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fortissimo

adverb. very loudly.

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QUENTIN ARRIVES AT MY HOUSE around six, lugging a pack of beer, and we order pizza for dinner before the party starts.

My house is a two-storey bungalow, built for families in another century but now one of the several student-habited houses along this road. Three other students live in the house, all of us brought together by the Halston University Find a Flatmate Facebook page. My flatmates been warned that tonight is a Vierra party—fuck, they've experienced Vierra parties before. Quentin and I finish the pizza and start shifting furniture, connecting Bluetooth speakers, hiding valuables, and setting out the solo cups.

It catches me by complete surprise when he asks, "Are you this invested in the election just because you want to beat Bay?"

I splutter for five seconds. "No."

Quen doesn't seem convinced. He's been watching our rivalry from the sidelines for years, occasionally playing referee. I don't know how Bay earned his friendship when she's so combative with me, but it happened.

"Hey, I'm actually trying to take this seriously. I invited her tonight, didn't I?" I don't know if she's going to come. She works Tuesdays and Fridays at the Foxhole, and though we've been to plenty of the same parties, she clearly is repulsed by my personality.

I don't understand Bay. I am likable. I try to be considerate and engaging. The way freshman year started, we could have been something great. We met at band camp and hung out at several parties in our first semester of college. Then, out of nowhere, she started deriding me, being condescending and critical.

Lateness is laziness.

Kind of sloppy.

Getting tired, Callum?

At every rehearsal, recital, game day, after-party, and rehearsal again, she would never let me forget: she was better than me. I could see it every time I looked at her, that unimpressed glower. Thinking her dislike was based on some misunderstanding, I tried my best to clear the air and be even nicer to her, but that just made her more hostile.

I think the reason I dislike Bay is kind of paradoxical: I dislike her because she made me dislike her. As in, my whole life I've tried to be upbeat and forgiving, never disliking anyone, but every day, every month, she would cast little judgments, make little jabs, and generally diminish me until I started reciprocating the behavior to see if that would change the dynamic. It didn't. When she finally broke me, she triumphed. I could see it in her eyes. She made me abandon a part of myself, just to get on her level.

Bay is pessimistic, judgmental and combative. With other people, at band parties, or at the Foxhole, she can change her demeanor like erasing a whiteboard and writing something new. It totally works in her favor. Her face doesn't hurt either, with an angular jawline and features all heroing her deep, dark eyes. If I start looking, I don't want to stop. Guys in a fifty mile radius want to slip their number to her. Girls leave after one conversation suddenly invigorated and radicalized, having learned something dark about people or society that makes them just want to be alone (Bay is a Math and Philosophy major, I can't think of a deadlier combination).

Earlier this year, from a mutual band friend, I heard that Bay talked a girl into breaking up with her boyfriend just to have one night of hooking up with her. When he approached Bay asking about it, she made him cry in public.

When I first met her, I thought she was one of those girls where a hurricane rages on the outside to protect the calm that lies within. Girls who've been hurt before and push others away to prevent another heartbreak. But Bay keeps a calm on her face all day long—sweet and polite enough to charm her teachers, Keller, Foxhole customers, all the rest of the band—just to hide the hurricane within. She entices people in just to play with them.

I think I'm the only one who sees her this way, beautiful but so fucking cold.

I sigh and set four stacks of solo cups on the kitchen counter, telling Quen: "Yesterday I even wished her luck for her audition. I am genuinely being civil about this. What more do you want me to do?"

"You wished her luck?"

"Good luck," I clarify, a pleased smile on my face. Team player, and all.

With a tap on my phone screen, pounding music starts reverberating through the house, all the wooden beams, counters and stairs helping with the acoustics. Someone knocks on the door.

"Our first guests," I smile.

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My favorite party game is strip beer pong.

I am current losing. This means I am only wearing jeans and a sock, cheered on by a big group of loyal supporters. There are about one hundred people packed into the ground floor of the house alone, so every brush of skin or fabric on my naked torso sends a shiver of excitement through me.

Alcohol courses through my blood, a mix of vodka, whiskey, and Quentin's beer. I am swaying on my feet; or the room is swaying around me. The music is fast and sexual and everyone's moving in some fashion—dancing, mixing drinks, traveling through the rooms. The air is hazy with vape and warm with breath.

My competitor, a complete stranger invited by Devin, one of the flatmates, sinks their ball into my last cup and I groan in defeat. I down the watery beer in the cup and slip away from the beer pong table. My supporters from the band clap me on the back and scream words of encouragement, "next time, man, next time!"

Tugging my other sock and shoes on, I leave the kitchen and head to the back patio. Here we go. I find Lien Hoang and Nate Savchenko with a group of seniors on the back porch. Leaning down, I squeeze both of them into a hug, one wrapped in each arm.

"Heyo, people. I love you."

Lien barks a laugh. "Callum, where are your clothes?"

"Lost to the masses," I hum happily, ignoring the way Lien presses her palm into my cheek to get away.

Lien sighs in relief when I step away and slip between her and Nate on the porch step. The outside air is cold on my face, my sweaty neck, my bare chest. "You're going for section leader, right? Who am I kidding, of course you are."

"I am," I confirm. "Bay is, too. Have you seen her tonight?" I scan the backyard but aside from a clump of smokers by the oak tree, there's no-one else outside.

Nate chuckles, hiding his grin into the cup of mystery liquor. "I haven't."

"Hey, Lien, out—"

"Excuse me?"

I groan, and all the seniors laugh. Behind us, a new song leaks out into the inky nighttime. "Lien, Lord and Saviour—"

"—thank you—"

"—out of me and Bay who would you pick?"

Everyone gasps. Nate puts a hand over his mouth, and Lien slaps me on the shoulder, her inky hair fanning in an arc around her collarbones. "You can't ask that!"

"What?"

"That's like asking her to pick a favorite child," Nate hisses. "Mommy and Daddy are impartial."

"And you're my Daddy, are you?" I smirk. Nate briefly freezes before glowering at me, his full bottom lip jutting out in a pout.

"Callum," Lien says, "I honestly think either of you would be great. You're both super passionate and super talented. If you guys weren't in the same cohort, Keller would have you both lead one year after the other."

Well, unfortunately, we are in the same cohort. Keller's gonna have to pick.

After five more minutes of chatting, harmlessly flirting with Nate (he has a girlfriend), and trying to get Lien to pick a side (unsuccessfully) I take my leave from the porch and weave through the rest of the house. I help hold Robby, a fellow snare drummer, upside down while the rest of the drumline boys feed a hose into his mouth.

I dance with some of the color guard in the living room, I help pour body shots when the brass section starts getting amped up, stretching out on the coffee table. I mingle with the plus ones, just doing my thing as a good host, and inspect the bedrooms. Thankfully people listened to my request to stay downstairs, though I double check all the upstairs bedrooms to make sure no babies are being made.

Then, huddled in the corner of the kitchen, I see a flash of dark curls, a silky green dress and some coil of anticipation in my gut just unwinds.

Bay's here after all.

She's with one of the girls I've slept with before—it was a no-strings one night stand back in sophomore year, and we're still on good terms. Clearly, if Cynthia (the roommate of one of the trumpet players) came to my party. Bay makes Cynthia laugh, her head leaning against the wall. When Bay catches my eye, she excuses herself and wanders over to me.

"I thought you were going to work tonight," I grin, stretching my arms above my head.

Her eyes wander down my body, all the way to where the hem of my jeans hands dangerously low on my hipbones, and meets my gaze, unimpressed. "I found cover." Bay reaches for a quarter-full bottle of gin on the counter. "Is this yours?"

"No."

"Great." I watch her unscrew the lid and take shot straight from the rim. Her tongue darts out to lick a drop of spirit away from her bottom lip, leaving her skin pink and shining.

"Holy shit. Take it easy."

"I don't need your concern," Bay reminds me, replacing the gin on the counter.

I shrug, jerking my head to where Cynthia is waiting. She sees both of us and waves, pocketing her phone. I step closer to whisper in her ear, "Maybe stay sober enough to score."

She stiffens at our proximity, probably revolted. "Maybe mind your own business," Bay snaps. I raise my hands in surrender, okay, noted, and decide to make another round of the house, find old friends, make new ones.

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Bay has left her inamorata to get more alcohol.

She and Cynthia have migrated to the porch where Lien, Nate and their friends were sitting at the start of the night. Nate has since been picked up by his girlfriend, and Lien departed half an hour ago for another party in the college apartments.

I step out into the nighttime and breathe a lungful of crisp, cold air. Whenever I return to the house, the smell and sounds hit me like a baseball bat, as busy as the Foxhole on the last day of semester. Now that everyone's drunk and sweaty, more people have come to cool down outside. I never get overwhelmed by people. More people means more fun, but I suppose being able to converse without straining your voice is nice, too.

"Hello, Cyn."

"Callum," she murmurs, leaning her denim-covered shoulder into the side of the house. "A pleasure as always."

I mirror her posture and smile cheekily. "Emphasis on pleasure?"

"Boy, stop."

"Well, we had fun, didn't we?" I place my arm above her head, stepping closer to murmur, "Come on. I just want to hear you say it. We had fun."

She pushes me back with a laugh, dangling gold-plated earrings swinging with the movement. "But you so clearly know the answer already. Do I have to say it? Are you that desperate for validation?"

"Ouch. Bay's rubbing off on you," I respond, craning my head toward the windows. The lights from inside the house shine out the glass, and I see Bay in the kitchen mixing two drinks. Her cheeks are going pink the way they do when she's on her way to drunk, and when she reaches for a plastic bottle of lemonade I admire the elegant stretch of her arm, the dainty green silk strap on her shoulder, her unadorned everything. I don't think I've ever seen Bay wear jewelry in my life.

Cynthia follows my line of sight and smiles, soft and without teeth. "You know Bay?"

"Intimately." I wink. "She bites, though, beware."

Bay comes back onto the porch with a red cup in each hand. When she sees me, still shirtless, standing with Cynthia, her carefree smile freezes on her face. Just managing to stop her glare, she passes on drink to Cynthia and takes a careful sip of the other. "For you. I see you've met Callum."

It looks like lemonade, but I'd bet it's half vodka. She's a heavy drinker. Must be all the hospitality work.

"Oh, yes," Cynthia chuckles, "I have."

Bay affords me a flick of her eyes, too quick for anyone else to see the disdain. "So. Do we wanna get out of here?"

"Absolutely." Cynthia looks between the two of us. "Callum?"

"What?" I ask.

Bay looks at me. "What?"

Cynthia's excited expression withers on her face. "Are we not?" With a manicured finger, she gestures between Bay and me, and then me and her, and then Bay and her. "Is this not— are you guys not?"

"Not what?" I wonder, though I think I know.

Threesome.

"Fucking?" Cynthia whispers.

Knew it.

Bay chokes on her drink, "No!" while I start laughing. This is hilarious.

"Okay." Cynthia laughs apologetically. "Okay, sorry, but Bay and I were discussing ethical non-monogamy, and she asked me if I was supportive in theory or in practice, and I said 'in practice' and she said 'same' and then I saw you guys together in the kitchen before, and you said you knew her intimately, and that she bites—"

"—he is last person on earth—"

"—do you know how much of a pain in my ass—"

"Okay, okay, sorry. I made a leap," Cynthia says, her nose scrunching up in disbelief. "But... you've never, ever hooked up? 'Cause I'm getting a vibe."

"No," Bay says, adamant.

"Once."

Bay's furious expression turns to me, eyebrows arched in outrage. "That doesn't count."

"Kissing is hooking up," I argue, crossing my arms together.

"No, it's not."

I wonder if she's cold. Her satin dress is tied around her waist with dainty thin straps, and her long legs and arms are bare. Side on to the house, the warm light from the kitchen falls across half of Bay's face. Her nose casts its eastward shadow, the curve of her lips emphasized by black meeting gold. Looking at her is like looking at a half-full moon.

I clear my throat, willing myself not to fall back into the memory. "Anything from kissing onwards is contained in the umbrella term of hooking up."

"Well, pardon me," she scoffs. "Mr. Linguistics."

"I'm just saying," I smirk. Looking to Cynthia for backup, I say, "Semantics aside, we—"

But there's no-one there.

Granted, there's several places Cynthia could have gone. She could have continued down the steps onto the lawn, or slipped back into the kitchen, or even just walked around the house to get back to the front door and living room. But I think we confused her, or embarrassed her, or maybe bored her.

Oops.

Bay rotates to see her would-be date missing and glares me. "Are you kidding me? Can you not cockblock me?"

I assume Bay did not manage to get Cynthia's phone number or social media handles, otherwise she could easily communicate digitally and find a place to meet up. I want to offer that information, considering I have both her number and social media, but Bay would never accept my help as a wingman. Or maybe the fact that Cynthia left without saying goodbye says it all.

"Hey, I was just catching up with a friend."

"Everyone here is your friend!" she exclaims, eyes flashing like lightning. "Why her, now? Because I was at risk of having a good time, and you can't let that happen on your watch?"

"Look—"

Her eyes flick over my face, realizing how close we are. She takes a step backward. "Never mind."

"Bay," I try again, catching her wrist.

She twists out of my hold easily and storms back into the house. "Just leave me alone. Have a good night, Vierra."

And maybe this is just a coincidence, but when I push through the crowd looking for her, skirting around the beer pong table—without results, because Bay can slip through bodies like a fish—that bottle of gin is missing from the kitchen counter.

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a / n :

both MCs are bisexual & chaotic btw, but chaotic in very different ways. if u are wondering about the kiss, the next chapter will explain more backstory ;) they didn't always hate each other, of course.

aimee