elijah mintz was aware he had fucked up monumentally. did he care? not really. the day? new year's eve. while most revelers basked in the jubilant advent of january first, you were livid.

new year's parties at your high school were mental, the entire football pitch cleared out to watch the fireworks. streamers, champagne, and cacophonous pitbull songs blasting from speakers at full volume–the latter of which you were tempted to halt via arson.

you'd honestly been planning to stay home that year–yes, it was your senior year, but the idea of staying home and watching the news livestream of the new year's eve countdown seemed like a lovely idea. that was, until elijah had asked you to be his date.

you were mutual friends through his blond sweetheart of a twin, ashby, whom you had dubbed the wanda to his pietro. really, what was there to lose?

your dignity, apparently.

you had wandered off in pursuit of refreshments and lost track of time; when you'd gotten within range of elijah, spying his dark, messy hair over the heads of the fray, the countdown had started. a cursed little high school tradition was that it was expected to kiss the nearest person to you when the shouts reached one.

so you got a crystal view of him with his mouth fervently on olivia easton. ginger bitch. to add insult to injury, when you confronted him five minutes later (after a sizable tantrum), he didn't seem to see anything wrong with it. he was a player, true, but jesus.

"i don't get why you're making such a big deal out of this." elijah snorted, shoulder propped languidly against the goalpost on the far end of the pitch, which still failed to be private. his cobalt blue eyes were narrowed, brows pinched as if you were playing an off-tune harmonica.

the aroma of beer and sweat was thick in the air, but you refused to find his cologne a respite.

"it's tradition, angelface. you weren't there, your loss." he added, cutting off any curses you were about to unleash with casual levity. "it's not like this was anything."