The Prince, being the Prince, would certainly celebrate an outdated festival inaccurately, simply because he wanted to, such was the nature of royal entitlement. With the Prince being the Varia's Prince, he could and did drag the Independent Assassination Squad of the Vongola along into celebrating with him. Finally, with the Prince being his Page's Prince, he easily persuaded his Page to join him in the fun.

…Granted, persuading the anachronistic apprentice of the Young Lion to be anachronistic was hardly difficult, although it had taken quite a bit of coaxing, cajoling, and kissing before Basil agreed to overlook the historical inaccuracies.

"The Page is far too fussy." Bel complained as he rearranged his tiara on the younger boy's head.

Basil laughed brightly, "Nay, my Prince, say scrupulous, rather! To be lack such a virtue would for an intelligence agent unbecoming be!"

Bel pouted, but could only agree. "The Prince would not have his Page be anything else."

"Not thy page this night, but this prince." Basil's bared eye gleamed with mischief, "Whilst thou art become the page."

Bel grinned, "Thou art the Prince, shishishishi, and the Prince useth not 'thou', rather 'you'."

Mimicking Bel's inflections, Basil asked, looking up through his lashes with faux-innocence, "Does the Prince not use 'peasant' to address the multitudes?"

How cruel! Bel had kindly offered his corrections, and was instead harshly and heartlessly mocked! How swiftly did power go to His Own's head! Pride demanded that the Prince's honor be defended.

"The Prince doth, and alſo knives." Bel fanned out a handful and pressed them into Basil's hands, taking the other's boomerang for his own.

Basil affected a shattered mien at the archaic pronunciation, the tradecraft of his profession making his expression heartbreakingly genuine—beautiful, in Bel's opinion, satisfying the part of Prince the Ripper which gloried in pain and hurt and bloodshed—then shifted after a beat to a more honest expression, his show of injury turning playful, as, true to the role he was playing, Basil tossed a knife at Bel's chest.

Bel avoided the incoming projectile by imitating one of Basil's bows, springing to His Own's side on dancing feet, "Come now, 'tis not the time for private amusement, rather to join in the merriment of the masses! Wilt thou not come down?"

Bel had imitated Basil's speech patterns quite well, if the assassin could say so himself, and with the giant googly eye he had stuck on his bangs in a fit of whimsy, as well as their exchanged attire, the Prince and the Page were ready to celebrate misrule whilst poorly impersonating each other. For shame! The Prince did not throw his knives with such wanton abandon, nor with such poor form. Where was the grace? The strength? The royal elegance of his instruments of death? Truly, Bel suffered inhuman torment for the sake of his love.

His fiendish counterpart smirked a Princely smirk, and the wounds of Bel's heart were salved by the accuracy of the imitation—oho, what now? The younger boy leapt onto Bel, his slighter form leaving him dangling from Bel's shoulders.

"Ushishishi," Basil giggled, "The Prince delights in such indolence, does he not, Mine Own?"

Such sharpness! Such accuracy! But Bel was a genius, with his own cards to play.

"Indeed," Bel tilted his head and shifted his weight, "He does."

His passenger shrieked in delight as they accelerated without warning, hurtling down stairs with Basil clinging on for dear life, skidding around corners with no regard for precious vases (cheap replicas, actually, the stupid captain would go bald otherwise given the turnover rate of ornaments around violently unstable assassins), and knocking hapless grunts aside with cackles from both boys, seeing as the ordinarily mild-mannered Rain was getting in to the spirit of things.

Finally, the arrived at their destination, and Bel crowed, "Doth the Page not pretend at sweetness to hide mischief?"

Basil conceded, but not before pressing a kiss to Bel's cheek—victory for Belphegor's brilliance! His Own's reserve was a quintessential part of His Own, but getting kisses… truly, persuading His Own to take part in the revels was an unparalleled act of tactical acumen.

Chaos reigned supreme at the King's table. In a reversal of usual proceedings, Bel let Basil take the lead in darting through flying cutlery, crockery, and cookery to steal plates of confectionary. He even thoughtfully blocked the glob of blancmange that was heading for Mammon's lamb chops!

Mammon, of course, had taken the opportunity to use Lussuria's role as an excuse to demand tribute. Greedy little bean-bun.

"Excellent." Mammon said in the least enthusiastic Lussuria impersonation ever, "I shall not fine you for damaging my meal."

Bel pouted, reaching for a knife and coming up empty—and Basil was frowning at him—must Bel use his words? There was a reason that he was a Varia Officer, and it was not his eloquence.

"This is an insult!" Bel cried, drawing upon third-hand recollections of the CEDEF Cloud's financial talks, "How, prithee, art thou to incentivize aid with this? Zounds! Give a reward, thou stingy, tight-fisted miser!"

Mammon considered it.

"No."

"A pox upon thee!" Bel shot back, his point punctuated by the knife Basil had thrown into the mashed potatoes on Mammon's plate.

Of course, that drew Lussuria's attention, the flamboyant Sun dressed in a perfectly scaled-up cosplay of Varia's Mist Officer, complete with makeup cheek markings and eye-obscuring hood.

"Now, now, that won't do!" He chided, spooning fresh mashed potatoes onto Mammon's plate, "We're all celebrating here—and you owe me twenty euros, dearie," he addressed Mammon, "—my time doesn't come cheap!"

Mammon hissed, but obediently handed over twenty euros.

Bel noticed that there was a napkin missing—leprechaun gold, of course. The notes were going to turn back into worthless paper tomorrow morning, not that Luss seemed to care, taking the fake money and giving it a loud smack.

Looking around, he saw that Basil had chosen to occupy strategically advantageous location on the gola mosca's shoulder. The robot, currently dead without a Sky to fuel it, was decked out in all of Levi's parasols while the Lightning Officer was wearing a mosca costume made from cardboard. So far, no one had noticed the difference.

Seeing as the argument between the stupid captain and the boss was getting even more heated, Bel wisely snagged a bowl of popcorn and joined Basil on top of the mosca.

"SEEING AS I AM ANGRY AND DO NOT CARE ABOUT SUCH TRIVIAL THINGS AS CLEANING, I'M GOING TO THROW ANOTHER BOTTLE OF FUCKING EXPENSIVE ALCOHOL AT THE FUCKING WALL!"

"AND SINCE I AM A MALE FUCKING HOUSWIFE I WILL NAG MY BOSS AT ALL HOURS!"

"Ushishishi, it appears there are others who need Misrule more, Mine Own." Basil leaned over to whisper into Bel's ear, taking advantage of their proximity to grab a handful of popcorn.

Bel only just kept in character enough not to giggle as well, "Indeed, 'tis greatly troubling, that the pillar and roof of this house and home are so at loggerheads!"

Of course, pretending to be the Page or not, he was entitled to his Princely spread, and so Bel snatched the last biscotti from Basil's plate.

"Bel!" Basil protested, but avenged himself with another handful of popcorn—for Bel was generous to His Own.

They cheered as the more esoteric curses came out. Truly, Misrule was good fun.