“ gatsby pulled himself up by his bootstraps, as ridiculous as his infatuation was; nick was mostly just there— ” and likely gay, “ —george was a cog in the machine. tom? old money, married, has a mistress. unless you want to be daisy. ”

the hand on her back makes her pause for a millisecond. there is no denying their strange dynamic — she refuses to call it chemistry, but perhaps in refusal she has signed an irrefutable confirmation — and she can't exactly say she hates it. all touch is touch. it's something life had beaten into her.

sliding into the car, what hits her first is the smell. it's mild and pleasant but noticeably different from the outside; it's cleaner and more refined, a subtle, curated touch not visible to the eye. do rich people use cologne in their vehicles? she starts wondering, fingers stroking the leather of her seat. it's so soft.

provoked by her earlier taunt, he decides to give her another name, also handpicked from the musical. she casts him a look. myrtle wilson, wife to george, mistress to tom. is he trying to hit on me? she cannot help but wonder. or is he insinuating that i would be the kind to marry and cheat and get knocked up? marriage has nothing to do with someone like her, but if she is to make a connection, there is perhaps some overlap between what she does and what the average marriage offers: homicide.

suddenly, she remembers that leather is also skin. his face looks very much like a piece of leather, waiting to be stretched over the car seat.

when he declares their destination, she has about fifteen minutes to decide how to proceed. the carlyle is members-only, and not anyone can enter. rosaria cannot imagine a worse way to conduct business, to alienate the mass in order to please a few; yet privilege is manmade in this exact fashion, and privilege is honey to the rich.

he is no doubt bragging his status. she has yet to decide what reaction to give; by the time they arrive, she has forgotten to produce one. any attempt in hiding her surprise is gone the moment she steps out of the car. she is out of her depths, too crude and crass for such luxury, and the uppity eyes will instantly notice her dissonance. however impossibly, she regains her footing, convincing herself of this to be an incredible opportunity to scale the spot and commit it to memory.

" Of course we're talking business. Whatever else? " He squinted just so, with a hint of added confusion.

Pulling up smoothly to the famed canopy, Chip allowed his chauffeur all of the physical labor. He walked a few paces behind Rosaria through the lobby, catching up only to greet the maitre d', who, after the polite song and dance, directed them to his designated table.

the tremors only surface when sidonie is done. her hand curls into a fist and, out of reflex, hits the table thrice, hoping to distract her mind from the wound with the newly self-induced pain.

“ —thanks, ” she says once she has gathered herself enough to look at her doctor-in-charge. unlike cityfolk, sidonie carries herself in an airy presence; light-footed but firm where she stands, sidonie has managed to keep her business afloat despite the passing of her brother and the departure of her sister; all this rosaria learned from hearsay.

“ you roll your own cigarettes? ” she eyes the blunt and imagines how hers would taste. would it taste like the humidity? the verdant bite of fresh grass? would it come with mossy consistency? it better not taste like mud. she reaches for it, first tentatively, then surely as sidonie distracts herself with a question; swiftly, rosaria picks the small joint from sidonie's fingertips and steals herself a tiny mouthful.

“ not as long as you, ” which is given. “ just over a month. i'm practically a newborn around here. ” she returns the cigarette, daring enough to place it before her lips just to see if she will bite. “ i might have to get mine from you starting now. ” with that, she looks down at her arm, the new gash now freshly closed, its stitches crisscrossing on her flesh like a piece of chicken tied for roast.

₊˚⊹ ㅤa collection of character analysis/headcanon questions to learn more about your character and your partners'! writing/headcanon prompts requested by anonymous. feel free to edit these as you see fit.

when chip gets up next to her, she is still deep in her own thoughts, trying to understand the infatuation gatsby had for daisy, and whether that kind of obsession could be called love at all; it saddens her to think that even daisy's daughter will not escape her mother's fate.

she stares at his hand, proportionally big for his height with a watch that must cost ten times more than her life. christopher saltonstall seems to be the kind to understand every polite smile as flirtation — no, he may even perceive animosity as interest. any attention is attention — this is a common belief of his gender.

but hands tell a lot about a person. whether it is soft or rough ( it's soft. ), cold or warm ( scratch that. her hands are so cold that anything else is warm. ), sweaty or dry ( it's dry. ), a touch of hand will inevitably give information that might make sense in the future. and, she is terribly bored after the play, now desperate for something to jolt her senses. so she does take it, considering it part of a harmless roleplay. a rich man can't hurt her more than the world had already done, and neither can a drink.

while she is made of coarseness, she is capable of cordiality. this politeness serves her like a moat, maintaining safe distance between her and acquaintances, a category which saltonstall the fourth falls under. rich people, always obsessed with numbers. if only i had those numbers too.

his reading, however pretentious it might be, would not bore her, for the words would be from fiztgerald's pen and not his, which makes the experience essentially a live audio book session; it would satisfy his need to speak while saving her from his nonsense.

the lights dim, and she feels him lean close, once again proving to her his bottomless audacity. but she is no schoolgirl either. he will not occupy her headspace when there is a musical ready to play. she lifts an arm and, purposefully, elbows at his, staking her equally legitimate claim on the pitiful little armrest between them.

✧.*

third song into the musical, rosaria decides this is not one of her favourites. not even close. the story she doesn't mind; there is always some food for thought with the characters on stage. the songs, however, bore her to death. they're not bad. they're just... boring.

by the eighth song, she is zoning out. she is thinking about the musicals she likes better, the songs she enjoys more, the lyrics that have her in chokehold. she starts to play a different track in her head.

the tenth song comes on. my green light. gatsby gets what he wants: an affair with daisy. knowing the story doesn't make the scene any less absurd to her, but she tries to contain her ridicule.

A chip on his shoulder? How quaint. If one were to tally every respective resentment between them, Chip would stake his entire fortune that it was Rosaria who was harboring such a petty rot. If she preferred to stew in it, that was her very short sighted prerogative. Little did she know, Mr. Saltonstall had become a gnawing shell of a name, but at least he had the wit to play the part. And his part, to her dismay, was not the one that required yielding. " Very clever. " He winced playfully.

Maybe he should throw her a bone. After all, it must be difficult to look into such a grim reflection. Rosaria possessed a crassness that might exhaust her peers, and Chip could utilize that, certainly. If upward mobility was her mission however, she had everything to learn, and Chip had half a mind to steward her. It would require the effort equivalent to breaking a wild mare before he could ever hope to see any semblance of refinement. But once properly bitted...?

To his waning surprise, his forearm met some resistance; a wild mare would kick on occasion. Chip simply drummed his fingers on his share, a faint melodic chuckle rumbled in his chest. He knit his brow with a wry display of disapproval, one she was clearly craving.