Ric Flair Drip
Inspired by this song
sfw
Zeno's untouchable veneer conceals a man of hidden sentiment.
The valet looked at the car before he looked at Zeno.
You supposed that was normal.
His signature Audi glided to a stop beneath the warm lights of the hotel entrance, ornate silver horse sculptures on either side. The dark matte paint reflects the chandelier's golden glow, scattering it across the bodywork like liquid fire muted beneath smoke. The engine settles into silence.
When Zeno steps from the car, conversations falter at their edges. A glance here, a hushed whisper there. People notice expensive things. It's simply human nature.
But what fascinated you was that nobody ever seemed to really notice Zeno. Not really.
They saw the custom tailored coat. The watch that probably cost an annual salary. The suave, effortless confidence. To them, Zeno was composed, wealthy.
Untouchable.
This was a man who appeared to move through the world without resistance. But you knew the real Zeno was much harder to spot. He opens your door, giving you his hand. You smile gently at him and step out, taking his hand. He tosses the key to the valet, who catches it with practiced precision.
Inside, the ballroom was already crowded when you arrive. Glasses clink and conversations overlap. Filled with the sort of people who dedicated entire evenings to the performance of indifference, concealing their ambitions beneath those practiced smiles and expensive tailoring.
You accept a glass of champagne from a passing server. Zeno declines.
"Still think someone is going to poison you?" You ask him, a small smile on your face.
"i know exactly where those drinks came from."
"That's not a no."
"It was not intended to be."
You smile into your glass. Some things never change.
As the evening progresses, you notice the usual pattern. People approach him constantly. Some wanted connections, while others, information. Most simply wanted to be associated with him. They spoke to him differently than everyone else - carefully. Like he was made of glass.
Zeno tolerates it with remarkable patience, but you know he enjoys none of it. Not because he disliked people. It was quite the opposite. Zeno liked people the same way astronomers were fascinated with stars. Crowds, however, were different.
You notice the slight tightening of his shoulders, and the way his responses become shorter. The almost imperceptible glances towards the exits. By the time the seventh businessman attempted to recruit him into something, you could practically see his social battery collapsing. You're stood at the bar, observing him converse with an older woman eyeing his watch. A man standing next to you notices your gaze.
"Odd chap isn't he?" he says, nodding toward Zeno. "Secretive. Guy's got no personality." The man chuckles, sips his drink and walks away. You finish your drink and walk back to Zeno.
When he notices you, his shoulders relax slightly. The poor man looks as though he'd endured a tribunal. He brings his champagne glass up to his lips and speaks. "Save me."
You nearly choke. "What?"
"Save me," he pleads with his eyes. You stared at him, and your mouth curves up into a small smile, and you follow his gaze across the ballroom, where a group of gaudy-looking guests seem to be approaching.
"Oh."
"Yes." The answer came with the weariness of a man who had talked about stocks for too long. You laugh, and take his arm. "Come on." He allows himself to be led away immediately. Far too quickly. The traitor, you giggle to yourself.
The two of you escape onto an outdoor terrace overlooking the city. The noise of the ballroom fades behind closed doors, swallowed by the light. Cool, crisp night air replaces perfume and conversation.
For a few moments, neither of you speak. Then he exhales. Not dramatically, but just enough for you to notice.
"You hate these events."
"I do not." There's a pause, like he's trying to fix his thought. "I dislike the performance." You lean against the golden railing, looking up at the sky. You don't notice, but Zeno glances at you, clad in a backless satin dress.
"What performance?"
He looks at the city lights below. "The one where everyone pretends to be someone else."
"You know, that's what people think of you." His eyes flick to yours. "Is that so?"
You nod. "Zeno, the mysterious stranger who never lets anyone get close. Impossible connections. The man who always knows more than he says. That sort of thing." He looks away, pondering your words. His eyebrows furrow. "An interesting accusation." He has lit a cigarette, and offers it to you. You accept, taking a drag. You blow the smoke up, and it disappears into the night sky, littered with stars. Inside, people were exaggerating accomplishments and concealing insecurities like a sport. Competing for attention. Constructing versions of themselves. "In a way, aren't we all?" You breathe out loud. He spares you a glance, but does not speak.
The irony was almost funny. People spent entire evenings assuming Zeno hid behind an image. But in reality, he was probably the most honest person in the building.
"You know," you say slowly, "everyone in there thinks you're intimidating."
"I am."
"You are not helping your case."
A faint smile appears on his face, almost concealed by the puff of smoke he exhales. You count it as a victory. You look at the city below you. It unfurls endlessly beneath you like a labyrinth of sodium light, glass, and concrete stitched together by rivers of headlights. Somewhere far below you, life continues entirely unaware of your existence.
You glance sideways. His watch. His coat. The polished exterior. Its an image that everyone seemed determined to believe. Your eyes drop to your own outfit, and you spot a loose thread on your waist. Before you can brush it off, Zeno reaches out and removes it himself. Its a gesture that lasts less than a second, but your face softens. A quiet act of attention that could only come from someone who notices everything.
You watch him return his gaze to the city. Unaware that you caught it. Or perhaps aware, and pretending otherwise.
"You know what your problem is?" You ask.
His brow lifts. "I was unaware I had one."
"You let people think you're made of marble." "And?"
You smile at this. "And beneath all of this" - you gesture vaguely toward the ballroom, the suit, the entire carefully curated image - "is a man far more human than he was ever intended to be."
His gaze doesn't leave yours. You're not sure if its his fiery orange eyes or the cool breeze that makes the hairs on your neck stand up. But for once, he looks like he doesn't have a response. "Do you think so?" He glances at his watch, like he's realising what it is. "I have spent a great deal of my...existence-" You notice he doesn't use the word life. "-learning how to be useful. Difficult to read."
The honesty of it settles between you. Its not heavy, just...real. You let the silence breathe for a moment before you answer.
"That sounds lonely."
A faint, humorless chuckle leaves his lips. "It's efficient."
You frown. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have." You take the cigarette from his fingers, and he allows it.
There it was again - that peculiar duality he wore so naturally, it seemed woven into the very seams of his tailored coat. The man could command a room without raising his voice. The man who seemed untouchable. And yet, when he speaks like this, he sounds less like someone who was above everyone else and more like someone who had simply learned not to ask for anything.
You look at him carefully. Searching for signs on his face or his demeanor that would betray his thoughts. You pause before you speak.
"Did you...ever want to be seen differently?" His jaw shifts once.
"By whom?" You shrug. "Anyone."
"Yes," he says. The answer is so immediate it startles you. Then, after a pause, "Once."
You don't speak. You don't even move. You don't want to interrupt whatever he was deciding to give you. He exhales slowly.
"People think being known is the same as being understood. It is not. Most of the time, being known just means giving someone the advantage over you." The words land with the weight that makes the sprawling terrace slightly smaller.
You swallow. "Is that why you keep so much of yourself hidden?"
"Partly."
"And the rest?" His eyes stay on the skyline.
"The rest is that if you are useful enough, people stop asking whether you are happy." Your heart twists. His words seem too premeditated to be new. An old wound handled so often it had become doctrine.
You study him in the dim light. The composed posture under the expensive suit would be called unreadable by anyone else. You realise that the unreadable doesn't mean empty. Guarded, yes. careful, maybe. But not empty.
Your voice softens. "Zeno..."
He looks at you now, and whatever he sees in your expression makes something in his own ease by a fraction.
"Yes?"
"You don't have to perform for me."
For a moment, he says nothing. Then, very quietly, "I know."
You reach out to trace your fingers along his black tie, and he pulls you close. You rest your head on his shoulder. He loops his arm around yours. The clean, woody scent of vetiver settles around you, grounding you in his presence.
In that moment, surrounded by wealth, status and everything people assumed mattered to him, the silence felt perilously like assent.
