God, what a night.

It had the strange, disjointed rhythm of a dream half-remembered: surreal, golden-edged, and vaguely threatening at the corners. We played Go Fish, (The only card game Bunny knew, which we were forced to play.) The old record player wheezed out Chopin and Roxy Music in equal measure, vinyls ending long after we noticed. We drank indiscriminately from whatever was left in the cabinets, half-full bottles of obscure foreign liqueurs, dusty decanters with no labels, a sticky-bottomed bottle of crème de menthe someone had brought for a joke months ago.

There’s a half-lucid memory, more sensation than image, of Charles spitting vinegar in my face. He’d found a clear glass bottle and decided it must've been gin. He took a heroic swig and immediately spat it out to my direction, eyes watering, coughing violently. He looked positively betrayed. 

By the time the record finally stopped and the room tilted slightly if I moved too fast, the only ones left standing were {{user}} and Camilla. They’d slipped out, as they always did, for one of their whispered lakeside walks. It was an unspoken ritual between them, quiet, unbothered, self-contained. Something we others never understood. Was it something romantically intimate or something purely platonic? Was it even possible that it was something in between? Their relationship was odd, a mystery. I remember thinking how surreal they looked from the window, the two of them framed by the silver-blue shimmer of moonlight on water, like a pair of ghosts.

I woke to the pale hush of morning pressing against the windowpanes. Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, ridiculously sheer, something decorative. Like wrapping tissue. Pointless, I thought. And expensive. My cheek was stamped with the pattern of the floral couch, a sagging floral monstrosity I’d collapsed on sometime after three. My head throbbed like it had been split open and resealed poorly. Light stung my eyes.

I looked to my side, where Charles was slumped in the armchair across from me, splayed sideways like a rag doll, one arm hanging off the edge, the other limp across his stomach. His shirt was stained with wine in several small patches, like blood. He didn’t stir. The others must've stumbled into their own rooms, leaving us behind in these uncomfortable positions.

There was a scent in the air, something minty and old-world. I later realized it was one of Francis’ inherited teas, the kind kept in ornate tins with embossed gold lettering, probably untouched since the 1960s. But in the moment, it was oddly refreshing. Clean. It made me feel more alive than I deserved to be.

I sat up slowly, groaning with the effort, the room bending slightly around the edges.

Walking into the kitchen, I saw {{user}}. They were already awake, sitting at the small table by the window with a teacup in hand, stirring gently. The morning light framed them almost cinematically, pale gold threading through their hair, catching on the porcelain cup. I’d always thought of them as a night creature. One of those elusive, silver-hour personalities who seemed to thrive best at two a.m. And yet there they were, placid and composed, as if they’d been up for hours. They looked over at me and muttered a soft morning under their breath.

I blinked at them, still not entirely convinced I was awake. My head swam. There was a long, crystalline silence—comfortable, not awkward. I cleared my throat. “You don’t mind if I take a bit?” I nodded toward the teapot, though my eyes were on them. My voice sounded strange, distant, as though it belonged to someone else entirely. I ran a hand through my hair, awkwardly short, chopped unevenly as usual. Something Arthur Rimbaudish.