Plutoni
say it ain’t so
❧ Paris
☙
Paris had split from Lily with a knowing look as they entered the ball. He had to respect the woman’s priorities, though he knew they would realign at the bar soon enough; for him, however, there was a sacred order to a night out that even now would he be loath to blaspheme against. He’d pay homage first to the altar of wine, and, by the shining light of his virtue, Lily would even have a drink waiting for her when she arrived. Wasn’t he a saint?
And oh, how the very air tasted like money.
Paris ran his tongue over his teeth in slow relish as he stepped deep into Harrogate’s dizzying arms, quick-roaming gaze made discreet by the arching, narrow eye-slits in his mask, lashes just brushing the rims of satin gold that swept upwards into swan’s wings splaying fine golden feathers skyward at both temples. Never had he seen such a stage before. No cast has ever been so decadent. For the first time in his life Paris revelled in this feeling of striking anonymity, mystery, even, this sensation of many eyes upon his back as he smoothly parted his way through the crowd towards the bar. His profile would be a mystery to them, he knew, his stride unfamiliar. It was odd to him, too, this utter anonymity - but in that moment? He liked it. He knew them well, after all, he knew their type; he was a deft hand at schmoozing with the rich. It was a rigged game. He held the cards here, and they would soon come to know it too.
A flash of crimson moved in his periphery high above him as he walked, and Paris looked up to lay eyes upon what could only be the hostess herself. It was as clear as day - even a fool could tell, let alone someone like himself, and for that he had to admit quite the admiration. It took a rare sort of individual to hold that kind of presence. As he watched her for a moment upon the balcony, a plan was already crystallising his mind. With a woman as uncommonly striking as that, he would simply have to go and experience it for himself. Why would he aim for anything but the top of the hierarchy? Once his own priorities had been taken care of, no less - he, Claudius Guildford, would indulge himself first.
Aha.
It was an incomplete illusion, of course. The crowd shifted for a moment to reveal a glimpse of the bar and the two familiar figures that waited behind it, blonde and brown, Lotti and Julius; it came as a stark reminder that a few of the creatures of this jungle were merely props. Painted house-cats amongst jaguars. Only he could see their forgery, just as much as they could see his. They knew his real name. He felt a passing flutter of bitterness then that the fantasy would never be realised in full that night, that he was not entirely free - to a few, he was still - always - Paris. But the gap reappeared again, closer now, and all such thoughts vanished. He could see clearly now where Julius’s hands were set to work polishing glass, and it was all Paris could do to not burst into laughter there and then. He bit down on his tongue with the effort, trying to stifle the sound in his throat. Here he was, dressed like a god, and Jules was stuck behind a bar in an inferior little outfit and at the beck and call of every soft and signet-lined finger in the Midlands. Better yet, his would soon join them. Glorious insult upon injury.
He slid past the last line of the crowd that separated the fine bubble of open floor surrounding the bar from the rest of the room, walk slowing to an arrogant drift as he came to claim the gap beside a blonde man seated to his right. He moved past Lotti and the dark spray of spilt wine with only a glance, practically stepping over her as she swept. A ring indented with a sapphire the same rich midnight as his suit - once Lavina’s, and how he sang silent worship upon her memory tonight - glinted upon his index as he rapped an elegant knuckle twice on the bar-top, leaning one elbow upon it as if he was the proprietor himself, deftly flicking his tails back with his free right hand to slip two fingers into his trouser pocket to rest. He didn’t even feign a greeting as his eyes locked themselves upon Julius. The crowing was as clear as day. All queues and pleasantries bypassed with utmost flagrancy, he merely flashed a brilliant smile that screamed I dare you to be mad about it, one that assumed and graciously accepted forgiveness for such forward behaviour as he summoned the Medium over with a slight beckon of the finger.
“Two champagnes, darling.” As fate would have it, a telltale neck of black-green glass and gold foil high upon the shelf had caught his eye. His voice dropped to an almost indulgent purr. “The Moët.”
What luxury in an open bar. He had to hand it to the hostess; truly, no expense had been spared, at least in her lining of the top shelf - looking at Julius, perhaps he couldn’t quite say the same for the quality of the staff selection. Now that is funny. Inwardly, he shrugged. He hadn’t a clue how Dianium had managed to wrangle them into this event, but he most certainly wasn’t complaining. When soon presented with such an unmatched choice of drink, he very much doubted Lily would either.
☙
Wow.
Just for a second, it seemed like Julius - so great, so gracious - had found a moment of shameless humility. His task aligned perfectly with his ‘minimalist perfection’ workstyle, invigorating him with the peace and dedication to rub old glasses with soaked rags and to prepare gluttonous drinks for the greedy. For just that short time, it felt so eerily serene.
But then that had to show up.
Though nothing likely seemed out of the ordinary, Julius felt like he was pulled right into a stand-off, the gun that was his eyes filling with ambition as they aimed right at their target. No mask in the world could ever hide that massive, bloating ego.
Not to lie, there was a glimpse of frustration boiling from within, an emotion fueled by the remnants of envy and annoyance he had felt when his chance at entering his one true habitat had been given to an ungrateful beast. It was, dare I say, almost enough for Julius to crack.
But a great actor never breaks character. Weakness becomes a strength.
Instantly, the Seance became battle ready, a signature blend of confidence, passion and playfulness shifting his face into the most impish of expressions. He was more than ready for that first attack, and more than ready to win.
“Two champagnes, darling. The Moët. ”
That sickening tone, that vile attitude, that degrading choice of words- it was like a bullet to the leg! But no, this wouldn’t be enough for him to surrender. He had to stay composed. There was no alternative. He was in it for the long con.
“What a splendid choice, mon chéri.” Julius responded earnestly, bringing two out of the ten words of French he had picked up on over the days. He wasn’t about to let himself be degraded to some posh twit’s ‘darling’ without retaliation.
“Dare I ask out of curiosity, what inspired this dazzling outfit? Was it a dove? A duck? Or- I know it’s silly, but- perhaps an octopus of sorts?”.
There it was, his first true blow. Camouflaging somewhat thanks to the attention drawn by Paris’s fellow blonde simpleton, the words flew out with no hesitation, wings spread with pride.
Having grabbed the bottle in the meantime and successfully opened it, Julius brought out two glasses, placing them right in front of Paris’s infuriating face before getting to pouring. Needless to say, this was a moment to be a little ‘sloppy’, to let one’s hand ‘accidentally’ slip a bit and mess up the proportions of what would normally be passable. In good fashion, Julius also took the liberty of spicing this drink up a little, overtly adding a whiff of pure vodka into one of the glasses. Now, would he give this damned drink to his companion, or suffer from it himself? The petty social dilemma was in place.
“There you go, good sir! Enjoy the party.” Was Julius’s simple ending. Sliding the two glasses forward while two jestery eyes waved Paris goodbye.
☙
French? How cute. Paris even turned slightly towards him, tilting his head, a reply just at the edge of his lips before Jules’s next words sent it straight to it’s shrivelling death.
Perhaps an octopus of sorts?
It was as if the world blanched around him. His face didn’t move - imperceptibly stiffening, even - but Paris felt suddenly ill. His body flushed with prickling cold. The one thing. His eyes flickered to his side for a moment, tensely assessing the chance of it having been overheard, though finding it mercifully slim; all warmth had melted away from them by the time they returned to Julius. It left his fixed smile chilly, stare flat. A vindictive flash twisted deep through his stomach, throat tight. This veneer, this happy bubble, as it seemed now, had been consummately broken - this nauseating reality restrained so deep within his mind that he’d forgotten entirely for just one blissful hour tore the gauze as it bit back down suddenly and painfully and hard. Trust Jules to know how to ruin a joke. It occurred to him then that many a retaliatory sin could be excused under the guise of a performance such as his that night. But as gratifying as the sudden vision of him grabbing this ‘bartender’ by the collar, dragging him up over the bar in a shower of liquor and broken glass and hurling him to the wine-stained floor behind him was as it swept unbidden through his mind, he was forced to remind himself of the limits of his current station - his station - but how ugly, how flimsy it now felt. It had taken five ignorant words to ice his spirits over entirely.
Don’t think about it.
Just don’t think about it.
He tightened his fist until the inner edge of his ring dug hard into his flesh. But Paris was almost successfully distracted, just then, by Julius’s bizarre pouring of the drinks; it half-snapped him out of it as he watched them fill, bemusement sharply rising as - right before his eyes - the man blatantly spiked one with vodka.
Huh?
He considered it blankly for a moment. Was Julius attempting to one-up him by being.. Bad at his job? Not only that, but if he thought that this strengthened drink was something that he couldn’t handle - him, Paris - then his judgement of his tolerance was absurdly wide of the mark. It was laughable. He hadn’t been such a lightweight since he was an adolescent. Perhaps he should even thank him for making his time at the bar all the more efficient. Plus - the abrupt, petty normality of this gesture breathed subconscious relief into the grip of ugly feeling that had been tightening in his chest. It was an about-turn diversion he didn’t care to examine, taken fast and blindly with both grateful hands as he shifted, quickly reanimated, eyebrows raised behind the golden mask as he made a derisive tsk of tongue on teeth.
“What a waste of good champagne.”
He snatched up the stem of the adulterated glass with three practiced fingers, staring directly into Julius’s eyes as he tipped it back, not even so much as blinking to break eye-contact as he drained it in one. The taste had indeed been blunted by the stronger burn of spirits. It was a criminal act, vandalism, even - he hadn’t expected such crudeness from a man he’d at least assumed to hold some respect for one of the finest champagnes in all of Britain. Perhaps Jules was simply jealous enough of the fact that he was not the one with the opportunity to drink it that he had to ruin it for Paris, too. Dear me. He'd be seeking him out later. He placed it back down on the wood with enough force to make it heard, sliding it back towards the pretend barman in equally petty triumph, challenge glaring, smile mockingly saccharine.
“Be a dear.” And with a glance to his right, his voice shifted. It became genial, sympathetic, almost, suddenly now about Julius and unmistakably addressing the blonde man beside him instead. “I suppose his defective eyesight is no fault of his own, poor thing, but you would’ve thought the hostess would’ve taken more care with her choice of staff to make this worth our time, don’t you think? No wonder the floor is still unclean. Service was better in France, of all places.”
Paris had quickly assessed him amongst the other patrons as he’d arrived, but he’d taken the liberty of doing so again. A skilful once-over so swift it was hardly visible and he had already decided that not only was he more tastefully dressed than this man - the same red as the host, how garish - but he was also funnier. And blonder. Still. Why not scout out the competition while he waited? Perhaps, he mused, he even knew something about their lovely hostess.
☙
The sway of battle was an unpredictable one; ever changing and ambiguous to the root. One second, you think you’re marching to victory without effort, the other you’re getting pulled into the abyss of defeat by a marine mutant.
It wasn’t all too often that Julius had the blessing - or curse, more befittingly - of meeting someone that could rival his being. As such, he had made his move thinking it would be a one hit KO, a swift defeat for a fleeting little swan and his undoubtedly agitating plans. Sadly though, this battle would prove to not be as easy as expected.
‘Intense’ was probably the best way of describing whatever this sensation was. At first, Julius’s eyes continued to glisten with impish pride, but as the glass of vodka champagne emptied more and more, that glance gradually turned into one akin to a deer in headlights.
And it wasn’t even the end of this horror.
The pretend bartender had never been shot, but he could imagine that this verbal torture was what it would roughly feel like. A domineering ache festered from within, blending in with a shot of helplessness much like the Champagne had welcomed the graceless Vodka. Had his jests truly been deserving of this much backfire? Had he crossed a line, or was Paris just truly a demon in disguise?
Reluctantly, Julius took back the now empty glass of champagne, his hand tensing up around the fragile glass as it was retrieved. Caught off guard by the sudden inclusion of none other than blabbering blondie #2, the humbled operative found himself silenced with no idea how to properly respond. A sheepish smile was all that he could muster for the moment, for minimizing his losses seemed to be the best decision for him to make right now.
While Julius had been sent into a comatose state by frustration and agony, An intrigued expression perked up on the face of Paris’s double. Another chance for attention had appeared.
“Couldn’t agree more with you, chap. They promise us sensation and spectre, but instead we’re greeted by this ghastly face. No offense, doll.” Leo would respond, shamelessly talking down on the faux housekeeper, Lotti, before turning his attention like nothing had happened.
“You know, you look like a man who can appreciate real quality.”
The fellow blonde slid into his pockets as his +1 looked over their shoulder, her gaze much less confirming as that of her companion. It didn’t seem like she was interested in mingling in this conversation, however, for she swiftly went back to drinking.
While he pulled out a small business card of sorts and slid it across the table, Leo followed up on his proposal.
“I run a gentleman’s club down south. You should visit! Maybe make some connections with people of your calibre rather than wasting time on, well-”
Leo chuckled, eyes gazing past the staff beyond the counter. Had this been another setting, Julius would’ve decked him, and rightfully so.
“Sorry to interrupt your little bonding moment, but your drink is ready, sir.” Julius placed all of his weight behind that last little world, his tone tearing away any of the respect that would normally be associated with said word. It probably wasn’t clever to be petty in a moment like this, but self restraint was not a friend of his.
☙
Paris took the proffered card from the bar with barely a glance, tucking it neatly into the inner breast pocket of his jacket with a sly growing smile as his eyes followed the line of Leo’s gaze to land once again upon Julius. He hummed in agreement as the other laughed, the both of them watching this unlucky bartender in joint amusement, and Paris decided there and then that he very much liked this wonderfully arrogant stranger.
“Mm. Lippy one, isn’t he?” he mused to his neighbour in dry accord, eyes still on Jules. He slid his second drink back towards him. Who would’ve known he’d happen upon such a kindred soul quite so early into the night? After all - there was nothing like a shared hobby to bring two men together. Take taunting Julius, for example.
“Anyhow, make sure to stop by if you’re ever in the area. I’m Leo by the way, pleasure is all yours!” The vibrantly dressed man would, once again, laugh at his own remark, before shifting his attention back to his companion.
Paris gave a peal of only mostly fake laughter, politely genuine to any other ear; he liked this Leo character, make no mistake, so he’d play along. He’d allow him to believe he was the most interesting and talented man at the bar, however woefully deluded the notion.
“Most certainly. Claudius Guildford, though you, my friend, can call me Claude.” The name rolled as smoothly off his tongue as if he had truly been born with it. “In fact, yours shall be the first I visit once I’ve, ah, extracted myself from the clutches of my darling cousin. She missed me so terribly during my time in Paris that she simply had to drag me along to the first party on the calendar.”
He leaned in a little closer in mock conspiracy.
“To you, I’ll even admit - I’ve been out of the country so long that I don’t even know the name of this evening’s host.” Paris gave a little self-effacing laugh, the implied half-plea, half-question below it laid bare. “Embarrassing, no?”
☙
Lippy one.
Lippy.
Godforsaken.
One.
As if the tragedy of such a filthy denomination wasn’t enough, terror guest Leo added fuel to the fire with a loud laugh that reeked of genuine amusement. At this point, the joy of teasing his junior had wavered, and all Julius could wish for was some peace and quiet from this unfair massacre. One day, he would get his revenge.
Leo listened earnestly to what left his like minded friend’s mouth, making a plethora of vibrant ‘yes, I’m listening’ expressions befitting of his stature as a businessman. As ‘Claude’ leaned in, so would he, moving back away once the message had worked its way into his system.
Following a quick chuckle of politeness to the closing remark, Leo would swiftly do what he’s best at: talking and judging.
“Mmm, you’ve got a taste for challenge, I see. I can respect that, Claude.” He’d utter proudly, immediately assuming that this sudden interest in the hostess was of romantic nature.
“For what it’s worth, I believe no one has the pleasure of knowing her name. They like to keep things mysterious around the place, I’ve noticed. Probably has to do with that whole paranormal, ancient feel or whatever they’re trying to keep alive.”
He’d take a quick swig of his beverage before swiftly returning to his grand hobby.
“Well, if you ask me, they could use a bit more showmanship. I mean- come on, a ghastly painting only gets you so far. At least put in some- I don’t know, actors or traps to keep things exciting, you know? Anyway-”
Leo would lean in much like Paris had done before, lowering his voice slightly in preparation for what he would go on to say.
“If I were you, I’d go pay her a visit up top on the second floor. Spotted her up there not too long ago, unaccompanied.” Leo went on, emphasizing the last word to further clarify his suggestion.
“Who knows, maybe you’ll find out more than just a name, ey?” The now gleefully giggling young man jabbed his shoulder into Paris’s side a couple times before returning back to his relaxed position, taking a swift retrospective look over his shoulder to see that his companion had most certainly caught onto the ordeal and was now glaring in tenfold.
☙
Even Paris’s eyes widened a fraction as he listened to Leo speak. Dear God, he actually felt a twinge of frustration that they had to meet like this - under a guise, a fake name - and not face-to-face out in the real world. This man was exactly the kind of fun and fair-weather acquaintance that Paris had once surrounded himself with, now made so lamentably scarce by his current.. situation. He felt almost nostalgic. The invitation was there - the temptation was sweet. But he certainly couldn’t be bothered to keep ‘Claude’ alive forever, didn’t even want to start, more importantly; would his deception be forgiven once revealed? He’d find some cover for it, undoubtedly, but somehow his gut still said no regardless. Damn. Still - he waved the thought on by to be shelved. He had his card. That was all he needed. Perhaps he’d put his mind to it some other time.
His smile broadened back into brilliance as the words poured forth, with them the abundant realisation that he’d stumbled upon a goldmine. A 'paranormal feel’, a ghastly painting - my, my. The laugh that followed as he was playfully jostled was practically genuine. He felt a flash of smug vindication as he thought back to C’s words in the carriage. Fooling around indeed. With this little discovery of his, he was undoubtedly now the one carrying the operation.
And for that, he deserved a reward.
Oh, he’d embrace Leo’s suggestion. He was in the mood for a dance, hostess or not. Paris cocked an eyebrow, eyes flicking for a moment to the aforementioned second floor, returning to the man before him with a glint of anticipation.
“A bad habit of mine, certainly.” It was undoubtedly the only truthful admission of the evening so far. He straightened from his lean against the bar, pulling his jacket into place, thoughts already beginning to march on to further things. “Well - you, Leo, are a man of astounding insight. And if you’ll so excuse me, I might just have to take you up on it.”
He glanced past him, seeing the look of Leo’s dark-haired companion, remembering for a moment his own pretend cousin - he leaned in briefly, voice low and wicked. “Let’s hope that I’m forgiven, hm?”
Paris took a last look at the bar as he stepped back, weighing up for a second the spare glass of champagne. Ah, who cared? He'd already had enough of waiting. Lily would survive ordering her own. He picked it up, knocking it back almost like a shot, uncaring of the looks this almost crude familiarity with drink might garner him. He shot a pointed look at Julius as he placed it back down. Painting. Got it? You’re most welcome.
With that, Paris was gone, swallowed whole by the crowd at the base of the stairs. He’d let the rest of them figure it out. He now had far more important matters to attend to, after all.
coded by reveriee.
