Work Text:
The spun onto the dance floor gracefully, a bottle of whiskey held between them.
Annabel was a Revelation: beaded dress, stockinged-feet — their shoes were thrown somewhere behind them, discarded in a lonesome pile — blood-red lips, hair cut short in a boy’s styling.
She drunk deeply, then broke free of his arms, spinning out of his reach and continuing to dance on her own, swaying like a charmed snake and stamping her feet in time with the beat of the music.
Malcolm fitted his lips to where hers had been on the neck of the bottle, and drank, watching her all the while over the lip.
The whiskey was bitter.
Her lipstick was sweet.
And he was dreadfully, terrifyingly in love with his best friend.