falling star

Etienne Toussaint

when: 27 september 1924 where: the vincelli mansion - kitchens who: open

“yes, darling, i saw it myself. they were like two bears swinging at each other.” unlike many socialites, zosia’s knack for befriending the hired help wherever she goes remains one of her greatest talents. she recognizes many tonight from her own parties or others she’s attended throughout her time in new orleans; they recognize her all the same which is the likeliest explanation as to why they haven’t shooed her from the kitchen so that they can work in peace. that and she, from experience in her youth with her own staff, doesn’t mind helping rather than standing in the midst of everything as useless as a chocolate teapot.

tasked with placing toothpicks, she smiles mischievously at floria’s comment about bruno. “i agree, he’s quite handsome. though not for the next while i’m afraid. he’ll be so swollen i’m sure it’ll be horrendous.” thankfully, she doesn’t have to worry about vince getting into such troubles. the doors to the kitchen swing open and she looks up from her task and her gossiping, sure to find quite the confused face staring back at the socialite making canapes in a one of a kind dress. “hungry?”

.

Etienne had come to the party in a jolly mood, and intended for it to last the night. However, that hadn’t happened. There were plenty of reasons for that - but chief amongst them was the fight he had witnessed between Luciano Vincelli and his own brother. He had seen it coming a mile off, done little to stop it, and now, the whole house felt a little more tense, a little more claustrophobic. And so, he had turned to the kitchens, seeking refuge in a place where no guest would think to tread. 

Or so he thought. He had expected staff, both The Vincelli’s own and those hired in specifically for the event, but not a socialite, standing there preparing canapes like it was the most natural thing in the world. She turns to him, and Etienne cannot suppress a laugh, a small portion of his former joviality creeping back into his expression. 

“Positively starved,” he clutches his stomach dramatically, and crosses the kitchen to stand beside her with a nod of greeting to the kitchen hands - his mother never raised him to be rude, after all. “What have you got for me?”

when she’d been a child, delysia’s mother had taken quickly to saying that she had a problem with placement: a girl who only ever wanted to sit in the middle, but could never stand to one side. when it came to her surroundings young delysia had always wanted to be smothered, nestling herself in between the arms of both parents and into the center of every photo, finding some sort of misplaced peace when all parts of her were brushing up against someone else. when it came to interaction with the world, she was the opposite, with no ability to find middle ground — she ate sweets until she was sick, ran until her legs gave out, loved stuffed animals until they were in tattered ruins. twenty-something years later, and not all that much has changed: she feels safest surrounded by others, and knows nothing of moderation. that’s why it’s so alarming to find her here, alone, in the middle of a party.

something happens to a girl like that if she’s left alone too long in a room full of people. maybe that’s why etienne toussaint shows up to rectify it — a doctor can tell when a hearts in jeopardy.

he says your entourage appears to have deserted you, and delysia can’t help the way something small crumbles off on the wall of her heart, a well-meant witticism moving like a fingernail against already flaking paint. “they’re probably looking for me,” she answers, resisting both the impulse to ask him if he thinks it’s true and the urge to look at him for a little too long. “i just needed to rest my feet, is all. but you can — ” lashes flit downward against carefully rouged cheeks as she places the extended drink against the table, turning the coupe slowly on its stem. “you can still stay, if you like.”

.

He wants to tell her that he hopes they aren’t, that for a moment, he has her all to himself, but something in her expression stops him. His words had been meant with the best of intentions, as a joke, but just looking at her face, it is clear that the arrow has far missed the centre of the target and landed somewhere else entirely. He wants to apologise, wants to ask if he has offended her, but he doesn’t think, given the nature of their recent conversations, that this is a position he can comfortably occupy. It is no longer a place where Etienne Toussaint is wanted. So instead, he agrees. “Of course they are,” his voice is low, warm in timbre, intended to provide the reassurance and comfort that he hasn’t been able to give to her for what feels like far too long. 

There was a time when he would not have hesitated to take the seat beside her. He’d have folded his body into the chair, thrown his arm over the back of her own, entertained her with idle talk and gossip. He doesn’t do that now. He stands, a little stiffer than he normally would, his shoulders squared and his spin ramrod straight, though there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes when the invitation is extended. 

“I’d like to stay,” he’s quieter now when he talks, as though he is approaching a wounded, frightened woodland creature, prone to flee from him at any given moment. He wants to stay, but he wants her to want it too, to be as comfortable with his presence as she used to be. “Would you like that, too, Delysia?”