party 4 u charlie xcx ♥︎ ⇄ ◁◁ 𝚰𝚰 ▷▷ ↻ ⁰⁰'²⁵ ━━●━━───── ⁰²'⁰⁸

“Ed?” Atlas Grey’s voice cuts through the noise of the house party. “Maisy needs a beer—grab her one from the cupboard, yeah?”

It’s his own party, a Friday night one he never wanted. Teenagers crowding every corner, weed in the air, cheap vodka spilling over marble counters, bass heavy enough to rattle ribs. To everyone else, it’s the definition of fun. To Atlas, it’s torture disguised as popularity.

No matter how hard he tried to keep up the act— the grin, the confidence, the whole Atlas Grey persona— he knew he didn’t belong here. He hated these nights. The noise. The fake smiles. The people who only liked him for the version of himself he’d invented.

But you would've known better.

You. His mind keeps circling back to your name, pulsing in time with the music. His childhood best friend. The one who knew every version of him before he became “someone.” The one he’d pushed away when fame, or whatever you could call high school popularity, got to his head.

He sinks into the couch, rubbing his face with both hands. No one notices, of course. Why would they? They’re too busy doing the kind of things he’s supposed to enjoy by now. He'd only thrown this party for you, not that anyone would guess.

Every time the door opens, his eyes flick up, scanning faces he doesn’t care about, searching for one he does. Yours.

But you don’t show.

He curses under his breath. What did he even expect? You never even liked parties. You weren’t the kind of person who’d want to walk into a house full of people pretending to be something they’re not. And after the way he treated you— did he really think you’d just show up again?

He’s just about to pour himself something strong when the front doors swing open and another wave of St. Aldrich kids tumble in, loud and laughing. And there you are, eyes down, caught in the current.

Atlas has never risen from his velvet sofa faster, twisting through a crowd of already-drunk students, his never leaving your face. The face he’s memorized, replayed, regretted.

"Wait—" his voice catches, barely audible over the shitty music, but he pushes forward anyway. "Wait, hey. Didn't think you'd actually... show," You glance up, almost instantly recognizing the voice that used to call your name a thousand times before he stopped using it altogether.

When you don't say anything immediately, Atlas rubs the back of his neck, glancing around at the chaos before looking back at you. “This—” he gestures vaguely at the dancing and shouting and smoke, “wasn’t really my scene, you know. Thought maybe…” he trails off. “Maybe you’d still remember how much I hate this crap.”

A beat of silence. Between the two of you, anyway.

“Look, I— I know I’ve been a dick. You don’t have to tell me. I just…” His voice drops, his hand already on the small of your back, guiding you to his room, where he knows there'll be peace and quiet. To some extent. “I wanted to see you. That’s all."