(A)DORÉ

*   μετακόσμησις   —  

—   new   arrangement,   change   of   condition,   Plato,   Laws   892a —   generally,   conversion,   change   of   character,   Plutarch

🎭   —   cedric   makepeace   fairchild

anemone :   how does your muse view the world ;   as a cruel   &   unforgiving place ,   a land full of wonders ,   or something in - between ? where does that world view come from   (what experiences ,   life lessons ,   etc .) ?

Connie has a very unstable and impermanent view of the world that shifts and ripples with every small action that so happens to fall upon his perception. The slightest bit of good (not even necessarily done unto him) has him seeing life itself through rose-tinted glasses, while a myriad of unknown factors (including but not limited to: a delayed shipment of the books he's ordered, someone ignoring him, someone disagreeing with him, someone agreeing with him) is enough to make him view the world as an utterly desolate place that either doesn't deserve him or is exactly where he ought to be keeping in mind the maxim of like calling to like.

This comes from his life being His Life™ and also borne out of sheer stubbornness in literally refusing, always and every time, to maybe take a step back for just one second and give himself a moment to calm down and realise that the world is, in fact, not ending just because someone so happened to ignore him at some insignificant social function that he'll forget in a couple of weeks.

bluebell :   does your muse learn from their past ,   or are they prone to repeating the same mistakes ?

This is a list of how Connie deals with problems, ordered according to which he'll try first:

blame other people

blame the world as a whole

lie

charm

seduce

steal

cheat

run away

run away and lie

run away to a brand new city and make a completely new personality and start living as a brand new person.

There is, as you can see, not a single mention about learning from his mistakes.

hibiscus :   how does your muse view the gentler ,   daintier things in life ? as things worth preserving   &   caring for ,   or things only bound to wither   &   disappear ?

.

At his words, Vera tilts her head up to look at Connie, staring for a moment in that quiet, contemplative way that she does when she is weighing up how much is safe to say. In the end, she opts for honesty. It is better to give glimpses of your true self, she has found, when you want people to believe that they trust them. It lulls them into false sense of security, allowing them to think that there is little else to uncover. “Like vultures to the carcass, picking it over for scraps.” She leaves him with that thought to dissect. 

Connie offers reassurance, though it was not asked for, and Vera does not know how genuine the sentiment is. She does not question it further, though, nor does she allow it to visible effect her demeanour, simply nodding her own agreement. “Thank you. Though I’m not certain the Eastside delegation are in entire agreement with you.” The comments from Alina Rueng and Maxine Cutter serve as evidence of that, but it is Arthit who holds all the cards. 

There’s something theatrical about Connie, a sense of grandeur that rings a little hollow, like an actor playing the part of a king. It leaves an unsettling feeling to their little chat, but Vera swallows it, because he is useful, because he has helped her, because she has no reason thus far to believe that the words that emerge from his mouth are not the complete and utter truth. “Of course,” she smiles, a placid, inoffensive thing. “You have been good to me, haven’t you? That’s not something I will forget.” It is perhaps one of the more honest sentiments to pass between them. She remains cautious with her trust, but rewarding loyalty is a different matter all together. 

It seems to work how she intended. He offers a promise, a hope that their alliance will continue, and she bows her head as though in prayer. Faith is not an emotion one would expect in a woman such as Vera, and yet, she possesses it in spades, her spare hand reaching to touch the crucifix at her neck. But then, the offer of a cigarette is made, and the moment is broken. 

“I would,” she confirms, reaching to slip one of the cigarettes from the packet. “How did you guess?”

❦

“you shouldn’t trust new yorkers to have any sense,” connie says, and though he delivers it just as evenly as he has every remark that preceded it, this is the only time that he has been honest, or perhaps more specifically utterly without guile, in the whole conversation thus far: his show of honesty looking just the same as his shows of conceit, his small deceptions that never hurt anyone — but who is he to say, really? vera speaks of vultures feasting on a carcass, but who wouldn’t be a detritivore, if given the choice? far better to be a vulture than be the rotting carcass pulled apart for meat, connie thinks; but, he realises, with the self-satisfaction of a presumptuous man — which is to say, a self-satisfaction that borders on self-deception, on self-pity — that vera vincelli has never been a ghost come to haunt the earth, hasn’t been born dead and had to spend most of her life in a process of self-resuscitation. 

“take it from me,” he continues, mirroring her smile, “who you say has been so good to you, and could be even better for you still, and you need only ask.” perhaps any other man would talk now of his achievements, of the fruits of their shared cooperation, of the promise of much more in the future based on the precedent of the past — and perhaps they are better men than connie, or perhaps lesser, or perhaps just altogether different, no value judgement assigned; but he has resolved within himself to be not like any other man, and so he leaves it at that. the talkative man not so talkative now, speaking only in hints and riddles — but then again, when has he not? every word always means something else: a lie, a truth, an omission, a confession. 

it’s all the same in the end, isn’t it?

“and you know i always try my best to anticipate my partner’s needs,” is his glib answer: suggestive only in the content of his words, everything else about him as stoic as a marble statue, expression neutral, the smile even dropping from his face. his hands remain the only expressive thing about him, moving here and there: tucking the carton of cigarettes back in his pocket, to be replaced by a lighter, the movements like legerdemain. connie remembers — nasty habit — when he was a child, sneaking into dime museums, eyes resting on the swift gestures of those two-penny bit magicians whose acts, he realised even back then, were kind of shite but still worthy enough to be studied. 

…

“Suppose? Well, that isn’t suspicious at all,” Peggy drawls out, amused despite herself. Just another oddity to add to the list, just another possible lie from his lips to keep a track of. Perhaps she will have to write down all of them to catch him on a lie at some point, just for fun. It would surely catch him off-balance, and she can only imagine how amusing the sight will be. Granted, part of the satisfaction would come from the vindictive glee she feels whenever she one ups someone else.

“Maybe, maybe not,” she tells him, her shrug accompanied by a coy wink as she turns to smile softly at the bartender, as they came closer. She might be mildly irritated by her conversational companion, but she had never been one to take it out on the servers, not hen she is well aware of some of the difficulties they go through. “A Velvet Sea, please. Feel free to throw the cocktail’s balance off for my companion, as I am sure he will still drink it, if merely to prove a point.”

As the bartender leaves, she sends her companion an angelic grin, not bothering to apologize for her childishness.

“And well, perhaps the story behind my invitation is interesting. Perhaps I am an excellent storyteller,” she begins to say. “Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Alas, my story would require a quid pro quo if it is to be told.”

“but you know i always live to prove a point,” connie says, resting an arm on the counter and putting the whole weight of his body onto it, crossing his legs like some kind of layabout gentleman with all the time in the world, head cocked at an angle as if to study her all the better. “why should this be any different?”

so, of course, he takes the prepared drink, raises it up as if for a toast, but doesn’t say anything, nor does he wait for her to clink her glass with his before he takes a sip. but he doesn’t, not really: only lets the liquid touch his lips and plays at gulping it down before setting the drink back down on the counter, even making the type of face one does when drinking something particularly nasty, dabbing at his face with a finely made silk handkerchief when he’s finished — the picture of a perfect gentleman. 

Maxine took his response as a good sign, the way he leaned into their praise. Humbling himself, almost begging with outstretched arms for more honey-glazed words. It’s almost pitiful, the way it sounded to their ears, but it wasn’t something they could blame him for, if genuine. Had they been given another life, one of less humble beginnings, sat on the lap of a caring father who would sing words of adoration to his not-bastard daughter, and hugged by a mother who didn’t pass too early, perhaps Maxine would have sought after praise and the way it thrummed under warm blood. But they’d learnt at an early age that there was no one to rely on but oneself.

The way he painted himself made them laugh — a genuine chuckle, one rarely heard leaving their lips to most. “The Vincellis have taken you under their wing,” Maxine paused, narrowing their eyes slightly, “For your honest trade, have they?” They shook their head ever so slightly, tilting back their glass for another sip. Whatever he wished them to believe, it could not be that. No sheep lived amongst the wolves without first being devoured, or turned into a wolf themselves. In any case, by all estimates, Connie had never been a sheep; not if he’d found himself in the depths of New York’s dark markets and alleys.

“Regardless, it’s less what you do,” Maxine answered, not sure how careful they had to be with how they strung their words, “And more how far you’ve come that impresses me. The position you hold now, as part of the Vincellis.” In spite of your history, they left out, curious how much of it is privy to his bosses. There was no reason for violence, not in the midst of such a wonderful party. Besides, he had offered an olive branch with his own brand of flattery. “Considering our humble beginnings,” they chose instead with a small smile.

“It is a long way from home, is it not?”

the chuckle that greets them, despite being a mirror of their own, feels like their own performance being thrown at their face: an insult, perhaps, but connie wouldn’t hedge his bets on the other being wilfully disagreeing; he simply can’t afford to play this kind of game with her, not when he doesn’t even know what she both knows and doesn’t, except for the vaguely alarming feeling that whatever it is that she knows is already too much. cedric fairchild, antiquarian, new orleans is supposed to be a mystery, some kind of one-man act on whom the curtains will fall on one day, audience members talking about the performance itself for years to come, but never the actor — and yet here they are: the one audience member he couldn’t trick.

what the fuck is he supposed to do now?

“i thought you’d appreciate the value in building good ties,” connie says, a neutral tone in his voice: semi-agreeable, all genteel-like and placid. he takes another sip and wishes he could drink himself to drowning at this very moment. “considering, yes, both our humble beginnings.” fucking new yorkers: always acting, thinking, existing on a level that made one think they held, as their most foundational truth, that they were better than you in every which way; yes, connie thinks, something in that fucking city rots you from within and turns you from person into whatever vessel of vice you’re fit to suffer and no more.

he should know. after all, he was one himself.

“though you know i could never have stayed for long,” he continues, “not after all that — mess.” he holds his glass loosely between his fingertips, lets his weight fall evenly on his feet, widely spaced; he meets their gaze and their smile and mirrors the latter with one of his own, down to the smallness of it, as if they are both conspirators to some great and terrible secret. “but what can one do?” he says, shrugging. “you know very well how the business goes.”

(all the while, he is thinking, like a mantra: fuck new york, and fuck all new yorkers.)

who? @metakosmesis

where? the snug, at the bar

when? nearing 9 pm, september 27th, 1924

The weight of working on a case until wee mornings the day before at caught up earlier than she had expected, so she had directed her wandering towards the bar at the snug, hoping to charm the bartender into giving her a cup of coffee if they had any. It had certainly been an interesting conversation, one that ended with a coffee on her hand and a slightly dazed bartender behind the bar. Minerva is hiding a smile behind her cup of coffee, when she sees a suit enter her peripheral. Curious, she tilts her head to see who had approached, and the hints of a smirk dance on her lips as she sees Connie.

Charming and suspicious alike, this is one of the soldatos she doesn’t quite mind talking to. His knowledge of classics and art, at least, is rather impressive and makes him an excellent conversationalist.

“Mr. Fairchild,” she greets him as she takes another sip of her coffee. “How is this evening treating you?”

he’s been here all night, or so it seems: the companions by his side an ever-revolving door of erstwhile acquaintances, close business associates, and too-entitled patrons that think buying from connie once or twice entitles them forever to his free time. he’s about to start yet another performance when he realises he could just not, and instead turns away from a hopeful face into a familiar one, whose hands likewise nurse a cup of who even knows what — an action that he mirrors instinctively, taking a sip when she does; it’s some kind of reflex that will get him in trouble one day, he thinks idly, before doing absolutely nothing at all with the realisation.

“profitable enough,” they answer coyly, “though it’s a bit tiresome having to do business with people who can’t even appreciate the fine craftsmanship of the wares they would allegedly die for.” here: a sly smile, a knowing wink; after all, have they not gone to her more than once or twice already, asking how to make the provenances of their wares something that could withstand greater scrutiny? then again, who cares about such things when connie alone could spin the greatest stories to make any audience member weep?

when: 27 september 1924 where: the vincelli mansion - kitchens who: open

“yes, darling, i saw it myself. they were like two bears swinging at each other.” unlike many socialites, zosia’s knack for befriending the hired help wherever she goes remains one of her greatest talents. she recognizes many tonight from her own parties or others she’s attended throughout her time in new orleans; they recognize her all the same which is the likeliest explanation as to why they haven’t shooed her from the kitchen so that they can work in peace. that and she, from experience in her youth with her own staff, doesn’t mind helping rather than standing in the midst of everything as useless as a chocolate teapot.

tasked with placing toothpicks, she smiles mischievously at floria’s comment about bruno. “i agree, he’s quite handsome. though not for the next while i’m afraid. he’ll be so swollen i’m sure it’ll be horrendous.” thankfully, she doesn’t have to worry about vince getting into such troubles. the doors to the kitchen swing open and she looks up from her task and her gossiping, sure to find quite the confused face staring back at the socialite making canapes in a one of a kind dress. “hungry?”

there’s a certain kind of grand assumption one makes when one is in league with criminals: you start to assume that every door is open to you, no locked door that can’t be opened with the right key (or, perhaps, the right force) — and in this kindly crescent city where everyone who’s anyone is in bed with the vincellis, perhaps that grand presumption pervades even the water, infecting everyone with its way of thinking, because what else could explain the presence of a socialite here, when the rest of the mansion is supposedly off-limits? 

far be it from connie to play the policeman now, however.

late night, the terrace. closed to: @metakosmesis​

at this point, vincent is practically on his way out. now that he’s not bleeding everywhere and that he’s high, thanks to zosia’s reliable stash, all that’s left is to down one last drink on the vincelli dime and he can be out of here. he makes sure to avoid vera at all cost—he truly was joking when he said that he hopes she’d seen him. he’s very aware of what she’s capable of when someone gets in the way of her plans being perfect. he figures that getting into a fight at a party that’s meant to impress a bunch of fancy new yorkers belongs in that category.

he secures an entire bottle of gin after sweet talking one of the bartenders and then he’s off to find zosia again but, obviously, she’s not where he’s left her. doesn’t matter, whatever reason she had for abandoning the post must’ve been a good one—she’ll turn up eventually. he hovers around the more or less empty terrace, convinced that vera won’t find him here considering how there’s nobody to entertain or rub shoulders with. he almost gets a heart attack when he hears the backdoor opening but thank god it’s just connie. 

“jesus christ, you gave me a fright,” he says as he turns towards the other, his bruised face on full display. “you should see the other guy,” he chuckles as he takes a swig of the gin. the other guy who’s left the entire encounter practically unscathed.

 “having fun?” he offers the question along with the bottle.

the sight that greets connie upon entry to the terrace is a sorry one, but he’s careful not to show too much surprise — simply allows the vision of it wash over him and accepts it as reality: vincent irvine has gotten himself into a fight, and there’s a bottle of gin in his hand, and the night is still young. this trifecta of facts is enough to set the tone for this interaction, so connie lets it; he doesn’t even let himself disbelieve the other when he so easily makes claims about the other guy. “i’m sure you gave him the whooping of a lifetime,” connie says, not drily but something approaching entertainment — not in an audience-like voyeuristic sense, but the same kind of entertainment you offer someone you’re trying to appease; this is, connie supposes, condescension by any other name, but he likes to dress up even the most glaring of his faults as virtues.

.

sometimes, jacob finds himself feeling jealous of men like that—graceful smooth-talkers, someone who can escape any and all predicament regardless of the circumstances just by knowing the right thing to say. he lacks the confidence, too afraid that his words will betray him, rather than aid him. it’s a difficult space to navigate, especially here and now.

he watches the woman’s back as it disappears in the surrounding crowd and then turns to face the other again, feeling self-conscious and embarrassed; he truly hopes it doesn’t show. “oh—uh…i’m not exactly sure what one should offer in return in these particular circumstances,” jacob replies; he keep his tone light and friendly while his mind works overtime to manufacture some sort of script for this conversation. “i’m very grateful for the rescue, though. you must think me rather pathetic, to be unable to deal with—that.”

❦

“these particular circumstances, the man says,” connie echoes, a small bit of teasing slipping into his tone; he can’t help it, the other man just makes it so easy — and perhaps the problem with men like connie is that they will all eventually come across men like this, and they will all exactly act in the same way they are doing now. “like you’re in some kind of personal tragedy,” he can’t help but continue to remark, yet connie’s erstwhile somewhat condescending demeanour is too easily swept aside by a shrug. 

.

“I am certain there will be plenty of other opportunities for poetry on a night like tonight,” Vera assures him. She has little patience for such things, the lyrical and the metaphorical, but she can see the draw for a man like Connie. There is something about him that reminds her of childhood fairytales that her mother never read to her, a Rumpelstiltzkin made into a man. A man who could spin straw into gold, who could procure any of your wildest dreams for the right price and had no qualms in claiming his prize, regardless of how outlandish it may seem. He’s been useful to her, and been rewarded handsomely for it, but she can’t help but wonder how much more he will ask of her, and whether or not she will be willing to deliver. 

He confirms that now, his twisting of a benign word making her feel as though she has been caught out, a child with her hand in the cookie jar. She does not let this show on her face, though, instead bestowing on him a nonchalant smile. “It may not have escaped your notice that the role of hostess is not one I’m accustomed to wearing,” she points out. She should have enlisted Maeve’s help, she thinks, but it is too late now. “But I am glad to hear that I am not the only one who could do with a walk.” She isn’t sure if such intent is genuine on his part, but if it is offered, she will take it. 

He offers his arm, and she hesitates before taking it. Part of her wanted to ignore the offer. She is a woman, but not the sort who requires an escort to walk around inside her own home. Still, tonight is about appearances, and her refusal would be noticed, and perhaps used to sow the seeds of rumour that there was discord within their ranks. And so, she takes it, and adds the action to the growing list of debts she wonders if he will come to collect on later. “And why not?” she asks. “You are a colleague and a friend, Connie. There is much I would talk about with you in private.” 

In truth, perhaps friend is stretching the truth, but she is nothing if not a woman who knows how to twist things to her own advantage. Let him believe, for now, that she sees him as such. 

Let him think he has already won her trust.

❦

connie has always let the quixotic part of him run more freely than it ought to and it’s clear now that bringing the matter up would have and did get him nowhere. “yet if not poetry,” he concedes far too easily, always the diplomat, a gentleman that hasn’t ever let denial faze him, “then at least an opportunity for self-satisfaction: everybody who’s anybody in new orleans has come to your grand old house, after all.”

by this descriptor, he includes himself, because of course he would. “and you’ve played hostess passingly well thus far,” he moves to reassure almost immediately. connie knows, of course, that vera vincelli isn’t the type to need reassurance — most of all from someone like him, whose successes she had more than a hand in — but it’s no matter: it’s a script he plays, a platitude that costs him nothing to exert effort into, which brings him great joy in its delivery, as if to hear the sound of his own voice is one of life’s greater pleasures. 

“still,” he says, looking anywhere now but at her, letting the noise of life settle in the space between them while he plays at some kind of reflection: the sparkling jewels of the women that catch the light ever so prettily, the curling tendrils of cigarette smoke oozing out of the terrace, the fine and intricate work on the cornices — all of it dissolving besides them as they walk to get their supposedly much-needed air. “i would hope to be considered more a friend than a colleague.” a smile graces his lips, eyes finally meeting hers in a kindly gaze that both speaks to nothing genuine and yet still shows nothing of his deep intrinsic wanting save for the deep intensity in those light eyes. “we have been through so much together, have we not?”

CEDRIC MAKEPEACE FAIRCHILD, (un)realised — a playlist