T H E S E G O L D E N A S H E S T U R N E D T O D I R T
Even with the mask on — red and black plastic and mesh covering his entire fucking head, a sleeve of dark fabric pulled down over his neck, covering his telltale tattoo — walking into the venue felt like putting a drop of blood into a shark tank. Arin knew they wouldn’t be recognized, but there were too many people for them to constantly keep an eye on who was watching them, let alone accomplish what they’d come to do — and though slim, the chance was always there.
Some suited up assclown with a fucking flower on his lapel scanned the invitation Matt had forwarded them at one of the doors, inviting them in with a polite smile and just enough servility that it tipped over into nauseating, making a grand gesture with his hand as he waved them through.
“Mr. and Mrs. Novak, welcome. This way, please, and have an enchanting evening.”
The disgust only grew stronger as they entered the main room; huge, bright, ostentatious, and filled to the brim with people he would love to decapitate with a fucking shotgun.
Not tonight.
Hatred be damned, they walked like they belonged, pride and superiority on display that stemmed from a different place than that of the Government (or adjacent) fuckers around them. The event was in full swing already; a hundred voices speaking at once packed the air into something dense, and underneath it piano music was coming from somewhere, but all Arin heard was Queenie playing, his hand resting a little more firmly on her lower back when they slowed to a stop somewhere out of the way of the main flow of guests moving around.
Arin let his eyes wander the crowd, searching for anything familiar in the sea of ornate masks. Kingston— or his wife, who he’d only seen pictures of. The former would be easier, but there were a lot of people, and every single face was some degree of hidden, making other markers like height, coloring, and body language easier to spot on first glance. Twice, he caught his attention on Queenie in his peripheral, his hand drifting mindlessly, up, down… then with clear intent around her waist so he could pull her closer, pressed to his side. She was beautiful; distractingly so, always, and he knew this place had a coat closet or a secluded hallway or a fucking bathroom somewhere, but — again — not tonight. Tonight, they were after something else… and at least the mask served the purpose of making it impossible for him to dip his head and kiss her neck.
She barely recognized herself as she passed a glance at their mirror on the way out — and she didn’t even have the mask on yet, a fox elaborately painted, black, gold, and red to match her dress, with glittering makeup that coiled around her arms and chest to hide her tattoos. Her hair had been temporarily sprayed black, bundled into a relaxed bun at the base of her skull, loose strands slipping free to frame her face. Queenie imagined she’d be dolled up like this far more often if she’d remained in her family’s clutches, and even though she knew she looked fucking fantastic, even though she had Arin at her side, there was the threat of Kingston ahead, and memories from her childhood that refused to unfasten itself from her bones, leeching into her muscles so they worked off instincts she’d long buried. Buried, and uncovered by Gerard, who clawed furiously at the dirt until he revealed the parts he wanted to see, breathing new life into them.
Arin’s own mask hid his entire face, his neck, the suit covering every inch of skin so that upon first glance, his identity was indiscernible. Of course, that was the point, but she was already missing the sight of him, wishing she could, at least, see his eyes, to catch glimpses brimming with affection, his determination, and the hateful disgust they both shared for her family. She needed to see it, because while Queenie had never been scared, there was dread threading itself into her intestines, turning her saliva acidic — and she didn’t need to see it, because she was better than that, and he was right here.
A slow, even breath lifted her shoulders when she felt his hand at her waist, his touch firm and reassuring, even if he couldn’t detect the storm brewing within. She was sure he could; no one read her as well as Arin, and she wouldn’t have it any other way, especially when words tended to fail her more often than not. Queenie moved into him, fingertips dusting down his spine as she searched the crowd for any signs of Kingston — and fuck the mask, because she was already getting annoyed at the way it hindered her vision. Not enough to be a problem, enough to be irritating, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she knew Arin was getting some joy out of her dress, she’d feel the uncontrollable the urge to rip the fabric from her body. Scrape off the glitter. Stomp on the fucking mask.
Momentarily, her attention got caught on the piano, the music, how she’d gone years and years without running into one and now there’d been two in a matter of days; two, and Kingston, and memories, and a desire she forgot she even had, one that made her all too aware of where she came from. She turned her head, whipping her focus in another direction, and with all the masks it was hard to distinguish who was who, with Queenie tuning into body language, pausing to listen to the cacophony of voices surrounding them, in hopes she’d pinpoint his familiar tone.
“Fuck,” she breathed out quietly, “These fuckers make me wanna suck down an entire pack. Smells like fuckin’ pig in here.” Her features contorted in revulsion beneath her mask, the sneer on her black painted lips the only visible bit, and she watched a tray of drinks parade past, knowing full well it was some non-alcoholic bullshit. She leaned closer, murmuring close to his ear, “You know… last time we had a closet prelude.” It wasn’t an option tonight, not yet, at least, and she knew that, but frustration had a way of forming nonetheless, making him even more irresistible than he already was, if that was even possible. “Guess I’ll settle for virgin champagne and—” her tone fell flat with boredom, “—all this sparkling fuckin’ company.” Sparkling because their personalities were anything but, and almost everyone reflected light, diamonds and gems shimmering across the entire room, and Queenie wasn’t any fucking different, making her force another breath from her lungs as she straightened her posture.
“I’m fine, Kingston.” Bryce turned to him, flattening her hand on his chest. She was a good excuse to use to bail out of an event like this, but she wasn’t there yet, and leaving early could raise eyebrows — or worse: questions. Better to see things through until the day came where she actually couldn’t, if it did at all. She’d noted his use of the word when, but she wasn’t some frail thing, and a sedentary pregnancy would be just as bad for the baby as an overactive one.
“But it’s sweet of you to worry. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
Despite the concealment of the masks, it wasn’t long before they were found by somebody they knew — a well-respected delegate with a doctorate in social science and his husband, a nuclear physicist. They worked more directly with the former than the latter, though had met both at other occasions like this one. Though polite, they didn’t make for what Bryce would call riveting conversation, so after some pleasantries and courteous inquiries into each other’s respective fields of work, the four of them split, Bryce and Kingston starting a slow crawl through the party.
One person recognized another, and another recognized the first, so after their initial encounter, more acquaintances trickled in, and soon they were mingling as though it were any other event, discussing work, the news, the Government, and the cause that was being aided with the evening’s donations.
At one point, they excused themselves from their present company to make an appropriate one of their own. Bryce felt her heartstrings tugged as she studied a monitor that was playing an informative video near the glittering, holo-projected goal meter — orphans, hiding in derelict buildings or running around the streets in the slums. Drone footage of tarps and burning barrels. Numbers. Graphs. Every number in those statistics is a child, she thought, the sinking of her heart made deeper by her subconscious acknowledgement of her own, yet to really exist.
It was a worthy cause. If the Government could feed, shelter, and foster those children the streets would be safer, and a new generation of disadvantaged, misguided rebels prevented — because if illegal substances didn’t claim them, that’s where they ended up. Battery City’s orphans didn’t deserve to suffer for their parents’ crimes; they deserved a shot at a safe, honest life, like everyone else.
After stopping a waited for an icy glass of lime and cucumber water, Bryce strolled arm in arm with Kingston through the guests, admiring the venue, the music, the extravagant fashion of the guests… most of all though, she was enjoying his company, a comforting warmth spreading through her when it was just the two of them. Soon to be three.
“You look very handsome tonight, did I tell you that?” She glanced at him, her subtly reddened lips turned up in a smile.
The social aspect bored him the most and he was thankful for the mask, because it meant others couldn’t see it in his features. Bryce told him not to worry and of course he would a bit, but these sort of things weren’t his cup of tea. He hated being surrounded by people; it was a trait he inherited from his father and he recognized it every time it came to light. Most people were beneath him. Most people were failures. Most boring. Most ugly. Most unremarkable in every sense of the word. And he could hide it in a poised tone, apathy read as polite neutrality, of proper upbringing and good breeding. The cause, in truth, meant little to him, because admittedly, he only cared about two other people: Bryce and his unborn child. Outside of that, it was all noise. He could view something as just and right. That was it. No emotion behind it. No ambition to serve a cause outside of himself. He wondered how much of his father Bryce could see in him; maybe a part of his role in her life was serving as a means to an end. He wouldn’t blame her in the least.
They circled the party, and Kingston ran on automatic, repeating the same responses from one conversation to the next — because he’d been right. Boring. He was thankful when she drew him away to get a drink, the two of them gaining some privacy along the sidelines. When she complimented him, he could feel his lips stretch, the muscles stiff and unused in this setting, making the expression seem odd until he allowed himself to get lost in her gaze. “You didn’t,” he remarked, his smile growing, “But I certainly like to hear it.” The grip on her waist tightened as he brought her closer, tilting a head toward the dance floor. It’d bring them back into the center of the crowd, but he enjoyed dancing when it was with her, their proximity allowing the lesser surroundings to blend into nothing.
A slow melody began to rise from the piano in the far corner, the player having taken a bit of a break. “Do you want to dance? At least when we’re doing that no one should try to cut in.”