Getty's night arrives in a tremendous affair of anticipation and weak knees.

By the time I had finally chosen a design and theme for my project and subsequent outfit for the event- because what makes a better promotion of your own skill than wearing your design and hardwork? - I had to crank down the weeks on a dry erase board and numerous caffeine-induced long nights to finish it all in time, as well as Bucky and Ross' pieces.

I didn't want to do a rush job, and I had planned to do a lot of things handmade, and a rush job is damning to a clean stitch, especially to the dress I had finished the final sketch for the final design that I wanted.

It took hell and high water, but it was done just in time. With a day to spare.

Unfortunately in that same day, Ross Beauchard deigned to throw me another wrench. Just to keep me on my toes. Keep it interesting.

"My darling."

"Oh no. What is it?"

I took off my reading glasses, an old, red pair all the way back from my high school days that I only use when I've started to strain my eyesight or need to read small texts. It's not the most glamorous, made of plastic too and made my face look as if I was still ten days from getting my driver's license especially when I'm bare faced, but it does the job.

"You didn't receive the clothes? They don't fit? The seams-"

"- the seams are perfect, I just said 'my darling', what is that instinct?" He laughed too fast and too forced. And the deflection. Come on.

I put down my dress, frowning as I flexed my fingers. "You only use the sickly sweetest of nicknames when you've done something you need me to prepare for. Something that will upset me. So what happened? Please just tell me."

"Okay, technically, I have both bad news and good news."

I released a long, tensed breath. "Okay... give it to me."

"Oranges or apples?"

"Ross."

"Sorry, sorry." He inhaled as if it hurt him. "I can't come with you to the Getty's."

My spine shot ramrod straight and I could physically feel all the blood rush in panic to my head. "-Ross Beauchard, I swear to the God you so fitfully pray to-"

"-but! But I got you a date to go with instead, I made a solution!"

"I don't want to go with a rando!"

"Esther Zhang is not a rando! Her mom sends you pics about their fatass cats and any new menu at the restaurant! Mai Zhang loves you in her very Buddha-fearing way!"

"Wait, Esther's coming with me instead?"

"Already sent her the clothes, had it altered- seamstress gave you a compliment at how beautiful and exact you made the numbers are to my body, by the way, like she was super impressed, babe - and it fits her like a glove. I would have sent it to you if a, you weren't already making the finishing touches in your own gown, and b, I didn't want to tell you yet." Ross let out a strangled sigh of his own. "I'm really sorry, babe, but apparently there was a clinical error in my part of the thesis that our statistician didn't like, and I have to work on it before the deadline on Monday."

"Oh... Okay."

"How mad are you? You can tell me. Or yell at me. I can take it."

"I'm not mad." I sighed. "Well, I was going to be. But you made a solution, and you not only got Esther to go, but you found her? How could I be mad? Thank you. It's just a lot to process all at once."

"Of course. I made a promise. Don't even get me started on Esther Zhang. You'll have a fun time though, I think that's the main reason 'how' I found her. She's in that space post-breakup where she's in a 'fuck it' mood."

Apprehension started settling in my bones again, like a chill seeping in. "How fuck it are we talking about here? Like eyeliner and bra 'fuck it', or I can probably join a threesome 'fuck it'?"

"Hm... actually pretty mid. Borderline the threesome 'fuck it' though."

"Jesus? The Getty's is an open bar, Ross. I don't think I can keep an eye on her if she decides she'll swing to the other side of the 'fuck it' meter."

"She won't, she loves you better than that. She knows this is important to you. I just don't think she wants to talk about the breakup, much less Rema right now. She wants to get out of her head. This will be good, I promise. For you and her. If it doesn't, sweetheart, you know better than anyone than you have my express permission to kick my ass."

"You'd just like that."

He guffawed. "I would, but I promise I'd pretend I didn't."

I snorted. The funniest thing about talking about sex with your boyfriend, you both share that silence when you know it's a topic of conversation to have further. Because we haven't, that is. Ross and I have been only gone as far as making out, and even that wasn't heated, I Want You Now desperation. I was reminded again of that ease between us, the lack of complications and full complicit love.

It isn't as if it wasn't in the cards. But we were both too busy, and we weren't actively yearning to tear each other's clothes off.

"Nads? Hello? You there?"

"Sorry, sorry." I blushed. "Got too into my head."

"Care to tell me?" he asked patiently, and the surge of affection I had for him was hot. But it wasn't that kind of hot that I want to rip his clothes off and pounce on him.

God. I sighed, rubbing my eyes. I checked the time, 3:32am. "Next time, Jesus. How do you even know I was awake? How are you awake?"

"Thesis call, baby. And you haven't been sleeping at all, it's not exactly the hardest guess in the world."

"It's done though," I said softly, my smile slow but bright. Despite the disgusting way I felt, my muscles sore and my bones bent and in need of a good cracking, I felt satisfied. Happy. "I have my dress."

Esther Zhang arrived in the pantsuit I had made for Ross, tailored to perfection for her body. Black pants with embroidered flowers that's more embed than actually protruding. I wanted it to be subtle, that you'd need a closer look to see how much more intricate (and how much time I spent scouring the right fabrics with the right color black, because yes, The Devil Wears Prada isn't kidding), that then matched the jacket. The jacket is simple in the front but focused well on the fact that it hugs the body well.

I couldn't hide my reservations despite my relief at knowing I wasn't the one who altered the blazer for Esther, this not being custom-made for her, because the way it holds the body is important for the entire look. But the seamstress Ross hired worked wonders, cinched at the waist as I would have done if it was in her body type, because Esther was lithe and tall. Not FW tall, but enough that it would be a struggle to morph a blazer from Ross' built (though he was lithe himself, he was broader on his shoulders and he had a thick chest, courtesy of working out)- my worry melted as it looked as if it had been custom-made for Esther.

The back was where I made it detailed. Painstakingly painted sunflowers that bloomed like a heartbeat. Deep in the madness of almost caramel and orange, before it bloomed in yolk and sunshine.

Esther had opted for a wet look and a near sheer bra that wasn't enough to distract the brazen red lip that glistened against the light. "So this is how we match. I knew you wouldn't go to an optional black-tie event in black."

I smiled. "You look good."

"So do you, Nads. Twirl for me."

"Do we have time for this?" I peeked behind her. "The cab's waiting."

She shrugged. "He's on a meter and he owes me a favor."

A head popped through the window. "The meter goes, Prozac Lady!"

I arched an eyebrow. "Prozac Lady?"

Esther snorted. A gold hoop glinted against her nostril piercing. "We shared Prozacs Long story. Now, come on. It's only been five minutes since the Getty's started. We'll still be too early for it. Twirl."

I spun around slowly, letting the auster fabric dance against the weak light in sunburst and molten gold. It was both sheer and silk, with the thinnest layer of embellished tulle on top of it I could find, creating a bigger movement effect even with a simple turn. What brought it was the color and the fabric choice, kept simple in an almost snug corset top and a back that dipped low. It trailed just enough that it swept, but didn't run dry the promise of tripping over it with too many manhattans down one's throat.

It was youthful but elegant, cut in a timeless style and sewn to perfection at every seam. All the little nicks and cuts in my fingers were worth it. I dug around my favorite pearls, kept my hair down, and made my makeup simple but bright.

"Hell, Nads," Esther whistled, her phone already out. "I'm sending these to Ross so he knows what he's missing."

I snorted, and began posing. "Already took some, but more isn't too bad."

"I love how young you look, which I know The Getty's is mostly old fucks, so that's gotta rub on some ego." Her smirk was shark-like, so very Esther. "Which I love."

"Please. That is the point. Since it is a charity gala for the most part, it's a practiced crowd. And yellow is a stunning but dangerous color because it can make anyone look like a highlighter off a library book if they're not too careful. It's a hit or miss color."

Esther raised her eyebrows, squinting at the dress. "You definitely don't, if there's any concern."

"Thanks. But yeah, it's definitely a make or break thing, and this is a make or break thing, and it's eye catching, which is the point." I straightened my shoulders. "I want to do this perfectly. I'm going to market myself tonight, meet the hoity-toity people I'll want to work with and/or deal with after we graduate, get into the proper channels, and just. Fuck, I want this night to go perfect so bad."

She smirked faintly. "I can see that. Don't worry. I'll be the most amazing Plus One that ever did become Plus One. Haughty without the snot, pride without the hamartia, and young without the bolster. Scout's fuckin' honor."

I slid my arm over her offered elbow, relishing in how we look good together, and I let myself ease into it. Esther seemed well, darker, grungier, definitely in the post-breakup tango of 'I Don't Need Anybody to Complete Me, I'm a Motherfucking Bad Bitch' phase so there's a fierce and sexy tinge of haughtiness, but she's sober, and there are no foreseeable plans of hooking up and ditching.

Only determination. The lax grit of Not Giving A Shit. I could work with that.

"Let's go then. If ten minutes is the perfect Fashionably Late Hour for you."

"Hell no, that's barely late, much less fashionable. Don't worry though, The Getty's is in Fourth and Lilly, right? It's New York. We'll take the scenic view and arrive just an hour later."

The cab driver smirked as we entered. "I can definitely do a scenic view, Prozac Lady." He nodded to me. "Good evening, Sunny."

I laughed.

Meandered lights cascading in soft and bright glow, alluding to a pristine but not overly cagey feel of a space, The Getty's is hosted, as it has always been, in one of New York's dutifully preserved for a sense of belonging and pride buildings, lovingly called The Bulldog. Built in 1935 as a hotel that lived through two changes of hands, two fires and a flood, turned into an apartment complex after it had been abandoned for ten years. A hit in the market forced its tenants to halve and open up a portion of the building for events.

A heiress' indulgent love for old things created The Getty's.

The Bulldog retains two crystal chandeliers from when it once was a hotel, along a wooden spiral staircase that opens into a wide, circular ballroom carpeted in lilac blue, complimenting the starry painted ceiling above it. Of course it was accurate, Sirius so small on the edge but the bow of the Archer, large and imposing in the south. Floor to ceiling windows exchanged their former wooden ancestors, opened the populated room back to New York skyline as if they'll ever forget.

It was beautiful, wistful even, a nostalgic feeling in the back of my throat that I know I didn't actually have. It was the building, the numerous parties before I was even before. I could imagine the feeling of a scratchy dress, hair topped in thick hairspray with ruby red lips, looking over New York as if it was magic.

But the night was long, and I let the feeling bleed into me as Professor Bianchi, nursing to what I assumed to be her third Old Fashioned because there's a brightness to her eyes that I never see in non-tenured professors, and in a vintage Chanel dress of all things that I couldn't help but gasp at, saw us as soon as we got in, and promptly set me to work around the room, Esther totted along for the ride after introductions.

Schmoozing had never been my fan favorite superpower, but I was good at it.

I gave myself the hour with a practiced smile on my face, not forgetting to laugh now and again, and keeping unsavory comments of others with a neutral, if not a little scrunch on my forehead, disapproval. It was easier for me to deal with people who sometimes are too high up to where they think they are to regard with other's welfare compassion- you can't really escape the snottiness, it's New York. I've also met some of my mother's clients and rubbed elbows with the people she worked with.

Or the businessmen phase I had back in Seattle, when I found douchebags in suits attractive - but I was still better at handling the brunt of receiving an insensitive bite now and again than Esther was.

"You nearly kneed him in the balls," I hissed, trying not to laugh as I pulled her away from a red-faced man too deep into a martini to have any polite bone left in his body, I would assume, huffing and complaining loudly like a child wanting a toy.

"And it would've been I kneed him in the balls if you hadn't pulled me away," Esther huffed, immensely proud. I pulled us back into the open bar and ordered two more of the Special Getty's drink they made for tonight that tasted of blackberries, orange, and rum. Sour and deep, enough of a kick after a few glasses to come loose.

As I sipped, she chugged. I raised an eyebrow, mouth downturned before she nudged me with her hip.

"You know me. This is nothing. Come on, I see Bucky again. His professor's gone."

I couldn't help it, my heart thudded and ached, remembering how I saw him when we arrived and he was already looking at me. I didn't have time to make him a pantsuit, and it felt like a good distinction to make. The boyfriend gets a full outfit, the friend gets a redesign of his button up and advice on what to dress.

Because friends can do that, right?

And God, did he look good in the dark brown suit. It hugged his frame nicely, not as nicely if it had been custom made, but enough that he drew in looks. And he looked comfortable in his body, a confident lax that spilled out of him in ichor blue and glinted charm.

It was more than okay to keep his button up plain and white, but I wanted more. A small gift. Accouterments in the same embed style fabric as Ross' pants, but in buttered roses. Plain and almost invisible, but there, present, when one only needed to see.

He was looking at me and he looked good, and when he smiled, I didn't realize it was because I was smiling. And he waved and we moved on. Our lines overviewing each other but not crossing. Close but not close enough.

Until now.

"Esther-" but she wasn't listening, her hold on my wrist was a manacle, and I was half getting dragged to him until he looked back, and it was that stare again from early tonight until he smiled. Soft and inviting, and warm and hot chocolate between cold fingers. It was childhood and new at the same time, tangled and looped.

"Hi, you two." He raised an amused eyebrow at your full hands. "More Drinkies?"

Esther snorted. "Why do I hear Drinkies in capital letters?"

"Because that's the name. Drinkies. Unironically ironic."

Esther groaned. "If I am not supposed to hate the bourgeois, they should make it harder for me, but they really don't." She swallowed the rest of her drink, placed it on the nearest table, before placing her palms on my shoulder and pushing me in front of Bucky like a mother showcasing her child. "Entertain each other. I need to piss."

I swiveled, grasping her hand with wide eyes full of meaning. "You don't need me with you?"

"Definitely not." But she was smirking and I was narrowing my eyes at her, and when she whispered in my ear, I tried not to smack her. "Be good."

"Esther," I hissed so venomously that she chuckled, only winking. "Keep my girl in trouble, Buck."

And she was gone.

"Are you going to abandon me?" Bucky asked behind me, amused but it reminded me of a puppy dog. I exhaled shakily, turning to him with a wry grin.

"Now why would I do that? Not when I feel like I just got abandoned. Wouldn't want to do that to you."

"You'd break my heart otherwise."

He was smiling and it was soft and jokey, and I know, I know, I shouldn't look into it because it was nothing, but my heart felt like it was breaking and clenching simultaneously. Like a broken heart trying so hard to hide how not broken it is.

There was the urge to flee. The urge to confess everything that was ever me, but the terrifying notion of being seen, of being found, kept every word, every heartbeat locked behind lock and key and false smile.

"Definitely do not want to do that to you," I said smoothly. "How's your night going?"

He sighed, putting his hands in his pockets. "Tiring. But successful, I think? A firm representative I talked to, one that I've been eyeing of applying after grad, actually, seemed to like me."

I beamed. "Oh my god, Bucky, that's so good! Congratulations! No jinxes though."

A look, a dust on his cheeks, an ever present smile. "Thanks. You?"

I shrugged. "I wouldn't say anything as wonderful as that, but I've met a few people. I don't really have a firm to focus on, but I've done my best. I think they like me well enough. Dunno how much they're going to remember me the next day though, the Drinkies™ is sending everyone in fits of giggles."

"That they do." He raised an eyebrow. "I'm actually surprised you're holding on strong. Every time I look your way, you seem to be sipping it."

I blushed. "Are you calling me an alcoholic?"

"No, no, I-"

I grinned, nudging him with my shoulder softly. "I'm kidding."

His eyes narrowed playfully. "Demonic, Lynch. Just demonic."

"That is my second name, it's so sweet of you for knowing."

There was a silence, a lull, but it wasn't too bad. Words unsaid but not desperate. A moment, really. An existence in the soft glow of the city around and below, a place surrounded by people we didn't really know and didn't really care about, but safe in a tether.

It's precious because it's fragile. It's precious because it's a what if that can't exist in this time and place, but in this moment- in this fucking moment of standing together like soldiers in a war torn battlefield that's already exhausted it's use, it breathes life.

Inhale. Exhale.

It's precious because it's never going to exist past this.

"How well do you know New York?" he said out of the blue.

I turned to him, but he wasn't looking at me. He was looking at everything and nothing all at once.

"Why does it sound like your challenging?"

His smile tugged, and when he finally looked at me, New York glittered right back. "Because if I can remember, I'm an actual New Yorker."

That he was. His parents moved to Long Island when his younger sister was born, but they lived in the city for most of it.

My eyes narrowed. "What are you trying to tell me?"

He laughed before he bent down, voice low and a whisper, too close that I felt his breath against my cheek. "Wanna ditch?"

"No." But my heart is speeding in my throat, and I could see myself glittering right in his gaze. "Esther-"

"- walked out of the room like fifteen seconds ago."

"What?"

He bumped my shoulder, and he was still so close. "She gave you to me to watch over, we're both down with our things unless you want a turn around the room? We can do one turn, maybe you'll need connections on my side of the fence. I'm more than happy to see through yours."

"Then we ditch?" I asked incredulously.

A Cheshire grin.

"Come on, New Yorker, you and I both know the city's magic never runs dry. You show me your favorite places, and I show you mine, how about that?"

"You're a bad influence," I said, grinning.

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