#eatshiit

     three hundred people mingle around schmoozing, swiping glasses of champagne off passing trays, laughing too loud and gently (grossly) caressing upper arms. it’s where they’ve all come to rub shoulders and flash smiles and whisper rumors as soon as they’ve passed. powdered and pampered and spritzed, the patrons of this fundraiser dinner swarm as sebastian watches, standing back against a wall, irish scotch in hand. he hates them. all of them. not a single damn person in this hall is genuine. their noses, teeth, breasts, hair and personalities are all synthetic. 

his gaze follows a couple, older, dressed well. the man’s eyes have snagged on no fewer than four different passing women. the one hanging on his arm, however, hasn’t lowered her nose from the air long enough to notice that anybody else is in the room. she sticks her right hand up in the air, waving at someone standing halfway up the stairs. at least they’re something to watch while he pretends to not watch his actual target -- the one the woman waved at. 

sebastian’s gaze drifts to someone following. or moving along the same path. walking with them, though not quite. he watches the younger man’s expression and interprets it as... mocking. his laugh and smile are intentionally fake, not obliging like with everyone else. for some reason, sebastian can’t look away from him. there’s something... familiar. he knows that face. but from where? he racks the photographic memory of his brain, through the files: work -- no. army -- no. school -- n... 

in a moment, sebastian kicks away from the wall, brushing by people, weaving through the crowd. he grabs the arm of the man he saw with a firm grasp, then immediately loosens it. “ransom.” he says it in a low voice, watching the man and woman from before continue on their path. “it... yes? it’s you. holy fuck, ransom.”