Selcouth: Unfamiliar, but marvellous
Boring.
So damn boring.
The welcome speech is boring. The music is boring. The alcohol selection is boring. The people are boring. The canapés are boring. Mr. Egbert's litany is boring - damn, who even chooses a nickname such as Egbert, when you could be known as literally anything else? And why are there so many people in attendance? Isn't this supposed to be a members club? Where is the exclusivity he was promised? Will they let anyone with a spare few hundreds galleons join in?
Antares groans internally, his head nodding along with whatever Egbert is saying. How is he still talking over the Emperor's speech? Didn't his maman teach him not to talk over other people?
"Mr. Egbert," his voice comes out more indignant than he intended, "Will you please be quiet? I'm actually trying to listen to what the Emperor has to say." He really isn't, but anything is better than this. Egbert is apologising profusely, still talking. Antares dumps his empty glass on a floating tray and slithers back towards the bar, the idiot still blabbering apologies.
Politeness never works on dense people.
He's perched on the very edge of the stool, a glass of Ogden's Finest in front of him. Pan has now joined the Emperor on stage, welcomed by cheers and applause, in what appears to be the longest speech since Cicero's ghost was permitted to address the Wizengamot.
Calla is endlessly mixing drinks and pouring glasses, sending floating champagne trays around the room, charming wet napkins to polish the never ending amount of crystalware. He admires how easy she makes it look, a smile always on her lips, politely refusing patrons' avances. Imbeciles, the whole lot.
"An Aviation, please." She has been sitting quietly since the Emperor first got on stage, back turned to the bar to face the show. He hasn't paid her any attention. To be fair he doesn't pay anyone attention. But now he finds himself studying her. He can see the thinking look on her face, the mask flickering brighter around her eyes. She's staring at Calla, lost in thought. Her right hand is scratching her left, red lines marring the pale skin, a map of her anxiety.
"First time?" Booooring. Now he can add himself to the list of boring shit in the ballroom. He detests small talk, and yet here he is, wasting time like the most common of fools.
She turns to look at him, eyebrows shooting up. Her mask is shining so bright it hurts his eyes, but he can't look away. He knows exactly what it means. Fucking great. He is thoroughly and royally fucked. He takes a gulp of his whiskey, but the fire in his throat rages on.
"Why, yes. What gave me away?"
"You're still trying to uncover who is who under the glamours." Gods, there is no way. Nope. No way in hell. This can't be happening to him, it is just not possible.
"Guilty as charged." Her laugh stirs something familiar in him, making the skin on his arms break out in goose bumps. "I'm Morrígan."
"Antares." Her hand is cold in his, her handshake stronger than he expected. "Enjoying your evening?"
"No, not really." Here she goes, scratching away again, her hand sore and tender. "You?"
He shrugs, his shoulders a tight mess. "It's okay. One can rarely enjoy these evening when leeches are all over the place." Liar, liar, liar. There's plenty of enjoyment, and it's sitting right next to him, long legs and all.
His eyes rest on the soft curve of her shoulder. The neckline of her light blue dress has moved slightly and now gives him perfect view on a collection of small moles on her right breast. Gods, he would give his whole inheritance away just to -
"I thought the whole point of this place was anonymity." Morrígan's voice brings him back to reality, and back to looking at her face. She's facing away now, refusing to meet his gaze. The collection of glasses hanging over the bar is apparently more interesting than he is. Is she counting the flutes?
"I guess you can never hide who you truly are for long." His empty glass looks almost as lonesome as he feels. Greatest strength: fucking up. He should add it to his cv, only he doesn't know what a cv is. He's never had any need to apply for a job. Daddy dearest had it all figured out for him the moment his maman announced her pregnancy.
"Deep." Morrígan is still looking away, sipping her violet drink. He's been so lost in their short conversation that he hasn't noticed Pan and the Emperor leaving the stage, nor the orchestra starting to play. But he hears them now.
Alright then, last chance.
"Care to dance?"
She's laughing at him.
Antares feels like the most stupid man on Earth. Hell, he is the most stupid man in the universe. It's a feeling he's not familiar with. How did he not see this coming? Liar, liar, liar. He did. He did see it coming, yet he was still hoping she'd say yes.
Morrígan peeks at him. "Don't get me wrong, Antares. I'm simply not dressed for dancing." His heartbeat is thumping furiously in his ears, erasing everything else. "I didn't realise this was a ball gown sort of occasion. It's a shame, really. I do love Shostakovich " she murmurs, eying the dancers longingly.
Relief is such a sweet pleasure. She is not turning him down, she's feeling self-conscious. "You're a witch, Morrígan. There's nothing you can't do."
The rose gold tone of her mask betrays her embarrassment. "I didn't think of it."
Two plus two equals four. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Morrígan is muggle-born. It's a painfully obvious fact.
She shrugs, "I'm not a very good dancer. I had to rehearse for a month before attending my first ball, and it still didn't help."
Antares's eyebrow shots up and his lips are a tight smile, he's trying hard not to smirk. "That's because you weren't led properly. It's all in the lead." He draws nearer now, his hand barely touching the small of her back. "Would you dance with me if nobody could judge us?"
She turns to stare at him. Eyes wide, chest heaving with shallow breaths, she pronounces the fatidic words. "Do I know you?"
"Probably." His lips almost touching her earlobe, Morrígan closes her eyes. "Everyone knows everybody here. But it's the pretence of not recognising who the others are, the illusion of concealment, that make this place what it is. The notion that you could be anyone you want, behave however you want, and that there will be no repercussions, no consequences whatsoever, because nobody really knows who you are. That's what sells. Now," his soft lips drags just below her ear, "will you dance with me?"
Morrígan turns her head towards him, their lips inches from touching. She knows him, of this she's certain. She stares at him so intensely, willing his mask to disappear, to reveal his features, but it only glimmers, defiant. "Who are you?"
"We both know I can't tell you." Antares slides his hand on her hip, his fingers moving lazily. "Who would you like me to be?"
Had the music not changed, he would have kissed her. He would have pushed her against the bar and hitched her dress up. He imagines her strong legs wrapped around him, keeping him in the only place he's ever wanted to be. In his mind Morrígan's head is thrown back in pleasure, her throat exposed to his yearning mouth, the constellation of moles on her breast unconcealed.
Of course, none of this happened. Not yet anyway.
Around them the atmosphere has shifted. There are only a few candles still lit, La Salle Des Étoiles is now illuminated by a myriad of masks. Patrons are slowly leaving the ballroom, most are heading towards Les Jardins, some towards Les Chambres Cachées, and only a feware entering the corridor that leads to Le Trésor. The orchestra has abandoned the stage, leaving place for a band. The music they're playing is slow and seductive, the thrumming bass resonating in Morrígan's abdomen.
She's feeling brave. Maybe it's the alcohol, or the heady undertone of the room, or Antares's member pressing against her hip. Yes, most definitely that, and the fact that, as he said, there will be no consequences.
She has missed this and now craves it heartily. Feeling wanted is a most powerful enchantment.
They've left la Salle des Étoiles and they're now standing in a dimly lit corridor, closed doors as far as the eye can see. She tries the one on her right, trying to buy some time, but the door stays closed.
"It won't open. It's already occupied." He guides her further down the corridor, their hands lightly brushing as they walk.
She must say it now, before overthinking it and losing all her courage. "I'lldancewithyou."
"What was that?"
"I said I'll dance with you. On one condition." This is how it must be to stare at the sun. Antares is beaming, his mask a brilliant reflection of his emotions. Hiding one's innermost emotion is proving to be quite hard.
"And what would that be?" He smirks. It looks kinda sexy. What is happening to her? When has she ever found a smirk sexy? Well, there was that one ti- Her breath catches in her throat, she can't breathe. Oh, God. Her head is being crushed and her brain is on fire.
"Morrígan, what's happening? Are you okay?" He catches her by the arm just in time. His touch immediately relieving her pain.
"I was remembering something," she says meekly, "I've lost it again now, but whatever it was, I'm sure it was important."
Antares startles. She was remembering something. Something that must be related to him in some way, otherwise the mask wouldn't have affected her so badly. Meaning... Meaning what exactly? That they have met before? He's pretty certain he has met all of the people who frequent L'Énigme in real life, so what is different with her? But then again... He thinks back on when they met, how her mask almost blinded him with its radiance. "It happens sometimes. The mask is trying to ensure the fulfilment of your deepest desire."
"But I can't even remember what my deepest desire is!" Her voice is back at its normal volume and she is standing on her own, looking at a group of people exiting one of the rooms further down. "And why should it block my memories? What do they have to do with it?"
He takes a deep breath, stretching his neck. "Morrígan, the more you fight it, the worse it gets."
"But I'm not fighting it! I was just trying to remember!"
He laughs, incredulous, hair catching the light from her mask. "Then don't. Let's enjoy ourselves. Now, what were you saying about that condition?"
She blushes, eyes fixed somewhere just behind his shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze. "You must show me around."
"That's it? You just want me to show you the place? Nothing else?" Still laughing, he brushes his hair back with his hand.
She stops in her tracks to stare at him. Antares is checking his shirt cuffs, his long fingers fiddling with the cufflinks.
"Well, there was something else." She's still blushing, not knowing how to ask for what she really wants. "But I'll tell you after we've danced," she holds a finger up, "one dance, Antares."
He relishes in her blush, imagining what she's thinking about. I hope there are no clothes involved.
"Can I guess?"
She shakes her head. "I shan't confirm and I shan't deny."
"Well, Morrígan, two can play this game."
"I don't know what you're talking about." She speeds up, back straight and earrings dangling. Her hair is constricted in a complicated updo, baring her slim neck and back to his view. Antares follows her with his eyes, admiring her body and the way her dress drapes around it.
A low chuckles escapes him. "You know exactly what I'm talking about," he picks up the pace and reaches her just as she's about to enter a room, "but I'll pretend to believe you."