Category: X Reader

Requested by: Izzy4theWIN

Pronouns: you

***Gender related ones not used, but the reader is female due to request

Y/N— your name

H/C—-hair color

E/C——eye color

——————————————

Jan 16,

23:49

Boston, the United States of America (USA)

You idly sipped on the fragile glass of champagne a waiter had offered you, trying not to completely zone out. The task set before you had been simple: Entertain the son of your father's business partner so they could stay on good terms.

The man did, after all, fancy you. Smiling alluringly and nodding along to the muffled sound of his voice, you force yourself to stay put.

You had known him for months, having always been forced to smile and laugh and bat your eyelashes for your father's benefit. You barely even remembered his name---Kieth Carter.

Without meaning to. . .your mind wandered to. . .him. The boy---man, now--you were in love with. He was the exact opposite of Keith Carter. The man before you was polite and strict in demeanor. His conversational topics were boring and his gestures, a bit too possessive for your liking.

He. . .the one you loved. . .was carefree. Funny, wild. Rambunctious. He never failed to surprise you or make you laugh, always keeping you on your toes wondering, what next, what next?

You missed him.

It had been years since you'd heard from him, years since he disappeared into the blue, leaving you with nothing but a pathetic good-bye note. Inhaling deeply, you set the empty glass down on a passing waiter's tray and grasp another.

You can almost picture him before you, coming to whisk you away from this unnecessarily extravagant gala. Wild red curls that could never quite be tamed. Skin brushed with freckles everywhere the sun touched. Vivid blue eyes full of optimism and life. Tall yet lean, an insufferable smile always playing on his lips.

The image that appeared wasn't quite right, however. Zack's hair was gelled away from his face, every curl flattened to his skull. Instead of his worn-out jeans and Red Sox jersey, he was in a suit.

One he looked particularly handsome in, but still. The Zack you knew would rather eat fish than be confined to formal attire. Scratch that. Nothing could deter his hatred for seafood.

He wasn't the type of guy you'd expected to fall for, but to h e l l with a white horse and a carriage, beautiful ball gowns and glass slippers.

He was a street rat. Poor. Of a broken household.

Despite the hardships he was forced to endure, he remained optimistic on his outlook towards life. He was hopeful, valued laughter, and oddly idealistic. He was all the wonderful things that the world was cruel enough to try and squander as one matured.

Yet he stayed true to himself and burned on, a tiny ember that refused to be extinguished. That was what had intrigued you in the first place.

The image of Zack you had conjured began to speak to a nearby staff member, the familiar twang of a Bostonian accent amiss. In its place was an oddly articulated voice of a Britisher, all stern and stiff in manner.

The staff member he spoke to---a muscular girl with short curls a shade off of his own----nodded and turned in the other direction. Funny, she didn't seem to be heading to the kitchen. You followed the girl with your eyes, feeling as if you knew her to. . . perhaps she'd entered your line of vision at another event like this one. The staff members for these types of parties did seem to be recurring.

When the girl disappeared, you found yourself returning to find Zack. Your eyes found him almost immediately, and you were surprised when he turned to meet your gaze.

Recognition flared in his eyes, a rich cobalt that matched the famous Boston sea. He stepped forward as if to come towards you. As if to pull you aside and say whatever it is he could to make up for the vanishing act. To apologize and drag you away into another one of your nighttime rides that had become a tradition the two of you once shared.

You smiled, recalling your nightly escapades with him as a teenager. Zack would convince you into breaking out of your father's mansion and together, you'd spend hours finding new roads to zoom down, signs with higher speed limits to break, and new curves to drift along.

He returned your smile, shoving through the cluster of the elite to reach you. They were actually grumbling and moving aside. Huh. Who knew Alcohol-induced visions could be so life-like?

Kieth Carter interrupted your fantasy. "Y/N? Are you even listening to me?"

"Uh---sorry, what?" Your head whipped back towards the person you were supposed to be entertaining. You gave the man a once-over, trying to discern anything remarkable about him and finding nothing. He was handsome, in all aspects. Shining black hair and clean-cut features. A nose straightened with the help of a cosmetic procedure. But there was a lack of a smile in his eyes, no mischief in his demeanor. You realized you were unconsciously comparing him to Zack.

Keith Carter sighed. "I was saying, points to Pierre as a host. His events always get quite lively, don't you think?"

You took a sip of your wine. "It depends on your definition of lively."

"Well there are over two hundred guests, everyone's dressed like its movie premiere, and the food is something special."

"No one's dancing, everyone's putting on a fake smile, the food was made by people who can't count on dinner, need I go on?"

He scoffed. "Must you always ruin the mood?"

"Only when absolutely necessary." You threw him a sugar-sweet smile.

"You're a lot less pretty when you open your mouth."

"So I've been told." You murmur, glancing over his shoulder to see if Zack had actually been there. He was nowhere to be seen.

Your bottom lip quivered. So he was just a figment of your imagination. So what. Did really you expect Zack to just suddenly appear?

The waltz began to play over the speakers. Pairs began to flit to the center floor, moving in synchrony. Their postures were ramrod straight and their expressions forced. Like a puppet show, almost. Because that's what this was, this whole elitist lifestyle. Nothing more than an act.

Kieth Carter gestured towards the couples. "See? People dancing."

"Just look at how they're moving."

"What about it?"

"It's-it's so controlled. So. . .so restricted. They won't let themselves let loose and have. . . I dunno . . .fun."

Kieth Carter scoffed, adjusting his tie. "They'd be the laughing stock of this place. Nobody wants to cause a scene, is all."

"So everything in life is just about what other people think, now?" You challenge, your hate for these events expanding with each breath.

"You'd rather live as a social outcast?"

You laughed sardonically. "Because having fun makes you a social outcast?"

"You know what I meant."

"No. I don't think I did."

"Let's change the subject," Keith Carter offered hastily. "Would you like to dance?"

"Why not." You drawl, signaling a waiter to take your glass.

You don't think about it as you begin, the steps ingrained into your mind and muscle memory from vigorous lessons growing up. You pay attention to the pace of the music for a few seconds, preparing your steps, before zoning out almost completely.

You know Keith Carter's eyes are trained on yours. You know the intent behind them, felt it when his arm gently snaked around your waist and pulled you just close enough not to break the boundaries of a socially appropriate distance.

That was another reason you found him so utterly boring---his unwillingness to bend even a single rule. At least, while out in public.

Anything to keep up appearances after all. It was the unsaid motto their entire clan of the snobbish rich upheld no matter what.

Your eyes skirt around the room, trying to find something---anything---of interest to focus on. After a round of searching, you begin to give up when a certain lean redhead catches your eye. Zack. Are you really so drunk that you fantasize about him twice in five minutes?

Nevertheless, you follow him with your eyes as he joins the dance floor. On his arm is a tall Latina woman. She's beautiful. Eye-catching, really. Her cinnamon-brown skin glowed under the light of the chandelier contrasting with reddish-brown hair that was swept into an updo. The hairstyle accentuated her long, graceful neck, on which no jewelry sat, strangely. Her dress stood out among the rest due to its simplicity. It was a simple scarlet number, no pattern garnishing it whatsoever. The sleeves dipped to a 3/4th length and it cascaded as a sleek curtain to the marble floor aside from a surprising slit, the fabric curving around generous hips.

Jealousy spikes through your veins, reminding you of feelings you long wished had dulled by now. Your stomach curdled and your lips swiveled into a frown at the sight of Zack with someone else, though it was just your imagination in the works.

Was it?

"What's on your mind?" Keith followed your gaze. "Hmm. I've never seen them before. Is that why you're staring at them?"

Was he seeing them too?? "Who do you mean?"

"The redhead in the suit and the lady in that red dress."

"The lady--the one without any jewelry?" You ask, panic rising in your voice.

"Uh, yeah? And the dude next to her is in a monkey suit."

"You-you mean you see them too? They're real?" It couldn't be. It didn't make sense.

"Yeah. . . . Y/N, are you. . .feeling alright?"

Your eyes bulge from their sockets as you stare at Zack and the Latina lady. Despite your state of shock, you manage to nod. "J-just too much wine."

"Hey, we're about to switch partners. Y/N, will you be okay?" Keith asked, actual concern flashing in his eyes. You feel kind of bad that you don't feel anything for him.

"I can take care of myself." You choke out, twirling out of his arms and into the arms of your next partner. With him, and the next, and the next, you manage pre-rehearsed small talk all whilst keeping your focus on Zack.

His ocean blue eyes flicked to yours at some point, and a cheeky grin formed on his lips. You found yourself mirroring his smile, tears pricking your eyes. Oh, how you wanted to embrace him, to smell him, to speak to him, to-to kiss him.

Then you remember the lady in red and your mood automatically dampened. He'd moved on, unlike you.

Pushing that thought out of your head, you bit your lip, counting off the beats of the melody for when it would be your turn to dance together.

You don't quite register it when you move towards his arms. Seeing his face after all these years makes you falter and misjudge the distance. You twirl a smidge too far and feel yourself falling. Before you can meet the solid marble floor, an arm hooks around the small of your waist. You pry your eyes open, finding equally surprised blue eyes peering back at you.

"Careful, there." He whispered, seemingly as bewildered as you were. A hint of a Boston accent broke through the poised English voice he'd been using that night.

"Zack." You breathe, noting the small distance between you two. It would be so easy to close that gap, so easy to press your lips against his. Your tongue flicks over your mouth involuntarily, and his eyes fall to it at your movement. He's going to do it, you're thinking. He's going to kiss you. You part your lips and relax your lids, waiting.

Instead, he pulls you upright, beginning to sway to the beat. You glance away, slightly embarrassed, and recall the lady in scarlet.

"Y/N?" Zack asks, surprise in his voice. "Is it. . . is it really you?"

You can't bring yourself to answer verbally and nod, your bottom lip trembling. "Zack." You repeat again, not quite believing he was before you and on the brink of tears.

"How have you been?" He asks gently, something deeper than concern in his voice. He seems to want to say more, but doesn't, screwing his lips shut.

"I--Uhm. Good. Good. I started helping dad out with the company. I'm. . .I'm going to university now."

"That's. . .that's good."

"Yeah." You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "It, ah, is. What about you?"

"Oh! Uh, I'm traveling. Doing a bunch of odd jobs."

You raise an eyebrow. "Odd jobs that involve you coming here?"

He sighs, running the hand that was placed on your shoulder through his hair. You suddenly become aware of the warm hand encircling your waist, and how closely the two of you are dancing.

"It's complicated, alright?"

You scoff at his response, but don't press it, changing the subject."What's with the accent?" It comes out with a bit more like an accusation Han you meant it to.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Zack insists, glancing away sheepishly, his queen's English wavering. A bit of Bostonian slips through.

"Does this have to do with the 'odd jobs'?"

"Maybe. Listen, Y/N. I can't stay long. I have somewhere to be." His blatant dismissal stings, and you can't help the look of hurt that crosses your face. Zack notices and opens his mouth to say something.

You don't let him, not able to keep jealousy out of your voice. "Off to meet your girlfriend?"

"What? I don't have a---you mean Carmen?"

"Spill it. Who's the lady in red?" You challenge.

Zack becomes flustered but doesn't pull away. "A friend." Then he raises an eyebrow and shoots back, " Who's the guy staring at you?"

"Huh?" Your eyes stray from Zack's to Keith. He was glancing in your direction and upon meeting your gaze, smiled. You returned the expression weakly before zeroing back in on Zack. "A friend."

Now it was Zack's turn to scoff. "More than that, judging from the way he's staring at you."

"He's not staring at me! Besides, you're the one to talk. You and that Carmen lady seemed awfully handsy earlier."

Zack groaned. "Ugh! She was just passing me something! Carm's just a friend. Honestly, she acts like my mom sometimes." His Boston accent flows through freely again, making you smile.

"What?" He asks, noticing your expression.

"Nothing. It's just that you're talking normally again."

"Carm says that this is proper diction." He said, returning to his British accent.

"Well, you can tell 'Carm' that I don't like it."

"Maybe I will." He smirked. Suddenly, the beat switched, signaling a change in partners. "Y/N, I really have to go. I'm sorry."

"You're really just going to leave? Again?"

"I'm sorry--We. . .we can meet up later, okay?"

"How? How do you expect me to trust that you'll show up after. . .after. . ."

"Y/N, I---" Whatever excuse he might've come up with was interrupted when the lights cut out. With the descent of darkness over the party guests, commotion erupting from all over the room.

"My necklace!" A cry rang out amongst the rest, causing even more disarray.

"My earrings!" Another called. Dozens of cries seemed to follow it, and you could only catch bits and pieces.

"----cufflinks---"

"They took my shoes---"

"Diamond studded---"

"---my rings---"

"---worth a fortune!"

The flickering light of a hallway on the other end drew people like a moth to a flame. Bodies crashed into you left and right, shoving to reach the exit. Security guards tried to help direct the chaos but to no avail. No one liked losing things more than rich people. Amidst the confusion, you toppled to the floor, tripping over your own dress.

"Y/N!" A familiar voice called out.

"Zack!" You screamed. "Zack, I'm over here! On the ground!" A pair of arms scooped you from the floor, making a mad dash in the opposite direction the crowd was moving in.

"Zack. Oh my god." You sighed into his chest, your heartbeat spiraling out of control. "Zack! Where are we going! Oh my god, put me down!"

"No time." He breathed, curving into a dark hallway. "Ah, I shouldn't have stayed and talked to you. Dammit! This is my fault."

"What? What do you mean it's your fault?" You ask, finally receiving a clue to what his "odd jobs" could've been.

"You!" A voice rang out. You turned your head to find a handsome man dressed stylishly in a coat and a hat.

"Oh no, not you!" Zack screamed back, quickening his pace.

"Aaargh!" The other man growled. You didn't quite believe what you were seeing when he tossed his hat towards the two of you, razor blades spinning from its brim.

Zack set you down, immediately shoving your head to the ground as it flew over. Upon missing, the man held his hand out, drawing the hat back like a magnet. Zack grabbed your hand and pulled you down the hallway, turning left and right.

The crazy man with the death hat nearly sliced you open a couple of times, give or take.

He even gave you the haircut you'd been thinking of getting for a while.

"Holyshit." You said in one breath, watching all your H/C hair from below the shoulder scatter on the expensive tiling.

Finally, you lost the man after ducking into a closet for a few moments. "Zack. Who the hell was that?" You whisper-yell, confused, and terrified simultaneously.

"Dash Haber. Leader of the fashion police." His voice dripped with sarcasm. You wait for him to elaborate, but when he doesn't, you keep quiet.

Zack led you through various hallways silently, turning this way and that until stopping finally in front of the safe room. He ran towards the entrance, only to find it open and practically empty of loot, as revealed by the light from a nearby window.

"Oh my god. Oh my god. Holy Shit. Holy shitting hell. Zack, what is going on?" You practically screamed, clawing at your now shoulder-length hair.

"The thing at the gala---It was just a distraction like Player said! I--I was supposed to cover the west quarter! That's where they were and I could've stopped them but then I saw you and---aargh!!" He shoved his face into his hands, trembling.

"Zack," You repeated with less fervor, placing a hand on his back. "What's going on?"

Inhaling deeply, he turned to you. "We were supposed to stop them, Y/N. I had one job. Carm's gonna kill me!"

"So. . .this Carmen lady is your. . .boss?" You ask.

He shoots you a look. "Yes. Happy now?"

"Sorry." You murmur. "Oh, Zack, If I had known. I should've let you go." You take his hands--now calloused and rough---into yours, moving closer.

He shakes his head, his nose nearly brushing yours. "No. . .you deserved to. . .you deserved to know." His gaze slips from your E/C eyes to your mouth.

You bite your lip, panting in anticipation. How would it be, to kiss him again, after all these years? Would his lips still be soft and gentle, moving with a desire that always was accompanied with a touch of shyness?

"Zack. . ."