Going Down?

They used to call them cages, did you know that? Probably because that's what they looked like, all metal bars. It's still a good name for them. The way you feel inside. Trapped. Isolated.

They're both feeling it, and both pretending otherwise. Sweat beading on their skin. Curling his hair at the temples. Decorating her collar bone.

Music filters down through the building, distorted to a vague booming.

"Press the alarm again," she says, sliding down one wall of the cage and pulling off her gold heels.

"I've pressed it," he says through gritted teeth. He's already sat on the floor, shirt collar unbuttoned and legs splayed. Was she always such a nag?

"Sorry," she mutters, frowning. She rubs her sore feet without meeting his gaze. "I'm just a bit on edge, alright?"

He rolls his eyes. "Really? You're not finding this relaxing?"

His sarcasm grated on her.

Was he always such an arrogant pig?

They'd both snuck away from the party, sidled away from friends, work colleagues, and spouses... to meet here. They'd been flirting for weeks. Tonight they were finally going to... It wasn't supposed to go like this.

She sighs. "How long have we been stuck here now?"

"My battery is just as dead as the last time you asked me," he snaps. Jesus, she was like a child!

She glared at him. Her Roland would've known the time. He wore a watch. He was patient, too.

"Why do I have to be Mr Timepiece?" he was unwilling to let the matter drop. "Don't you have a phone or a watch?"

"I can't wear watches," she said, lifting her chin and dropping ice into her voice. "The straps irritate my skin. And I left my phone in my bag." She sneered. "I thought I was only going to be gone a few minutes."

How could he ever have thought her beautiful? Sure, she had that beautiful jet black hair, and smooth skin, and curves... but she was lazy and mean. Entitled, too. Skating through life on her looks.

The distant booming stopped and the chatter dimmed.

"It must be nearly midnight," he says, following this with a self-satisfied nod when the countdown started far above them.

Did he always state the obvious likes that? Self-important prat.

When the chimes began, she feels a tug in her heart. She had a thing about always having someone to kiss on New Year. She senses Xander would've rebuffed her advances. She half-wishes he'd try to kiss her. She'd slap him for his trouble, but it'd give her wobbling ego a boost.

"It's been hours," she sounded plaintive. "Surely they must have missed us by now??"

"I dunno," he peered upwards as if he could see through the ceiling and determine what everyone was up to. "It was quite a party... And remember, we made sure they were good and drunk and mingling so they wouldn't notice us leaving..."

She pouted, listening to the fireworks going off and the opening lines of Auld Lang Syne. He was determined not to even look at her, but he could feel the sulk radiating off her. His own temper burned in response.

The minutes crawled by like slugs, unpleasant and sticky. When the doors finally opened, they both looked sweaty and dishevelled. Guilty, in other words.