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The box is as dark as the inky black sky, topped with a luxurious bow of sanguine silk. The man who brings it to Veritas’ door is dressed with discretion, and he does not dawdle more than the amount of time necessary to offer the package with a perfectly polite greeting and a mutter of, “From Director Aventurine of the SPC.”
Veritas would know even without the clarification, of course. There are precious few who are privy to the vampire scholar’s private address, and even fewer with a habit of sending him gifts unprompted like a man courting his beloved. Only one, in fact.
Were anyone else to even attempt such a thing, they would find themselves being firmly refuted, but Aventurine has a painstaking talent for making himself the exception to the rule in every single facet of Veritas’ life. Dragging him into outrageous games of chance, tearing through the tight-knit lines of his composure, carving his shape into the still walls of Veritas' heart with a knife of sharp wit and alluring charm.
Even his gifts are not chosen without careful consideration and intent, the delivery always a question, the acceptance an answer. Veritas can only hypothesize as to what kind of inquiry awaits him as he examines the box on the walk back to his room.
It is roughly the size of his forearm in both length and width, and about half as tall. It is neither on the extreme edge of light or heavy. No sound comes from within, no rattling or clinking that could give some insight into its contents, and as Veritas places it upon his vanity, the only voices to speak are the distant mutterings of the wind.
The bow unravels with a whisper of silk. Veritas carefully sets the lid aside, and he cannot help the amused chuckle that escapes his lips when it finally unravels its hidden mysteries. Truly, his gambler never ceases to surprise him.
A Colombina mask. Crafted in delicate swirls of gold filigree, Aventurine’s gift lies on a bed of dark satin, the elegant design perfectly suited to Veritas’ tastes. Rows of studded rubies frame the upper part of narrow eyes like drops of blood, glinting under the light when Veritas takes the mask between his hands and ties the ribbons behind his head. He would usually find the hard kiss of metal uncomfortable, but the material is lightweight and settles flawlessly over the contours of his face, proof that it is most likely a custom made piece.
On a card tucked between the sheets inside the box, he finds a message in golden handwriting as bold as its owner.
A mask for a dance.
Here is the question. Now, what shall be his answer?
The Supernatural Peace Corporation’s annual masquerade ball is a grand, extravagant affair that invites representatives from all supernatural settlements under the SPC’s influence to celebrate ‘another year of successful cooperation’. That is to say, of course, it is nothing but a show of pomp and circumstance. Every year, Veritas is forced to endure hours of inane socialization for the sake of social etiquette, with too many fools drunk on blood wine and champagne and too little conversations of actual substance to be considered anything other than a waste of his time.
But tonight is different. Tonight, a new variable has been added to the equation, opening up the possibility of different outcomes.
Veritas’ fingers brush over metal as he finds a somewhat quiet spot near the back of the ballroom, far from the headache-inducing buzz of the commingling crowd. Anticipation. He has come to know it well as of late. It makes for a far better stimulant than the crimson liquid swirling around in his crystal glass, practically untouched.
“Is the blood wine not up to the good doctor’s standards?”
Even if Aventurine had not spoken to announce his presence, it would have been impossible for Veritas not to notice the werewolf as he slides up to him clad in striking gold accents and velvety dark green, the colors mirrored in the details of the ornate mask that frames his eyes. He leans against one of the marble pillars, a smirk playing around the curve of his lips as he watches Veritas scowl.
“It is passable, but I do not care for the bitter aftertaste of alcohol,” Veritas says. He had taken the glass mostly as an accessory, something to occupy his hands in the lack of his codex or a book. Now, he discards it on a waiter’s passing tray.
Aventurine laughs, flashing a glimpse of fangs. “No, you prefer something sweeter, don’t you?” A strategic tilt of his head exposes twin marks on the unbranded side of his neck. “I can offer you a better drink, if you’re thirsty.”
At that moment, a violin starts to sing. A flurry of movement commences, guests hurrying toward the open space in the middle of the ballroom like sheep herded by the beginning notes of a waltz, and in their shadowed corner of the room Veritas’ gaze is glued to his fading bite mark on Aventurine’s neck as he is pulled into the metaphorical first steps of a familiar dance.
His mind conjures up a not so distant memory of honeyed blood flowing syrupy sweet down his throat, the gentle scrape of clawed fingers combing through his hair while he drinks. He falters for a moment, a baby deer nearly stumbling into a wolf`s den, before snapping out of it.
Ridiculous. Coughing lightly, he falls back into step with regained poise, dragging his eyes up to Aventurine’s mirthful ones. A step back, one to the side. “Such things are better suited to private places," he says. Left, forward. A waltz is not danced alone.
Aventurine’s smile turns into a wolfish grin. “Reasonable as always, doctor. You’re right. Private places make for less prying eyes, and there are certain sights that I’d hate to share with anyone else.”
They swirl round and round to the tune of a lilting melody, and if Aventurine’s words cause a traitorous swoop in Veritas’ stomach, it is lost under the swell of a crescendo that teeters on the edge of a turning point.
One step forward and Aventurine has pushed himself away from the pillar and into Veritas' personal space, bringing the black tip of a claw to the skin that meets the bottom half of his mask. For something as sharp as a deadly knife, Aventurine's touch is featherlight as he draws kisses over Veritas' cheeks.
A sweet decrescendo.
“You accepted my gift,” Aventurine remarks, tucking a lock of hair behind Veritas' ear. A question earnestly asked, an answer honestly given. His tail swishes behind him, betraying no small amount of satisfaction. “It suits you.”
Veritas' lips twitch. “Are you so shameless as to start complimenting your own gifts now?”
That earns him a tittering laugh. “Let me rephrase that.” Time rewinds along with Aventurine's step, and he looks up at Veritas just as the melodious strings of a violin start singing anew. He inclines his head, palm outstretched, voice as honeyed as the blood running through his veins. “You look stunning tonight, my dear Veritas. Would you do me the honor of this dance?”
Heat smolders, a lingering warmth deep in his being. Veritas had already decided on his answer the moment he set a promise upon his face, so he takes Aventurine's hand and allows him to lead him into the glittering dance floor.
Poorly disguised glances follow them as they step out of the shadows and into the lights. Veritas ignores them. Meaningless gossip grows like weeds in the untended gardens of idle minds, and he can imagine what a curious picture they must paint, the last of the werewolves and the infamous vampire scholar.
One of his hands meets smooth velvet, the other warm skin. Aventurine holds him ever so slightly closer as they glide across the floor like water to the song of a flowing river, and Veritas admits, if only to himself, that he is unable to resist the tantalizing pull of Aventurine's currents.
A proper waltz cannot be danced alone. It is one of the small undeniable truths of the world.
And a dip, he thinks as his world turns upside down, is only as likely to be performed successfully as the amount of trust shared between those who attempt it.
For a frozen moment in time, he lies suspended, nothing but Aventurine's arms to keep him afloat. Then the currents pull him back to his feet and he's swept right back into a twirling whirlpool, and Aventurine's fanged smile is absolutely obnoxious but Veritas finds himself offering a small one of his own before he can think to stop it.
Though he is learned in the art of dancing, Veritas has never cared to share the intimate steps of a waltz with another, but Aventurine has an extraordinary talent for making himself the exception to the rule.
Nothing less could be expected of a man capable of enrapturing one such as Veritas Ratio in body, mind and soul.