Just a side note that no one but me will likely find amusing: I reused an old document to paste this into. It was for the first chapter of my Mortal Instruments fic "Centum Historiae".

Thus, the document was titled "Aberration".

For TMOHzone

because occasionally, we outdo each other in utter batshittery

Wedding Party

The music was raucous, some thumping foreign muck that sounded even muddier bouncing off the rafters of the cheap-rent hall.

The Massive Posse, or what was left of it, wasn't even supposed to be there. But there had been the smell of food, wafting out onto the street, and laughing girls leaning out the window and calling to passersby for the hilarity of it, and free drink. Plenty and plenty of free drink.

They were young men. No more need be said.

Now this was some wedding, Trev thought, a handful of ales under, as the lake of dancers bumped him agreeably along. The actual bride and groom were lost somewhere in the scrum of undulating, whooping bodies. A flower from some girl's hair bounced off some other girl's head and landed squarely between his ear and skull*. Jumbo trod on his instep. It was like the Shove, only the undercurrent was of a different kind of blood. You could see it in the shine of the dancers' eyes, the shimmer of their skins, and the whisper of their clothing brushing. This was something greater, something sweeter. He couldn't begin to put it into words, but he felt it wash through his body, up from the soles of his feet.

For a moment, Trev wished Juliet were there to see it instead of being off on yet another tour.

And then, as he caught sight of a head of jet-black hair, a pair of long-lashed, languorous eyes and curves that deserved their own temple each, just as suddenly he was glad she wasn't.

*A million-to-one chance, incidentally.

The music was the heartbeat of the great exhilarated organism that was the dancefloor, but to Andy it just sounded like another headache.

They'd been frequent after the night in the alley, as his skin struggled to bridge back together. He knew it wasn't going to happen. He'd be looking at that cross of ripped flesh in the mirror every day of his life.

Right now he didn't care; neither did he care that he didn't exactly know how he'd ended up here. What he wanted to do was drink enough to make the nagging, nibbling pain in his face die a little and, gods willing, hit someone. Really hard. Several times, perhaps. In the face.

"Don't think Andy'll be here, do you?"

Trev shrugged, downing the dregs of another drink. He didn't want to think about Andy, just when he'd been feeling good.

It was something he'd never told anyone about. Not Nutt, not even Glenda. He didn't like to think about it himself. But when Andy was around... there were feelings suddenly, feelings Trev didn't like because he couldn't understand them. Feelings besides the basic fight-or-flight,-on-second-thought-definitely-flight response that Andy always induced. Feelings that made his head woozy and his lungs shrink and his ankles sweat, for some reason (he didn't get that last one at all. It seemed to be just one of those nervous things). They were almost like the ones he'd had when he first met Juliet, and that brought up a whole bunch of thoughts he really didn't want to think. Especially not now, not here in the heat and the firelight; it was hard enough to think about anything at the moment, but thoughts like those didn't seem... safe.

Andy hadn't gotten to punch anyone yet. It was almost enough to make him wish he still had the Posse, who at least knew when someone was boss and how to treat them. Spanner had gotten him in ages ago, because Spanner knew everybody, or at least knew what everybody had to hide, and then Spanner had gone off to schmooze.

So Andy was alone in a crowd. It wasn't a happy feeling. In fact, it was decidedly unhappy. And Andy liked to share his feelings, generally parceled out among as many people as he could reach.

"You're sure Andy won't show up?"

Ears pricked up. Carter. Practically pissing himself as usual.

Perfect.

"Nah. What'd 'e be doing at a party like this?" another voice slurred. "Anyway, don't worry. You got Trev Likely here, remember?"

Oh, shit.

"Yeah, right." Carter sounded anything but reassured. "Only — only... uh... isn't that him right there?"

Oh.

Shit.

Trev ignored the whir of his heart speeding up and scanned the crowd. Girl, dark-haired man, little boy, blonde girl, brunette girl, old woman, ginger man, girl — wow, was that ever a girl—

—medium-height, broad-shouldered, instantly recognizable blond man: early twenties, son of captain of Dimwell Old Pals, utter and complete loony.

Andy.

And Andy was looking back.

Oh.

Shit.

Now Andy was making his way toward them. Trev's mind dipped and spun frantically, but his feet stayed cemented to the floor, socks getting damper by the second. Andy was there in front of them, bottle in hand, blinking owlishly. Yes, like a predatory creature who tore smaller mammals' heads off sounded about right.

"Sorry, Trev," Carter squeaked, and evaporated.

"Trev," said Andy, and grinned. It was the kind of grin that men saw just before they stopped seeing anything at all very abruptly. "Trev, Trev, Trev."

Trev felt anxiety sloshing around his heels. "Andy."

"What's a bastard like you doin' in a place like this?"

"I didn't have nothin' to do with what happened to your face, Andy." Trev wondered if he could back away without looking like he was backing away. "I didn't hear about it till after Jools and me got back, honest—"

Andy stepped closer. Trev's stomach tried to make a break for it. "Who said anything about my face? You got somethin' to say about my face, Likely?"

Oh shit. Again.

Andy's free hand was at his blade. The chaos of the crowd seemed to blur into a slow-motion spin around them. People on all sides, hemming him in. There was no way out. No way. He was going to die here, Trev thought frantically, and somehow as the reflection of the beer bottle glinted from the reflection in the knife which gleamed in the reflection in the bottle something in him managed to notice the startling whiteness of Andy's snarl, the hectic flush of the cheeks under the gold of the hair almost glittering in the fire; how was it that Andy looked so unnaturally clean for once and so weirdly healthy and so very, very — appealing?

And in the moment when the cutlass began to move, a wonderful, awful thought occurred to him.

"Hey," said Trev, mouth dry, all the moisture pooling around his ankles. "Andy."

What harm could it do?

Andy paused, apparently not having expected to hear anything except possibly Don't kill me!."Yeah?"

Well... plenty of harm could be done, really. But if he was about to die anyway...

"This," said Trev, and before Andy had room to lunge, room to flinch, room even to blink, he closed the ever-thinning gap between them — buried his fingers in that thick corn-colored hair, took a deep, deep breath, and—

It was almost more of a headbutt than a kiss. Andy dropped the bottle. He dropped the knife. Trev had three empty-headed, light- (if damp-) footed tingly seconds before Andy wrenched him off by the hair on the back of his head and half-hurled him through the back door.