Thread: Perfect Stranger (SevenxBathos)

With a carefully neutral expression, Michael Jones stared at the elaborate display of haute cuisine on the plate in front of him. If one cared to look closely enough, they might find the subtle tremor in the corner of his mouth as he wondered, not for the first time, if he was actually supposed to touch the food, or if maybe the party was meant to fill their bellies with sparkling water and ancient table wine. In the past, when he'd been dragged to these things, the high-class cookery at least looked like food and not a print from Jackson Pollock The Lost Years. So he knew the name of a painter. It wasn't like he was raised in Jersey . Michael stayed that way throughout dinner eyes down, uncharacteristically quiet, stone faced. Hungry . It wasn't like it was worst thing in the world to be swept around in the folds of his buddy's coattails from time to time, but that night was particularly intolerable, because-- Oh, gimme a break, Michael groused under his breath when Nicholas stood up to toast the latest in a long line of evil skanks. Michael's eyes sought out the woman of the hour, the birthday princess , as Nicholas recited a charming, tastefully brief speech about-- Well, Michael was willfully blocking all sound from his higher consciousness by that point, but he knew it was somehow related to her . It wasn't jealousy. It was absolutely nothing like jealousy. Aside from the part where he wanted to gouge out Bianca's eyes with an ice pick--because, obviously, that was the only tool for the job--there was nothing whatsoever resembling jealousy as far as Michael Jones was concerned. It was just. Nicholas. He let these women turn him into such a pansy , showering them with flowers and jewelry and gourmet whatever , catering to their every whim like he was the lucky one. Like there weren't hordes of them ready to tip right over with their legs spread wide at just the slightest inkling of interest from Nick. And some of the women? They weren't all that bad. But time after fucking time, it was a Bianca, or a Sophia, or an Angelique, with their perfectly drawn eyes and their perfectly pouty lips and their perfectly vapid personalities when, obviously, what Nick really needed was a girl--nay, a woman --who was into sports. Maybe not all the same teams, but at least knew the difference between a halfback and a tight end. A girl who liked beer , maybe even domestic brews, on occasion. And who could kick his ass at Halo ... and looked good naked. Maybe a blonde, with legs clear up to her ass and a tight little-- Michael's head jerked up at the mention of his name, eyes going instinctively wide and guileless, telegraphing to anyone who cared to pay attention, I so wasn't having naughty thoughts during the evil skank's birthday festivities. I am a gentleman and Nicholas is not a moron for appointing me his best friend. The innocent look was promptly swapped out for the red-faced, humiliated look which, in its own time, moved on to fiery, skank-slaying murder eyes. Newer model?! Michael jumped to his feet and froze, caught between the desire to strangle a bitch with a brand spankin' new diamond tennis bracelet, and the one to comfort his best friend who'd just been publicly dumped by the woman he allegedly loved. Though Michael had some theories on that front. One look at Nicholas, however, composed and airy and way too fucking balanced , and his decision was made. Bianca would live to skank again. Look, guys, he said to the rest of the table, maybe you should just, uh. And wasn't this awkward? Michael had barely spoken ten words to these people, and even those were dragged out of him, clipped and monosyllabic. He opened his hands, at a complete loss. I got this. Why don't you all just ... Just get outta here. The din in the restaurant was steadily normalizing, patrons were either going back about their business or gossiping amongst themselves about the scene Bianca had just caused, and at least everybody was trying to be subtle about their rubber-necking. Nicholas, if you need anything, one guy started--some suit with stupid hair and a bad tan--like maybe he was going to offer words of condolences or a shoulder to cry on or some sappy shit like that and, goddammit, that was Michael's job, so he cut him off clean. Dude. Just go. I got this. Really . And maybe he was overstepping his bounds here, bossing Nick's people around like this, but no way in Hell was Michael going to let these assholes see his boy while he was down. Slowly, as if in a daze and struggling to believe what they'd just witnessed, the party began to trickle away. When he was sure they were all going, Michael fell heavily into his chair and looked over at Nick. Food sucked.