A/N: Written for blood-red-youth/virginian-wolfsnake's Tumblr prompt which read: "I was hoping you might do something around Larten trying to 'fit in' in society (and possibly failing) at some big event with lots of humans - either with any pairing or without if you prefer." Spoilers for Saga of Larten Crepsley.
It appears he has been…misguided. He hesitates to say wrong, because there is no doubt that he is formally attired. Misguided suits the situation much better, and lends him the comfort of not being entirely the one to blame. If there is anyone to blame it is the human race – or at least, the upper echelons of that race – which is just so particular about what is deemed an appropriate colour to wear.
He may have misjudged how effectively his beautiful red suit blends in in a sea of black tuxedoes and elegant ladies.
At least he had the foresight to bathe. And hide his scar under a lady's concealer, pilfered from her purse when she not looking and equally carefully replaced.
Perhaps he should have done something about the hair. It is decidedly garish in this crowd. Orange is quite eye-catching among browns and blacks, some blondes, and even a selection of silvers. A wig ought to be a future acquisition, though he doubts if he will be forced to attend many such events as this.
The young woman – three scratches hidden under her own make-up – swaps suitors as the band swaps songs, striking up a slow set that makes the skin on the back of his neck prickle. She is comfortable in that boy's arms, nestled in close to his chest, at peace with him and the world around them, oblivious to the danger stalking her tonight.
Alicia was oblivious too.
No! Do not think of her tonight. She will cloud your judgement and you need to be precise.
The girl. Think of her.
He has followed her for two nights, always keeping just out of her sight. It is best that she remain unaware of her protector, even if that entails attending tonight's gathering by coming in through the roof. He is no fool. He knows she is safe inside with this crowd, yet the longing to be near people slithers beneath his skin. It is so long since he last left the Mountain, so long since Arra left him.
Once again, he is as lost and ill-fitting as a wayward Cub. What possessed him to risk their stares and come inside? Desperation? Loneliness?
Oh, they're not staring, not openly. They are too polite for that, too well bred, but he feels their glances as if it were slime coating his body and not immaculately tailored clothing. They are all wondering just who the blood suit-clad man is who lurks in the corner and nurses a glass of punch. He cannot blame them. Undoubtedly he looks dangerously disreputable in their midst.
Beneath the music, he hears the remark that sets his teeth on edge. "Who does that fellow think he is? Poes' Red Death? You don't know him, do you Marie?"
Marie's answer is lost in the writhing morass that is Larten's brain. Poe's Red Death? It has been so long since he heard that name, spoken softly in the sweetest French accent, his head resting in Alicia's lap, her fingers so soft, so gentle carding through his hair. Erik the phantom stalking the masquerade as Red Death, out in public without his mask. (He confesses he considered wearing a mask tonight, then decided that may be a step too far.) His heart wrenches forcefully, half-choking him, tears prickling the backs of his eyes. It was one of the last times…when she read it to him and he enjoyed it more for her lilting voice and gentle fingers than the story itself.
If he had known, he would never have left her side.
Roughly, he brushes away the tears in time to see two burly security guards advancing on him, and suddenly he is altogether too conscious of the three small daggers concealed beneath his coat. Deadly as they are, he is loath to use them against humans, and it appears he has overstayed his welcome.
He can always watch from the roof. Darkness, at least, is still his friend, will still accept what the humans will not.