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It’s nearing eleven o’clock on a Saturday evening, and she’s exhausted, all the way down to the very marrow of her bones. She shouldn’t be here; she should be at home, polishing off a mushroom pizza from the parlour downstairs while rewatching Friends. But she’s here in this ballroom at a fancy hotel instead, decked out in a verdant bejewelled off-the-shoulder dress that scratches at the tender bits of her arms like a pair of unsheathed claws.
Persephone swirls the orange-tinged drink in her glass, the crystal-like pearls of condensation slipping down her hand and arm before dripping onto the polished floor from the point of her elbow. She takes a tentative sip and frowns slightly as the liquor burns down her throat; it’s like she’s swallowed a lit match.
If the evening’s gonna be boring and tedious , she thinks, setting the drink back onto the table with a thunk , she might as well get wasted on this free alcohol. Ain’t no shame in polishing off a few shots while you’re in the company of a herd of hoity-toity strangers, all dolled up in their million-dollar suits and ties. She’s willing to bet that a single spritz of their cologne costs more than the rent on her apartment.
It’s all Hermes’ fault, really; he’s the one who’d gotten her into this dinner in the first place. “You’re just comin’ onto the scene,” he’d wheedled over the phone. “Now’s the time to make connections with possible directors for shows, Seph. You’ll never know; one of these three-piece suits could be a future investor .”
She’d highly doubted it then, but Hermes- well, he’s always been good at convincing her, so here she is, two drinks in and seated at a table with some of New York’s richest. Persephone glances around the room; chandeliers dangle from the unbelievably high ceiling, and she half-prays that the phantom of this ballroom drops one on her table so that she’s got an excuse to leave.
Persephone chuckles under her breath. She takes another drink out of her glass, downing it all in one fierce gulp. Her brain’s starting to buzz; she’s going to regret this tomorrow when she’s gotta get up and do a matinee, but she’s out here living it up, isn’t she?
She flags down a waiter and orders a whiskey on the rocks.
***
He shouldn’t be here, either. Hades thinks of the dogs- his dogs, sprawled out on his mattress like a bunch of kings. He snorts dryly at the thought, but quickly covers up his mistake with a cough. It’s ironic, he thinks, how they all call him the King of Wall Street when he’s nothing but a lowly commoner in the eyes of his three puppies.
His table’s mostly empty; there’s no one here who’d want to willingly associate with him. His stained reputation precedes him, unfortunately. He’s only been approached all evening by businessmen seeking even more funding, playing nice only out of necessity; it’s a nightmare.
His reputation- it’s something that’s been forged by other people, an isolating wall composed of bricks and bricks of rumours and alleged anecdotes about how cold and ruthless he is. It’s a known fact throughout the office that Mr Hades rules with an iron fist; he laughs whenever he hears it whispered amongst the huddled employees standing by the water cooler, because he knows that it’s only partly true.
He glances down at the solitary glass on his table, half filled with a murky brown liquid that looks intoxicating. Hades has never been one to drink, but he might as well down it; he’s learned from experience that alcohol acts as a numbing agent. He’s about to pick it up when he hears footsteps approaching, light against the opulent flooring.
“You look lonely,” a voice slurs, the person’s speech slightly garbled; it sounds like they’re speaking through a crashing waterfall, the gushing waves blanketing their voice in a hazy fog. Hades’ form stiffens, his broad shoulders going rigid; the last thing he needs is for a person- no, a drunk person- to sour his evening some more.
“Well, perhaps I’ve chosen to be lonely,” Hades says curtly, drumming his fingers against the white tablecloth. He takes a sip of liquor, sets down the glass, and turns. The liquor lodges in his throat, rendering him breathless; standing before him is a woman, dazzling in her dress that glitters like a grassy meadow in the sun.
“Lonely isn’t a choice ,” the woman says, cocking her head to the side. She’s holding a glass of whiskey in her gloved hand. “Lonely is something that’s handed to you on a golden platter. It’s- it’s presented to you, and you take it.”
“So it is,” Hades says, and he hopes that he doesn’t sound too strangled; this woman has taken his breath away, both literally and figuratively. She’s familiar. He thinks that he’s seen her face on advertisements on his way to work; it’s a face that he hasn’t really been able to forget.
“I’m taking that platter back,” she says, and she sits down next to him, eyes roaming across his face. Her cheeks are ruddy and her gaze is hazy; she’s clearly buzzed. Hades finds that he doesn’t mind as she sticks out a gloved hand for him to shake, for she’s not someone looking for a business deal.
“Persephone,” she says. Her grip is firm; not exactly vice-like, but firm enough to feel like he’s getting acquainted with her.
“Hades,” he rumbles back, his voice now alight with recognition. “You’re from-”
“Yeah,” she says, chuckling a little; sounds like she’s heard this multiple times. Enough to jump to a conclusion, anyway. “Moulin Rouge.”
Hades nods. “That’s the show,” he says. “Yes, I’ve tried to get tickets. It’s the hottest show on Broadway at the moment, isn’t it?”
Instead of eagerly leaping at the chance to plug her show, Persephone merely gives a noncommittal shrug. “Don’t care about none of that,” she says, waving a hand in the air. “I like making art. The art makes me, and I like makin’ it. It doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks, so long as I like the show.”
Looks like the artificial lights of the city haven’t gotten to her yet, then; there’s more than a little hint of authenticity in her. That in itself is a miracle, Hades thinks; maybe there is a higher power.
“And you,” she says, pointing a finger in his direction. “You’re the dude who’s always on my New York Times page. You work in finance, don’t you?”
“Sure,” he hums. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Doesn’t look like you’re enjoying it much,” Persephone sniggers suddenly. “‘s that why you’re drinking, Mr Hades?”
He nods again; guess he’s not as much of an enigma as he’d initially thought.
“Well, then,” she says, voice low and sultry and right , “I found an exit. If we leave when Zeus starts draggin’ Hera out onto the dance floor, I don’t reckon that anyone’s gonna notice. How about we go somewhere else? Buy a couple of drinks, maybe?”
Hades’ heart gives a flutter. “Sure,” he says. “Sure.”
She takes his hand, and they hightail out of the ballroom the second Zeus announces the commencement of the dance party. Her laughter sounds like something that’s been taken right out of a fantasy novel; it’s ethereal, but it still feels so utterly real and grounding.
“C’mon!” she urges, giving his hand a tug.
Hades knows that she’s drunk. Maybe that’s the only reason that she’s decided to go up to him, but Hades- he’s always been one to seize an opportunity when one presents itself. Looks like his pups are gonna have to wait, he thinks, as she leads him out of the hotel foyer and into the muggy summer air; he’s got something else to do tonight.
(He makes a mental note to ask for her number later.)