Miss Chang was very enthusiastic about the ballerina, which made him feel — something. There was a hum in his chest that he couldn't quite pin down. He liked the way she looked when she talked like this, so animated she could practically have bounced, but her mood also seemed to be shifting quickly — irritated, wistful, exasperated. He didn't know what to make of it or how to react, and there was something else. It was barely even a thought, just a vague tug at the back of his mind: he wished someone would talk that way about him. No, not someone — her. Ford wished Miss Chang would talk that way about him.
"Let's get some air?" he suggested, in response to warm and too many people. He'd offered because it seemed like the only reasonable thing to say after her complaint, but it occurred to him as he spoke that if she took him up on it this would put the two of them in close proximity away from most of the party. It was not alone, but it was the closest approximation that one could reach at a crowded ball, and that seemed like a delightful turn of events. (Because she was good company, and not for any other reason, of course.) Hopefully she agreed, because if she didn't then he supposed the alternative was to help her go find the ballerina — parting ways for any reason had not occurred to him as a possibility — and for some reason that didn't sit right with him. He even thought to suggest I can help you look for her and hadn't quite gotten the words out. He had the feeling that if they did find the ballerina, all of this enthusiasm she had would be directed that way and he'd end up on the sidelines of the conversation, and he didn't want that.
He finished his drink and left the empty glass on the table, then offered her a hand to help her up. He glanced back at the empty stage and realized there was a word for this: jealous. He was jealous of the way she focused, apparently single-mindedly, on the dancer, and the animated way that she was describing her. That was senseless, though, because there was nothing really to be jealous of; they had not even met, and Miss Chang had no more connection to the ballerina than any of the other people who had just watched the performance. Even if she had, it wasn't as though Ford had any particular claim to Miss Chang that would give him any right to be jealous. They were just acquaintances, not even really friends yet, but —
— but they could have been something, because she was so engaging and intelligent and they'd gotten along so well before, and her face when she tilted her head to the side and thought deeply about something was so adorable he could have laughed and pulled her straight into his arms. He was, he suddenly recognized, a little bit in love with her. He couldn't have said when it had happened, but it was certainly true now.
— only that wasn't right, was it?
He was in love with Tycho. That was right. Probably it was possible for both things to be true, for someone to be in love (at least a little bit) with two people at once, but Ford had only realized he was in love with Tycho after they'd been friends for over a year and had already started sleeping together. By comparison, this was very sudden, and probably not to be trusted. Unless she was just that amazing, that it had all happened so quickly. At the moment it didn't seem an impossible conclusion, but he could recognize that objectively it wasn't the most logical one. And maybe this was what she'd meant when she asked if he was feeling alright, he suddenly realized. She was quite perceptive, and he'd been acting strangely, and she'd noticed — so that must have been it, and this must not have been real, and he must not have been in love with her at all.
Not that this train of thought prevented his stomach from swooping when she took his hand. "Come on," he said as she stood. "Let's try a different drink this time and then find the garden."
"Let's get some air?" he suggested, in response to warm and too many people. He'd offered because it seemed like the only reasonable thing to say after her complaint, but it occurred to him as he spoke that if she took him up on it this would put the two of them in close proximity away from most of the party. It was not alone, but it was the closest approximation that one could reach at a crowded ball, and that seemed like a delightful turn of events. (Because she was good company, and not for any other reason, of course.) Hopefully she agreed, because if she didn't then he supposed the alternative was to help her go find the ballerina — parting ways for any reason had not occurred to him as a possibility — and for some reason that didn't sit right with him. He even thought to suggest I can help you look for her and hadn't quite gotten the words out. He had the feeling that if they did find the ballerina, all of this enthusiasm she had would be directed that way and he'd end up on the sidelines of the conversation, and he didn't want that.
He finished his drink and left the empty glass on the table, then offered her a hand to help her up. He glanced back at the empty stage and realized there was a word for this: jealous. He was jealous of the way she focused, apparently single-mindedly, on the dancer, and the animated way that she was describing her. That was senseless, though, because there was nothing really to be jealous of; they had not even met, and Miss Chang had no more connection to the ballerina than any of the other people who had just watched the performance. Even if she had, it wasn't as though Ford had any particular claim to Miss Chang that would give him any right to be jealous. They were just acquaintances, not even really friends yet, but —
— but they could have been something, because she was so engaging and intelligent and they'd gotten along so well before, and her face when she tilted her head to the side and thought deeply about something was so adorable he could have laughed and pulled her straight into his arms. He was, he suddenly recognized, a little bit in love with her. He couldn't have said when it had happened, but it was certainly true now.
— only that wasn't right, was it?
He was in love with Tycho. That was right. Probably it was possible for both things to be true, for someone to be in love (at least a little bit) with two people at once, but Ford had only realized he was in love with Tycho after they'd been friends for over a year and had already started sleeping together. By comparison, this was very sudden, and probably not to be trusted. Unless she was just that amazing, that it had all happened so quickly. At the moment it didn't seem an impossible conclusion, but he could recognize that objectively it wasn't the most logical one. And maybe this was what she'd meant when she asked if he was feeling alright, he suddenly realized. She was quite perceptive, and he'd been acting strangely, and she'd noticed — so that must have been it, and this must not have been real, and he must not have been in love with her at all.
Not that this train of thought prevented his stomach from swooping when she took his hand. "Come on," he said as she stood. "Let's try a different drink this time and then find the garden."
Set by Lady!