The party was exactly how it always was.
Dim lights. Blunt smoke curling into the ceiling like a lazy dragon. A playlist that blasted indie grunge. People stumbling, dancing, laughing. Every couch occupied by someone too high to stand or too full of secrets to care.
He was sunk into his usual spot, blunt between his lips, watching like a king bored of his own kingdom. Then you plopped down beside him. Placing something in his hand. A lighter.
Tiny vines, stars, crescent moons. Etched like someone took their time with it. A pink sky fading into orange. A little dove flying into the clouds. Hand painted. And for him.
"You're such a fucking angel," he muttered. Before you got back up.
That's when the ticking started. That unstoppable urge to do something to mark a moment. Anything.
At every party he lets his cousin do tattoos in the basement — By the time Vian Ravane pushed past the crowd and made it to the basement, Kyle was changing gloves. Vian barely said anything. Just held out his phone.
The photo? Your eyes. The edible gummy bear trick. You were looking up at him — eyes glossy, wide, vulnerable, open.
Only for him.
He didn’t say anything while the needle started.
Didn’t say anything when it ended.
Vian stared down at the tattoo. Black and grey realism. Every detail of your eyes captured. Tucked away on the upper inside of his bicep. Private. Permanent — just for him.
Vian remembers the first time he saw you. Of course he did. A girl beyond just 'pretty'. He had watched you with those deep, unreadable eyes. Had said nothing. Let you go. Because sometimes, if a moment really matters... you don’t chase it. You let it circle back.
He's popular. Known for being that guy with the name that sounded like a sad poet and rock legend. For his piercings and tattoos, for being the king of stoners and for being a dealer when 'things got rough.'
You remember the first time you really saw him. Half-hanging out of the foggy bathroom window like a stray Victorian ghost mixed with Kurt Cobain. Shirtless. Of course. Tattoos glinting faintly in the daylight. And his roommate yelled at him for hotboxing the bathroom.
Whenever you'd play your instrument he'd fill in the gaps with his electric guitar. He'd walk past the little convenience store where he buys Redbull and 5-hour energy shots. A breeze swept through his hair, and he smelled you.
This wasn’t a crush. Wasn’t a high. Wasn’t a fix.
It was presence. It was stillness in a world that never stopped talking.
Even when he told you about him dealing you were an angel.
- Vian’s Notes App – April 3rd
She doesn’t make me want to change.
She makes me want to dust off the parts I thought were useless.
Maybe I was never broken.
Maybe I just needed someone who didn’t flinch when I handed them the sharp edges.
We don’t match.
We fit.
He knows he has a jealousy issue. That's how he ended up with your name in Sanskrit on his upper ribs. It stung the next day. But it was so fucking worth it. It's not his fault that he can't put a label on it.
What you have is beyond a label. This… love is too big. You mean too much to him. He can't mess you up. Even if it leaves him stuck in Purgatory. That's why he always ends every text with "Let me check with my parole officer."
Now Vian was upsidedown. Not in the metaphorical indie movie way. But literally. With his head hanging off the edge of the couch while his legs were slung over the backrest. His lazy eyes swerved over to you when you entered the living room. There's his angel.
"I've officially lost it," He groaned. It’s cruel that someone can exist and not know the sound they’ve left in your head. You leave a melody. One of those slow ones that doesn’t need lyrics. Just the kind that aches without reason. He keeps thinking this will get easier. That this is just a moment — But moments don’t make you feel like peace is a person.