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A masquerade is only poorly disguised chaos and disorder.
Cyrus comes to this conclusion as he watches the frivolity, bored and wholly disinterested in the pomp and artifice that surrounds him. There’s so much wealth and nobility gathered in one room and with so many sparkling glasses of champagne and wine being carted about by servants dressed almost as pompous as the guests, it’s hardly a wonder when the strangers around him start to slowly but surely lose all interest in decorum. There’ll be talk tomorrow, rumours fluttering from gossip circle to gossip circle of all the scandals that’ll have happened tonight. From the tittering to his right by a group of young ladies all of them trussed up in gowns that shone and sparkled, it’s a safe assumption that something outrageous has already transpired.
These were people with too much time on their hands, who sat on their wealth, hardly lifting a finger as others below them toiled and scrabbled with numbers and resources, working themselves to the bone all for the unlikely promise of one day being part of all this grandeur. Hard to believe that there are people who actually want to be here, surrounded by all the swirling colours and the nauseating fragrances and noise when Cyrus would rather be elsewhere.
He’s been jostled by far too many elbows and hips for one night and it’s still early. He knows how long these gatherings can last and already he’s struggling to keep himself from fidgeting in his costume.
Were it up to him then Cyrus would have arrived with only the minimal amount of effort in dressing up, a flimsy mask and an old suit he had stashed away in the back of his closet for these occasions. It would hardly surprise a single person in this crowd when Cyrus is already aware of his reputation with these people. The fact that he’d received an invitation at all was a surprise though he’s certain that it’d been sent under the assumption that he’d decline as he always did.
His attire is all Mars’ doing, damn that girl and her flair for aesthetics. Now he has to spend the rest of the evening miserable and uncomfortable in an ensemble that makes little to no sense. What was the point of a costume if it lacks any sense of cohesion? According to the girl, her intent was for him to sparkle. And so he does, in an opalescent outfit that shimmers and shines as though he’d decided to attend as a kaleidoscope for the evening. Crystal beads and polished pearls thread through the bodice that hugs him too tight and pinches in all the wrong places. The lace and silk that makes up the skirt flounces and gives the impression of being soft when in reality the swaths of fabric only serve to irritate his skin. Fashion over comfort it seems.
With how his feet already ache in the heeled boots that he’s been outfitted with, Cyrus is certain he’s not likely to last the next hour, much less the night. He closes his eyes and exhales in a long slow breath at the sudden outburst of shrill laughter from that same group of girls to his right. He wants to leave, but grimaces at the thought of having to move. Cyrus can hardly stand, much less walk.
As though sensing his distress, a servant appears immediately at his elbow with a tray laden with glasses of expensive wine and Cyrus chooses one nearly filled to the brim, downing half of it in one go. A poor decision on an empty stomach, he can feel it burn its way down and already his cheeks are flushed beneath his ornate silver mask. Another Mars original, it’s as ungainly as it is gaudy, and in keeping with the theme with the rest of his costume, it's also uncomfortable and painful. The sharp edges and spikes meant to emulate the points of a star bite into his skin, rubbing his flesh raw.
He doesn’t want to be here. Why had he decided to come? Why had he let Mars and Saturn and the rest convince him to attend when he knows how the evening will turn out? He’ll be spending the next week recuperating from the torment he’s put himself in.
Another hour and then he’ll go. Perhaps he can shave it down to thirty minutes, no one can blame him for wanting to be away when not a single soul has recognized him since his arrival. Normally in functions such as these there’d be the typical toadies all vying for the attention of the infamous Galactic Energy’s head. He’s as new money as they come, but he’s the kind that the blue bloods despise: the influential and powerful kind.
But with such power comes the trappings of his image, the tiring need to be in public for the sake of keeping appearances while rubbing elbows with the other social elite. He’s certainly done his fair share of that in the physical and literal sense. He’s been pushed and pulled about all evening like a piece of refuse tossed about by the stormy seas of far too many people. Another heavy shoulder knocks into him and Cyrus lurches forward, wine glass held precariously away to keep its ruinous contents from spilling onto his costume. Much as he hates being in this wretched thing, he’s also aware of the amount of time Mars had put into assembling it too.
But the heels have him as steady as a newborn deerling and Cyrus is stumbling forward, trying to keep his balance. He’s going to trip, he realizes with the dread of a man who realizes the inevitable. An arm suddenly circles around his shoulders, holding him tight and keeping him upright. The wine glass is plucked from his hand and Cyrus blinks, trying to turn his head without spearing his saviour in the eye with one of the jagged points of his mask.
“Thank you,” he mumbles and tries to extricate himself from those hands that have closed around his arms. He swallows, his insides surging with an uncertain mix of relief from being saved and the discomfort of being held too close against a broad chest. The hands around him are strikingly warm against his bare skin. Cyrus is starting realize how cold he’s been this entire time.
“I’m fine now.” He hopes that his rescuer will finally take the hint.
There’s a chuckle, the hot breath against his ear is lightning arcing through his nerves. “If you’re so sure.” All at once the body pressed flush against his is gone and he’s released, leaving Cyrus wobbling like he’s suddenly forgotten how to stand. The wine couldn’t have been that potent.
Finally, he can turn and face his supposed hero. There in front of him is a man dressed in a dark navy blue tailcoat and matching dark navy blue pants that are likely tighter than they should be, both pieces shimmering nearly as brilliantly as Cyrus’ costume, offset by an overly ruffled white dress shirt and cravat. Draped over his shoulders is a heavy fur cloak that Cyrus suspects is made of real fur. He also notes with a minor stab of envy that the gentleman’s simple white satin mask seems far more comfortable and less torturous than the one that’s currently cutting into his cheeks.
“An interesting choice to wear heels when you don’t seem accustomed to such footwear.” The mask does little in hiding the stranger’s amusement.
“It wasn’t my choice,” Cyrus says and snaps his mouth shut. There’s no need to justify himself to a stranger even if said man did save him from what would no doubt have been an embarrassing encounter with the floor.
“Then I suppose you’re in no condition to dance? A pity.”
For the first time that night, Cyrus turns his attention to the dance floor, full of couples spinning and twirling. Simply staring at them is almost enough for him to wince as he tries to imagine himself moving that much.
There’s an amused huff from the stranger and Cyrus glances back at him in time to catch the man draining the last of the wine. His wine. The wine the stranger had taken. Only a few dark red drops remain, circling in the glass as the man tilts it about in the light as though studying its craftsmanship, though his attention only remains on the few droplets for a few seconds more before his gaze slides back to Cyrus, the curve of the man’s mouth slanting into a smirk.
“Forgive me, I thought you were done with your drink considering the near miss,” the stranger says, looking far from contrite.
Truthfully, he probably was finished with it considering what half a glass has stripped away from him. Arguing over wine that he technically didn’t pay for seemed pointless and his reply is a barely perceptible shrug that the stranger would never have noticed had he not been watching Cyrus so closely. At least Cyrus has the satisfaction of seeing that smirk drop away into a more subdued smile.
“How about I go fetch you another glass then?”
Another shrug. If it gets this insufferable man out of his hair then let him go play errand boy. With a shake of his head and another amused huff, his saviour turns on his heel and starts to make his way through the crowd. Cyrus tries to track his movements as best he can considering the number of people around them. Now that he’s aware of the stranger, it’s impossible not to notice him. A phenomenon the rest of the party goers seem to share as they part for him, men and women of all social status seemingly stepping aside to give him room until an arm snakes forward from the crowd and latches around the man. A woman dressed as a peacock drapes herself against him, batting her long lashes at him from beneath her extravagant mask.
Instead of shaking her off as Cyrus might have done and he’s had to do that very thing several times this evening, the man only smiles graciously down at her and they both share in a private joke that has them erupting into laughter. Cyrus can only watch for so long before he turns away, taking in the people around him, that same group of tittering girls still there, still whispering loudly enough that he can make out their conversation about the deplorable costume some woman from Kanto has decided to wear.
He’s tired of these people. He’s tired of all these garish colours and noise that keeps pressing down on him. There’s hardly room to breathe without suffocating on the many heady perfumes that these people have drenched themselves in and Cyrus decides that it’s time for some fresh air.
The first step is the worst, as is the second and third, and he’s no more graceful making his way to the exit as he’d been nearly tripping over himself earlier. He can barely feel his feet and wonders how in the world he’s going to make the long journey back home. Go barefoot? It’s a thought worth merit especially now when his feet are throbbing, confined in boots that may as well have been made out of barbed wire, they certainly feel like it.
Outside is a balcony that wraps around the building where several others have made their escape. Cyrus manages to clunk his way over to the railing, leaning heavily on it as he glances down into near impenetrable dark. He knows that below there should be a meticulously maintained lawn stretching on for several acres. All this wasted space for a single wealthy man who’d spent millions for a single night of extravagance. He’s been to plenty of these functions and still he can’t fathom throwing away so much money for a night that many are likely to forget.
He shivers as a crisp winter breeze stirs and ruffles at his costume. He should have brought a jacket, but he’d left his indoors and the mere thought of such a long trip to fetch it exhausts him. According to forecasts it should have been snowing already and Cyrus finds himself thinking of how there’d be snow already covering the ground back in Sunyshore.
“Ah, there you are.”
He nearly topples over the railing at the voice behind him when a sudden weight settles on his shoulders and Cyrus is covered in warmth. He glances down to see a large fur cloak wrapped around him, protecting him from the elements and touches it absently, marvelling at its softness. He breathes in the scent of sharp cologne, something that’s reminiscent of the ancient pine forests of Sinnoh. Still too artificial to be confused for the real thing, but refreshing when he’d been near drowning under all the floral scents in the ballroom.
“Thank you.” He doesn’t have to look up to know who’s come to his aid again. Instead he keeps his attention on the cloak, fingers drawing senseless patterns into the fur. No wonder people would spend so much money on the real thing when it functions so well at keeping someone warm, already Cyrus is feeling flushed under that single, but thick layer. Even his cheeks are warm against the winter cold. “What about you?” He notices too late that the stranger is leaning against the railing on one elbow, cloakless and without any proper outerwear for this time of year. Cyrus knows that the man’s costume can’t be especially effective in such frigid temperatures.
“I’m fine. I tend to run hot anyway.” In the stranger’s hands are a pair of wine glasses and offers one to Cyrus. Not knowing how politely turn him down after far too many kind gestures, he takes the glass, fingers brushing over gloved ones that are remarkably warm. How does he tell someone that he’s never been fond of alcohol consumption in the first place, that it’d been extenuating circumstances that’d made him so impulsive.
“Thank you,” he says instead. Again.
“I’m aware that the point of these things is anonymity, but I’ve never been one for following the rules anyway. I’m Giovanni.” And to make his point and perhaps to be dramatic as well, Cyrus has a feeling that he's dealing with a very dramatic man, Giovanni tears off his mask.
The face beneath isn’t one that he recognizes but considering the people that’d come to this affair, it’d only make sense that his stranger would remain a stranger. Still, Cyrus takes note of the newly revealed face, thinking that perhaps he’d seen him before, in the news or on social media. Someone important then.
He contemplates his wine glass, mouth pursed for a few seconds while feeling the weight of Giovanni’s expectations. He’s fully aware of what he should be doing, but does he want to do this? He reaches for his mask, fingers tracing along the hard edges of a spike and makes his decision. Yes, yes he does. He takes off the mask, letting it tumble away, relieved to finally be able to breath.
“Cyrus,” he answers.
He’s surprised when he meets Giovanni’s gaze to find a genuine smile on the man’s face. A look that seems almost foreign on him when Cyrus is certain that a smirk is far more likely the default. Yet here he is, somehow having caught the attention of a man who could have his pick of the ball and he’s chosen to spend his time out here in the cold with Cyrus.
“You shine more brilliantly out here than you do in there,” Giovanni says. Coming from anyone else and Cyrus might have been repulsed by something so insipid. And yet, from Giovanni, those uninspired words don’t sound half so trite. Still, his disbelief must have been obvious when Giovanni takes one look at him and then bursts into laughter.
“Not my best line, but the truth remains.” Giovanni touches one of the crystal beads on Cyrus’ bodice, turning it between thumb and forefinger. “You’re like a star. Or perhaps a sun in a sky full of faded stars.”
What is he supposed to say to such poetics? Cyrus has never cared the kind of sonnets and ballads that often swept the hearts of young men and women alike and yet he can’t shake the feeling he’s about to embark in some grand epic either. He looks down, to the hand that’s trailing along a particular thread of gold and gently takes it between his own. His intention was to pry Giovanni’s hand away, but now he finds himself still holding on, reluctant to let go.
And if the tittering gossipers from within were to happen to look outside and rumours began to spread that he and Giovanni were engaged in a secret romantic tryst that night, well, Cyrus has had worse things said about him.