[tw: blood, gore, clowns, kissing, grayson davenport hawthorne, fire]

WOULD IT BE SO BAD IF WE KISSED?

And let the world drown as the bullets missed.

·······•✦•······

Grayson, in fact, had a lot to say.
With a very very red face.
And not so much about the mime-clown thing.

"Were you out of your mind, Arlene?!" Grey eyes pierced into my very confused ones. I never thought I'd see the day the Great Hawthorne's cheeks would be as rosy as a field of roses. His posture wasn't regal or aloof anymore, his hands shot up to drag across his face. "The fan, the expressions—do you have any idea what the media will interpret that as, Miss Grambs?!" 

I could've guessed. I bet I would later, and then regret my sole existence. But right now, I was fighting a war against my facial muscles, trying not to crack a grin at how messed up the eternally perfect man in front of me had become.

Guess I should give Kezia some credit for whatever she made me say.

"What— why— kis— you—" Grayson sucked in a deep, frustrated breath as he tried to compose himself. A beat of silence went by and when his narrow glare peaked behind his silk-like gold lashes, my army lost its war.

I burst out into a fit of laughter. My shoulders shook, and I was sure I had a grin so wide that my eyes would crinkle. "I'm sorry, I—" my words drowned in soft laughter. Come to think of it, when was the last time I laughed like this?

The cool, steely shards that Pretty Boy possessed as eyes, softened. His brows smoothened and his shoulders relaxed. If I hadn't been so busy trying to stop my giggling, I would've frozen at how those grey pools seemed to drink me in.

A moment later I managed to calm my mirth. Clearing my throat, I looked up at the Hawthorne boy with crossed arms and lack of amusement, in front of me. "Right," I straightened up, "Sorry not sorry about whatever that was, blame it on Sinclair. What you saw, I don't really know, but what I said was pretty much successful since you're here."

I held up the weapon fan, "This thing was given to me by the mime." That single sentence seemed to vacuum all the lightness in the room. Gold and Silver held each other as the walls felt closing in. "We gotta do something about it. And quick."

"We?" Grayson arched a brow. "And why must I be a part of this 'we'?"

"Because 'we' don't want a psycho clown running around and attacking pretty people with gifts and knives?"

Grayson's eyes were the same icy grey, just a bit bored now, "That is truly unfortunate. But none of my concern." He tapped his fingers on his coated forearm, "My only obligation is to make sure that you, Miss Grambs, do not bring any disgrace or ill to the Hawthorne name."

This man-

"Is bossing people around and worshipping 'the Hawthrone name' your only personality trait, Pretty Boy?" I matched his unamused gaze, tapping my foot on the ground impatiently.

All I got in reply was the most elegant, royal, and sassy shrug known to human existence. "Seems like so, Doll."

In all my nineteen years of living (minus the fifteen years of white), I doubt someone got onto my nerves as much as Grayson Davenport Hawthorne did. I couldn't believe the audacity of the man. Maybe he really did wake up to a billboard blaring: the world bends to Grayson Hawthorne's will, every morning.

But then again, I was no less.

"Fine." I boxed my shoulders, curving the ends of my lips up. "Then, I will make it your concern."

"How so, darling?"

Cheeky bastard.  Ignoring the nickname, "I'm gonna make sure," I sweeten my voice to the point it's sickening, "to get my answers and that clown in the most reckless, stupid, and despicable way I can. And whatever I do," the smirk may not have been on my face, but it sure as hell was in my voice, "ends up connected to your dear Hawthorne name."

Bingo.

He said nothing. But the way his jaw clenched, his shoulders tensed, or even the way his lips looked just about ready to let the floodgates of posh insults open at me and yet could not, said enough. 

One. Two. Three powerful strides in front and the blonde towered over me with his gaze. "Careful now, Ms. Grambs," the authority and warning were practically dripping from every word. And so was sneaky annoyance, "You're being quite the daredevil here, now aren't you?"

The four-inch difference has never felt larger (that... sounds wrong).

"Well," I lift my shoulders and drop them, "Pretty as a doll, devious as the devil." I find an unwanted but respected pleasure in getting onto his nerves just as much as he does mine. Bending down briefly for a mocking bow, I hold my hand out for the Armani Lord, "So, Mr. Hawthorne, what do you say?"

Grayson stayed still for a moment, contemplating.
Probably all his life decisions and mistakes that lead him to this torment.

And then he did something that made me forget how to breathe.

Kneeling down on one leg, pools of silver drowning the gold coins, his fingers slid under my palm and... and he simply kissed the back of my hand. 

It was a small gesture. It was nothing. At least twenty or so men have done that (and I've washed my hands every single time). But... But the way those eyes bored into me. The way those fingers seemed to cherish the warmth of my palms. The way my heart grew legs and decided to run a marathon. I swear I had no idea why such a small gesture mattered.

And I swear Turning Red was the movie made for me.

I hated it. And he loved it.
The sly curve of his perfectly shaped lips told me so.
"Deal, Doll."
He got up, elegantly fixed his sleeve cuffs, and walked away. Leaving me froze, bent, my hand out.

... What... just happened? I blinked rapidly as I stood straight. Didn't this start with him being the blushing mess? How did it turn into me? How—When—Huh?? 

Plagues. That smirk on his face would never leave my nightmares.
And then the asshole had even more audacity to let out the most out of character, not Grayson Daven—fucking—port Hawthorne, child-like giggle.

Taking out a soft cotton napkin from his coat, his eyes shone with amusement as he wiped my cheeks free of nothing, "You're turning red, Dolly."

That woke me up real quick.

My hand shot up to swat the fabric away, "Fuck off, Goldilocks!" I grumbled. 
It was weird. 

The feeling in my chest was weird.

Don't. Don't even. This is operation honeytrap backfiring. Focus, we must focus.

I let out a soft breath, closing my eyes and stealing my thoughts.
Think Avery. Think Libby. Think walls of color and skys of grey.

Gray—

"Okay," I absolutely loathe the urgency in my voice, "Okay, uhm, good deal sir," I manage to push my lips upwards with the strain of holding the sky. God his stupid Hawthorne magnet is on again. "Right," I step backward, practically rambling to myself. This was so not me. How did he make me react like this? Is this sorcery? Hypnotizing? Dr. Strange? 

I was a complete and utter mess when flustered.
And I realized this for the first time.

"So, we've got clowns to eat and food to catch," Fuck. I practically slapped the palm, that was going to hit my face, back. Walking backward—and you can make fun of me for this—I flew out of the room. Not daring to look back at that smug little curve.

Halfway flying down the stairs, I realized there was salt and seasoning to be added to my gushing wound of mortification.

Ezra and Kezia...
Saw everything.

'Why me?' was the only thought I had in my head as I pitied my existence.

Oh, how the tables turned.

·······•✦•······

I wish I could tell you that I never had to look at that Hawthorne again.
Then again I wish I could platonically marry a tree.

Grayson and I were expected at the royal banquet. And as usual, I had legit no clue what to do. So, I let the wind sail my boat (See: the wind = pretty boy; my boat = my limp ass form being dragged around by him). And also, as usual, the architecture took my breath away.

The olden, Victorian-type ceilings were adorned with the soft glow of the crystal chandeliers, and dully painted paintings seemed to span the entire room. The colors were yellowed and yet added a different sort of charm to them. The whole room was filled with candles and flowery decor. The Greek monolithic statues mounted the columnar walls and gold lined their hands as they seemed to pour wine and have merry.

The table itself was no less. Although not as grand as the one in the Hawthorne Manor, this one was more decorated and a foot or so longer. The navy blue tablecloth was a pleasure to look at alone; the velvety texture was soft to the touch. The golden blossoms, candles, and cutlery gave it a good contrast.

Marvelous.

What was not so Marvelous was that Grayson had to be close to me, hip-to-hip. Literally.

My gloveless arms were wrapped around his clothed ones. I had to mentally admit, the fabric was soft as a cloud. While making our way into the hall, my mind decided to notice little things about the blonde beside me since it had a lack of interesting subjects to observe instead.

One thing was universal when it came to Hawthornes: confidence.

I found it in the way Jameson would smirk at Avery. The way Xander would talk about his inventions. The way Nash would defend someone he cares about. And in the way every move Grayson made practically radiated it.

Be something as simple as walking, talking or even smiling. Grayson Hawthorne would show the world the epitome of assurance and power he was. Always.

Even if he didn't feel like it himself sometimes.

That's enough character studying for today. I let my sight glide in front of me. Not so fortunately for me, silver caught a flicker of gold too quickly.

"You were staring."

"Was not."

"You were."

"I was not!" 

"You were."

"I was not!"

"You weren't."

"I was." I blinked. "Wait no—"
Grayson's lips twitched up ever so slightly. If you squinted, you could almost call it a smile. A soft groan escaped under my breath. We sat in our respective seats, the ones that were the closest to the hosters of the event and the farthest away from the exit. 

And apparently, there was chair politics in this as well. 

Poor innocent Arlene was getting gutted alive by the nasty glares of the men and women who weren't with the divine blondie. And yet they could do nothing to rip off the pretty, practiced smile on my face. Physically.

"Greetings, gentlemen," the old man (ancient would be a better adjective) started, his voice booming so loud in the room, I had to fight my third war of the day to keep myself from flinching. "And pretty, beautiful ladies—" he winked. At me. And I made a mental note to go vomit after this. Elegantly, of course. "— to the Jondes Central Ball. A fine evening it has been in your company, indeed. It is my truest hope you too feel as so."

The man kept, in all senses, yapping and yapping so much that even I don't know where to start telling you. But he made no move to introduce himself. That made me feel a little dumb since it was obvious every person in this room knew who he was aside from me.

My eyelids started weighing lead due to boredom.

My ADHD started acting up and my fingers began tapping onto the table. Seeing the weird looks of disapproval from most around me should've given me the hint to stop.
But I'm the type of person who needs a hint for a hint sometimes.

Tap tap tap.

Into the darkness of my own, I went.
Tap tap tap tap.

·······•✦•······

Tap tap tap tap.

Pat. 
Rats.

A little boy tapped the wall as
He patted the rats
eating his legs.

Tap tap tap.
He didn't feel pain.

He wanted to.

Tap tap.

Was it his little girl?

Or meat on the grill?

Tap.
The rats are gone. 

The boy is sad.
They 'hurt' him but
they gave him company.

No sound.
The boy is alone.

He is one.
His leg is one.

His hand is one.

He's all alone.

Because she smiled.

A pretty dolly smiled.

A pretty dolly held up a knife.

A pretty dolly slashed.

And for the first time.

The boy laughed.

As the doll walked away.

Covered in beautiful red.

·······•✦•······

My eyes burst open. I was shaking. My hands were shaking. My eyes were looking everywhere but not at them. What just happened? What just happened?!

A doll? 
A boy?

Did she...?

Everything was normal.
They were all there, gossiping around.
Laughing. Eating.
Breathing.
Living.

So why? Why did I feel like someone just died? Why did I feel like...
Why did I feel like I did it?

An irrational fear of closing my eyes grabbed my heart and ripped it out. I could imagine it just sitting there, in that shade of red she was covered in, beating and pulsing. As if still inside the warmth of my chest. Even if it wasn't.

And then only laid a food-filled plate. No trace of red but the sickeningly sweet-looking tomatoes.

I stopped tapping. My hands started to shake to the point it became too visible. To the point, I had to shove them onto my lap and clench my fingers too hard. Too hard and dangerously close to revealing red.

Blood.

Calm down.
I was calm. 
I shouldn't be.

My face was perfectly serene. Aside from the beads of sweat rolling down my neck, I didn't need a mirror to know that no one would see the panic in my eyes.

No one would see me picking up pieces of myself and desperately holding them together.

Glue them all, I said to myself. Make them stick.
You're not allowed to break.
You're not allowed to feel.
Glue it all up.
Tape it up.
Suck it up.
Don't dare think about it.

Only seconds later I realized that these were never words said by me.

Only seconds later I could breathe again.
Only seconds later my eyes stilled.

Because only seconds later, his hands engulfed mine.

I didn't like showing weakness. And I didn't. But only a fool would think that Grayson Hawthorne's hawk eyes managed to miss those subtle signs. That he wouldn't notice.

He never does not notice anything.

The warmth around my fingers squeezed. His eyes were nowhere on me, his words mingled with those of another. But, I could hear the way they glanced at me. Sense the way his hand weighed on my leg. See the hidden concern he would phantom so well. Feel everything around me. And nothing but him.

I got it. I found a grip on myself.

I was fine. I smiled at some woman who started a conversation across me. I talked with my head held high. My lips curved wide. I was fine.

I tried to take my hand back.
But he had other ideas.

Squeeze. Release.
Squeeze squeeze. Release.

'Don't even think about it, Doll.'

My eyebrows wanted to go to the moon again but I denied them flight tickets.
Why could I understand him? Why could I comprehend hand squeezing?

Grayson continued his conversation, not batting an eye towards me.
But his fingers told me stories. 
And I was supposed to be deaf.

'Don't act so clueless now, Ms. Grambs. Gossiping about Mr. Jarob in tap code was not on my expectations list from you.'

Gossiping? Tap code? Mr. Jarob? 
My eyes were nowhere near as chaotic as my thoughts.

I had no clue how I was understanding him. I had no clue why I kept having visions. I had no clue why people kept giggling at me and Grayson. I had no clue why the old guy's eyes kept going under the table.

And I had no clue why I kept saying I had no clue...
When it felt like I knew everything.

I didn't even realize I stopped talking to the woman until she called my name, snapping me out of my momentary trance. I smiled quickly and nodded, letting her continue. While under the table, my hand seemed to have a mind in its muscles.
It squeezed right back.

'Hello?'

That seemed to elicit a glance at me from grey eyes. ''Hello'? Ms. Grambs, are you truly unwell?'

'I have no idea what I'm doing right now.'

'Squeezing my hand with an iron grip is what you're doing. You might want to loosen up if you'd like not to crush my bones.'

My lips almost parted to let a sharp 'shut up!' escape, but thankfully the woman's words seemed to drown my voice, giving me time to shove that phrase back. Instead, I squeezed harder for a moment, just out of spite, before loosening.

'Why do I understand you?' my hands asked.

'You ask me?'

'Well, who else? You don't see Matilda over there blabbering to me in some secret, hand-holding code.'

'Fair enough. Let me ask you instead, where did you learn tap code and squeeze code from?'

'Nowhere. I don't know what those are.'

Grayson's blonde eyebrows furrowed just barely for a moment, before smoothening out again. 'You don't? That's not possible, Ms. Grambs. You're quite fluent in it.'

'Trust me, Pretty Boy, I could figure that much. But I'm serious, I don't know what that is.'

The candles were the only light source in the room. And those candles started to flicker. All conversation muffled into little exclamations and gasps. Flicker flicker flicker until one of them—the one closest to me—blew away and the other hundred or so stilled.

As if nothing happened.

I've seen rocks less dense than the silence in the room.

"Well," The old man—Mr. Jarob—cleared his throat, "Funny wind, hm?" That's no wind.  My memory from before started to resurface again. The writings in my black-out before Kezia woke me up.

This is not happening.
None of it is real.
I am not real.
You're not real.
Arlene Amira Grambs, the two are not gone yet.
One still lives and one still roams.

How long will you run?
You'll be back to the home of homes.

Diggin and digging you'll go.
Past too, reap what you sow.

Says he so much without words.
Tick tick blows the clock.
Up at eleven, run the guards.
Which will take the arrow?
The Raven or the Dove?

Arlene, dear dolly.
Wake up.

'One still lives, one still roams.' Was that the clown? Who was the other? But more alarming was the fourth paragraph, 'Says he so much without words,' The mime, I tell Grayson subconsciously. He doesnt show any acknowledgement or confusion aside from a soft clenching of his hand around mine.

'Tick tick blows the clock,' My eye sneaked towards the old grandfather's clock at the very corner of the room. There are well over a hundred  clocks in this mansion. Surely not this one... Gold starts to debate with tiny metel hands. Right, Grandpa? You're not gonna explode me, right? I'm being ridiculous...right?

'Ridiculous indeed, and calling a clock 'Grandpa' seems to be the least of it.'

My newfound talent has the drawback