The annual banquet was approaching, an event filled with a suffocating grip of anxiety, tense stares and fingers clenched tightly into fists, so that small marks like crescent moons split the skin. Ravens perched in their seats like trained Dobermans—perfectly straight backs and shadows around them.

One mention feels like temperature games: you're in a multi-layered jelly of Arctic water and magma masses, frowning anxiously. While others are coming to terms with their plight, you try to find an escape route, peeling the skin off your nibbled lips; it stings. Kevin could have done it rationally, but you're simply put before the inescapable fact that presence is mandatory even in a mortal state.

Problem number one: the wardrobe is not prepared for officious events. Problem number two: Andrew suffers, too.

Of course, it's a tribute to his loyalty to Kevin—to put it simply. A mask of bored apathy is cut through by an upwardly raised, sharp eyebrow; for conviction, the absurdity of the request slips into the air once more; patience, like windows, bursts. Andrew feels as if he is being forced to stand on muddy splinters, unable to move, on such small ones that it doesn't hurt but irritates him, wobbles him like foliage in a hurricane. Capriciousness indomitable, not tame to compromise, you're so difficult to deal with the muscles of his jaw twitch in a nervous tic.

The card is empty by a good third, and even though the money is virtual, he can almost feel the loss of a gram or two in plastic—the pile of clothes strewn across the bed and floor of your dorm room. A variety of colors, styles, and patterns: opulence, restraint, vulgarity. Andrew doesn't even know about ruffles and sleeves, but from so many choices, the pickiness must have purred.

He catches your gaze through the mirror and sighs impatiently, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What is it this time? Can we just get this over with, eh? That dress suits you quite well," is he lying? Actually, not really.