Chapter 2: The Beautiful Boy

"O formose puer, nimium ne crede colori.

O beautiful boy, do not put too much trust in your beauty." – Virgil

Paviche Largo was the face of countless magazines. He was a celebrity, because of his position in life. He was a bachelor. He was an heir to a large fortune. Every opportunity was thrust before him. The boy lived a life of fortune. He never once had to experience the misfortune and various pains of life. Pavi was rich and beautiful. What more could he possibly desire?

Now, it seems as if cruel and bitter fate has intervened. The tables have turned. He sits calmly in his muted throne. Long, slim fingers intertwine as his hands fold together. He keeps the chair turned towards the window, leaving him a bird's eye view of the island. His back is turned away from the room and away from the person whom sits in the leather chair.

The young paparazzi nervously taps a pen against his check board. A blank piece of paper rests underneath the metal clip. He doesn't know where to begin and what to ask. It's all very intimidating and new to him. His first opportunity. His first job. He's excited. Hence, his designer heart beats like an inconsistent drum. His glasses droop down the bridge of his nose. He cannot afford contacts or new eyes. Besides, he enjoys wearing glasses even if they do grow tiresome overtime.

Alas, the prince speaks, "Why do you come here?" A simple question. His Italian accent smoothly wraps around each and every word like ginger velvet, caressing the boy's very being. The paparazzi shudders. Haunting yet mesmerizing. He's absolutely compelled, leaning forward in his chair.

"I... I'm here for an interview, Mr. Largo," the lad carefully construes his words. Then, he remembers that this is not Luigi Largo, the more brutal of the two. This is Paviche Largo, the womanizer with flawless looks and of a flirtatious nature. He sinks back in the chair, knowing that Pavi is not looking at him directly. Hence, his back turned. He believes he can relax for the most part.

"An interview, you say. But..." He pauses, "But. You want to know-"

"Er..."

"Everyone wants to know what happen, is that correct?"

"Yes, Sir. Most definitely! The tabloids are crazy about it!" Oh, to be that youthful. That paparazzi had to be an intern of some sort. He is eager for knowledge. It lingers in his excited, gray eyes. Once more he leans forward. He's quite the fidgety lad, rocking back and forth in the leather chair. It's to be expected. He's obviously nervous. The boy scribbles down useless information with his black, fountain pen.

Paviche taps his chin. Normally, many consider him to be a conceited idiot. This includes his brother and his father. He has know idea if Amber feels the same since she is almost always doped up on drugs and surgery. The young Largo is careful upon construing his image. He knows that the lad will record every single word that slips from his scarred lips. He acknowledges that what enters the media permanently stays there.

"What is your name, Ragazzo?"

"It's, uh, Stan, Sir," he tugs at the collar of his shirt. He's sweating bullets. At least, mentally. He has no need to act this way. Yet, Paviche is a Largo. They're the most powerful family in the current decade. They hold control, reign, and sway over all just like the Red Death.

"Well... Stan." A bemused expression falls upon Pavi's face, though the paparazzi cannot see such. He leans back in his own chair, "I will tell you the story, though it is not a long one. I'm sure it will be a bit... How do you put it? Ah, bene. Boring."

"Nothing about you is boring, though!" Stan protests, pushing up his glasses abruptly.

Pavi is flattered, naturally. He is just doing this to get on the raven-haired male's good side. He has no true 'bad' side. Pavi crosses his legs, letting his designer boots glisten under the dim lighting. His fingers gently touch the polished, wooden desk. His room is near immaculate, mimicking his personality. A slim hand rests underneath his silhouetted chin. The ornate mirror lies on top of the oak table.

"Gratzi, Stan, gratzi. First, I will dismiss the rumors. I did not get acid thrown onto my face, because of a crazed ex-lover. My 'accident', so they say, has absolutely nothing to do with acid. I did notget trapped in a fire, because of some jealous, cheap impostor. Had that happened, the Pavi's entire body would be scarred. I would rather die, then be absolutely hideous. Thirdly, Fratello, Luigi, did not 'stab' the Pavi's face. Though Luigi is violent, he has never once resorted to harming my face. Had that been the case, I have a lovely bottle of cologne to keep him at bay."

The reporter nods, furiously scribbling down each word. All becomes important. One word can not be excluded. Each one holds it's own significance and most importantly, the truth. Stan nods every now and then as Pavi speaks. His gaze remains intense, "Then, what is the truth, Mr. Largo?"

"La verità?" Pavi lightly enquires.

Uh... I'm gonna assume that means truth. 'Cuz I don't know a minute fraction of Italian. Stan nods, "Yes."

"I wanted to please Papá. That was all I wanted to do..." The smooth Italian's voice quivers, sounding unbearably childish. He pauses, "But no. It was more than that. The Pavi yearned for genetic perfection." Stan arches a brow in his own confusion. Okay, so he's got flaws. That's human. Paviche continued once more, "I trusted myself. I trusted him."

"I see."

"He promised the Pavi a new face. A most, beautiful face that would make all swoon and gasp. And I... believed Father. I foolishly campaigned for 'Replace Your Face," Paviche tosses his hands in the air as if it is a motion of defeat. It is not by any means. The paparazzi aches to ask more, to write all that Pavi spills. He refrains himself, having some manners in this day and age.

"That reminds me of a quote, Mr. Largo."

"Oh?"

"Yes, by a philosophe, Virgil, or something along those lines."

"How does it go, Ragazzo?"

"Oh, beautiful boy, do not put too much trust in your beauty."

He giggles, finding amusement in Stan's words. The giggles escalate to maddened laughter. His slim fingers tangle in his endless locks. Stan frowns, combing his own hair out of his face. He didn't find it funny. He finds it... philosophical or something along those lines. He has been paying too much attention in his Humanities course.

"Those words don't sway the Pavi, Stan. They have no meaning to me."

"Mr. Largo..."

"Si, Stan?"

"Did your father ever fulfill that promise?"

"Perdon?"

"Did he ever grant you a new face...?" The words sounded so strange. They're worthy of a horror movie.

"Look at me!" Paviche seethes, twirling around to face Stan. He is maimed. His face is an ill shade of crimson. Metal clips surround his once beautiful face. Blue eyes seethe with rage that should only be capable upon Luigi's behalf. He slams a fist down upon his antique mirror. It cracks so easily, so delicately like one's nature. With merry amusement or taunting, he picks up a shard. Blood fervently dribbles from his sliced fingers, "I'm hideous! I'm a monster, Ragazzo! Un monstre! But you! You have a face that is quite handsome. Girlish even..." A smirk worthy of a devil crosses his red lips.

Red. Everything is red. Stan shrinks back in horror. He holds a hand up in his defense, "Please, Sir. You're not... well... You'll regret this. You don't know what you're doing.. Oh God! Please don't kill me!" Words flow from his mind. To Pavi, it is inconsist, incoherent babble. He ignores the lad's useless pleas. Down. Down. The shard descends. Blood splatters. It taints the very atmosphere. The boy's screams eventually die down to a muted whimper. He cowers like a wounded canine, keeping to himself.

The notes, the paparazzi's drabbles, have been tainted crimson. Paviche holds up the boy's face against his own in victory. The smell of the metallic substance fills his nostrils, but he could care less. He gazes into the remaining shards of the mirror. The madness- No, the darkness, lingers in his orbs, giving them a cobalt appearance. Pavi laughs at the boy, "Foolish. You shouldn't have let your guard down, Stan. You're a fool. My beauty is my namesake and I trust nothing else."

Author Note: Oh my. Oh me. I didn't type Pavi's accent! I thought it would ruin the mood... D8 Thus, I tucked in snippets that said he spoke with an accent. Translation: "Ragazzo" means "Boy" or so the free translation sites tell me... And I doubt that 'monstre' means 'monster' in italian. That piece was german. SO, PAVI KNOWS A BUNCH OF LANGUAGES I GUESS. -Fail on my behalf.-