A/N: For Miss Avarice.
Telegram from Ems
He is Germany and she is France. And so, they begin their game. A tête-à-tête for her—the girl-cavalier—and him, Hamletesque and sordid with familial secrets drifting along graveyards. She is smart, wise, disenchanted: a snake. And he is too, but wilier and less enamored with using underhanded mirages, and so, he calls himself a fox.
She laughed when he first said that, asking her to dance.
"Monsieur, I cannot be so easily impressed," won.
"It seems you are the one trying to impress me," chérie, for all your airy, fairy tarries.
"Yet you are the one who requested my presence here tonight."
"Practical. Simple."
"So you say."
"Mademoiselle, I am a businessman."
"And I was raised by businessmen. I know how to play the part."
"Perhaps."
She scowls, he smirks. One-zero. France recedes (forfeits the Rhine). Charms fade, beauty diminished, Éclair is left excavated (Versailles is burnt, demolished—the queen waits at the guillotine). And so, she pursues through a different route.
Fingers, deft and cunning, roam down his face—trickling, tricky—she seeks to entice. He is unfazed, brushes her off (brusque). She pouts.
There is no laughter, no mirth. France refuses to surrender the Danube too. Old Blue Danube, where dreams return to be rest eternally—
"A dance, Monsieur O-o-tori?"
"Delighted."
The waltz begins. She lifts her dress, long and coiling behind her like a serpentine tail. They step in synchrony. Almost, she complements him and then remembers: she plays to win.
. . .
Tipsy, drowned in fine, crystal champagne and gorged on thick cream (éclairs and Napoleon cakes), she slips from her silks and tosses the garments aside. Hot and sinewy, she embraces him, slouched in a drunken torpor.
Kyouya freezes, thinking: she has gone mad.
But thinks again of an exceptional opening. A merger, hostile take-over, he couldn't care less. All Kyouya ever sees is the end. And how, always and forever, the world serves only as an amusement.
"You look great in a tux," Éclair slurs.
And you look great naked.
"But this bowtie is really nasty," she continues, peeling it off layer by layer. "You should loosen up some, MonsieurO-o-tori. Maybe we can play a game?"
"Of what?"
She straddles him, leans in, pushing his shoulders back (head against the board). He pauses, wanting to shake her off (gaining control).
"To see who has more wits unfettered, what you people would call equanimity."
"We never lose."
Éclair turns to kiss him, a long strand of honey-yellow hair falls from the chignon (slick and sleek). Her painted cat-mouth finds his, an inch away, and all of a sudden, she laughs and leaves. Her thin body vanishes with sidereal grace—a shooting star, meteor shower. The dazzles fizzle and fray into tattered, stardust robes and the ghost of a skeletal woman.
Fatigued and jaded, Kyouya sighs heavily and gulps down water, nursing the onslaught of a skull-splitting migraine.
. . .
She is a magician and he is the rabbit. She takes and transforms him into whatever she wants, a dove, a deck of flying cards. And when her show is finished, into the cage she stuffs him until she is ready for the next stage.
The audience claps, already in love.
Haunted by childhood memories (of a young boy from Japan, the mystic waters and hazy temple horizons), Éclair composes a letter. Gold-gilt pen at hand and velvety paper in sight, she sets to write.
And stops.
Thoughts sullen and sunken (tonight). Her mind bursts with animated speed, like a stallion on course in the Derby.
Monsieur Ootori,
I loathe being trifled with. Seeing as how I am to entertain you for another week, until your stay in Paris concludes, I warn you not to mock me. I can be infamously merciless should you test me further.
—Éclair Tonnerre
Sealed with a kiss, ruby-red Chanel (of French flair and descent), Éclair slams down her insignia ring into the semi-boiling wax.
. . .
"Kyouya Ootori, it is wonderful to meet you."
Kyouya eyes the stooped, wizened man skeptically, notes his lint-free Armani suit and dangling Hermès tie, and is hardly intimidated.
"The pleasure is mine, Monsieur Tonnerre."
"You are finding Parisian hospitality to be suitable?"
Kyouya smiles, ever the diplomat. "Of course. Your daughter has been a marvelous host."
"Excellent, excellent. I confess, Monsieur Ootori, that when your father first abdicated in favor of you, I was hesitant to continue with the deal. But you have proven yourself more competent than men twice your age."
Or thrice my age, Kyouya pictures the man toppled over, presumably from a "natural cause" (heart attack or some other banal medical abnormalities).
"I am glad to know I have not disappointed you."
"Then we will continue to sign?"
"One moment."
"Is there a problem?"
"Yes. I believe the situation has changed. And you are in no position to negotiate. Bankruptcy is a very grim fate, isn't it?"
. . .
Wry and humorously dry, Kyouya reexamines Éclair's letter. And with proper elegance and graciousness, he returns the favor.
Mademoiselle Éclair,
I believe it is you who should watch your words. The announcement must have been made by now (gossip travels fast). Your father is on the verge of being disgraced, and your family's esteemed, prestigious, august, illustrious, etc. name is to be no more very shortly. Therefore, I suggest you grovel for my mercy. But rest assured, it shall be attained with extreme difficulty.
—Kyouya Ootori
P.S. Agreement to dinner at seven, tomorrow night, might mitigate my wrath.
P.P.S. Your livid expression will be thanks enough.
"Dispatch this at once. And send three dozen roses along with the letter," he adds as a second thought.
Kyouya closes his eyes and dreams of autumn leaves and rushing waterfalls (and a small girl, la petite fille—et jolie—he met when he was young).
. . .
"This is blackmail," Éclair remarks acidly.
"I know. Are you ready to order?"
"I know the menu by heart."
"Well then, kindly convey your selection to the waiter."
"You're a cruel man, Kyouya O-o-tori."
"And you are a 'merciless' woman, I seem to recall."
"I do not force someone to go on a date against his will!"
"You should enjoy yourself. Tomorrow, you will see a drastic change in lifestyle."
Éclair gives him another withering, mordant look. He remains stoically cool, humming to an imaginary tune, cheery at her dreary pallor.
. . .
Before the month is through, Kyouya obtains the papers to the Tonnerre estates, businesses, everything. He issues them an ultimatum: serve obediently under him or be evicted. (Their choice, really, he was being quite generous.)
The father resigns (double-entendre, il a attendu) and is spared. The mother (dead) receives a wreathe of charily chosen funerary flowers. As for the daughter, Kyouya smiles insidiously, something grand, something thunderous.
Mademoiselle Éclair,
I thank you for your lovely company. You will be glad to know I no longer require your services as host.
—Kyouya Ootori
He declares war, knowing she is too prideful, too imperious to resist.
. . .
"Our family's situation is very….precarious," the father laments.
The daughter shrugs. "What can I do?"
"You should know."
"Father…"
"Please."
She sighs melodramatically and stares him down (upwards slanted eyes lined sharply for affected, theatrical glitz). "I'll try, Father. But that man is demonic."
Monsieur (Herr) Kyouya,
I am currently in Bad Ems, at that notorious resort. I hear you will be passing the region in five days' time. I would like your company for a drink on the night of September 19th.
—Éclair Tonnerre
P.S. The River Lahn is looking outstandingly miserable today.
. . .
"You actually showed up."
Kyouya sits down opposite her, deliberates over her plunging neckline and backless appeal and what sinister illusions she's alluding to. Desperate or exceedingly ingenious she is acting, he didn't care. She can play and bargain all she wants, but he has the advantage.
"I make promises to keep," Kyouya states calmly.
She smiles brilliantly. "Perfect. I've taken a great liking to you, Herr O-o-tori. I—"
"I propose a marriage."
She drops the pretenses. Mouth runs dry, neck sore, eyes frail and old. Éclair is finally caught off guard.
"Excuse me?" she says, finding a voice.
"A marriage. Between you and I. It will benefit you and your family significantly."
"But—"
"Why? I'm just being pragmatic, perceptive."
"But you're not the marrying type."
"Neither are you."
"Then why?"
He smirks, toys with the poison-dabbed garnish. "Stop with the schemes, Éclair. This arrangement is the best option for you. And you have run out of options."
She stares at him steadily, realizing he's not trying to corner her, realizing what his intentions are. And how they match hers, smooth and suave. "I will consider this carefully."
"Good." Kyouya props open a menu.
"I'm afraid I don't have this one memorized yet," Éclair admits and sips her wine (grimaces at the upstart German flavors).
. . .
They marry in March (haven't spoken in weeks or met in months). A Treaty is signed, both parties acknowledged. And now, I proclaim you: husband and wife.
She frowns but concedes to a dance. He holds her close, impassive and bored. She plans for a honeymoon disaster, him and her problems instantly eliminated. But she'll be kind. He's been a worthy opponent.
—Kyouya sidesteps, she falters—
Smiling, he catches her in the end and twirls her 'round.
Or maybe we'll grow to like each other, she thinks.
Just a bit.