The night air feels glorious on her exposed legs, and she exults in the brisk sensation as it hits her in waves. Taking another pull from her flask she sighs, appreciating the feeling of warmth that disperses neatly down her throat. It flushes her face and makes her toes tingle. It's a familiar sensation, and she takes another sip to intensify the feeling.

The stars are out, but covered by the street lamps and bustle of the city on a Friday. It's all so familiar, yet Grace gets the feeling that this is an experience all its own. It's more of an impulse, a risk to be out here when she knows she really shouldn't be. But who would care, really, if she screwed up again? Isn't that what she was meant to do all along? She follows the same worn path she always takes-by-passing an array of 'normal' teenagers getting ready to spend their night out together. She snakes around couples just heading out and families getting ready to leave, putting on a mischievous smile as they glance her way.

Her entire body is encompassed with the feeling of anticipation; of not knowing what the next move will be. Grace likes the way her heart pounds as she passes a group of Academy students, covering her face with her hands and looking the other way. She likes the thrumming of her heart in her chest-lives for it, actually-and lets it beat wild with a blend of impish anxiety all her own.

This was Grace Whitney's territory; the unknown, the cover of the night, and the warmth of vodka flowing in her veins. She kept along her weathered path, stopping only for a moment to glance at her phone. No missed calls, just as she'd thought. So she heads into the same bar as always, armed with a fake ID although she knows they won't card her. They never do. If she'd learned anything in Adelaide, it was this; who would card a deviously beautiful blonde with a dancer's body, anyway?

…

The party is just beginning when she strolls in, feeling loose and blissful from the brilliant clear ambrosia she'd downed on the way here. Now she's 'Vodka Grace'-twice as buoyant and devious as before, but with half the judgement. She bends over to adjust her boots and ignores the stares of the men at the pool table behind her, twice her age and probably cleaned out of their paychecks for the week on the cheap thrill of gambling. The staring makes her stop, the pace of her heart quickening as the alcohol fuels her anxiety.

The thought of turning back crosses her mind, as it had several times before she'd even reached the bar. Was this really worth risking everything; her life at the academy, Lucy's trust, even Abigail's friendship…? But she eyes a few familiar faces at the counter and swallows the lump that's formed in her throat. No, she won't stop now. This is what she wants, what she needs to feel good again. It's just one night, one harmless night, and she's going to enjoy herself.

The gaggle of girls at the bar squeal when she saunters up, gathering around her with long arms splayed out, grasping for hugs. She giggles in response-a sound so unlike herself-and she grabs a stool in their group as they chat animatedly, calling her 'Gracie' and patting her back. A tall, lanky strawberry blonde with hair down to her hipbones slams her hand on the bar-top, calling for a round of celebratory shots. She turns to Grace then, grinning from ear to ear and making her way over with a drink as bubblegum pink as her lips. She smells like coconut when she hugs Grace, and she keeps one arm around her as she holds up her shot.

"This one," The lanky blonde begins in a voice that reverberates through the bar, stumbling over her words and giggling in the process. "Goes out to our little Gracie, and to what was the best holiday ever. I'm so glad you found your way back to us tonight!" The girls cheer in response, a chorus of soprano voices adding in their little quips before raising their drinks to their lips, chugging them in one fell swoop before slamming them on the table in unison.

It's not something she'd normally drink-it's sweet on her tongue but poison going down, and Grace isn't sure if it's the color that makes her taste Pepto Bismol or the drink itself. She downs the liquid anyway, the music of glass slamming on the bar-top angelic to her ears. Lacey the strawberry blonde still has a hold on her, and gets close to her face as she speaks.

"It's so nice to see you, Gracie! It's been so long!"

"Yeah," She backs away a bit, disliking the proximity of anybody when they talk. But she knows it's just her nature-at least, that's how she remembers things. "It's been too long."

"I haven't seen you since Adelaide…we kind of lost you there, didn't we?" It takes a while for Grace to formulate her response, sucking back the anxiety that forms in her mind by ordering another drink. Just as she thought, the bartender barely spares her a second glance-only to let his eyes wander down the long legs she's flashing his way. He grins and moves away quickly, giving her the confidence to continue on with her story.

"There were some things I had to take care of back in Sydney." It's a smooth lie, her bright blue eyes not daring to let a single disparaging thought affect their shine. Instead, the corners of her mouth upturn in what she plays off as a smirk. "Although there were a few more things I'd have liked to take care of in Adelaide, too."

Lacey giggles, tapping one of the other girls on the shoulder for her attention as well. The brunette turns around, eyes wide and ready for another one of Grace's epic tales. Hell, if dancing didn't work out, Grace figures she could get a job in writing.

"Well you know how it is, trying to keep a low profile and all. The second we nearly got busted in Adelaide I had to speed back to Sydney-someone's got to keep my reputation in line, and it sure as hell isn't my agent. If she found out about that night she'd flip out for sure-PR scandal and all that."

"So then who was that guy that you left with-that last night, during that big rager down near the port?"

"Oh," Grace takes the last swig of her drink and motions for another, buying a bit of time. But with liquid courage searing her throat she feels her devious impulses coming back as if they'd never been asked to hide away. The lies just keep rolling off her tongue, and now that the room is beginning to spin she can't seem to stop them. "He's just another dancer from the production. Always trying to save my ass, of course. Can't have any fun around here anymore!"

…

She's dancing-no pirouettes, or jetes, or plies…just the loose, tipsy movement of hips and arms, swaying from side to side. Grace sings along to all of the songs they play-even the ones she doesn't quite know-and stays in a huddle with the pack of girls. They're dancing too, a bright and blurry movement of colors and shapes that makes Grace giggle with excitement, the taste of an eccentric blue drink tickling her tongue. The dancing comes easy when she's like this; hell, everything comes easy when she's warm and worry-free. So when she feels a pair of hands find her waist she doesn't panic-no, for the first time since Adelaide her body is disconnected from her mind. The memories don't come at all, and she actually leans into the dance.

But when she turns her head a different kind of panic sets in.

"Christian!" She shakes her head and blonde tresses fly in front of her face. Grace attempts to blink away the image that's in front of her now. Christian Reed, in all of his brooding tough guy glory is standing in front of her, face burning bright red.

"Grace!" He takes a step back and crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head apologetically. "I didn't-I had no idea…I…"

"It's fine, it's fine. Not awkward at all."

"What are you doing out here so late? Aren't you on probation?" She scowls at him then, mimicking his crossed arms without so much as a second thought.

"Who told you that?"

"Not important." Grace rolls her eyes, planting her feet in defiance.

As if she's about to let Christian Reed get the better of her. Not when she's feeling as tipsy as she is, and certainly not when she can feel the secrets threatening to spill right out of her. No, instead she takes a breath, opening her mouth to begin a very pointed argument. But it's not words that come out of her mouth, and all she can do is watch in horror as the thickness of her own vomit splashes right onto her companion's shoes.

"Oh shit.,," It's all she can muster before another round forces its way through her throat and onto the floor. She feels his hand on her-guiding her to the bathroom, no doubt- but makes a beeline for the women's door herself.

Once she's cleaned herself up she stares in the mirror. Her eyeliner has smudged a bit, making her out to be more of a pretty raccoon than the beautiful professional dancer she'd made herself out to be for those girls. Of course, the timing of Christian was like karmic clockwork…she wasn't some professional dancer who traveled the world avoiding PR scandals. She wasn't even allowed to leave the confines of the academy. And by the looks of herself in that mirror, she didn't even have a stitch of her life together.

She makes a beeline for the window then, wiping tears from her cheeks and vomit from the corners of her lips with the back of her hand, not caring where it ends up. Grace climbs the back of a toilet-balancing immensely well for someone who's lost count of her drinks-and jiggles the lock on the window above the stall. When it clicks she sighs with satisfaction, cranking the window open and slipping her slim body through.

Grave Whitney won't allow herself the humiliation of being escorted home. Especially not by a brooding Christian Reed, and especially not after what had just happened.

…

She feels strange; like she's out of focus…like she's in a blurry photo. The world moves around her in a sharp contrast of lines and colors, too bright for her eyes and too loud for her ears. She is simply a player in this moment; a passerby through something much greater than herself. Colors swirl and people shout but she just sits, numb to the point where she isn't content-rather, she doesn't feel much of anything at all. The bitter wind bites at her exposed legs while she sits, knees to her chest. It stings and singes, serving as a constant reminder that she shouldn't be out right now. But all of the bitterness in the world couldn't pull her back to reality now, not when she's so far away.

Grace takes another long pull from her flask, cursing when she feels its last shining drop escape her parted lips. It dribbles down her chin, but the warmth of the liquid she's already consumed makes her mind forget about it. She's forgotten about everything; dancing, socializing…even her own phone number had slipped her mind earlier in the night, and she'd giggled and pulled her phone from her pocket to give some guy from the bar her number. She'd forgotten everything but the one moment she'd set out to forget.

Grace can still smell the cologne, piled on heavy to cover up the stench of crude body odor. When she closes her eyes to the bright city lights they're replaced with dim, shaky lighting and the dust that floated in the air around it. Everything feels so real, so current, and she curses the alcohol on her breath for letting her down so harshly. Pressure builds on her skin; ankles, thighs, hips, chest, until she's drowning in the flood of lucid memories and fighting to keep her eyes opened to the reality lain in front of her. Her hands move across her body, tracing and slapping at the places the pressure is at until they're covered in the red of her haste. Her hair does not blow with the light wind. It pulls, ripping and burning and falling out for sure. And those same vodka tears pool at the base of her eyes, threatening to spill out. But she won't let them-won't give him the satisfaction of watching her cry.

She won't let him win.

Grace fumbles for her phone then, even the tiniest action dizzying her to the point where she has to pause for a moment and collect herself. She's never felt this kind of drunk before; numb and blackened, unable to do anything but sit. So when she finally finds her phone she dials the first number she can think of. And as it rings she holds her breath, waiting.

"Mmm?" The greeting she receives is mumbled between two yawns, and she lets out an involuntary giggle at the peculiar sound. "Grace, is that you?"

"Benji! Dangle, my most favorite of friends. Or, is that not what we are this week?"

"Grace, you're drunk." His reply is simple and short, his voice sounding a bit terser than the confused or concerned laced within its undertones.

"Of course I'm not, Ben. You must be drunk."

"Grace-" She leans up against the tree a bit more as he speaks. While she can make out the words he is saying they're not cohesive; she can simply make out the tones in his voice-the way his words grow in meaning with each change of tenor.

"Grace, are you there?"

"Mm? Oh I am, I'm just dying to hear what you have to say next. What other words can you possibly pull out of your ass to make me believe that you actually care?"

"Alright, where are you?"

"Just sitting near a tree." And then a flash of realization-she raises a finger in protest along with her voice. "Oh no-no way, Benjamin Tickle. You're not coming to save me now. Christian already tried that, and-"

"Christian tried to come and get you? Since when have you been talking to him?"

"Like you care. Anyway, you can't make me go back there. You can't make me do anything and you know it. Just because you think you saved me back in Adelaide doesn't mean you can control me now."

There's shuffling on the other line; moving, pacing, and then the slamming of a door and the pull of a zipper. She knows she shouldn't be talking but she just can't stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. Grace is speaking at rapid-fire pace, her now an ambrosia-laced venom spewing in the direction of someone she knows is completely innocent. Just because she's sure he doesn't like her the same way she likes him, doesn't mean she should treat him like dirt. But the line between realization and action is blurred by her dizzying state, and although she knows what's right she can't help but speak in the wrong.

...

Grace sits on a bench near the harbor, head resting on her knees. She's hugging them to her chest, fingers interlaced with each other as if to keep herself at bay. The beginnings of a hangover are thrumming fresh in her head. She shuts her brilliant blues, groaning against her own will. And then she feels his presence-smells the trail of woodsy cologne he insists on wearing-and groans even louder.

"I told you not to come."

"Hey, you're the one that called me." She shoots him a glare from underneath her blonde locks but keeps her lips sealed, hoping that Ben will just decide to leave her alone. Instead he puts a hand on her back, rubbing small circles across her back. "You're looking a little…uhh…"

"Drunk? Sloppy? Messed up? I know, alright, I get it."

"No, sad." Grace lifts her head up to meet his eye contact, and it's the way she's sitting that makes him want to pull her in closer. Her posture is collapsed; her eyes wide and glazed over with defeat. It's as if someone has vacuumed the life right out of her, and it makes his heart hurt.

"You look sad, Grace, worse than I've ever seen you."

"It's a side-effect." She puts on a charming façade, but it falls by the wayside. Her usual devious smirk is flat, and the bubbling doesn't even reach her eyes. "You know, of the messy traumatic events happening to the crazy person."

"Still thinking about it?"

She scoffs then, kicking her legs out in front of him and running a hand through her hair. God, honesty hour is sobering. She can barely meet his eyes then, feeling the personal anxieties rising as a lump in her throat. But Grace swallows it, continuing the conversation if not for him then for her own sanity.

"Thinking about it, living it…he's everywhere. I came out tonight because I just thought-

"-Thought you could drink the nightmares away?"

"More like trying to drink myself normal. But of course, why would that work for more than thirty seconds? I just…I want so badly for things to be different."

"But they're not." It's not mean spirited, although the words themselves could be perceived that way. Instead she's wrapped in the warmth of his tone, the way the words are caressed with care and sincerity. "Things aren't different, and you're suffering because of it. You're changing because of it-which is all completely normal. I mean, who wouldn't be changed by something like what you've gone through?"

"You." Her voice is quieter than he's used to, shoulders hunched and body language reserved. And when he looks, she's fighting back tears. "You've gone through a lot, too. The year my mom died you were fighting leukemia. You spent a huge portion of your childhood in the hospital. If that's not traumatic…"

"Alright, I'm just going to say it. You, Grace Whitney, are ridiculous." She laughs then, shaking her head at his response. It just seems easy, sitting here half drunk on this bench with his hand still rubbing circles on her back. It seems easy, and yet it's the hardest conversation of her life.

"You're comparing apples to oranges. My leukemia didn't leave me traumatized. It changed me, yeah, but I don't wake up in a cold sweat over it. It doesn't follow me in the streets, or keep me from class or training or life. Grace, you have a serious problem here. You have a problem, and you have every right to be affected by what happened to you. In fact, I'd think you were crazy if it didn't affect you."

"So you don't think I'm crazy?" The circles stop on her back and he smiles. The warmth that spreads throughout her now is organic; caused by nothing but eye contact and the honesty of his presence. He shakes his head, wrapping an arm around her before validating the shake of his head with a verbal no.

"Not even if I'm paranoid? Or I just puked on someone's shoes trying to drink away my problems?"

"Not even if it were my own shoes."

Grace chuckles, and the thrumming in her head comes forth with the shaking of her shoulders. Her fingers reach up to rub her temples and she groans again, shooting a sorry glance Ben's way. He laughs back at her, bringing his arm around her shoulder and leading her off of the bench.

"Let's go home, Grace." She puts her head on his shoulder and welcomes his embrace, leaning into him. "I think we've had enough partying for a century."

"It's almost three a.m."

"Then we'll just barely make it before Lucy wakes up for another day of dance torture."

Grace groans at the thought; just picturing her hangover in pirouette is making her sick. Ben stops, pulling a bottle of water from the bag at his side.

"If this doesn't work, I'll distract Zach tomorrow. So much fumbling around, he won't even know your name."

"You don't have to do that, Ben. You didn't have to do any of this."

"Hey," He stops for a moment, holding on to her hand. Her breath hitches in her throat. She doesn't feel nervous, or anxious or scared. Here, with his hand on hers, she decides that this must be what safety feels like. "I wanted to help you. You're my best friend. Not this week, or on every Tuesday, or whatever it felt like before. I'll be your friend forever, Grace Whitney, whether you like it or not."