gooseberryhigh | (no subject)

Who: Rupert Wick & Antigone Brown
When: May 11th, before lunch
Where: The Lodge
What: Rupert "asks" Iggy to prom.
Warnings: They're embarrassing and stupid and this is short.

Though he had played at uncertain when talking to Balthazar, Rupert has been wanting to ask Iggy to prom for a little while now. In his defense, though, he has been waffling on whether or not he should actually do it. It feels like crossing some line, or admitting to something he’s not willing to, even though in the end he knows that going to a dance together isn’t really that big of a deal. Still, he’s a hard time getting up the nerve to ask. Until now. The young man still feels fairly rattled from his ghost encounter, but he also feels stronger. More determined. He hadn’t saved himself, but he hadn’t totally freaked out. And asking someone to prom seems a lot less scary, now.

It’s before lunch that Rupert marches over to the other Ribbonfin, jaw clenched the slightest amount. "Antigone," is all he says initially, tone a little more strained than he intends. Maybe this is a little scary still.

It isn't that Antigone worries. In fact, Antigone has very little to worry about - her homework is finished and the weather is warm enough that she doesn't feel as though she has ice permanently in her veins - and, anyway, Rupert can obviously take care of himself. With proof, even. So it isn't that she worries and it isn't that she waits either. She just happens to be the sort of well behaved and civil person who walks with her friends after class. And if that friend happens to be Rupert today, then that's just how things work out.

So she isn't terribly surprised to hear her name. Though the tone is a bit unusual for a day when she hasn't set out to figure out how many different ways she can irritate him before it's even officially the afternoon.

"Yes?" she says, not at all the appropriate amount of wary. "Do you need something?"

This should be easy, he thinks, but making eye contact with the girl has Rupert momentarily faltering, at least in his mind; outwardly he just looks his usual flavor of mildly annoyed as he comes to a stop in front of Antigone. He cross his arms a little tightly, letting out a short sigh as he does so. The actions probably just seem to confirm his annoyance, but they’re yet another tactic to get up his nerves. He shifts on his feet. He lets out another sigh.

"I don’t need anything," he starts, but then he shakes his head to dismiss the comment. "I just came to tell you something. That you’re going to prom with me."

Rupert’s brows immediately draw in. "I mean…" That was supposed to be a question, wasn’t it? But no, he’s just going to go with it for the moment, because backpedaling is pointless. He’s already blurted out the order, and anyways, he’s strong enough to stand his ground.

"Yes. You’re going to prom with me. Just. So you know."

There's a long moment where her mouth opens around empty air and she blinks back at him, the motion uncustomarily slow. Then it snaps itself shut again, her lips twitching downward thoughtfully and briefly pursing themselves around the prickling and restless compulsion to point how that he had needed something. Even if it was only to tell - To tell her that they were -

Well.

There's a thrumming sort of feeling (nerves? excitement? some strange and uncertain thing in between?) caught high in her throat that she swallows around with some difficulty. But her shoulders still straighten and her chin tips upward, arranged into neat and certain lines.

"Okay." Antigone nods and it isn’t the fight she’d usually have. Even if just for the sake of having one. "Is that it?"

Much like when he punched Iggy in the face not too long ago, Rupert is fairly certain he’s going to pass out for a moment. His housemate is just watching him, and she looks surprised, and he’s fairly certain she’s going to say no. Maybe because she doesn’t like him. Maybe just because she’s contrary. But instead, there’s acceptance that’s almost so easy it makes him suspicious. He fidgets a bit more, not sure how to handle this dynamic shift. Is he really supposed to be able to tell her what to do, and she’ll accept it?

"And I get to tell you what to wear," he adds, a subconscious attempt to get a rise out of her.

Antigone snorts. It's automatic and incredulous and incredibly unladylike - and it sets the stray edges of her ponytail swaying like a pendulum against the back of her neck as she shakes her head. He's insane. The expression on his face is tying knots in her stomach and he's clearly insane.

"Guess you can tell me anything you like," Iggy allows, arms crossing over her chest and an eyebrow raised skeptically. "But that doesn't mean I have to listen to you."

Rupert’s shoulders drop a fraction of an inch, and his arms become less tightly crossed against his body. This is better. Maybe. More familiar, at least, so he feels less panicked, more normal. Not normal enough, though, to scold her for unbecoming snorting. He even finds it a little endearing.

"Well, you should at least sort of listen, or else we’ll look like mismatched idiots."

"Or," Antigone suggests, leaning forward in a manner that's very nearly eager, her lips already starting to twitch themselves up at the corners in anticipation of his reply. It's almost as though she knows how well this one is going to go over. "You could listen to me instead."

Though he almost leans back, Rupert decides to remain motionless as Antigone leans in. He’s tough, he can stand his ground. He rolls his eyes, but does glance off momentarily afterwards. "I don’t think so, I’ve seen how you dress on the weekends."

One set of fingers swipes cleanly through the air once, then quickly repeats the motion, swift and dismissive. "That doesn't count," she counters, eyes narrowing slightly. "I'm not dressing to impress anyone on the weekends." Which is not to imply that Antigone's ever dressing to impress anyone. Especially him. Weekend or otherwise.

"Oh, what? You’re going to dress to impress at prom?" Rupert’s voice is dripping with skepticism, and for the first time since they’ve started speaking he doesn’t seem any different than he normally is. This is just how they interact, and he’s so distracted by the suggestion that Antigone would make an effort to dress herself that he doesn’t think about the fact that they’re arguing about what they’re going to wear to prom. Together.

That last bit of tension in his voice eases, tightens up into that expected sharpness, and there's just something about it - something that makes it very easy for her to loosen everything about herself. Antigone's shoulders roll back and there's a wide, lazy grin threatening to slide its way across her face.

"What? You don't think I could?" she asks, tone arch.

Rupert sighs, put out this time, as he gives a shrug that’s meant to come off as careless but mostly comes off as low-key annoyed, his natural state. "I know you can look nice, I saw you at Cotillion, but you had to be nice looking there. And you don’t have to be nice looking for prom, technically. So while I think you could, I don’t think you will because you like being contrary."

Finally, he uncrosses his arms. "So, I should probably pick."

Antigone listens through the course of his speech, keeping her eyes from rolling skyward with what she'd like to submit as a considerable amount of willpower. Wearing sweatpants on a Saturday doesn't make a person incapable of making good decisions. When he stops talking, she crosses her own arms in counterpoint, blowing a short breath out through her nose. "And what if I feel like looking nice just because I want to?"

"Well then it will be some kind of miracle, and I will have been very wrong," Rupert offers, in what he feels is a rather generous admission. He looks as though he’s going to say more, though, as his brows draw in, and, finally, he adds, "If you really want control over what we wear, then fine. But you’re not allowed to make us look like idiots, if you do it."

There's a snippy comment about idiots and who exactly would be looking like one on the tip of her tongue and it's very nearly made its way out of her mouth before she sets her teeth into her lower lip to catch it. He only asked her to go a few minutes ago - and there's probably a line somewhere when he takes it back.

"I'll give you a color," she says, after some consideration. And that's the most generous counteroffer she's willing to make.

Honestly, Rupert should be equally concerned that Iggy is going to retract her acceptance, but he’s not worrying about that right now - fashion is at stake. He considers this offer far longer than he actually needs to before giving a short nod.

"Alright. And.. I won’t tell you what to wear."

That's really all that Iggy can reasonably ask for, all things considered, even if her own reflexive "Thank you." projects far less gratefulness than it does borderline-graceful acceptance of what is most definitely her due. But the smile is back, smaller now and with less of an active challenge stretched along the curve of it. She tips her head, considers him for a moment before opening her mouth again. "You hungry?"

Prepared for something else combative, the prefect is surprised by the thanks, and by his companion’s question. There’s nothing to fight with, here. So he just nods again.

“I am.”

"Good." She takes another step forward, into his personal space, fits her fingers around his wrist (something that’s teetering dangerously close to becoming a habit) and tugs. "Then move it. I’m starving. And we’re missing lunch."