Gomez stepped into the softly-lit ballroom that dread evening, taking a drag on his cigar in an attempt to appear nonchalant. His eyes scanned the crowd, passing over the large dance-floor, lit by a thousand candles seemingly floating a few feet above head height, several hundred more lining the antique tables around the room. He took in the bar in the corner, smiling as his gaze alighted on his dear friend Hector. At least there would be one person here this evening he could talk to without risking his sanity, what remained of it. He made for the bar, greeting Hector warmly. A quick glance round once more, what harm could it do, before he settled down for an evening of providing his friend with miserable company. What harm indeed. The second he saw her, he almost wished he hadn't. She was ethereal, a dark shade of divinity itself, of course. But to see her wrapped in the arms of another, spun around the dance-floor as the string orchestra played… this was beyond unbearable now. He snarled as he took another look at his love-rival.

He was tall. Ungainly. Relatively good looking, Gomez grudgingly admitted. Thick brown hair worn too wild for Gomez's taste. White skin. Unpleasantly pale, almost sickly in hue. Not the divine porcelain of Morticia. Her face almost glowed moonlight bright, the glimpses he could catch of her at least, as she was swept around the room, out of his sight for far too many seconds at a time. Even when she came back into view, her ebony tresses seemed to conspire against him, covering entirely too much of her face. Gomez burned both with desire for her, irrational hatred for her beau. Philae appeared to care superficially for Morticia, it is true. He treated her with an almost detached courtesy. Gomez almost wished Philae would turn out to be a cad, someone who might pose some danger to his beloved; then at least Gomez could rush in, demand Philae step aside so he could sweep Morticia up in his arms and lead to her away to safety. But alas, that was not to be. How dare he even think himself worthy to touch such a divine creature. Gomez also thought himself unworthy of Morticia's touch, it is true, but he knew instinctively that Philae couldn't feel one millionth of the love, lust, respect and longing for her that Gomez did. Growling angrily, he turned himself to the bar, jostling elbows with Hector, who had been perched upon a barstool, nursing a large rum and watching the expressions raging across Gomez's face. A hot-blooded Spaniard, incapable of truly hiding his feelings about anything, Gomez wore his heart on his sleeve, and Hector smiled as he inclined his head in the direction of the object of his friend's obvious desire. "Nice girl," he said politely, sipping his drink. Gomez scowled at his own whiskey, loosened his bow tie, and merely grunted a reply.

"There's just something about her eyes," Hector said. Gomez spun on his chair to face Hector, nodding emphatically, a little more keenly than he perhaps should have, but fortunately his reaction went unnoticed as his friend continued. "So… cold. Unfeeling almost." Gomez had already opened his mouth to respond in agreement to what he had been sure would be an admiring comment on what were arguably Morticia's most beautiful, intoxicating feature. He had lost count of the number of times he had caught himself gazing at her face, those eyes in particular. They were captivating. He was enchanted by them, sometimes almost worried that he had been hypnotised, so fast did his heart race when his eyes alighted on hers, his mind unable to focus on anything beyond his innate, all-consuming desire for her. And on the odd occasion that she met his gaze, steady and with a half-smile playing around her lips… well, the word to describe the feelings that raced through him, it just hadn't been invented yet. Nothing in English, Spanish nor any other language in existence could do them justice. "Cold?! Ha!" he let out an involuntary bark of amusement, earning himself several bewildered stares from nearby patrons.

He lowered his tone, addressing only Hector this time. "Her eyes are beautiful, glorious, bewitching even! Perhaps it's because her eyes are so dark, but I promise you my friend, there is nothing cold or unfeeling about Mor… Miss Frump." He caught himself rather too late, at the very end of the sentence. Formalising her name somewhat was a vain attempt to hide the desperate tender affection that had sprung forth from him in her defense, at the mere thought of someone not seeing the exquisite beauty in her eyes, as he did. This was, of course, not lost on Hector, and he chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "Oh my friend, what are we to do with you?" he smiled, fondly. Gomez had 'fallen in love' so often over the 17 years since they had become firm friends - smoking their first fine cigars at age 11, sitting on the wall of the local cemetery - that to watch in amusement as Gomez professed his love for a raven-haired beauty he had met only hours before, and then within a week to pick up the pieces as the budding relationship came to a halt; well it was an occupational hazard. But this time, something was different. He waved his hand in front of Gomez's face but his friend was lost to him, to the room, to the whole world. Hector followed Gomez's adoring gaze, knowing what he would see even before his eyes alighted on whatever had captivated his friend so. She was a rare beauty, Hector acknowledged to himself. Far beyond any of the girls Gomez had ever courted before. In looks, yes, but in bearing too. The way she moved was quite hypnotic. It had certainly entranced Gomez. Hector smiled once more and turned his attention back to the dingy bar at which he was sitting, nodding at the barkeep for a refill.