Archive of Our Own

He doesn’t know what set him off. A gaze that lingered, a muttered insult, a pulse quickened in fear when he strayed too close. Though dressed in finery - his pale hair glittering with gold dust, pinned with stars, his jacket patterned with constellations and the black, reaching branches of a midnight forest - he is still what he is. Dagger-toothed; long tongue aberrant as he licks lemon buttercream from his claws. Claws.

A cold, stormcloud eye that rakes too sharply over the crowd, its focus unsettling and hungry. The other eye burns beneath his star-spattered eyepatch, straining and starving. There are so many people here, dripping in jewels and silk, shimmering on the dance floor. To him, a banquet laid on a sumptuous table; glazed pigs with fresh apples stuffed in their painted mouths; glamorous meat.

He should not linger. He should not meet those curious gazes, should ignore the murmurs - some frightened, some merely contemptuous, disgusted. There are too many, and this is a ballroom, not a blood-reeking, rusted-out fighting cage.

But he tries. He tries to pass the test. He has been here before. He has eaten delicately, danced with a fluid step. He has done what he’s told.

Maybe that’s really what happened. Maybe he was drinking a flute of champagne, almost a gentleman, and her voice had cooed to him. Rankling, rotten praise. A good dog, due his reward.

The ghost of her fingers reaches for the crook of his elbow. The stem of the glass cracks in his hand.

Someone notices. Someone speaks to him, presses into his space. He, easily provoked, hackles raised, and in no mood to offer warnings, goes for the throat.

The couples on the dance floor slow down. The heartbeats pick up. In precious few seconds, this party will bleed.

But then - fingers at his elbow. Not hers, no ghosts. Real and warm and carefully insistent.

“Not here,” they murmur. “Not worth it.”

A fresh rage boils in him. He lets go of that someone, whoever she is, her reddened face already fading in his fractured memory. He rounds on them, scowling, and they meet him with their usual infuriating calm. He shoves past them and they follow. They, too, are dressed for the occasion; crescent moons glint at their waist, a string that wants pulling. Intricately worked gold dangles from their ears, gleams bright on the knuckles of their gloves. But their blouse, with its sheer sleeves and frail lace, entices and maddens him worst of all. As they track him to some dark corner, he snarls, whirling.

But they get him first.

“Tell me what’s going on.” They’ve got their hands on his collar, pulling him down.

“Fuck off,” he hisses, trying to wrench away, but they don’t let him go.

“Meridian,” they say, and he cringes to hear it. Not because they’re scolding him, though there’s an irritated edge to their voice. They tug on him, their grip firm, albeit not punishing. If he really wanted freedom, he could have it.

But they sound so worried.

He grabs their wrist, his long fingers curling around and into the gauzy fabric, pinching it against the bone, his hand big enough to encompass half their forearm. They exhale a hiss through their respirator, but they don’t back down, not even when his other hand clutches at their waist, his claws dragging at the blouse, close to pricking skin.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” they snap. “We don’t have to stay.”

They’ve had a few glasses of that champagne. He knows because he stood sentry while they unlatched their mask and stole furtive sips from the flute. They had been on the balcony together, early in the evening, when it was still light out and quiet. The alcohol must be hitting them. Their flat affect has crumbled, replaced by hot concern, urgency.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I can - handle it.”

“Is that what you were doing? Just now?”

He sneers. “Worried I’m gonna ruin the party? Make a mess?”

“I don’t give a fuck,” they say, slowly, viciously, “about this party.”

They sound almost offended, like he should know them better by now. He should. He does.

They twist his lapels in their gloved fingers, the claw rings on their thumbs scraping against his exposed collarbone. “Do you want to make a mess?”

The blouse is as thin as a butterfly’s wing, stuck under his talons. He could tear it with the slightest curl of his fingers, draw blood. He wants to shred it all - the gossamer fabric, the yielding flesh beneath.

“What if I did?” he mutters. “You’d let it happen?”

“I don’t have any power over you.” They say it softly, a quiet exhale behind the mask.

They’re wrong, and they should know that by now, too.

“Mm. Maybe you wanna see it, hunter.” His voice is a low, hoarse drawl. He shifts, bending over, causing them to tighten their hold on his jacket, as if to subconsciously keep him at bay. “Somebody gettin’ what they’re asking for. Huh?”

They stare at him, brows furrowed, but he catches the faint hint of pink coloring their temples, blossoming out from the graying crimson of their hair. Before they can bite out a reply, an unfamiliar voice cuts in.

“Pardon - sorry - looking for the coatroom - “

They both stop, turning their heads to glare, though their hold on each other does not ease an inch.

The interloper freezes. He asks no further questions and does not move nearer to the agitated shadows of their bodies. He backtracks hastily and he leaves, muttering something about the next hall over.

“I think,” they grumble, turning back to him, “it’s time to go.”