sea, swallow me.

IT’S MORE THAN JUST SKILL  ,   IT’S PRESERVATION.

“I know - I look fantastic. No need to say anything. Your stunned silence speaks volumes.” Zafiro speaks smugly, his second place ribbon displayed proudly upon his chest. Clearly, he has been having a wonderful night - the wig he wears atop his head sits askew, and he is beaming from ear to ear. There are some at the ball tonight who have taken a more reserved approach, lingering on the side-lines, but he has made it his mission to speak to, and dance with, everyone in attendance.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen my vertically challenged husband, have you?” he queries. He lost track of Lionel some time ago. “I should very much like to rub my win in his face. But no matter. I have found you, now, and intend to revel in your company.”

He holds up a tray of food he has picked up from somewhere, snatched from the hand of a waiter, and in an exaggerated French accent, he asks: “Hors d'oeuvre?”

With narrowed eyes, Salvador listens, a twitch of a smile gracing his mouth. Was this mischief or obnoxiousness? By some strange happenstance, Salvador couldn’t tell, and he liked to believe he was quite alright when it came to reading others. Perhaps there was something in his drink, throwing off his radar. 

Salvador was busy looking through a drawer of things belonging to Mr. Ashton. Call him curious, call him a prying eye, either works in this scenario. But he doesn’t stop. Instead, he plucks out a golden fork that makes his eyes roll. He still hasn’t entertained the other man, though he was listening regardless, giving him only half of his attention as the fork is dropped back from where it came. 

“It is,” Anthony agrees wholeheartedly, his curious eyes roaming around the room—he’s immediately drawn to the books neatly lined along the tall shelves to his right. He runs his fingers down their spines and notices there isn’t a single speck of dust for him to leave a mark in. He can only imagine how many people it takes to clean this entire place and make it look as tidy as it does. That’s something striking about the manor—it is full of things, books, ornate furniture, art, but none of it looks displaced. It’s like everything has its own place, that it all belongs to some particular, neat design and anyone who dares to disturb it ought to be punished. 

“I just—don’t understand this. Him. I don’t get why people like him feel the need to…show off like this,” Tony shrugs as he takes a book of the shelf and flips through it; so much for not disturbing the design. 

Once upon a time, Anthony had that kind of money too. Perhaps not nearly as much as their host but enough to buy him a small peace of heaven in the countryside with enough rooms to house all of his friends and then some. His earnings have admittedly lowered these past few years but even before that the idea of throwing a ball like this, with all its intricacies, would never cross Anthony’s mind. It always struck him as silly. Perhaps it’s because his lifestyle was never particularly lavish; Tony’s a man of rather modest and unpretentious needs. The only thing he ever spends large sums on are his instruments but that’s a must—if a craftsman wants to make something beautiful, he needs proper tools first.

The book is slot back in its rightful place, Anthony turns around and leans against the bookshelf, gaze falling on Sal so he can figure out what the other could possibly mean by the word conspicuous. “I really hope this isn’t some—I don’t know, game? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was, though, and Mr. Ashton just forgot to tell us the rules.”

Being agreed with always feels good, especially for Salvador. He casts a glance over towards Tony in response. His expression remains plain, calm, allusive, though his insides stir. 

“Well,” Salvador starts padding around the room. He settles on the opposite side, examining the extra shelf of books adorned within the wall. He doesn’t recognize a single title. Salvador didn’t allow himself much time to read, aside from a few classics that he forgets about the minute he sets the novel down for the evening. Besides, books were boring, and Salvador didn’t enjoy being bored. “Rich people love to show off. It’s all they have outside of all that wealth, because when you’re rich you never know what or who’s true. So, you drown yourself in lavish events and items. You show off, you make a scene.” He continues, shrugging his broad shoulders. Perhaps Salvador’s thinking is helplessly black and white, simple, but it’s not something he’s ever been able to shake. He had his prospects aligned already and his opinion was difficult to sway no matter the subject.

Polly and Salvaldor’s relationship is complicated - and that was putting it mildly. It is a strange thing to think that the one person who has known you for the longest doesn’t like you. It is stranger still to still want to please them, to win their approval, even after all this time. They hadn’t meant to follow him here, but somehow, in the midst of their own exploration, their paths had crossed. They aren’t sure if Salvador would take kindly to the intrusion, but they linger in the doorway anyway, anxiety and uncertainty pooling in the pit of their stomach. 

When he speaks, the gain a bit of courage, and move further into the room. They do stick to the corners of the room still - happy to be included, but not wanting to push their luck. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a house so big.” they admit. Certainly not in London, anyway, and Polly had never left the city. “I don’t like the masks, either. You can’t trust someone in a mask. But the costumes are pretty, and the music is nice.” Their brows raise. The idea that something might be lurking underneath hadn’t occurred to them, and they don’t like it. “Really?” They sound doubtful, but only barely. “Like what?”

Jealousy was not something Salvador understood, just like most emotions that threaten to rip through him without warning. Now, he could handle most emotions with as much grace as he can muster, as if he were going to war against them and he was the bravest of warriors. But envy was strange, a twisting vine of contradicting feelings that seemed like everything all at once and nothing at all. It almost seems too trivial and perhaps that’s what made it all the more frustrating, especially in the face of someone he’s known for so long. In truth, he should have taken a liking to Polly many moons ago, but he hasn’t. Not entirely, anyway. Maybe only in secret or in passing when the time feels right, and it’s all because of that same ridiculous jealousy that he couldn’t quite shake. But Polly was good.

As she comes upon an office, its lone occupant poses a question. The voice is familiar, and if she’s surprised by the sight of Salvador, she does not show it, her expression stubbornly serene. “I didn’t know we were friends,” she says as she steps inside. Is it a challenge or a plea or something in between? It’s hard to tell, her tone airy and silken. She is no longer seventeen with her heart on her sleeve, quick to laugh and quick to cry, and just as swift to snap; she’s learned how to keep all her cards close to her chest no matter the circumstances. 

Will he be proud or will he hate her? She doesn’t know. 

Her fingers run lightly over a mahogany shelf before she comes to a stop at a bejeweled egg, diamonds embedded in its gleaming, blue surface. Picking it up, she clicks it open to reveal a miniature, golden clock, its hands stuck permanently at midnight. Here, time has stopped, but when she flicks her gaze up to Salvador, she can see the passage of time etched clearly in his face. ( And if he is to look at her, that same flow is reflected. ) It is not a matter of if time has been cruel or kind, but that their paths have diverged over the course of over a decade. They are not strangers, but not family, not friends; not as they once were. 

For a moment, she thinks to apologize. To sum up ten years in one sentence. But the words stay lodged in her throat; where would she even begin? I’m sorry I left the way I did, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But you understand, don’t you? If someone reached out with a golden hand, wouldn’t you take it? We are all so desperate to have more than what we were born with. 

“The eccentricities of the rich know no bounds,” she quips instead, as if she is one of them yet, at the same time, on the outside looking in. Because here is a man who knows where she comes from, who knows that the blue blood running through her veins is all a lovely lie. She’s part of this opulent world but she isn’t; she once called him something like a brother but now she’s not sure she can. Paradox upon paradox. “Perhaps if this were a fairytale—like Cinderella—it would all vanish by midnight.” She glances back down at the egg, its clock glinting beneath the glow of lamplight. “The gold turning to rusted copper, roses turning to weeds.” But it isn’t. “Any guess then, on what exactly is afoot?”

And in a blink, Salvador stares into the face of pain. Or was it disgust? Longing? Perhaps in some trivial way, they all went hand in hand, the type of proposition most musicians and poets write about. Though, Salvador has never been about poetry. He didn’t quite understand it, just as he didn’t understand pain. His life has been pure, raw survival, even when Zoya adorned his side, a once trusted pseudo-sister in arms. And now they were nothing but avoidance and averted gazes. Even now, his eyes remained glued to a spot on the wooden desk before him. He positions the paper weight back where it came before wandering about the room. 

Her question comes, as rhetorical as it is, and Salvador can only shrug. “I don’t believe we are.” He replies simply, an air of uncertainty blanketing his emotions. Regardless, his tone remains stern. Salvador was an expert at carefully placed veils, ones that misconstrued the true nature of what he speaks. It’s an art, really, just as what he does for a living. Even now, he could pluck anything from this office and go unseen. He was a phantom in his own regard. 

For now, he watches her move, standing in place just feet away. His eyes follow where her finger goes. Does he fear she may strike? Or leave him out in the cold again? It’s not that Salvador didn’t bode well with abandonment. No, he could handle it just as well as anything else. His own mother fled at the very smallest convenience and he turned out quite alright considering. So, why did this burn? Why did this plague his mind? Was it the prospect of loyalty, broken? Though, he knew of Zoya’s loyalties, and she was certainly loyal. So, once more, why did this burn? Maybe it was this, unbeknownst to him and all his proclivities; he’s being faced with some grand unknown and Salvador was used to knowing everything.

This time, he chuckles after she speaks, the sound airy as it pushes past his lips. “You would know now, wouldn’t you? The complexities of these folk.” He replies, head canting to the side. In truth, he doesn’t mean to be cruel. Especially to her. But this has become second nature. Survival and preservation in the name of moving up. “Too bad we don’t live in a storybook world.” Because if they did, Sal would be a pirate by now. “Is that who you wish to be in this scenario? Cinderella?” By some miracle, it’s a sincere question, but still paired with the same prying eye of one who wishes to use whatever he can to his own advantage.

“Clearly, you need to get out more. Within my circles, I mean,” Arthur replies, following Salvador inside the room. Perhaps not to this level, but he’d seen it all before—parties so elaborate they become confusing. Did it ever matter though? No, of course not. As long as there was music, food, alcohol and another guest—or guests—willing enough to leave with you at the end of it all then any other circumstances just simply lacked importance. Granted, none of these parties Arthur had been to bore any resemblance to the kind of amusement Mr. Ashton seems to have planned for them tonight. The carriages, for one. He still can’t quite get over how ludicrous it was that he, Nathan and Dorothy all had to leave in separate carriages even though they were all leaving from his house. “This is normal, trust me.”

If he were more responsible of a person then he’d probably care more about how odd this whole thing is. Though the only thing on Arthur’s mind right now is the fact that it’s impossible to have gone all this time without meeting their host before. He’s still convinced he knows the man, from some function for all the other rich in the city his father always insist on taking him to, it’s just difficult to prove the theory when the bastard has that kind of a mask on.

“Oh, yes? What do you think? Is he about to kill us all?” Arthur says matter-of-factly, indifferent to the message his words convey. As if that was going to happen. Nobody’s that mad, surely. “I truly don’t care anymore. I’m having too much fun. Did you see the wine cellar? So many rarities.”

Within my circles. Dark eyes narrow in a kind of curiously humorous way. Almost as if Salvador was mocking him from within. Still, what a better time to schmooze his way to the top than at an event of this measure? So, Salvador’s spine straightens, the look in his eyes settling as he continues to wander about the office with Arthur in tow. “And who is within your circle, Arthur?” He asks with a quirk of his brow, running his index finger along a wooden shelf lined with books he doesn’t recognize. By now, Salvador knew the likes of Arthur, as he’s spent quite some time using him for personal gain. If he were a better man, perhaps he’d consider him a friend, but the sentiment never arises. "Do you too send personal carriages to each of your party guests?”

 salvador ruiz   headcanons.

Exploring came easy to him. Salvador was a natural weasel, so to speak, weaving in and through corridors and rooms with ease. The manor was certainly grand, exceeding many of Salvador’s inner expectations. In truth, he almost didn’t come. He mostly had his proclivity for partying to blame for his sudden attendance. What you need to know about Salvador Ruiz was that he didn’t like to be alone. A man with many vices, loneliness very easily took the top spot. And it’s not a kind of loneliness that so often come with the craving for another. No, he did not think of love or romance, nor did he wonder about companionship within any capacity. He just doesn’t enjoy the quiet. The creaking walls of his empty home, bringing to light the voices that vigorously cling to that same quiet.