The keys jangle as he slides one of them into the lock. It clicks in place, and he does his best to open the door as quietly as possible. The wood shows age, creaking even when he gently pushes his thumb against it. Once a grading sound, now a place of comfort, a tell-tale sign of peace. Hell won't follow him here, or so he hopes and prays.
The glow of sunrise filters in through the windows, casting a pinkish hue into the kitchen. Leon inhales deeply, allowing the muscles in his shoulders to sink and click out of place like a puzzle piece that has overstayed its welcome. A tightness in his arm causes a groan, and he twists it with a thumb. A knot. He's been overdoing it again. He'll definitely hear about it in a few hours.
The kitchen you two share is clean, albeit an empty pizza box lingers on the counter. He allows a grin to form. You'll hear from him, too.
A soft sound ripples into the kitchen, and Leon's feet move almost automatically. Drawn to it as if he were a magnet.
What welcomes him is something that allows him to feel normal in the wake of madness: you, asleep, book in hand, probably losing your page again--the bookmark is nowhere to be seen. He glances down and snorts. It's on the ground.
Black combat boots carefully slip off his feet, and he shuffles toward your sleeping form. He plucks the bookmark, placing it on the coffee table before quietly sitting down next to you.
Sleep aches in his eyes, but he can't help the way adoration fills his chest. The senseless ache he's felt since the day you two started talking--since you knocked your own wit against his, respect building over time and table dinners.
You're the last thing he sees before the tired ache finally wins the match.
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So I am super late I know, but I said I'll make it short and sweet and ended up with nearly 4k words total. Because I have my life in order.
This one includes my rogue Hawke Charlie and Fenris and the 5 times they had failed to cross a bridge. And 1 time they did.
read first snippet below, ~600 words or read everything on AO3
dividers from here
"It really wouldn't hurt you to stay." Charlie broke the awkward silence that had settled between her and Fenris after parting ways with Anders and Merrill. She intended to crash at the Hanged Man, but when everyone seemed to plan on going their separate ways, she did too. It didn't hurt that it was the same way that Fenris would need to go to make it to the mainland and towards Hightown. "If Gamlen bothers you so, I bet Varric could get you a room in the Hanged Man."
"And what good would it do?" Fenris shrugged, "I have the mansion."
"And as far as I can tell not even a bed inside." She rolled her eyes, the memory of dirty floors, cobwebs and general abandonment flashing in her head.
"It would disturb my dancing routines."
Charlie blinked at him incredulously before bursting out laughing, a flock of nearby pigeons scrambling to the air at the unexpected noise. She could barely keep up with his brisk pace, wiping away tears from the corner of her eye and struggling to catch her breath.
"Well, yes of course. How… inconsiderate of me." Charlie fiddled with the seam of her sleeve, not willing to check if her outburst had caused any reaction in him or not. If only she could keep her head on her shoulders around him, everything would have been so much simpler. "But the invite still stands."
"Of course. But perhaps I should be inviting you to the mansion instead?"
"Mother might not enjoy the bodies." Charlie turned serious for a split second earning her a glance from Fenris, before her brows furrowed in consideration. "How are there still bodies on the floor anyway?"
"Decoration."
"Truly a man of arts… but how do they not stink yet?" She prodded. It'd been among the longer, if not the longest, not-job-related conversation they had had in the few weeks since they met each other. She was not quite yet ready to let it go.
"Hawke." an array of emotions passed through Fenris face. Annoyance, confusion… amusement? "Did you really think it's the same bodies?"
"I…" she hesitated realising that since he now had something approaching a stable residence he'd have more unwelcome company not less. "You know what, maybe I won't be answering that."
She shoved her hands into her pockets, the quiet she'd been trying to keep at bay catching to them once more.
The walk was over. Or at least their shared part of it. The bridge connecting Lowtown with the Merchants' Quarters that lead towards the Hightown had mercilessly revealed itself from behind the corner, where it always was.
It had never felt this cruel before, if Charlie was to be honest.
"Alright! Last chance to come crash at Uncle Gamlen's place!" She put on as easy smile as she could muster, hoping that Fenris was not in the process of reconsidering all his life's choices and planning on leaving Kirkwall by dawn.
"I really am quite fine where I am." He ensured her, his voice sharp just enough to mark the end of this particular topic.
"Your choice!" Charlie shrugged in what she had hoped was a nonchalant manner as she watched him turn his way and across the bridge without as much as "goodbye". "The invite stands for later tho, if you change your mind, you know?"
"I will keep that in mind, Hawke."
"Right, great!" She took a couple steps back, but didn't turn away. "See you around then."
She murmured against the wind, staring over the bridge for much longer than was reasonable.
A/N: This is a mish-mash of the book and the movie, and also my first attempt at fan fiction ever. I wrote a large chunk of this in the bathroom at Thanksgiving because I saw TBOSAS the night before and couldn't get it out of my head. I hope you enjoy, and any constructive criticism is always welcome! Also, I hate editing on my phone :)
Coriolanus Snow Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist
The first time he’d ever heard the song, he was in a meadow, far from the prying eyes of the Capitol. Away from the television screens that broadcast his lover being thrust into the Games in a vain attempt at entertainment. The Games his life was bound to, forever.
The Games that, in a twist of fate, his lover had won purely through her charm and wit. The only weapon she wielded was his mother’s compact he’d given her in secret, filled with rat poison, which was returned when it was found on her person after the game. He was sure that if he hadn’t given her that compact and told her to hide under the arena, she’d have been dead before nightfall. She was a performer, after all.
She was there, Lucy Gray, sitting alone, idly strumming at her guitar. Once the Capitol released her back to District 12, she reunited with the Covey, her family, her one true reason that she needed to win in the arena.
At the time, he wanted to let himself think he was the reason she wanted to win, but deep down he knew her heart always laid with her misshapen family.
He slowly approached her, taking in the lyrics to the soft song she was singing. She sang so softly that if she sang any quieter, her words would be lost to the wind.
Are you
Are you
Coming to the tree?
He strolled further towards her, eyes scanning the empty landscape until they landed on the tree she was sitting under. Its branches were dry and could barely be called brown, and Lucy Gray was using a large chunk of it as a makeshift chair.
Where they strung up a man
They say murdered three
The lyrics to the song made him stop for a moment. Of all the things she chose to sing about, why would such a beautiful girl sing such a dark story?
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight
In the hanging tree
The second time he’d heard the song, he was in a forest, reeling at the pain from a trap his lover had set for him. Rain forced them to pause their journey of running from Panem, seeking shelter in a cabin among the trees. He didn’t know if his lover knew about the weapons stored beneath the floorboards, but as soon as he laid his hands on them, she must’ve thought his choice was already made.
She all but ran from the cabin, making an excuse to get food that she earlier deemed wasn’t ripe enough to eat. He knew that she was running from him, from the silver-tongued Capitol-raised son who was almost killed by her charms.
Almost.
He ran after her, gun in hand, looking to see where she’d run to. A rough trail turned into forest floor, trees suddenly the only thing he could see. He cautiously took more steps before his mother’s orange shawl he’d given her, crumpled in a small pile, came into view. Another piece of his mother given to her, being returned.
He bent down to pick up the shawl, snatching it off the ground when he felt a sudden pain shoot from his forearm. Stifling a scream from his lips, he frantically looked down, the source of his pain hanging from him.
An orange, black, and white banded snake was sunk into his skin. He ripped its fangs out from his arm with a grunt, the culprit slithering away into the grass before he could crush it with his boot.
He called out and asked the trees whether or not the snake was poisonous.
If she was trying to kill him, after everything he’d done for her.
There was a flash of bright color among the dark trees he was sure was Lucy Gray, and he fired. Without a thought, without remorse, and without a trace of the man he promised her he’d be.
He paused when he heard a grunt, a small part of him hoping he’d missed.
A larger part of him hoping he hadn’t.
He stalked through the trees, expecting to see her bleeding into the earth, but was met with her gold hoop earring, dangling with long pearls. He tucked it in his pocket, next to his compass and his mother’s compact.
He spoke again to the empty wood, saying this was enough, for her to stop.
The reply taunted him in his lover’s voice, dripping from the beaks of the dozens of jabberjays that started to circle above him.
Are you
Are you
Coming to the tree?
He craned his neck up to see his tormentors, ricocheting the voice of the girl he was running away with.
Where the dead man called out
For his love to flee
The voice of the girl that was now running from him.
He raised the gun that was slack in his arms, pressing the trigger and firing at the birds. He spun on his heel, desperate to stop hearing her voice colliding off the walls in his mind.
He fired frantically, screaming at the birds to shut up, but none of them seemed to hear his pleas or fall from the sky.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight
In the hanging tree
The third time he’d heard the song, his heart stopped, only for a moment. He was a decrepit old man now, his chin sporting a white beard that matched his hair, sitting at the head of the Capitol.
He faced a television screen that was broadcasting a large band of rebels, walking to the District 5 dam with explosives.
The attack was an act of treason against the Capitol, plain and simple. Giving the rebels a small glimmer of hope at rising against Panem’s government, all led by a seventeen-year-old girl.
The victor, the girl on fire, the Mockingjay, Katniss Everdeen; she went by many names, all of which made him want to crush her like the pest she was.
Even more when he learned she twisted a song written for him by a lover he wished he could forget.
Are you
Are you
Coming to the tree?
He diverted his eyes from the screen, lightly pounding his fist to his chest as he covered his surprise with a cough.
Where I told you to run
So we’d both be free
He blinked, and suddenly he was back in the meadow, watching Lucy Gray play from afar. Her soft voice floating through the gentle silence of the wind blowing against an open field.
Back in the forest, hunting her down and being taunted by jabberjays as the song cut through the dense forest that still visited him in his dreams.
He dug his blunt nails into his palm, standing up and walking over to a window that overlooked a courtyard. Other people in the room were glued to the television, gunfire mixing with the voices of the rebels.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight
In the hanging tree
The final time he heard the song, he was standing at a post, center attention to every eye that had invaded the Capitol. Alma Coin stood on a platform behind him, and the dearest Mockingjay stood with an arrow trained at his head.
His eyes met hers, cold and void of the emotion they held when they met. Her lips were held in a thin line, the drawstring of her bow taut against her nose.
Are you
Are you
Coming to the tree?
He raked his eyes across the crowd, and he swore for a moment he saw her. Lucy Gray, young and bright as the day he’d met her. He knew his mind was tricking itself, some rendition of his life flashing before his eyes, but he still sucked in his bloody breath at the hope of seeing her again.
He’d always been honest to the girl on fire, and for that, he hoped she’d give him a swift death; but instead, she moved her aim above him, letting the arrow fly and killing Alma Coin.
He jaw went slack, the metallic taste of his blood sliding over his tongue. She lowered her weapon as the crowd behind engulfed her form, surging at him as he closed his eyes tight.
A peaceful death wasn’t in the cards for him after all.
Wear a necklace of rope
Side by side with me
Regret didn’t surge through his veins for the countless lives he’d taken, the people he’d enslaved, or the Games; it was for the man he chose to be. Taking the guns from the floorboards of that cabin, hunting her like she was a bird with its wings broken, and swallowing her memory like a snake in the grass.
He didn’t deserve regret. He deserved a fiery endless hell that would barely serve his actions justice.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight
In the hanging tree
As brutal hands clawed at his skin, tearing his soul from his body, he brought his mind back to the memories he didn’t deserve to have. With her, his lover, Lucy Gray. The girl that was lost to the trees, erased from history in a hope that the all-powerful President Snow would always land on top.
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FiddleMarch Week 3: The Society of the Blind Eye (KINDA EDITED)
The side effects of the gun are becoming too great.
Fiddleford knows he needs to stop the use before the Society suffers the way he is suffering. He needs to take the gun away from them and fix the problems before anyone else is stuck in a life where half the time insanity has its hold.
The question is...can he?
Ao3
How he had gotten into this situation was a blur. The day before was nothing but a mess of images and colors when he looked back on it. If only he could remember where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. Maybe it would shine some light on how he got stuck in the dark with his arms restrained to something that felt like a chair.
Fiddleford had tried to call out for help but there had been no answer to his calls other than the echo of his own voice. He had tried to wiggle his thin wrists out of the restraints. He had tried to throw whatever was on his head off so he could see and get a better idea of where he was.
Now he sat still and silent in the chair. The man desperately searching his mind to how he ended up here.
Fiddleford sat at the desk in his motel room in the late hours of the night. The flickering bulb of the motel lamp was not helping his scattered mind focus on the scribbled ramblings written out in his own writing. He did not remember writing this note to himself but the chicken scratch was undeniably his.
GUNS AFFECT GETTING WORSE!
NEED TO FIX!
MUST STOP!
The man groaned and hid his face in his hands. His leg bounced widely and made his thin frame shake. He was barely in control of his own Society anymore and now he was going to have to go in there and ask for the gun back. The newer members barely believed he was the founder seeing how he would go into fits of insanity.
The insanity. That was the worst side-effect he noticed. There would be times in the day where he would just black out. Whatever he did during those times he did not know but it was severe.
His voice had been getting hoarser, his hair thinning, and the loss of his home was enough evidence to back him up. The man did not even remember where he got the hat that was not perched on his head.
Fiddleford shook his head and crumpled the note into a ball.
“I won’ do it. I can’ do it,” he muttered, “They won’ listen ta’ me.”
He turned his head to throw the ball into a waste-paper basket but frozen when he caught his own reflection. He was barely recognized the hillbilly that stared back at him. Gone was the young man that had barely reached his thirties, the man that was just beginning to see what life had to offer, and in that man’s place was an old hick that was nearing the end of life.
“They gotta,” he said to himself sadly and looked at the balled-up paper in his hands.
Slowly, he unfolded it and read the last words on the page.
SOCIETY MUST DISBAND!!!!
The man let the paper slide to the ground and he hid his face in his hands. He had to talk to Ivan tomorrow; Ivan would see reason.
A loud bang broke him from the shakily regained memory and he honed back into the present.
Someone had entered the room he was being held captive in and their slow, sure footsteps were only driving wedges of fear into him. At least he had some idea on what was happening around him.
This must be the result of him trying to stop the very Society he had created. The simple talk must have gone in a terrible direction to lead to this. Maybe he had gone into another one of his fits in front of the younger members and freaked them out. He just needed to find Ivan and reason with him; the kid would understand.
The footsteps that had ominously getting closer to him had stopped and silence returned to the room.
Fiddleford could sense a presence near him and heard something get picked up. The sound of a dial turning meant it was the very device he needed to avoid using at all costs; the gun.
The southerner’s nails dug into the arms of the chair he was restrained to as the cover was pulled away from his face. The sudden rush of being thrust into a world of color was daunting; his eyes rushing to take in and put to sight what he had heard and felt.
Just as Fidds had suspected he was in the hidden room of the museum where the Society met. It had taken a lot of work and ‘unseeing’ to set this whole place up to his liking but it had changed since then. The chair had been nice once, one for willing customers, now it held him prisoner. He did not even remember having straps added to it but he must have given the ‘okay’ at some point.
In the dim glow of the troches he found himself faced with the one person in his organization he thought he could really trust; Ivan. The gun was in the man’s hand and he had a face that was hard as stone.
“Ivan?” Fiddleford asked the question cautiously and looked around the room, “What’sa goin’ on? I coulda sworn I came in here to talk to ya’.”
“I know why you came, McGucket,” Ivan said slowly. The man moved over to the box that usually housed the memory gun and gently placed it inside.
“Ya’ do?”
Ivan did not grace Fiddleford with a response; his eyes fully on the gun that sat in the torch glow of the room.
“I followed you when you began to form this Society,” he said slowly, “Did not question when you began to take and use the gun whenever you felt that you needed it. I watched as you slowly deteriorated and yet you come here to destroy everything we have worked for just because you think that your own faults and mal-use have made you what you are now?”
Ivan turned on his heel and narrowed his eyes at the man restrained to the chair.
Fiddleford stared at the man as if he had just come face to face with a stranger. He had been so focused on finding the negative side-effects on his constant use with the gun that he had not even considered what it was doing to these people. How it was tearing them apart.
The gentle soul he vaguely remembered meeting was now a hardened master of a group he had created for good.
“No…,” Fidds spoke slowly so not to mess up any of the word, “No. There is more than me bein’ effected here, Ivan. You are being all changified. All of y’all are being changed.”
He pulled on the restraints to see if they would give away and budge.
“Please, Ivan, let me take the gun and fix this. Let me give y’all yer lives back before ya’ lose them like I have.”
Ivan shook his head and turned his back to the trapped soul in the chair. He pulled his hood back up and seemed to school himself into the character he had created through this group.
“Ivan. Ivan please,” Fidds pulled more at the chair’s restraints, “You gotta listen to me! Ivan!”
Fiddleford felt the most nauseating sense of déjà vu as he pleaded with someone he considered his friend. Had he been in this situation before? Had it ended as badly as this all seemed to be leading towards?
Ivan picked up the memory gun again and then a well-used memory tube that the hillbilly in the chair knew all too well.
“I can’t let you destroy this,” Ivan said as he made sure the gun was set, “I thought erasing your memory of that conversation would give me a better chance to reason with you but I see you cannot be swayed.”
“I-Ivan?”
The hooded man seemed to be admiring the memory gun in the light of the torches. The way the red of the fire bounced off the blue and gold of the machine. He slowly turned to face Fiddleford and the gun was pointed straight at him; between the eyes.
“I do wish there was another way but we swore an oath to secrecy,” Ivan said. His voice was even and his hand did not even shake as he aimed. “I would say I was sorry but I will not remember this come tomorrow.”
Fiddleford pulled against the bonds. He had never thought his own device to take away his pain could be the very thing he was fighting to get away from.
“Ivan please,” he begged, “I’ll never bring it up again. I know what I need ta just ferget. Ya just gotta give me the gun and we can…can…let this whole thing just blow over.”
Ivan shook his head and pressed the cold blub to the older man’s forehead.
Fiddleford froze in terror feeling the glass. How had things gone so wrong?
“Ivan!”
The robed man’s finger hovered over th trigger.
“We can work this all out!”
It pressed down.
“Ivan! Listen to some reason! We don’t have to stop the Society but I do need to work out some kinks in the doo-hickey!”
The blub began to glow and the gun began to whir. Fiddleford panicked more when he realized Ivan was not going to move it back some from his head. It was going to be a direct hit. He had no idea what the effects would be from that.
“Ivan! Listen to me!”
The light encircled the main bulb and seemed to come racing towards him in slow motion. In the back of his mind, the southerner knew he should move his head. He knew he should try to get out of the blasts range but he seemed to be stuck still as the blue lightening came racing towards him.
“Ivan!”
It got closer.
“Please!”
It was so very close.
“Please! Please listen to me! This has to stop!"
Something snapped in his mind as the light hit him and he finally tried to move out of the way.
"Listen to reason! You can't do this! STANFO-!!"
The blue light hit his head and the world went white.
Exam can go fuck itself in the tits. Here’s the slightly revised introduction of Kaiser: my newest, most problematic fav <3
The sound of Kaiser's footstep amplifies through the hollow hallway. The whole hotel was painted in yellow-tinted marble, decorated with strands of gold. All grand and grace that the man deliberately contaminated with the scent of Polo Black. Kaiser made his way towards the gala in his own pace, his Oxford unhurriedly crushes every bit of comforting quietness the hotel carefully arranged for its guest.
He always made his entrance known. Even when the worthy audiences were absent. Up ahead, the doormen greeted him by his family name as they choreographically pulled each side of the door open. Kaiser made it a point of not acknowledging them, of course.
Servants bowed; the world opened itself for him.
If he pays attention, he might see the hair on their neck prickled, some beads of cold sweat breaks among their hairline.
So effortlessly, they surrendered.
He can hear the gala before he approached it. All chatting sounded like tuneless hum from this distance. Between it, he hears the sound of champagne bubbles that shooting to its surface like mini fireworks. The whole party shallowly decorated by the lively laughter of all excitable ladies. He observes them all from the entrance of the ball, just from the balcony; waiting to arrived.
The ballroom is filled with flowers, all of them soft and white; all of them blooms for the moonlight that shone through the overhead glass dome of the room. This beautifully orchestrated scene would have been ruined by a single drop of bad weather on the clear pane. But that was something servants and staffs have to fuss and worry. Not him and his kind; never them.
Kaiser let his eyes followed the first waitress that came into his sight. She is dressed in silk vest- expensive enough to be worthy of the event, but with the cut plain enough to keep the poor girl grounded. She makes her way around the room in trained pacing; brisk, polite, absent-minded.
From her right, a large hand shoots out and snatches a canape off of her tray. It is just a small circle of oatcake topped with whipped cream cheese. Kaiser allows his eyes to get distracted by the white mousse for a while. On it, there are green specks of chives, black specks of ground peppers, and unseen touch of salt. Three pieces of sliced strawberry sit softly on top of the cloud, and finally any space left unfilled was decorated with garnish of black caviar and spring onion. The man throws the whole bite in his mouth gracelessly, then quickly retrieves his hand to make some grand gesture accompanying the story being told. The three listeners of his are just about young and impressionable enough to latched on to his every words. Kaiser lingers on them until one of the girls excuses herself, and follows her.
She heads toward the circular marbled stage situated in the middle of the room. There was a tree growing in the middle of it. Oak, Kaiser notes to himself. So ancient and large that its singularity gave an impression of the whole forest. Apples painted in metallic gold sit among its green leaves as decoration. The combination feels unnatural and out of place; immensely beautiful. A sort of artwork anyone with sensitivity would spend days and days trying to decode.
Pieces of marble interwoven and pierced among the hard, brown flesh of the tree- forming an image of many dancing dryads about to break free from it. The music band on the stage surrounds that great oak like faithful guards. The stage itself is isolated from the whole gala by pool, a recreation of Monet's water lilies that somebody got paid handsomely to maintain.
The water gave the impression that the band is stranded on island- is forced to sing for entertainment of the guests in exchange of their lives. Kaiser finds the mental image even more amusing as he catches the pianist on the east of stage looking longingly at the food trays being paraded around and in front of him- out of reach. Kaiser wants so badly to shout out, to make the man give in to his hunger and bolt at it. But within a blink the piano man quickly switches his expression into a polite smile.
Curiously, Kaiser follows his gaze. It is the same belle that brought Kaiser’s attention to this stage earlier, that causes the change in the piano man. She tiptoes by the edge of lotus pool so endearingly. The waltz is coming to an end, and she seems to be requesting for particular tune to come after. And behind her, there is Lucianna.
The note of elderflower in her perfume blooms around him as quickly as he spotted her.
From this distance she might seem like just a moving figure in red dress, but he is certain that it is Lucianna.
He could with his eyes close painted the different shades of her pupils as they catch the light from chandelier. Like how he would be able to map out the language of her waltz just by the tune of music. The image he has of her always plays out either too far away or too closed by, he doesn’t think he’s ever catch the whole picture. He never gets her as a person
He knows what her skin taste like. He also remembers the damn floral note stuck on the tip of his tongue as he wakes up in and empty bed, with Lucianna standing by the far edge of their bed with her back at him. He sees the intimacy of her naked skin and vague outline of her figure far off reach.
Exactly like now, except instead of a bare body she was in a soft satin that exposed her from nape. The fabric embraces her from her hip down to the floor. Her hair is done up, some strands let loose professionally. And rather than sinking helplessly in a post-coital void, she is basking in the afterglow of being in the arm of her lover. Kaiser watches her, asking himself:
What's that word, to want something just because you know you can't have it?
He waits, counting the steps of her dance in his head. Patiently, he waits for her man to lead her with a-one, a-two, one, two, three and....
...there. She's looking directly at him.
Kaiser lifts his hand to salute her with the champagne flute; never stop to question how or when he acquired it. Life is often like that. When you gained certain reputation and lived a certain life, you only started asking question when your hand lacks of alcohol rather than when it isn’t.
She sees him, alright. She always does. Something flashes in her eyes, some sort of understanding. She turns herself away from him, dutifully follows the march of the music until it dies down.
The whole room erupted with applause, bows and curtsies. Lucianna places her hand on the cheek of her dance partner, gently guides him down to meet her eyes. Then, her red lips by his ear, whispering. Kaiser catches glimpses of her white teeth, moving with her words like the piano key. Holding each other with such secrecy, it almost seems like the couple is conspiring against him. But no, it isn’t Simon who shares her secret. It is Simon she sent away.
For him: her husband.
Simon might be her lover. But Kaiser is her partner in crime.
The man made his way out obediently. Kaiser has no doubt that Simon isn't alerted of his presence. He never is.
Kaiser let his eyes follow the young man, to make sure he is out of sight.
Looking from afar, he muses, you could never know the double life the man is living.
Kaiser remembers how he was almost offended when he first saw Simon Wells.
The man wears ragged heavy coat that reeks of five day old coffee. The plastic pieces of his cheap glasses ridden with bite mark. He has cigarette stained sides of his finger and stains of ink and cheap liquor on his cheeks. That was the Simon Wells Kaiser saw first. But right here, among the sir and madam, Simon Wells wears the air of royalty as easy as he slips on the suit Kaiser's wife had altered for him- his suit. He walks away from his lover with such ease, like he knows for certain she would faithfully wait for him to come back. Simon Wells, making his way through the parting crowd like he belongs.
On weekdays, a sad private tutor with nothing in his life. And by weekend, well... calling him an escort would be too tasteless.
Regardless, with Simon gone, it is his queue to make entrance. Kaiser makes his way down in a controlled pace. 'Controlled', he said. What he meant is he made his pacing so excruciating slow that Lucianna has to fight herself not to storm over and meet him halfway instead. He is nothing if not a tease.
He keeps his eyes fixed on her face. Not in fear that she might disappear. And not to ogle, either. What he wants is to brand it into her conscious his presence. And if he want to remain dramatic, he might as well say he kept his gaze to brand her of her sins. So Kaiser continue staring, and didn't stop until he was almost nose to nose with her.
"Husband," Lucianna's voice a cold challenge.
"My darling wife," his lips spread into a smile. He vaguely wonders if the contempt in her eyes iss reflecting off his. She took his offering hand and they make their way a perfect couple back to the dance floor as he said, "I came to check if you're having a good time. You know, a small benefits of having private jets."
"Small benefits of my wealth," Lucianna retorts casually. "So you’re not here in jealous rage, I see."
"Should I even bother?" He gives her a small, sincere smile and basks in the annoyance that oozes off of her, now amplified. "Truth is, my suit went missing. I spent hours looking for it before the thought crosses my mind, that perchance my wife decides it’d look better on the man she cheated on me with. I thought I should come over to check."
"'Hours’, you said. Did you spend just as long looking for me?"
"The suit belongs to me, you don't." He winks before spins her around. Her dress cut too fitting, too elegantly, too mature to twirl. "That's the beauty of modern marriage, isn't it?"
She turns back, catches herself sharply on his shoulder, and they continue their dance. Brisk steps, rehearsed from so many events they've attended together. The perfection of their dance means no invasion into each other's personal space. He steps forward, as if leading, and she would step back, subtly avoids his touch. Comparing to the dance he saw earlier, where Simon complied easily as Lucianna leads, he could see how she might love Simon better.
"If only I have a husband who would fly over in jealous rage." Her voice snaps him back. She says her line as if accusing, but it’s all too weak. And too easy for him.
Kaiser feigns surprised, "I never notice that you’re still in habit of seeking attention by running away. Aww, Lucie, you should know better than to lay your daddy issue on me."
That earns him precious little seconds when the flame in Lucianna’s eyes turned into.... what is that expression? Hurt? Betrayed? Funny she should be the one acting out that part. Considering how she has no right, really. But guilt won over him anyway. "Sorry, too mean?"
He realises that he really is too cruel to her sometimes. He knows where it hurt, knows where it's already bruising black, yellow, blue. Knowing she done him wrong and that she knows that he knows it. It's why he probed and poked; shamelessly bullied her into a corner. It's not very gentlemanly of him, he afraid.
"Might be a little out of bound, don't you think?” Lucianna regains her composure. “Even I resisted the urge to comment that you probably only flew over here because you're suddenly reminded that your mother left you for another man." Then she concluded with triumph, "mummy issue."
Kaiser shook his head, suddenly reminded of how much he adores her. "That's just uncalled for." He says, buries deep the thought of how easily he could break her lithe white neck right at this moment. "Must we be so hostile to each other? I swear, darling, that I didn't came over just to pick a fight."
