maybe some irony


ok but what if

anonymous asked:

lucas and maya are friends of the groom and bride (Farkle and Riley) and are both miserable at the wedding.

Her heels are a little too high, her dress a little too long, and her eyelashes a little too wild. And it’s getting a little too stuffy in the ballroom. (with the false-tone conversations and the heat of the chandelier’s fluorescence and the pretend oh, yes! I do remember you and your four kids from that one time we met at that one Christmas party all those years ago!—bullshit at its finest) So she makes her leave with a plate of chocolate-covered fruits in one hand and her third glass of wine in the other and escapes through the throng of women in elegant dresses, intricate up-dos, and their obnoxious, exaggerated diction (that Maya knows comes straight out of their ass than from their painted lips; ah, Minkus women) and onto the empty balcony.

She thinks it’s already far too late for anybody to be interested in going out on the veranda, unless it’s some old man, the one that nobody really knew who claimed to be the bride’s grandfather’s best friend or some shit, (he’d be smoking a cigar and probably spill a few words of wisdom before disappearing for the rest of the night) or a pair of drunkards (the cousin with the dark eye shadow and short, skintight dress all over that one cute waiter with the pretty green eyes) too desperate to get some action. And then she remembers that this was a wedding, a reception, if you wanted to get technical, and that the norm for the singles was to mingle. (and eat and drink as much as they wanted) Maya prefers the latter.

She holds her glass up to her face and watches the burgundy liquid sloshing around, the view of twirling women on the dance floor behind her reflected on the crystal. After she downs it, she eyes it once more, seeing a figure slowly approaching her from behind. She recognizes the blue of his eyes.

“What do you want, Friar?”

“Some fresh air,” he replies, resting his arms along the terrace’s edge and breathes. Their eyes stay straight ahead, staring along where the sky meets the rest of the city’s silhouette. “Nice speech.”

“Maid of Honor’s job,” she shrugs, taking a bite of a strawberry. She’s not sure if the goosebumps that appear on her arm are because of him or because it’s cold. She had been wearing a gown that exposed the entirety of her snow-white shoulders and the line of her back.

“You seem pretty bitter for someone who’s free to get away with anything for the night,” he states with a hint of a smile, and she knows he’s referring to how she’d attacked the dessert table. The Hart rolls her eyes and turns around, leaving her plate of finished sweetness on the ledge beside him. She gives him a quick once-over (and she doesn’t melt at the sight of him, even when he looked damned dashing in that tuxedo. And goddamn that tie. She loved ties.) before clicking her heels away back toward the room. He continues, “It’s a wedding!”

Before the noisiness of the music and the mixture of relatives drown out her voice when she’s back on wooden floors, she comments an entertaining truth for his ears, “Weddings are for suckers.”

When he turns around to throw her a winning smile and maybe some retort drenched in irony, she’s already gone.

by: monique