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You sip your drink without tasting it. Even its fizz barely registers. You’re much more conscious of the cool air running across your bare collar, bracing you when the alcohol threatens to dull your senses. The breeze’s tendrils raise goosebumps in its wake, and you savor them. Somehow, it’s a comfort, the reminder that you’re still delicate, living, squishy against the hard, bright smiles of the tanned and coiffed creatures inside - the attendees of Mark’s party. With the band bumping and a few people having taken to moving closely together on the dance floor, you’d seen your opportunity to slip out of the actor’s grip and catch your breath under the evening sky. The wide, open-air balcony that circles the ever-flowing infinity pool is the only place you’ve been able to find solace these days. Even with it ending in a dizzying drop into the valley below, the balcony provides an uninhibited view of the sky that almost makes you forget just how trapped you are here.
It had been a party just like this one. You had convinced the others, mainly Dark, to let you sneak in. The actor had been playing everything close to his chest for months, his videos and work devoid of any hints about his plans. As much as he likes to tease information about the bond he shares with the entity like a weird joke, even those had gone silent. Desperate, you’d come up with the hare-brained idea to secure an invitation to one of his lavish, exclusive do’s and use the chaos of the event as a cover for some snooping. He hadn’t discovered you hiding out at the Manor yet, so you’d thought it unlikely that he’d recognize you or pay you much attention at all. Worse case scenario, he’d find you poking around and realize you were working for his self-styled “nemesis” and Dark would use his own powers to teleport you out. Or Wilford could crashing in, one.
Needless to say, nothing had gone to plan. Not only had Mark already known exactly who you were, but he had been ready for you. When he’d confronted you in a side room and you’d pulled the mental rip cord for Dark to get you out, Mark had deflected his “villain”-’s attempts as easily as one shooed away a fly. Your mental connection had gone dead, severed by something as shadowy as your compatriot, but oily. It had twisted in your mind, silencing that bond, and… Well. You had been at the actor’s mercy ever since. You hadn’t felt the ego’s mental tug in months.
You had no idea how quiet it would be, to be truly alone in your head.
Mark hadn’t been content to lock you up somewhere deep and dark and throw away the key, either. No, that would have been too merciful for him. Instead, he’d taken the time to engineer a uniquely tortuous hell just for you, placing you at the center of what he called his ‘settling down arc.’ By his measure, he’d just about gotten all he could out of his rich, young bachelor era, and it was time to find someone to help him calm down and ease into his more mature years. And then here you came, practically throwing the opportunity to show you and the egos - all who dared to oppose him, basically - how pointless trying to resist him was right into his lap, while simultaneously giving him a new plaything with which he could further his image.
So here you are. Playing the love interest to his hero. Humanizing him, softening him to anyone who cares to look. Your stakes for flubbing your lines? Erasure from the fabric of existence, from the minds of anyone who had ever known or cared about you. That, and the knowledge - however briefly he allows you to be conscious of it before eradicating you - that you had totally, utterly failed. Not just yourself and your newfound friends, but the world.
Needless to say, the balcony sure makes a nice break from everything.
Others had had the same idea, apparently. Not with the same context, of course, but with similar results. When you turn from the scrubby California landscape, you see that a little group of new-in-town actors are bunched up around the pool, most of them hotly debating the morality of eating honey. From their volume and intensity, it sounds like the evening’s libations are catching up with them. Despite their friend’s heated tones, two women have broken off from the group and settled pool-side, having removed their shimmery heels to dangle their feet in the pool’s cool waters. You watch as their perfectly smooth legs stir the water so it swirls around their dark skin and smooths out the kinks of the evening. Their voices are deep and soft, murmuring almost conspiratorially between themselves. As you watch them, you find yourself entranced in just how totally invested they are in the other. What can they be talking about so intensely as they smile such bright smiles at each other?
The one enjoyable bit of the whole affair is seeing all the fresh and hopeful energy in the up-and-coming young things Mark invites. You’d learned pretty quickly that if you’ve seen one champagne pyramid, you’ve seen them all, and so without any real interest in the wheeling and dealing of the industry, the antics and conversations of the glamorous evenings had quickly grown stale. Somehow, even the undercurrent of anxiety knowing you were walking an almost literal tightrope with no safety net below has grown dull, the heart-pounding stress blurring to a hum in the background with the rest of the shop talk.
But the pure, humming energy these long-legged and well-crafted beings exude is potent, magnetic. And they are here to work.
Most of the time, at least.
Under sunny smiles and easy conversation, fresh faces hold eyes that burn with a hunger the voracity of which you have rarely seen outside of fresh law school graduates in the thick of the campaign trail, convinced they’re the change the world needs. Mark prides himself on these things being the most fun way of networking in L.A., and people seem to agree - a lot does actually get done between rounds of poker and showy drinks that never seem to run dry. In the months spent living with the actor (read: being his captive arm candy), you’ve seen mousy writers with blockbuster scripts connected to slick studio executives, glitzy Hollywood sweethearts fall in and out of lust, a hundred new story ideas and collaborations born. All under the auspices of a few well-placed introductions by the host himself. It’s dizzying to say the least, even to your reporter’s eye - its speed and viciousness makes politics feel about as plodding as a small town’s obituaries.
It can be a bit much, sometimes. And stomach-churningly harsh. Although you know it adds to the aloof outsider reputation you’ve earned, much to Mark’s chagrin, you can’t help but slink away when the conversations take that softer, darker tone, signposted by a well-timed, so, did you hear…? You much prefer to let the chatter of the party’s guests turn to a bleary hum than try to keep up with what wicked thing someone had sub-tweeted, conspiratorial voices dulling the snap of the band’s snares and blending into the deep lilt of the bass.
You wonder, idly, if the women cooling their feet in the ever-flowing pool will have their names trending this week for interpersonal drama. If their little group will disintegrate over bad vibes and social media carnage before the month is out. It’s only ever sad to watch when they don’t know the game they started playing - usually, if they’ve gotten onto Mark’s list, they’re quick enough to know how things work, but you’ve seen enough well-meaning people put themselves out there only for the world to pull them apart at the seams. It never gets less sad, even if they know what they’re getting into… but you often wonder how those that don’t know had made it so far without being aware of how the city’s weird little bubble of media mix was just as likely to mint them as an icon as it was to grind them up.
One of the women’s wide-eyed gaze flickers from her friend to you, apparently having felt you watching. Her eyes are large and bright and perfectly made-up - they feel like spotlights as they fall on you. Embarrassment threatens to crawl up your neck, but you force your expression to stay placid as you give her a mild smile and lift your glass. The other woman turns to see what’s captured her friend’s attention, and her eyes register obvious surprise before she catches herself and mirrors your polite smile. The first woman finally joins in with a delicate wave, seemingly star-struck with your attention. If you stare any longer, you’ll practically be inviting them over to talk, so you’re quick to let the moment end, intentionally but casually letting your gaze wander off as if you’re observing the party indoors.
They had done a pretty good job of playing it cool, you’ll give them that. They didn’t immediately explode into giggles or wild whispers and poorly hidden grins. But even now, you can hear how the women’s soft tones edge up the register into trilling excitement - did you see? That’s Mark’s partner. They smiled at us.
You hold it in. Sip your drink. The liquid rolls down your throat.
Mark’s partner. Gosh, if they knew.
Although he glamors and makes himself up enough to look and feel perfectly alive, you’ve been mostly inoculated against the entity’s mind warping abilities thanks to your low-level exposure in the Manor. So when his arms suddenly wind around your waist from behind, his solid body curling to your back, it makes you take a hard breath, hand gripping the fine stem of your drink glass. Not only can you feel how he carries a horrid chill in his skin, but the chaotic pull of the otherworldly thing under it all. Mark’s oily chuckle rolls over your ear as he presses in close.
“Chilly, pumpkin? You’re trembling, let me warm you up.”
You manage to keep the tension in your muscles from reaching your face, slipping readily into an easy if long-suffering smile. You’ve had enough time to practice - forcing yourself to relax despite the call of the void has become second nature. Even if being encircled in his arms is your own personal hell, the world can’t know that. Not if you want to stay alive.
You’re meant to be in love. The grand, romantic actor with an old soul and the private, down-to-earth reporter. It has to look as good as it sounds.
“Not cold, just thinking,” you murmur, playing off your tension as just having been startled. You settle back into Mark’s chest and he squeezes you with a little pleased hum. You’ve gotten good at this game. The women by the pool laugh softly, excitedly, and you can see their heads tilting toward each other as they try to act like they aren’t watching you two practically snuggling at the far edge of the balcony. “We have an audience,” you warn him, as if he didn’t already know, wasn’t feeding on the raw energy of two obvious fans tittering over having ‘caught’ him and his partner exchanging a rather intimate moment.
“You do that too much,” he hums, turning his head down to press his lips along your exposed neck. Ugh. He’s really showboating for them. You inhale steadily, looking away and willing it to be over. Mark’s lips drag so slowly over your neck, your revealed collarbones, your body wanting to writhe out of this touch that feels so mortally wrong.
“Pay attention?” you quip, hoping to de-escalate his affections.
“Think.” His nose brushes over the curve of your shoulder. It’s almost indecent, how he holds you by the middle, pressing you to his body as he methodically works over your bare skin. You suppress the urge to jerk your shoulder up and into his broad nose. “You should relax… You do remember this is meant to be a party, right?”
His hands begin to roam, dragging over your sides just to feel. He’s agreed not to touch you in private - he’s not a monster, not like that. Besides, this is a fully for-the-public-eye kind of deal. What good would it do to lay his claim when no one was around to see? And lay claim he does, taking full advantage when you’re ‘on’ in front of his little Hollywood friends.
You want nothing more than to sink your elbow into his tender middle, but instead turn the relaxed little smile you’ve practiced so well to him. Your face is a perfect mask of young love. “If you don’t cut it out, I’m going to smash this glass and use it to cut off these grabby little hands of yours.”
Mark looks up from his place against your delicate skin, deep brown eyes meeting your own. This close, you can see the dark tinge of red that circles his pupil. And with that look, you’re caught, suddenly and keenly aware of how inhuman the thing holding you truly is, for all its practiced movements. It may seem human, but some animal part of your brain knows just from meeting its gaze how dangerous, how not right it is. How it could pull you apart in front of god and everyone if it likes. How it could swallow up all physical traces of you and ensure any mental ones are wiped clean from reality just as easily as it could lick your blood from the balcony’s tiles.
And yet, it smiles at you. It pulls back enough so you can see just how amused it is by your threat. Your body threatens to shiver in pure revulsion, like a thing possessed. It narrows its eyes and it coos, “Ooh, you know I love it when you talk mean to me. Give me a kiss.”
Your own eyes crinkle as you return the look, his smile, fight back the existential horror. “No,” you laugh lowly, although your mouth moves like ‘yes.’ “You need to cool it.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“Can you remember the last time you saw a couple in public practically spooning?” you prod, carefully trying to undo his grasp. Mark only holds tighter, tugging you closer. “It’s just a little much.”
“Maybe we’re a different kind of couple, then. Am I really expected to not hold you and shower you with affection when you look so totally ravishing?” he rumbles, dipping back down to kiss much more firmly up the column of your neck, to nuzzle in behind your ear. You can’t hide the embarrassed flush that follows his lips and heats your face, now, turning away from the man and the roiling, dark energy that threatens to suck you in. Worse, you can practically feel the gaggle of young actors watching, now, the whites of their eyes flickering in the low light as they snag glimpses of the display.
It always has to be a show, with Mark.
His voice is perfectly tuned, his timbre so subtly heated. “Why don’t we call it an early night…?”
You despise him. You really do. Completely and utterly. For all the hurt he’d caused, then and now - ripping apart his friends, corrupting them into crude mockeries of themselves, treating them like puppets playing cheap characters in his charade of a life, dragging innocent people from their own lives and molding them into versions of himself - and for what? For fear of losing whatever made him, him.
As if there was anything left.
He has to be the most twisted, most self-absorbed, most out-of-his-mind thing you’ll ever have the misfortune to meet.
...
And yet.
And yet…
He knows what works. At least, physically. Even with your disgust held so strongly in mind, that warm tone sends a pang of heat through you. Your chest is tight. You’re wanting for breath. Wanting to turn inwards and closer towards that never-ending void that beckons so sweetly, that promises only satisfaction with what you’ll find.
It’s a cruel skill, to know what physical buttons to push to get the reaction he wants. What makes him a good actor makes him the most despicable of captors.
But you’ve learned. Well enough to know this is just a reaction. Just a reflex, even - biological responses to biological stimuli. They pass quickly, if you can get him to pause in his onslaught. Usually getting him talking does the trick, too eager to be clever that he forgets what he’s doing, and his breath against your ear turns from sultry to muggy, his grip from firm and possessive to hard, grasping. Reality returns, and you roll your eyes at Mark, unbothered. “You know that whatever you’re implying won’t happen, even if we did call it. So… what, you’re tired of this bunch already?”
Mark seems displeased to have been knocked off his rhythm so easily, humming in mild annoyance. But he settles down against you, easing off the groping to simply cling. He tilts his head against yours with a small breath. You feel very much like a teddy bear caught in the arms of a tired child. “Sort of. They’re a good mix, but the… vibe is off. I can’t put my finger on why, though. Maybe I should have asked the producer group to come along…”
“Ugh, no, don’t you remember how drunk they got last time? It was miserable. Plus they brought all that cocaine.” The actor against your back only chuckles at the memory.
“Oh, don’t be such a square. Even I keep a little around. You know how much we like our caffeine,” he teases, naming the thing that lives under his skin. “It’s just the next step up, really.”
You shake your head. “Keep telling yourself that. Doesn’t change how wild they got.”
“And may get again. You’ll be seeing a good bit more of them sooner than later, Bella and Grant are doing that new mini-series I’m in.” You groan audibly.
“You can’t make better friends? Different connections?”
“Not ones that will do the projects I want to do, snookums,” he chides, pressing another kiss behind your ear. You wrinkle your nose at the pet name - they’re only getting worse as time drags on. “Anyway, yes, fine, I’m bored , can’t you say you have a headache or something? I can play doctor… Make you groan in a nice way…” His tone grows warm once more.
“You know that you’re the host, right? You can just say you aren’t feeling well and they’ll accept it - I don’t have to play scapegoat all the time.”
Mark sighs dramatically, and you can feel the thinly-veiled annoyance in his gaze without needing to see it. You’re honestly surprised at how much leeway he gives you. You don’t dare to think about it often, since it only serves to reinforce your sneaking suspicion: he wants you to want this, whatever it is, as much as he does.
“Darling,” he interjects, thankfully interrupting that particular train of thought. “That would make me look weak, pitiful… Or worse, boring. A stick in the mud, even.” He gives a mock shiver. “But if you do it, I win sympathy points and everyone sees what a thoughtful boyfriend I am. I’d even drag myself away from all this just to dote on you…” He squeezes you just on the edge of too-tight. You have to suppress a cringe at how your skin aches under his touch, keeping up a blithe smile.
How much longer until he squeezes the life out of you and inhales you like so much prey?
Still, you aren’t about to let Mark just use you however he likes. He’s a good actor , but for all his conniving, his storylines could use a bit of work. Summoning up all your charm, knowing you’ve already pushed things a bit tonight, you prod at his logic. “But I’ve done it enough that they’ll know it’s just an excuse… Or think I’m chronically ill.” Mark falls silent, the tell-tale sign of his mental gears turning. Shit. “Do not make that a subplot. Simplicity is more believable, remember.”
Another annoyed little huff against your skin. “It would be interesting,” he grumbles, but you press on, unfazed by his pouting.
“If you lean on the truth a little more, that you aren’t feeling well, they’ll take it better. You’re taking your health seriously, you’ve got meetings tomorrow, and. Well… Maybe I encouraged you to take it easy,” you offer. “I can be the thoughtful one for once, attentive, a good influence…?”
As much as it pains you to initiate further contact, you can feel your own momentum and decide to run with it. Twisting in your fake-boyfriend’s hold so your hand can find his cheek, you pull a concerned look. Mark had been making to protest, his mouth beginning to form a counter-argument, but at your touch, he falls silent. His mouth is slightly open as his eyes… is that actual surprise? They’re as dark and as strange as before, but for a moment…
… for a moment, they looked soft.
It fades as quickly as it appeared, but he continues to stare with confusion and something you can’t fully describe. Not quite defiance. Not quite warmth. Then, your body moves without you having to think, and your manicured thumb (shaped and polished at his insistence, but subtly so at your own) brushes across his calculatedly-stubbled cheek. For a moment, nothing happens. The man merely stares, his body oddly still as you touch him. The void beneath is deathly silent, as if it has retreated from roiling immediately under his skin to curl up somewhere deep below.
And then it’s Mark’s turn to surprise you. He melts. A soft, almost shaky breath slips from between his lips and his eyes fall shut. His head leans into your touch, heavy. You would think it was just more acting if not for how his shoulders slump and he seems to deflate under your hand. Around you, the hum of the party ticks back up, the attendees having their attention returned to their own control, no longer commanded by Mark’s need to perform and blissfully unaware of anything out of the ordinary having happened.
When he finally speaks, even his voice comes out different. He’s not playing host, not being love-struck boyfriend. It’s almost gentle, a low murmur still rich in his chest but with none of the usual showmanship behind it.
“...I am tired,” he confesses.
Your mouth is dry. It takes everything to formulate a response. Without hesitation, now, your thumb strokes steadily across his cheekbone, as if soothing. The thing below feels like a distant memory. The vaguest crash of waves in the distance.
“It… It’s all right, to rest,” you finally manage. His eyes open just a crack, and maybe it’s the funny shadows of the balcony, but his eyes are so brown. Not that rich, dark color that edges on red. Just… normal. Soft, plain, simple almost.
What is happening?
“Will you help me?” he murmurs, turning slightly into your palm. “I… I want to, I can, I’m just not totally sure…”
You can’t help but be suspicious. Softening like this under the simplest of affections is one thing, but uncertainty in dealing with guests? A chance to perform? Play a brand new role? Surely Mark isn’t so easily undone. Have you been so perfectly emotionally cut off that the slightest show of concern renders him helpless? It’s not like you’ve withheld touch from him in public - you’ve leaned into his chest whenever he holds you, obediently curled your fingers into his when he takes your hands. And yet…
Have I ever willingly touched him?
You can’t think of a single time. No matter how hard you imagine.
Has he really wanted this? Like this?
Your silence brings a small wrinkle to his brow. His eyes try to read your expression, hunting. His voice, forming your name, brings you back with how his mouth seems to hold it like an offering.
“I. Yes?” It feels too quick, like you’ve waved away some precious, perfumed smoke. Your chest feels tight. He seems hesitant to repeat himself, beginning to withdraw. Realizing, your hand follows his face when he moves away, keeping the contact. His gaze returns. Still searching.
Whatever this is, whatever is happening, it’s new, and you aren’t about to lose the first opportunity to understand him further. Not with how drastic a change this is.
You will your voice to come out normally, softly. “...of course I’ll help you. We can make the rounds together. I’ll make sure the crew knows, keeps everyone happy, and sees them out later. We’ll… be honest, yeah? You had a long day and another’s coming tomorrow, and… I saw how tired you were, so I suggested an early night. And you’re listening to me, for once.”
Mark sighs a half-laugh through his nose, eyes sliding shut once more. Why do you feel deprived, somehow? But a smile curls his lips with none of the usual grease. “I’ve listened to you before.”
“Sometimes. You take edits all right, but outright suggestions…” This is surreal. Beyond strange, it’s downright weird. Was this all you’d had to do to dispel the thing below? Mark chuckles, practically nuzzling into your palm.
“Touché. I can be a little stubborn.”
“A little? Are we talking about the same guy? You almost walked out on that series because they wanted to cut your character’s family for time.”
Just like that, some of his fire returns, eyes snapping open and looking at you very seriously. Not angry, but solemn. “That was vital to his motivation and changed his entire- ”
And you’re laughing. Like, properly, actually laughing. Maybe it’s the strangeness of it all, the impossibility of whatever’s just happened, but you can’t hold it in. You release his face to support yourself on him, holding on as the giggles overtake you. He’s just so immediately serious after acting like a bunch of unset Jell-O you turned out too soon, and it hits your funny bone just right. You haven’t laughed like this since…
Well. Since he trapped you here.
Shit. What are you doing? You pull yourself together, sobering as you remember just who the man you’re holding on to is, just what he’s done to make any of this be happening right now. You’re keenly aware of his hands steadying you, the sort of needy way his eyes linger on you, and…
And the pull. The sick, dreadful feeling as if you’re standing on the edge of something very high up. The call of the void, beckoning you to just take that last step. To follow it into thin air. To feed it whatever time you might have had left.
You feel ridiculous for ever having forgotten, even for such a brief moment. You take your hands back, step back, putting distance between your bodies. Mark, to his credit, doesn’t stop you. He just watches, his gaze growing distant. Brighter, colder. Your mouth is dry. You can’t look at him, drop your eyes to the concrete below.
“...we. Are you…”
You aren’t sure what to say. You just feel empty.
He’s silent for a moment. Then he exhales, taking back up his cane. He must have left it to one side to cozy up behind you. “...only an hour or so left, anyway. They’ll go home soon.” You lift your eyes enough to see that his hand is tight on the jeweled head as he leans on the heavy bit of wood, making up for the bad leg of the body that isn’t his. His speech is plain, clipped, simply conveying information now. “No point in wandering around explaining and saying goodbyes. It’s not like they’ll remember anything, everyone’s drunk anyway. I’ll tell the staff to see everyone out. You can go upstairs, if you’re done.”
Why does it sting. You’ve never opened up enough to let it. And now his words sit like shards of glass in your chest. As if some delicate thing had exploded inside, its minute pieces bright, sharp, burrowing in as much as you try to get them out.
So you just nod, feeling even more ridiculous for whatever thoughts are coursing through you. They blur as the drinks you’d untastingly consumed catch up with you, making them dance faster and faster, dizzying in how they come and go. You manage a mumbled ‘good night’ before making a beeline towards the private elevator up to your room. Its thin, sleek doors slide open, revealing the softly lit, quiet inside. You gratefully ensconce yourself in it, the chaos of the party growing muffled as you tap the proper button.
For some reason, you turn, looking back to the spot where you and Mark had stood.
He’s already gone, the balcony empty, now, with the pretty young things having melted back into the crowd.
The doors close.