I picked out a suit for him and everything, and I went to hang out with him on Saturday, and..." She waved a hand airily. "Things went as usual, except then I reminded him of the formal and he was like..." Her voice deepened in a hilariously inaccurate mockery of her boyfriend. "'Oh, sorry Ivy, there's this football thing I totally forgot to tell you about for some reason and I can't get out of it and obviously football is more important to me than you.' Like, seriously? How utterly braindead can you be? Not to mention the utter inability to prioritize. Like, I had your dick in my mouth like ten minutes ago and you're going to pick football over me? God, it's asinine, he's the worst."
Ivy's heated tone didn't quite match the reality that was obvious in her expression. She was biting her lip, and for just a moment there was something like genuine sadness on her face, before she flipped her hair again and it cleared again.
"Whatever. He owes me and he knows it, that's good enough, I suppose. Can't expect boys to be anything but impossible. Present company excepted, of course." She turned a corner, pulling up to another red light. "We're almost there, by the by. You owe me your own weekend stories." She raised an eyebrow. "Unless they involve Myley, in which case spare me the details, yes?"
She sighed melodramatically, tossing her hair—a superfluous move considering the way the wind in the car was already blowing her hair back, but sometimes a point needed to be punctuated with a well-timed hair flip. Her lips moved into a perfect pout as she gave Tristan a sidelong glance because lord had she been waiting for the opportunity to gossip. Tristan was admittedly not the most discreet person in the world, but that was what made him so useful, and anyway, he was a smart boy. He knew full well how very against his interests it was to betray her trust.
... And also, scheming aside, he was a good friend.
"Well. Did I tell you about the country club formal?" It was a rhetorical question; she'd been going on about it for weeks. "I swear, I should invite you to the next one, they're honestly far more fun than they sound as long as you steer as far clear from the adults as possible and pack your own drinks- I'd have to lend you a suit or something, though, they're very strict on dress code."
She was getting off-topic; her expression had softened, which wouldn't do. Her pout reasserted itself.
"Anyway. I picked out a new dress for it, got it tailored and everything, had to turn down weekend hangouts with Myley, told a ton of people I'd be there. But obviously I couldn't show up by myself? Like, everyone knows I have a boyfriend. It'd be beyond scandalous." Of course, Tristan of all people knew that hardly stopped her most of the time, but whatever. This was different. High school gossip was one thing—the gossip of the Chattanooga elite another thing entirely.
"So I told Bret about it like a week or two ago? And he said fine, sure, whatever, and I don't think he was taking it seriously but I picked out a suit for him and everything, and I went to hang out with him on Saturday, and..." She waved a hand airily. "Things went as usual, except then I reminded him of the formal and he was like..." Her voice deepened in a hilariously inaccurate mockery of her boyfriend. "'Oh, sorry Ivy, there's this football thing I totally forgot to tell you about for some reason and I can't get out of it and obviously football is more important to me than you.' Like, seriously? How utterly braindead can you be? Not to mention the utter inability to prioritize. Like, I had your dick in my mouth like ten minutes ago and you're going to pick football over me? God, it's asinine, he's the worst."
Ivy's heated tone didn't quite match the reality that was obvious in her expression. She was biting her lip, and for just a moment there was something like genuine sadness on her face, before she flipped her hair again and it cleared again.
"Whatever. He owes me and he knows it, that's good enough, I suppose. Can't expect boys to be anything but impossible. Present company excepted, of course." She turned a corner, pulling up to another red light. "We're almost there, by the by. You owe me your own weekend stories." She raised an eyebrow. "Unless they involve Myley, in which case spare me the details, yes?"
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Tristan reached forward and flicked on the radio, smiling as Charli XCX's 'Boys' echoed from the speaker set. It was an upbeat enough tune, and one that fell comfortably between his and Ivy's musical tastes. He would've suggested playing in his phone and selecting from his own playlists, but that would've required slugging through a dozen musical theatre numbers before landing on something Ivy would like. Tristan took pride in how many show tunes he had memorised and ready to belt out at a moment's notice, but he'd endured the odd bit of teasing of late from his friends regarding just how much musical theatre dominated his music library. One drunken occasion of insisting they play 'Hello, Dolly' just so he could show everybody how good his duckwalk was had left a lasting impression and one he had yet to shake off.
It wasn't long before Tristan found himself instinctively turning the volume down as Ivy started her rant, not wanting to lose a word of her spiel behind the music.
He nodded as Ivy explained how Bret had failed to live up to her expectations, once again. It frustrated him that Ivy, so confident and quintessentially Ivy could get played with so easily by Bret Carter of all people. It seemed like she gave so much to that boy and got so little back, even with how low and base her expectations were.
It was moments like these that made being single feel so much better. As much as he sometimes wanted someone regular and reliable and to whom he could open up without fear of reproach, the constant threat of being disappointed by them didn't seem to make it worthwhile.
"He is such a prat," Tristan chose his next words carefully – he wanted to show Ivy how much he empathised with her, which he really truly did, but didn't want to cuss Bret off too much. He was still her boyfriend and she still loved him for all those faults, and he didn't want to cross any boundaries. "I know he'll make it up to you, though, right? He is so lucky to have you, boo."
It made Tristan feel good that Ivy saw him as a suitable confidant. He knew he wasn't her only one, nor her most regular, but it was still a select few who had the privilege of hearing her secrets and getting to peek beneath that brassy veil she maintained so well.
Ivy followed up her rant by asking him about his own weekend dalliances, and he tilted his head as he mulled over what had transpired in his life the past few days. What stood at the forefront of his mind was the fight he'd been having with both his parents for the last while. It wasn't anything specific, just a bunch of things that would've otherwise been easy to juggle, as much as he disliked dealing with them – wobbly grades, the odd homophobic microaggression, criticism of his style and friendship choices – but snowballed all together? That was just exhausting. The fact that neither of his parents were taking his side didn't help either. Disagreements between him and his father were a regular thing, to the point where he didn't bat and eyelid at them, but it was different with his mum. He and her clicked so well, so it stung twice as much if she felt he was failing too.
He thought for a moment about mentioning it to Ivy, but best not to. What good would dragging her down as well do? It wasn't as if life was all sunshine and daisies for her.
"Nothing too crazy, y'know? Just had like, a glass of wine last night and binge-watched Netflix."
It wasn't a lie, not at all. Just omitting the truth, was all. The reason for edge that glass of wine took off didn't need to be broadcast, nor the fact that the Netflix was just an excuse not to leave his room.
"Now that you mention it, though... I haven't had Myles over for awhile, so thanks for reminding me to get onto that. Or onto him, rather."
He winked, and hoped that would distract her enough to not notice how many hard truths he'd just swallowed back.
It wasn't long before Tristan found himself instinctively turning the volume down as Ivy started her rant, not wanting to lose a word of her spiel behind the music.
He nodded as Ivy explained how Bret had failed to live up to her expectations, once again. It frustrated him that Ivy, so confident and quintessentially Ivy could get played with so easily by Bret Carter of all people. It seemed like she gave so much to that boy and got so little back, even with how low and base her expectations were.
It was moments like these that made being single feel so much better. As much as he sometimes wanted someone regular and reliable and to whom he could open up without fear of reproach, the constant threat of being disappointed by them didn't seem to make it worthwhile.
"He is such a prat," Tristan chose his next words carefully – he wanted to show Ivy how much he empathised with her, which he really truly did, but didn't want to cuss Bret off too much. He was still her boyfriend and she still loved him for all those faults, and he didn't want to cross any boundaries. "I know he'll make it up to you, though, right? He is so lucky to have you, boo."
It made Tristan feel good that Ivy saw him as a suitable confidant. He knew he wasn't her only one, nor her most regular, but it was still a select few who had the privilege of hearing her secrets and getting to peek beneath that brassy veil she maintained so well.
Ivy followed up her rant by asking him about his own weekend dalliances, and he tilted his head as he mulled over what had transpired in his life the past few days. What stood at the forefront of his mind was the fight he'd been having with both his parents for the last while. It wasn't anything specific, just a bunch of things that would've otherwise been easy to juggle, as much as he disliked dealing with them – wobbly grades, the odd homophobic microaggression, criticism of his style and friendship choices – but snowballed all together? That was just exhausting. The fact that neither of his parents were taking his side didn't help either. Disagreements between him and his father were a regular thing, to the point where he didn't bat and eyelid at them, but it was different with his mum. He and her clicked so well, so it stung twice as much if she felt he was failing too.
He thought for a moment about mentioning it to Ivy, but best not to. What good would dragging her down as well do? It wasn't as if life was all sunshine and daisies for her.
"Nothing too crazy, y'know? Just had like, a glass of wine last night and binge-watched Netflix."
It wasn't a lie, not at all. Just omitting the truth, was all. The reason for edge that glass of wine took off didn't need to be broadcast, nor the fact that the Netflix was just an excuse not to leave his room.
"Now that you mention it, though... I haven't had Myles over for awhile, so thanks for reminding me to get onto that. Or onto him, rather."
He winked, and hoped that would distract her enough to not notice how many hard truths he'd just swallowed back.
God, Ivy loved this station? Like, of course she did, that's why it was the one already playing when Tristan flipped on the radio, but as she spoke Charli XCX gave way to Kesha and it was hard not to interrupt Tristan's response to start singing. Someday, she thought, she should take her Porsche on a road trip. Top back, wind in her hair, singing at the top of her lungs going 80 on the freeway. Over the summer, maybe? Those last few months before Duke seemed like a prime time to do something absolutely ridiculous, after all, and with money being obviously no object the sky was the limit. Of course, the downside to her Porsche was that there was only one spot open for companionship, and it was all too clear who that would be. She supposed it would have to be that way. Taking Myles and Tristan on the same trip would be intolerable.
She'd consider it later; it was hardly appropriate to discuss future plans in front of someone she couldn't invite. Her mental wanderings had only taken a few seconds in reality, the time spent driving down one more block before yet another stoplight blocked their progress. She glanced at Tristan as he spoke, but the only response she really had was a sigh. It was a perfect response. Exquisitely crafted as always, and almost familiar. Even the people she actually liked always spoke to her so cautiously.
Ivy hated it. She hated that so many of the people she cared for didn't trust her enough to be honest, but mostly, she hated that she noticed. It'd be nice to be oblivious enough to take Tristan's words at face value. And she didn't doubt that his sentiment was honest, he was a sweetheart and not great at actually lying, but he was clearly equivocating. That was how he'd climbed his way up the social ladder, after all. Saying the right things and not falling too hard on any side of any argument. He was a smart guy. It would be real, real easy for someone like him to fall out of his position with a wrong word or gesture.
It occasionally occurred to her how difficult these things were to navigate for people that weren't her.
"Sounds like an ideal night." Her smile was distant. There was so much missing from Tristan's words and in a different mood she might be inclined to grill him for details, but his tight smile and quick change of subject betrayed a melancholy that she didn't want to pry open. This was supposed to be fun. It was fun, only a moment ago, and it would still be fun if she could stop fucking overthinking every stupid thing that came out of his mouth. She punched his shoulder and rolled her eyes and it felt forced as hell but it was the thing to do.
"Blech. Don't put images like that in my head. You're going to knock ten years off my lifespan."
They had finally, finally arrived, as Ivy pulled into Razor Sharp's small parking lot. It would be fine. She was in a bad mood to begin with, what with Natasha and Bret and everything, and she'd let that bad mood spoil her fun for a moment, but she refused to let it ruin her day. She paused, sitting in her idling car for a moment, taking a deep breath.
"Well. Here we are."
It would be a good day. She refused to accept anything less.
>> Ivy Langley continued in you didn't know me, but he knew me best
She'd consider it later; it was hardly appropriate to discuss future plans in front of someone she couldn't invite. Her mental wanderings had only taken a few seconds in reality, the time spent driving down one more block before yet another stoplight blocked their progress. She glanced at Tristan as he spoke, but the only response she really had was a sigh. It was a perfect response. Exquisitely crafted as always, and almost familiar. Even the people she actually liked always spoke to her so cautiously.
Ivy hated it. She hated that so many of the people she cared for didn't trust her enough to be honest, but mostly, she hated that she noticed. It'd be nice to be oblivious enough to take Tristan's words at face value. And she didn't doubt that his sentiment was honest, he was a sweetheart and not great at actually lying, but he was clearly equivocating. That was how he'd climbed his way up the social ladder, after all. Saying the right things and not falling too hard on any side of any argument. He was a smart guy. It would be real, real easy for someone like him to fall out of his position with a wrong word or gesture.
It occasionally occurred to her how difficult these things were to navigate for people that weren't her.
"Sounds like an ideal night." Her smile was distant. There was so much missing from Tristan's words and in a different mood she might be inclined to grill him for details, but his tight smile and quick change of subject betrayed a melancholy that she didn't want to pry open. This was supposed to be fun. It was fun, only a moment ago, and it would still be fun if she could stop fucking overthinking every stupid thing that came out of his mouth. She punched his shoulder and rolled her eyes and it felt forced as hell but it was the thing to do.
"Blech. Don't put images like that in my head. You're going to knock ten years off my lifespan."
They had finally, finally arrived, as Ivy pulled into Razor Sharp's small parking lot. It would be fine. She was in a bad mood to begin with, what with Natasha and Bret and everything, and she'd let that bad mood spoil her fun for a moment, but she refused to let it ruin her day. She paused, sitting in her idling car for a moment, taking a deep breath.
"Well. Here we are."
It would be a good day. She refused to accept anything less.
>> Ivy Langley continued in you didn't know me, but he knew me best
"Well, Fenris, the King of Gossip. We meet again."
Was Tristan really that transparent?
Ivy loved to talk, and such a muted, simple statement from her was an immediate red flag. He considered for a moment letting that wall down just a little, to let something slip, but they were having a fun little trip together, and why would he bring the mood down like that? It'd just be selfish for him to do so.
Tristan was glad Ivy took his comments about Myles in her stride, and he laughed along with her as her fist brushed against his arm. It felt so performative, even moreso like an act than when he was on stage, but it was probably the closest to a real connection the two would ever allow the other to have.
And then their car ride was over, just as quickly as it had began. He stared out at the pristine exterior of Razor Sharp, at the polish and pounce that seemed to exude from it. For a moment, he wondered whether this was a good idea. Ivy had given him many tastes of the good life over the course of their friendship, and he worried whether he would become too accustomed to them.
But there was no backtracking now, no way out. He'd made his bed, and hey, even if he ended up regretting this new choice, it'd at least rake in the Instagram likes. That was something, at least?
He turned to Ivy and flashed her his biggest grin.
"This'll be great."
And it would.
With Ivy, any alternative wasn't worth thinking about.
Ivy loved to talk, and such a muted, simple statement from her was an immediate red flag. He considered for a moment letting that wall down just a little, to let something slip, but they were having a fun little trip together, and why would he bring the mood down like that? It'd just be selfish for him to do so.
Tristan was glad Ivy took his comments about Myles in her stride, and he laughed along with her as her fist brushed against his arm. It felt so performative, even moreso like an act than when he was on stage, but it was probably the closest to a real connection the two would ever allow the other to have.
And then their car ride was over, just as quickly as it had began. He stared out at the pristine exterior of Razor Sharp, at the polish and pounce that seemed to exude from it. For a moment, he wondered whether this was a good idea. Ivy had given him many tastes of the good life over the course of their friendship, and he worried whether he would become too accustomed to them.
But there was no backtracking now, no way out. He'd made his bed, and hey, even if he ended up regretting this new choice, it'd at least rake in the Instagram likes. That was something, at least?
He turned to Ivy and flashed her his biggest grin.
"This'll be great."
And it would.
With Ivy, any alternative wasn't worth thinking about.