Re: Third floor balcony
Jack the Ripper might not have been in the building but if you were dead at these kinds of events (which was occasional but occasional enough to think about being dead) and you were equally a snake-hipped youth with hair that he had a threatening suspicion was trying to curl you were jumpy. Even if you had cheekbones for a day. Maybe the cheekbones could stay too.
He wiped his streaming eyes with the back of his sleeve which was the expensively smooth cotton of an extremely high thread count. It was a reasonably good temporary hanky and he looked up, angled cheekbones and youth and the loosened neck-collar as the companion with the convenient (if terrible) vodka bottle confessed to being someone else too. Oh fuck. It was either catching or it wasn't and they were all like this.
"Well that's just... typical," he said, to the ceiling and the twinkling lights and whoever it was who had decided a mall was creative torture. "Not you," he added hastily to the benefactor with the bottle. "This." A gesture that took in everything but the hips. That was a gift only teenage boys were given.
"I can hold it better, usually." Maybe Igor wasn't Russian. Swedish? Did they have cheekbones? He wasn't sure.