The Classix

(2ND DRAFT) chapter TWO

NOTE: Good morning, Wattpad! Can you believe Christmas is in two days? REMEMBER LAST YEAR, WHEN WE WERE GETTING READY FOR FAMOUXMAS?? Who would've thought I'd be posting a rewrite of chapter 2 right now. Wow.

I hope you've been having a good week, and I hope you enjoy today's chapter. Again, it's going to sound a lot like the previous draft, but there is plenty new stuff too, so keep reading! I love youuu.

PREVIOUSLY ON THE CLASSIX: Emeray told us in the preface that she and Cartney are really loved by the public. Chapter obviously is as well, but the other members have been getting some bad press lately. They're hella frustrated about it. ALSO, we went into DEFED's point of view in chapter 1. Apparently there's a spy in the Famoux and yes, Finley is most definitely in DEFED. Remember Finley, Foster's old love? Lol. Love is real.

EMERAY

It is a perfectly cloudless day in March, yet snow hits the pavement between he and I like an insistent, brutal storm. This should be impossible––snow without clouds to bring it down from the sky––but it wouldn't be the first contradiction we've faced today. The very nature of our impending interaction breaks almost every boundary we've grown accustomed to these past months. Two hundred and seventy four days and three pens on paper are pretty indefatigable subjects; not the easiest of opposers to vanquish. And so, if today it snows without any clouds to supply it, and if today we can move down this pavement with full faith in our intentions, no moment should be put to waste.

We walk, serendipitously, toward one another.

I keep my hands by my sides, my breathing quick and choppy. It feels like the first time in a thousand years that I've gotten to walk down a street without a hand by my side in need of holding. As much as I'd like to relish in it for as long as I can, I'd also like to close the distance. Chances like this don't come everyday.

He keeps his hands by his sides, his chest moving up and down slower and steadier than mine. Even so, I know for a fact that he's just as nervous as I am, if not greater; it's flooding up those eyes of his that I used to lengthily wonder whether or not I'd ever be able to read. What we're doing here is more than colossal––it's an existentially profound move for both of our images. We know exactly what the masses will say about it just as much as we have not a damn clue.

Steps are calculated but sloppy from fervor. My heart careens within my chest right along with my brain within my skull.

We are not alone along this snow-sprinkled pavement on this perfectly cloudless day in March. We are far from alone. We are in the midst of a vivid, glittering metropolis: there are passers in big pea-coats on the sidewalk, shoppers in stores, vendors with bright blue umbrellas collecting the steam of their portable fryers, bright yellow taxis honking in evening traffic. The sunset is almost too perfect against the buildings––the kind newscasters would film and make small talk about on their broadcasts when there's nothing too serious to be discussed.

So much attention and life and pulsations happening around us, and yet our efforts go unvanquished still.

His steps meet my steps. My steps meet his steps.

I meet him and he meets me.

"Onward," Chapter Stones whispers.

My voice is soft to suit. "Onward."

In spite of every person gathered around us, and in spite of their peaked attention getting rendered on this one slab of sidewalk we've laid hold of as our own, and in spite of their eyes like daggers and sabers and fully flexed biceps ready to punch what they see, Chapter takes the sides of my face in his hands.