#c. frederick.

Frederick has always been someone easily swayed by paranoia and distrust. Sometimes, his suspicions fall into the realm of the irrational - which he can usually recognize using reason and common sense, but those things are never enough to fully convince him that he's wrong for keeping his distance or putting up his guard.

Today is no different. Though in this case, it's difficult to tell if he's truly being unreasonable or not... Usually, Frederick tries to at least keep up a polite enough demeanor to prevent unpleasant rumors from spreading, and to keep up his reputation, however fragile it may be, in the eyes of the public. But in a place like this, it doesn't feel like that particularly matters anymore. Perhaps his companion feels the same way.

"If you've got something to say, then please, go ahead." Frederick's voice somehow manages to be both soft and sharp at once, creating a distinctly disdainful tone that could just barely be denied if it were to be challenged.

"...Well? I'm listening."

Some fires burn obviously. Bright, loud infernos speak of danger and destruction, and quiet blue flames whisper a deadly tune to all who comes near. Either way, the scorching heat is enough of a warning to anyone who comes face-to-face with the dancing embers.

Right now, though, the thing swirling in Frederick's eyes doesn't quite look like a fire at all. It's more of a whirlpool - yet it's hard to make out what it's made up of, as if it's hidden behind a murky fog... something is wrong, yet it's difficult to figure out exactly what that is.

To Frederick, the sound in his head has become unbearable. The malicious whispers and wicked laughter are mere background noise, though they pierce and prod at him nonetheless - but it's the pressure that's really impossible to take. On the outside, it's manifested only subtly. His lips press together tightly, his hands are slightly whitened from tension... but if one were to look closely at his eyes, that's where they might see it. Beyond that clouded fog lies something close to madness.

"And why should I trust anything you have to say?" he utters. His voice is a stretched out note, low and vibrating with barely-held back emotion. "No, I should've known this was wrong from the start... What was I thinking, exactly? The answer should've been clear to me from the beginning..."

As if the person he's speaking too isn't even there, he talks to himself. But then, he looks them in the eye again, his gaze fervent - and waiting expectantly for an answer.

Frederick doesn't know what to think of Edgar Valden. Sometimes, looking at the man feels like staring across a mirror at himself. ...Despite what people think, Frederick isn't entirely oblivious to the way he can come across - and the arrogant detachment people see in him can be seen just as vividly in Edgar, at least upon the surface.

Of course, where Frederick has music, Edgar has his art. And very much unlike Frederick, Edgar actually possesses a modicum of talent when it comes to creation, something Frederick finds himself envious of despite his best efforts. But... all he can see in the end is what's presented on the surface. He knows that, but that doesn't make it any less difficult to avoid letting his own perceptions influence him...

Right now, though, something about Edgar seems slightly different than usual. It's enough to catch Frederick's attention - or perhaps paranoia would be a better word - and Frederick finds himself speaking even though he might regret it later.

"You look... troubled, Mr. Valden. Is something not to your liking?"

Even now, Frederick's stern expression only shows a hint of trepidation. As he stands there, he looks remarkably composed, hands held behind his back as if nothing were wrong, and only if one were to look closely would they see the way he's a tad too stiff to be normal.

But after a moment, it seems like he even manages to squeeze that tension out by force. Right... there's no reason for him to be so anxious. Anxiety is a feeling that will only hold him back, so he can't let it control him even a little...

"I trust you understand the importance of your role here." he says, though he has no doubt that Richard does. It's more to assure himself that he speaks, and to gauge Richard's response - trust isn't something that comes easily to Frederick in general, and now is no exception to that rule.

"And this plan of yours... how confident are you in it, really? I don't mean to doubt you, but..."

Frederick doesn't know what to think of the gloomy Aesop Carl, but he knows that his gut instinct isn't a positive one.

It's unfair of him, perhaps. And Frederick would be a hypocrite to judge someone on their reputation alone - so he doesn't necessarily let that influence his opinion if he can help it. Still, though... Frederick is paranoid by nature, and so he's inclined to listen when his mind tells him to be cautious around Aesop, even if it makes him come across as rude.

He's sure that no matter how he comes across, he won't be well-liked, anyway. Frederick has never had that kind of privilege from those who actually see him.

"Mr. Carl. This thing you wanted to tell me - what is it?" Blunt and to the point, Frederick asks his question with a guarded look in his eye. "If you require privacy, I can assure you that no-one will be coming around anytime soon."

@embxllmer ( starter! )

Normally, Frederick would take more care in how he presents himself to others. To come across as desperate, unsettled and irritable is something he always wants to avoid - yet he doubts that someone as observant as Miss Journalist here could possibly miss the bags under his eyes or the oppressive feeling of the air around him.

There's nothing he can do for that now, though. To avoid suspicion may be impossible, but if she is someone he can't trust, then she likely already had her eye on him anyway. He just makes to make sure that she thinks his state is a sign that her plan is working, and not because he's onto her schemes.

Because she must be doing something. These- episodes he's been having; the headaches and dizziness alongside the sudden and abrupt intrusion of feelings he can't explain - someone has to be behind it. And while here, surrounded by strangers each with an agenda of their own, he's at an overwhelming disadvantage... Frederick has no intention of allowing himself to be used or disposed of without a fight.

"Miss Journalist. I wasn't expecting to see you here so late at night." he delivers his pointed remark with suspicion, warily watching her every move as if some tiny motion might somehow give her away. "Have you been having trouble sleeping as well?"

Frederick doesn't know what's worse - the fact that he feels more distressed than he can remember feeling in years, or the fact that he has no clue why he's feeling that way.

It's not uncommon for him to become caught up in moods or irrational worries. One would think he'd be used to it by now - yet what he's been feeling lately has been somehow different to everything he's felt in the past. He can't place how, but it's a distinctly unique sensation - like a new song written in a different key, yet just as discordant as the last. Usually, he can at least identify what's causing him concern, even if those reasons are absurd ones - but now, it feels like there's no reason at all.

When he was young, one of his maids once told him to sit still; to try and identify the feelings bringing him so much torment and to pick them apart. He was never any good at it. If he had to guess... the feeling might be akin to a sense of detachment, like the whole world isn't quite real; and might be snatched away like a dream at any instant. But the dread that that thought gives him seems unnatural as well. What exactly is it he's so afraid of...? And what is it he's so desperately trying to seek?

By the time he's pulled out of his thoughts and noticed that he's no longer alone, Frederick's almost spilled the drink in his hand. Frustrated, he adjusts his tie and looks up - only to be hit by the most unusual sensation. This person... no, they haven't met before, but... ...no... he isn't quite sure. The feeling left before he could hope to put a name to it, but it was surely just his imagination, anyway.

"Well, you look out of place in a place like this." he says, though he doesn't really know why. "...I don't suppose you could spare me a moment of your time."

Frederick frowns in displeasure as the grip on his cane tightens ever so slightly. What an irritating, infuriating thing to be told - especially since it very well may be true from the novelist's perspective.

"You're awfully quick to assume you know everything about me, Mr. Orpheus." he responds quickly, words sharp and tone clipped. The problem is that Orpheus very well might know all there is to know about Frederick - or as close to as he can get, anyway. He's seen through Frederick's excuses so far, and he's clearly a sharp man, but Frederick has no way to know what exactly he's keeping hidden himself.

Infuriating. That arrogance most of all.