Sorry it took so long. I had it in my head, but when I wrote it down, it didn't make any sense. Had to revise epically. Hope you enjoy anyway.

Aqualung is mentioned, and he is a music man of huge proportions. Give him a listen.

JONAS slash JONAS LA will be epic. It should. I do not own, by the way. Who doesn't want to own it, anyway?

I actually had no idea what the hell I was doing, but please tolerate it. It was very difficult to do.

Knock yourselves out.

God, help me.

"Nick!"

"Hi, Mace."

Hello? God, are you there?

"Wow, I didn't really expect to see you here," she says, with the cute sort of cluelessness that got me in the first place, and she raises her hand up to my face. I can almost feel her fingers graze the skin of my cheek, but then, she seems to change her mind at the last minute, and takes it back. Dammit, just a little more.

"Why wouldn't I be here, it's my brother's wedding-"

"Not what I meant," she says quickly, laughing at her own mistake, before continuing, "I mean, you know, I didn't really expect you to come up and greet me and all."

"Well, it's been quite a while since we've seen each other, after all," I reply, "and I missed talking to the former number one fan of JONAS, slash my best friend, slash my ex-girlfriend."

"Hmm," she says, a small smile forming on her face, "still very tactless."

"That's the songwriter in me, probably," I answer, returning the smile with an even bigger one, "did you know I won a Grammy-"

"Oh, keep quiet, Lucas," she said, giggling again at my vanity. "After five years, that's all you can come up with-"

"Actually, to be exact-"

"You counted it down to last second, didn't you?," she cuts in, looking at me knowingly.

"No," I reply, "but I did count it down to five years, six months, and fifteen days tomorrow."

"Of course you counted it," she says, nodding slightly, "still the same perfectionist."

"I had a calendar," I say, shrugging. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No, more often than not, I was totally in love with it. Ish."

Was. She said 'was'. And 'ish'.

God, I'm still waiting.

"Listen, Macy," I begin, and I'm already feeling immensely apprehensive, "about the last time we saw each other-"

"I like the suit you're wearing," she butts in quickly again, gesturing to my Gucci tux.

"Don't change the topic-"

"Rubber looks very good on you," she comments, touching the fabric of my blazer, "you always seem to pull off things that aren't supposed to be worn in the first place."

Oh, she did not just say that.

"I resent that," I reply, but rather sheepishly; "and I presume it's pleather-"

"Pleather?," she asks me, giggling a little, "maybe plastic, but definitely not pleather-"

"Actually, it's a lot more comfortable than it looks-"

"You can't move in it," she points out my stiff positions and gestures. Doesn't prove anything.

"Sure I can move in it-"

"You can't even bend your elbow," she says, attempting to hold up my forearm back up. For a second there, her hand brushed mine. For a second, I felt an unwanted rush of giddiness and stupidity at the same time.

I love and hate that feeling.

"That's not exactly fair for you to say, I mean, it wasn't like I really wanted to wear this suit in the first place, Joe picked it out, and- you did it again," I say suddenly, shaking my head at her.

"Did what?," she asks me, playing with her hair.

"That, I mean," I try to begin, but she's freaking distracting me, "that stupid reverse hair flip."

"You mean, this?," she says, before demonstrating, tilting her head quickly, causing the side swept bangs on her forehead to move off to the side.

"Exactly."

"What's so wrong with it?," she asks me.

"When someone does it everytime they blink, it tends to get irritating for others," I reply, leaning forward slightly to look at her more intently. She still stands unfazed, even smirking at me, while I feel like I'm about to faint just from our close proximity. I can almost faintly catch a whiff of the soap she uses.

"It's just out of force of habit," she answers, and she does it again. That one was to annoy me, I bet. "I don't like having hair covering my face."

"So what's so hard with doing this?," I tell her, and before she can question me, I bring my hand up, and brush a few strands of hair from her face. She gives me a confused look, but doesn't make an effort to stop me.

Oh, God, I wish she did. I can hardly breathe now.

I also tuck her hair behind her ears gently, and lean down even lower, so I can whisper into her ear.

Oh, Jesus Christ. What the hell did I just do?

What am I supposed to say now?

"Umm, uhh, well, Kevin likes your outfit tonight."

"It's just something I put together," she answers, but she steps away from me, as well as putting her hand on my chest to push me back. Guess she's starting to feel the heat too.

"You know what," I begin, narrowing my eyes at her, "you said the same thing when I complemented you on that same exact outfit seven years ago."

"Oh, God," she says, and her eyes widen considerably, "you remembered."

"It would be unlike me to not remember the outfit you wore when we snuck out for the first time to attend a party-"

"Shhh," she says, pressing her index finger to my lips. I assume it worked, because I can't find my voice. "I still haven't told anyone, not even Stella-"

"Outfit repeater," I tell her, gathering all the courage I have to push away her hand from me.

"It's not even the same outfit," she defends, pulling at her skirt, "well, yeah, sure, it's basically the same design, and it uses the same kind of fabric, and, well, yeah." She's probably running out of things to say.

I'm winning.

"But, it's definitely not the same thing I wore before," she retaliates, "and why would you even remember something I wore seve-"

"Why would you make an exact copy of an old outfit?"

"'Cause I wanted," she replies, very indignantly, but I can hear the meekness.

"But why-"

"Because I felt good when I wore it, and I liked the way it looked on me," she replies, "it gives me good memories."

"Since when were you a pack rat, Misa?," I ask. I'm going to laugh any second.

"I'm not-"

"Oh, okay, I get it," I begin, with what must be a ridiculous grin on my face, "you wanted to preserve that outfit because I thought you looked insanely gorgeous in it-"

"I would so love to kick your ass right now," she says to me, "it's not because of you or anything, I just really like this dress, got it?"

"Yup," I reply, almost indifferently.

"Really?," she asks; I guess she wasn't expecting me to reply like I didn't care. And trust me, I don't care.

"Uh-huh," I begin to say, "but I'm gonna ask you one thing, though."

"And what's that?"

"Why would you wear that, of all the possible dresses, at a wedding, of all places to wear a party get-up?"

"Uhh, well there's a good explanation for that," she starts out, but she's not fooling me. A good explanation usually means something about wanting to impress your truly. "I didn't have anything else to wear-"

"Or, just maybe," I tease her, "you knew how much I liked it on you, and since you knew that I was going to be here, you wore it again to impress me-"

"Are you still that full of yourself?," she says indignantly, with her 'trying-to-be-mad-but-I-can't' look on her face. Still adorable, and still gets me.

"Might be," I reply, "remember the Grammy?"

"Yeah, yeah," she waves her hand dismissively, "but for your information, because you somehow need to puncture that big head of yours, I wore this because I had it made a while back, but I still haven't found the right occasion to wear it, and," she says, putting her finger on my lips again as I open them to butt in, rendering me speechless, "it's the dressiest thing I have. You can't really expect a figure skater to have a gown ready to wear, would you?"

"I think they should-"

"Well, I'm one of the few who don't, so deal with it," she replies with a huff, and another flip of her hair.

"Fine, but can I tell you something first?," I ask her, and she just tilts her head again. Damn her.

"What? Are you going to comment on how my hair still looks like it's been bleached-"

"I'll ignore the urge to criticize," I answer, shaking my head, but believe me, I really do have to urge, "and, just so you know, I still think you look unbelievably sexy. Just saying."

She glances at me for a split second, her lips slightly parted (that gets me every time) and her eyes widened, as if they were asking a question. She looks straight ahead, probably trying to watch Frankie flirt with his girlfriend, as well as trying to ignore the reddish hue she knows that's creeping unto her face.

"You're too old to be blushing," I tell her, lowering my head ever so slightly so that I can get a good look at her. She's still standing, staring intently at the Tank as he twirls the model around.

"That's a fairly unrealistic statement," she replies, finally looking back at me, but I can see that she's angry. I can hardly see her eyes through the slits. "I am entitled to blush whenever I feel like it, whether I want it to or not-"

"Yeah, especially when it's because of me-"

"You're still very full of yourself, there, Lucas," she says, absent-mindedly twirling a lock of her hair around her finger as she fans herself with her other hand. What a sad attempt to cool down. She's with the President, there's not really a chance for that.

"At least it's getting better," I tell her of my observation, "I mean, you'd look like a cherry back then-"

"The kind that came out of a jar, mind you-"

"Yeah, yeah, the fake kind," I say, waving my hand dismissively, "but now, you just look like a darker version of your Pinky Pinky Pink."

"A darker version of Pinky Pinky Pink?," she asks me with an eyebrow cocked, "that's not Pinky Pinky Pink anymore, that's just Pinky Pink-"

"Whatever the hell you want to call it," I cut in; I don't really care so much about what hue of pink you turn into when you get nervous, "I still find it adorable."

"Just saying?"

"Just saying," I reply, and I automatically feel the right corner of my mouth go up slightly. That only happens around her.

She clears her throat, fidgeting a little bit and still not making much eye contact, and says, "well, I guess, um...."

"You know, I can leave if I'm making you-"

"No, no, no, it's at the tip of my tongue," she stops me again, holding up her hand slightly. She straightens up, and says, "umm, thank you for appreciating the way I look tonight-"

"I didn't exactly-"

"But you implied it," she butts in, chuckling at 'my' mistake, and, for the nth time in this conversation, she makes my heart stop beating. After a good, thoughtful look, she finally allows the fingers of her perfectly sparkly-yellow manicured hands graze the skin of my face, starting from my forehead (she uses her knuckles to wipe away the sweat, like the way she used to after every concert), and going down to my jaw line. I control myself not to smile, because, funnily enough, I am a little ticklish in that area. "You look, umm-"

"Don't call me anything that pertains to plastic-"

"I wasn't going to in the first place," she says, patting my cheek lightly, "even though you do happen to pull it off nicely, but-"

"Can you step away, just a little-"

"Why? Feel like I'm going to give you a heart attack?," she asks me in a venomously (at least to me) sweet voice. Oh, the tables have turned. She giggles, and her fingers are oh so close to my mouth, and she just pokes my cheek gently, as if I were comfortable with it.

"Don't push it, Misa," I try daring her, giving the sternest glare I can muster up, but she just gives me one back.

She learned well.

"Well, Nick," she says, a grin spreading on her face as her index finger pausing right in the middle of my bottom lip for a moment. I forget where we are, and she seems to as well. But, just when I am almost fooled into thinking that things between us can go back to the way they used to, maybe even better, she finally seems to remember what she was doing, and who with. She shakes her head, turning her attention back to the crowd, and continues to say, "you're still Nick, baby faced Nick, who never seems to have any facial hair."

"I have to have a clean shaved face at all times," I say, but I guess she's not that into the chat anymore. Geez, even I'm not feeling it. "It sort of comes with the job."

She doesn't respond, and just inattentively traces circles on the flowers in her left hand. Great, now I remember about that.

"Is being Nick a bad thing?," I ask, but I don't really want her to answer.

She doesn't, but she gives me a smile that never really reached her eyes. That was a hell of a lot worse.

Nick Lucas will not cry, especially not in front of Macy Misa. I am not a wimp; I am a manly man.....

Sure, keep telling yourself that, President.

"Well, might as well take care of business," she says out of nowhere. She's still not looking at me straight, but at least she's not watching Franklin anymore.

"Huh?"

She smiles sadly, much to my distaste, and points to my hand. I looked down, and caught a glimpse of the stupid garter. Now I really wish I hadn't caught it.

"Okay," I say reluctantly, and I turn to walk up to the stage that I dread ever so much; but, once again, she surprises me, in an epic way. She reaches out her free hand, and I feel it coming in contact with mine. Her fingers find themselves in between the spaces comfortably, and lock themselves in place. I always find the way her small hand just seems to fit perfectly in mine somehow endearing.

"Might as well do this right, right?," she says, her hand clinging on tightly to mine, "I mean, it won't mean anything after, will it?"

"I don't think it works out that way, Mace," I reply, rather miserably.

She sighs, and murmurs, "I'm doing this for Stella. I'm sorry for being so melodramatic about this, but this is a lot more difficult to handle than I thought it would-"

"Can't we just talk about this? I have no problem apologizing if that's what you want to hear-"

"Everyone's waiting, Nick," she points out, "it's not really the best time."

"Macy-"

"Later, Nick," she says, before pulling me out of the area and unto the stage, where Frankie greets her with a peck on the cheek, and me with a pat on the head. Pixy Stix make you oblivious to the obviously uncomfortable environment.

"You two took quite a while," he says into the mike, chuckling as well, "catching up, eh? I see the sparks flying, literally. Well, no, not literally, but they still look cute together, don't they?," he addresses the crowd, who gives us a short applause. This is making it a thousand times harder than it already is. "Now, President, would you-"

"Yeah, yeah, Frank, let's just get this over with," I interrupt, pulling Macy along as we make our way to the center, where Joe sets up a chair. I have never been more afraid of a piece of furniture.

"Aawww, he just wants to get close to her," he says, cooing along with the rest of the audience as I help her settle down on the chair. I will never allow him to eat sugar again. She looks up at me nervously, but she adjusts herself, her back straight, one leg tucked behind the other, one hand smoothing out the wrinkles in her ridiculously short skirt, the other, gripping the stem of the bouquet that I am really beginning to hate (nevermind if I was the one who designed and arranged the stupid thing) .

"Drumroll, plea-"

"Frankie-"

"Sorry, Kev," he says, and it looks like he crashed right then and there.

I sigh, out of exhaustion more than anything else, and I glance back at Macy. She's still watching me, but I can tell that she's relaxed a little bit. Her fingers are tapping to the beat of the Phoenix song playing in the background, and, when she catches me staring at her, she actually dares to smirk a little, with a small shrug. She must be kind of tired too. I, quite reluctantly, kneel in front of her, and, being the ever so accommodating person that she is, offers her right foot.

I desperately try not to look up at her, grasp her size 6, cage heeled clad foot gingerly, and place the garter through. I'm not even halfway up her calf, and I can feel my breaths hitch up my throat. I forgot how toned, not to mention smooth, her legs were. I'm struggling just trying not to grip it too tightly, and I don't want to seem like I'm relishing or enjoying this.

Because I'm not. Trust me.

I reach up past her knee, and I realize a little too late that even though her skirt is already short as it is, it still covers most of the rest of her leg. After deciding that I could just stop below the hemline, she notices my dilemma (I wish she wasn't so observant), and, she gives me a small, mischievous smile, before gathering the fabric into her hands to reveal even more of her skin.

Oh, shit.

I bite my lip, making sure that I am looking somewhere else other than her leg as I gently clutch the lower part of her thigh (if that even exists), and finally setting the thing on its final destination, telling myself the whole time that this doesn't, and shouldn't, mean anything really big, even though I know I'll be fantasizing about this moment for a hell of a long time.

I take a huge sigh of relief, and I look back up at her.

She's smiling.

"Alright, former lovebirds sort of unite," Frankie cheers on, holding up a bottle of what looks like Mountain Dew, "I ain't legal yet, folks," he chuckles, but stops immediately once he sees the stern look on Kevin's face. "Okay," he clears his throat tensely, and goes on to tell the people, "umm, let's call out our very expensive friend, Aqualung, and- yeah, yeah, I'm getting to it, K2, gimme a second- and we are inviting everyone, that will include the bride and the groom, to go out on the dancefloor and bust some moves, yeah? Okay, I didn't mean it to sound like that, Kev-"

I watch her pull her skirt back down and uncross her legs, and offer her my hand. She takes it gratefully, and she gets back on to her feet gracefully. She smoothes out her dress again, not giving me another look; I am about to withdraw my hand from hers, but instead, she just tightens her hold.

"It was nice seeing you again, Nicholas," she says, shaking my hand.

Oh, God. She only calls me Nicholas when there's really something wrong. And she never shakes hands with anyone unless she has some sort of grudge with them.

"Can't we just please talk-"

"Macy!," Stella barges in, a look of sheer excitement on her face, "I want to introduce you to Logan, you know, the guy who I date, but had a crush on you? Oh, hi, Nick," she says cheerfully, turning her attention to me.

Oh, Stella. You still have the best timing, until now.

"Do you think I can borrow her for a minute?," she asks me, latching her hand on to Macy's tightly.

"But, umm, Stells, we're kind of-"

"Sure, I don't mind," I reply nonchalantly, but I give an effort to not sound cold. Macy fixes her eyes on me, but I can't seem to read the expression on her face. I that misery I see?

Her best friend squeals, jumping slightly and saying, "thanks, Nicky! I'll bring her back as soon as possible."

"Take all the time you need," I begin to say, but my new sister-in-law's already dragging her away.

Away from Nick Lucas.

I guess the guy's that good-looking.

I think I'm going to need that cake, after all.

Man, that sucked a whole lot more than I thought it would. A hell of a lot.

Ah, well. Review. Will not take no for an answer.