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Florian has just turned twenty five, and he has no idea what to do with himself.
It’s been almost a year since Ivy disappeared (ten months, twenty seven days. Florian would know), and yet it feels as though she’s been gone for a lifetime. Someone’s set the sky alight with celebratory fireworks: explosive displays of red and blue and pink against an endless black backdrop. Grating cheers fill the bustling night, each fighting with another to be heard, boastful displays of jubilant togetherness. Displays of fondness, of company, of love.
Alone at a club filled with the clamouring vitality of a hundred sweat-slicked bodies, Florian gulps down another shot. He focuses absentmindedly on the familiar burn that arises in his throat, taking vague comfort in its sting. Bitterness weaves its way about his perfect white teeth, the drink sharp like a blade and bursting with an assortment of flamboyant fruits. The beverage has been bestowed with some superfluous name or the other, one dazzling enough to fit Florian’s standard without being in any way noteworthy.
He doesn’t drink it for the taste. As a gentle buzz settles over his brain, Florian finds his furrowed brow beginning to relax for the first time that night.
There’s something comforting about letting go of control. Surrendering his cacophonous mind to the whispering lull of alcohol, silencing his traitorous thoughts in favour of leaning into that effortless bliss. He lets it coax a smile to his face, pull his clumsy limbs about like a careless puppeteer, slur his charming words and bring a duller haze to his empty eyes.
The club is familiar, almost intimately so. Countless nights have been spent dancing on its floors, clinking glasses and laughing when liquid sloshed from the force, looking at his cousin’s genuine smile and feeling security wash over him in waves. Ivy was an unignorable presence, bright in every movement and sound. People were drawn to her light, the brilliant sun she emitted. Ivy could capture anyone’s attention in minutes, possessing the sort of natural confidence Florian did his best to emanate.
For her gaze to befall you was a blessing and a curse all at once, the invigorating thrill of being noticed by Ivy Huxley tainted only by the fear of acting a fool. Ivy was a model, an influencer, a goddess in the eyes of her fans. Florian reflected her brilliant light, stardom bouncing off of regolith and illuminating him in rays of every colour. He was a mirror and a model all at once, a crude imitation stumbling in the graceful footsteps of his unwitting maker.
It’s been almost a year since Ivy disappeared, and Florian was left entirely in the dark. Ten months, twenty seven days. Strobe lights paint his sculpted features in sickening yellows and greens, glinting on the light of his empty glass as he instinctively requests another.
Why did he come here again? Florian can’t quite remember. Birthdays, he’s sure, are best spent celebrating with those who wish to be with you. Ivy is gone, has been gone for months, and his sister was married off four years ago. Mary Ann was a bride at twenty, her hair as perfect as her serene vows, promised to a man Florian barely knew– and still doesn’t now.
He’d been furious at the time, so opposed to the arranged union that his mother’s adoring smile slipped briefly into a warning frown at his vehement protests. Mary Ann had… Not appreciated Florian’s intervention as much as he expected her to. The wedding had been a relatively private affair, sleek and organised and devoid of any real passion. There was tolerance, yes, and the foundation of affection, but that was not the same as love. His sister deserved better. His sister did not want better. His sister has not spoken to him since the last time he visited her without warning.
Mother often asks him when he will choose his own woman to love. When he will give her grandchildren, when he will settle down, when he will continue their perfect family legacy just as Mary Ann has devoted herself to doing. Father not-so-subtly suggests he give up on modelling, find a real job , one befitting of a man of their lineage. Father has some restraint, he always does around Mother. That doesn’t mean his scorn is not palpable in every resentful word that drips from his lips.
Florian laughs off their questions, offering blinding smiles and dodging each long-term answer. He finds himself meeting with his parents less and less, the call on the morning of his birthday seeming to drag on peculiarly long. Florian loves his mother, of course he does. She loves him too. He isn’t quite sure why his muscles tense with every conversation, waiting for some unknown shoe to drop.
Perhaps he should be spending his birthday at home, his old home, before he moved away from what was safe and it all tumbled downhill. Its halls feel quieter without Mary Ann’s presence, the flawlessness which his mother used to hold inexplicably diminishing as he ages. Twenty five. Florian feels stinging bile rise in his throat at the notion, and the words of a manager long gone echo softly in his ears.
Value lay in his youth, the price tag higher for as long as he remained unblemished. The shutter of a camera capturing the sparkle of unknowing innocence, soft skin against bold, striking fabrics, an all-consuming dedication to proving himself capable and worthy. Every new year brought new experiences alongside it, cautionary tales and mistakes he can’t afford to repeat. He notices when there’s something wrong. It’s in every lingering stare and drawling remark and grin that bares every tooth. He knows what he’s doing. That doesn’t give him the power to go against it.
Still, his career relies on being ogled, so who’s he to deny the people what they wish? He is, after all, the one who selected his path. He’s set to be devoured, scrutinised by those who claim to love him and whipped into shape by a manager focused only on how much he can make. He listens to the advice he’s given, practices straightening his smiles in the mirror, learns how to bring a lilt to his voice. Makeup adorns his face every morning, perfect ringlets framing it in flowing gold. He pulls out his phone and shares his everything with the world, proves himself to be the endearing young bachelor they want to see.
For years, Florian has revelled in the adoration of the public. It only makes sense he’d go back to them now.
If he tries hard enough, he can almost convince himself that they love him. Despite his solitude, Florian feels as though he belongs. He looks as though he belongs, a resting smirk on his face as he ‘tests his limits’. Honestly, he’s surprised nobody’s come up to pester him yet. Is he losing his touch? Is this the burden that comes with aging?
It would be easy to integrate himself into the crowd. He could leave his drink unattended and his cares along with it, allow himself to be swept into the reckless thrum of a jubilant hivemind. He could dance and charm and flaunt his fame, wheedle the bartender for more with reminders of how important this day is to him. The people around him celebrate the independence of college life, or else scramble for another meaningless excuse to get drunk. Florian mourns the loss of another year come and gone.
He’s in dangerous territory now, he knows. His image is reliant on his carefree charm, the effortless allure of a man who’s fully aware of his value and flaunts it with ease. Since Ivy left, there’s been a colossal weight settled upon his shoulders, one that etches worrying lines beneath his eyes and sends a horrifying strand of silver through blonde.
Florian is superficial. He is shallow, and selfish, and obsessive over his appearance. He doesn’t know how not to be. His image is his everything, and he clings to it like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. His fame, his glory– it won’t last forever, he knows. While he’s young, he’s of use . They will consume him and spit him out and another younger candidate will take his place.
That is, unless Florian ruins his own reputation first. He could fall back into the shadier parts of his ruthless industry, take the powders they offer him and ready himself for slaughter. He could lose himself, lose his looks and his pride and his composure, but maybe then he’d stop caring when he fails. He could become the cautionary tale if he wanted to, another promising young man chewed up and belched and changed by the merciless clasps of fame.
Then there would be no successor, only hushed murmurs of notoriety and disapproval. He knows they’re beginning to doubt him, that discomfort is stirring through even his most loyal fans. Affection is fleeting or obsessive, surface-level or deranged. There is no in-between, not when he’s given them no way to know him. They eye him as though he’s on trial, a judge’s hammer hovering forebodingly over his head.
Everyone knows Florian’s been different since Ivy quit. Less vibrant, less joyful, less attractive. They’ve seen how he follows her about like a lost puppy, and even in her absence, he stays leashed to the spot she used to stand in.
Last year, he spent his birthday with her. An ache stirs within him at the memory, ugly and vile, grabbing at his fragile ribs and shattering them under the force of a brutal fist. Shards of bone dig into his frantic lungs, fingers clasping a fluttering heart, liquid crimson seeping through the gaps. The hand squeezes, and Florian grimaces against the pain as he swallows another shot.
Ivy is gone. Ivy left. He saw the way she acted before vanishing, he knows her well enough to tell when she’s planning something. As much as he admires her, Florian never would have described Ivy as ‘caring’. Seeing her act so gently genuine with his cousins in those last few weeks had made twisting envy spear at his gut, and in the present, regret makes his head spin like a drug of its own.
As hard as he tries, Florian has never been good enough. Not for Mother, not for Father, not for Mary Ann, not for his manager, not for her. Florian wanted to be her, to embody everything Ivy represented and replicate it under his own lens. He saw the way she was sought after, the cries of love and admiration and jealousy.
People are jealous of Florian. He revels in that, too.
It’s so vindictively justifying to hear the same individuals who demean his position critique their own looks. They are nasty and spiteful and cruel to everyone , their own selves no exception. Florian’s surname holds its own weight, a medal upon his chest that boasts of his immeasurable fortune and places him on a pedestal above them all. He has everything he could ever want. Fame, looks, money, adoration.
He’s alone at a club on his twenty-fifth birthday, biting back tears with the snapping emptiness of alcohol. He gets up at some point, finds himself rocking to the pounding bass that the speakers continue to scream at him. A smooth smile graces his face, always so easy, just as he’s been taught. He carries himself like he owns the world, lime-coloured eyes looking through damp eyelashes and catching every flustered glance. Laughs spill from his mouth where prompted, and he dangles his attention like a pot of honey to the flies that swarm.
There’s vinegar in his veins, sour and acidic, pungent as it is potent. The way he grips another’s waist hides the greenish blue trails upon his forearm, and the hot breath upon his neck briefly ceases the chill under his skin. Briefly, he thinks of Daisy, and how he spun her upon the floor. He remembers the effortless perfection of their dance, the way she matched his speed and energy, the audacious dip he’d held her in safely. The photos she’d taken while his head was turned away.
He thinks of Daisy, and he remembers how it feels to be ruined.
She documented his downfall, lamented to her millions of fans after every petty argument that spiralled out of control. He always came back to her first, begged her for forgiveness because he was always the one who messed up. Daisy had been as patient as she could with him, and he could hardly fault her for sharing their personal life when it offered her some relief from his… Everything. It had been difficult, keeping up the facade even in their private apartment. Tiring. Florian had not been as good as he should have been. When has he ever?
Florian is, he’s beginning to think, entirely unlovable. Since Ivy left, he’s all but given up hope. He remembers icy glares and cold dismissals and heated yells and venomous curtness, the fury brought by those he’s failed. He spends most nights alone, but on those he can’t bear to, he finds other means of occupying his mind and body instead.
Florian knows what he’s doing. That doesn’t give him the power to go against it.
For as long as he’s been a model, Florian has craved the validation of knowing he’s worth something. He doesn’t have to work for his praise, not outright, not when all he’s ever needed to do is sit still as they sculpt him and heed their instructions compliantly. He learns to be alluring, how to keep eyes upon him. He stops caring about the burn of being watched, turns it into something productive. He’s wanted, violently and desperately and in ways that terrify him even now. He’s blatantly, undeniably wanted.
They love his persona, so Florian gives them all a show. The roses thrown tear open his skin, and the blood he spills shines the same shade of scarlet as their dainty petals. It saps his energy and wears him down, but Florian doesn’t mind. He offers himself up on a platter made of gold, allows the metallic sharpness to attract every watching wolf, and keeps up that ersatz grin all the while.
He enjoys the jealousy, the fury that clouds the perception of him from models and watchers alike. Jealousy is born of admiration, of love , as reluctant as one may be to admit it. Florian likes jealousy. Jealousy is proof of his successes.
He does not enjoy the hatred, putrid and merciless and devoid of any affection. Hatred leads to irrationality, to actions not regretted but never again spoken of, bruises against perfect skin and degrading insults when he passes by. Hatred brings a glass to his lips and a burn to his gut, snide comments under his posts that he scrolls through well into the night.
Sometimes, Florian thinks of all he is, and he finds himself beginning to retch. There are eyes everywhere, whispers that follow him even in slumber, his shadow made up of every ghost he’s driven away. He’s a poser, a fraud, a modelled model. He’s a carved ideal made for the miserable and envious, an unreachable symbol for all those who hate themselves , who strive to punish their bodies with the hunger Florian has endured, to coat it with layers of unwashable paint until the fixed smile never falls.
The music shifts, and Florian lets himself be pulled back into the ruthless current. His hands slip from the nameless girl, and in a few seconds, he doesn’t remember so much as her face before another’s taken her place. It’s all temporary, it’s all meaningless, so why does it make him feel so very dirty?
His body moves on autopilot, flowing through the dance with practiced energy and allure. Florian does not listen to the too-sweet whispers in his ears, pays no heed to the hungry, eager gazes that follow him. Being watched is nothing new, and putting on a show is more than a fair trade for the false belonging that warms his damaged heart.
He wonders, not for the first time, what Ivy would say if she was there. He likes to think she’d be cheerful; relaxed in the way she only ever managed to be on nights out with Jess. Florian used to look upon her relationship with guilty enviousness, a bitter taste in his mouth when he saw them together.
Practically everyone he knows has found someone. Annette has Leire, William has Avery, Percival has Daryl, Ivy had Jess, Mary Ann has Cassian, Arabella has Evander. No matter what struggles they may have gone through or how the relationship may have fallen, there’s a bond there.
Florian used to have Daisy. Then he spiralled into the ruined imitation of himself he is now, and found himself entirely unworthy of her. He clung to her affections while they lasted, pathetically desperate and draining her more by the day. Mary Ann was gone, Ivy was gone, and Florian was crumbling in the eyes of everyone. He was a disgrace to be seen with, a selfish wreck who refused to give as much as he could and destroyed himself from the inside. She deserved better. They all did.
He wonders if Ivy would save him from the wreckage he’s making of himself. If she’d offer that unfamiliar, unconditional kindness and give him the strength to pull himself from the grave he’s unwittingly dug himself, if she’d comfort him and promise it wasn’t his fault she left. He wonders if she’d stand aside and watch, cool blue eyes vaguely interested in the way one might observe a bonfire consuming all it touches.
He likes to think she would rescue him. Then, he remembers that she left without so much as a goodbye, and has seen no reason to speak to him since.
There’s a hand at his own waist now, firm and burning and bringing him back to the present. He welcomes the distraction as much as he detests it, the music thrumming in time with his own clouded head. Florian tilts his head, baring his throat as if in offering, prepared to give and give until there’s nothing left but embers. The touch is fleeting, unsatisfying, devoid of any love as it presses tender bruises into his skin.
Meaningless.
Still, meaningless love is better than sheer emptiness, and if it means nothing, what does he have to lose? Who says he can’t give and give, when everything he offers will eventually be rendered pointless? Either that, or his sacrifices will be thrown back in his face, torn and bloodied and used and unwanted. In the moment, however, it brings him worth. He’s not alone at the club, he can’t be when there’s skin against his own and somebody to focus on.
Florian is spending his birthday partying. He’s having the time of his life, truly , dancing and drinking and getting swept away in the carefree throes of the luxurious youth he has left. He’s adored , and he’s adoring in return. He’s doing what any man his age would want to.
And yet, as the liquid gold pours and the music blares on, there’s a moment where he falters. It’s a small thing, barely a moment; the smallest fracture in the mirror he’s so carefully polished. There’s intent in the pressure at his waist, and a second of hesitation as Florian processes the movement. A half-second where his breath catches in his throat, needless dread pooling coldly in his stomach. It’s nothing , really. Nothing that anyone would note in a room so cloyingly full of heat and life and reckless passion.
His pulse beats like a hummingbird’s wings, unwarranted urgency seeping poisonously into his sluggish thoughts. It’s one night , he thinks resentfully. One night where he gets to show off the mask. He is Florian Huxley , sought after and adored and perfect. He deserves this.
Besides, it’s nothing he hasn’t felt before. The grip is nothing unfamiliar, the weight of expectation nothing new. He’s built himself to be wanted, to be watched; crafted himself into something irresistible, something desirable. It makes sense that people want to take what’s so freely offered to them. It should be easy. It is easy.
So why does it feel like he’s suffocating?
Florian wishes Ivy was there. He wants to buy extravagant cocktails and judge those who are clearly out of style, basking in her presence and relishing the comforting affinity it used to bring. Ivy was someone he desperately wished to impress, yes, but there was a different kind of pressure there. Trying to anticipate what would earn her approval felt… Safer, somehow. He couldn’t quite explain it.
Now she’s gone, and he’s earning smiles from strangers instead. He’s not alone, of course he isn’t. He’s never alone, and isn’t that just what he wanted? He craves attention, thrives on the opportunity to demonstrate that he’s worthy of love. This is just another chance to fill that hollowness within him, to prove that he is not broken and there’s a reason why he’s considered alluring. Florian’s the one who breaks hearts. It is not the other way around.
He forces an amused chuckle at the contact, letting his head loll onto a stranger’s shoulder, feeling their breath ghost hot against his jaw. A touch trails gently down his spine, feather-light and electric in a way that makes his every muscle tense. He should lean into it, let the breathlessness be attributed to desire, let himself drown in another’s attention and affection, bask in the heat of it, drink it down like the shots he’s long since lost count of.
And yet.
The ache in his chest does not fade. The gouging of his heart and the smashing of his ribs and the bone embedded in his lungs all brings a pain that will not cease, no matter how much he tries to force it away. The distraction isn’t working , not when his thoughts keep trailing back to all he’s lost, all the ways he’s failed .
When everyone leaves you behind, it’s only natural to suppose that you’re the problem. Florian estranged Mary Ann, Florian drove Ivy away, Florian made his father hate him, Florian forced Daisy’s hand in unseaming the threads of their relationship. In every broken connection and show of loathing, Florian’s mistakes are the commonality. And he’s trying, God knows he’s trying , but trying means nothing when he’s destined to fail from the start.
Every touch from every person feels like fire on his skin, flames that lick and char and bring about the stench of smoking flesh. He doesn’t care to catch the low, enticing murmurs still being poured into his ears, all too used to being self-centred and ignorant and impassive. The hum of alcohol numbs the knife’s edge of hatred, and it’s that which allows him to keep smiling even as he gently pulls away.
Occasionally, his admirers are more determined than he gives them credit for, and Florian finds himself in a situation with no way of winning. Luckily, this is not one of them. He flashes a smirk, an easy excuse, something about needing another drink, and slides away before he can be stopped.
He’s not lying , not fully. He really does need a drink.
The air is thick with the scent of slick sweat and cheap body spray and the lingering tang of spilt cocktails. Florian feels the vibrations of the newest upbeat pop song rattle through the floor and into his bones, and he slips his way past infuriatingly lighthearted laughing friend groups, away from the centre of a celebration that does not belong to him.
He feels his fingers curl around the cool edge of the bar, watching his manicured nails whiten briefly as he digs harmlessly down. He hasn’t painted them since…
“One more,” Florian says, his voice smooth and untroubled despite the storm churning beneath his skin.
The bartender raises an eyebrow as if to challenge him, but recognises the demand for what it is. Florian knows that look– knows it all too well. The quiet calculation, the unsaid judgement. The silent question of whether he’s sure . The doubt that he can look after himself nor anyone else, for Florian is a bonfire, huge and captivating and celebratory and dying.
He lifts the glass to his lips and, for some godforsaken reason, hesitates once again. This should be easy. It should be fun. He should be having fun , letting go of his incessant loathing and guilt and mourning for just one night. His reflection looks wrong in the amber liquid, perfect features fractured and distorted. The mask is still intact, the same he’s worn for years, but tonight it carries a distinct sense of uncanny valley that he simply cannot shake.
Florian is twenty five years old, and he has no idea why he’s still so hung up on the past.
Somehow, he barely recognises himself. The shimmer is gone from his eyes, the smile false and the face worn. He’s lived a life of pure indulgence, what right does he have to complain? His losses are but consequences of his own actions. Florian should’ve gotten over it all by now, learned to give in to the promise of a good time and a distraction from his devouring misery. It doesn’t matter if the preoccupation is fleeting if he finds enough of them in succession.
Twenty five. He should be celebrating. He is celebrating. Florian tips back his glass before he can think twice, and swallows it all down at once.
He pays for another, and another, and pours drink after drink after drink down his lax throat, and as time goes by, he swears the walls are watching him. Invisible eyes pierce into his soul, judging and condemning and damning him, following his every minute move. Florian wants to crawl out of his skin and leave the mannequin there to be stared at in his place, fully retreating into the darkness Ivy left in her wake, into a place nowhere will ogle him anymore. And isn’t that just ridiculous? This is what he wanted. This is what he chose, what he asked for. He has no right to be upset.
Florian has pushed away everyone who might be willing to act as his confidante. Mary Ann would not appreciate being interrupted. Clyde was impressed by Lady , not by him. Daisy had left him with a look of such contempt that Florian was sure he’d die right then and there. Annette’s worried texts had gradually dwindled down into nothing. Ivy was gone, gone forever and never coming back.
Perhaps, he thinks dully, Ivy is dead. The others are certain Ivy is dead. The press proclaims that Ivy is dead. Florian knows she quit her modelling job mere months before her disappearance, seemingly for no reason. Florian saw her abandon him in favour of making amends with her ungrateful siblings. Florian recognised the pain and acceptance in her eyes. Perhaps, he thinks. Perhaps Ivy’s disappearance was more insidious than he first assumed. Remorse burns his tongue like poison, and he wonders distantly if she chose to orchestrate the ambiguity of her departure, hoping to spare them all the pain of seeing her corpse.
He’s so tired. Exhaustion hangs off of his frame, the litheness brought about by strict, deliberate dieting seeming gaunt and pitiful in the face of his weariness. Florian wants to feel genuine euphoria trickle back through his veins, to feel a smile on his face and for once not have to force it. He wishes he could tear off the mask forever and lay himself bare at the feet of anyone who’ll have him, the real him, and accept the wreckage he is in its entirety.
Instead, he drinks, and he drinks, and he drinks, and he glares at nothing as he drinks some more. Nausea brings an onslaught saliva to his mouth, thick and sour, and when he tries to stand, his legs immediately threaten to buckle beneath him. Another glass is pushed in front of him, and Florian automatically moves it to his lips, his grip faltering at the taste as he realises it’s water.
He scoffs, but drinks it nonetheless. He’ll have a hangover either way, but who is he to deny his viewers some entertainment? Some indulgence? He doesn’t know what he’ll do if anyone approaches. There’s a distant terror that he’ll say something he regrets while his tongue is so pliantly loose, something that will tear another gouge into the flimsy reputation he still clings to.
His fingers are wet, either with the glistening clamminess of sweat or the condensation from the glass, Florian doesn’t care regardless. The bartender is still watching him, another stare in a crowd of millions. Florian’s used to eyes upon him. Determined and berating from himself in the mirror; half-lidded from strangers and expecting more than he’s capable of giving; disapproving and disappointed from those who claim to know him better than he knows himself.
Nobody knows him, not even Florian himself. How could they, when the charade has become so intrinsically inseparable from his original form? The damage done is irreversible, and it’s so much easier to keep up the facade than look any deeper within. The real Florian is the one who hurts people. Who messes up in the face of the public, who loses the affections of those he loves, who gets blackout drunk on the night he turns twenty five.
He doesn’t know how he makes it out of the club, or how he’s going to find a place to stay. Sitting on the sidewalk alone, it feels like his thoughts are a thousand miles out of reach. Typically by this point, he’s not still alone. Another wave of nausea threatens to engulf him, Florian’s head spinning horrendously as he fights to regain control of himself.
At some point, it begins to rain. There’s something beautiful about the way the drops fall, thick and heavy and yet so meticulously messily separate. His hair sticks to his forehead, lines of water rolling down his skin as he leans back against the wall of the club. A chill runs through him, but it does not reach his bones.
Florian watches as the liquid forms puddles upon the pavement, gravel usurped and covered by cold, unforgiving water. Streetlamps’ white light bounces and reflects off of the shining surfaces, and Florian catches a brief glimpse of the stranger in his reflection before the rain pelts down anew.
Thunder rumbles comfortingly, the vibration vaguely reminiscent of that pounding club music. Out here, it’s fresher. Freer. Florian tips his head back again. Rivulets of rain seep into his clothes and trickle down his colour, but he welcomes the chill they bring. He has no reason to move, no-one to call for assistance. He put himself in this situation. He must be the one to sow the consequences.
A part of him wishes the rain would go on forever. It could form a flood, a wave the size of his old home, engulf him in its cool embrace and carry him away. No more heat, no more dirt, just the chance to give in and stop pretending to be someone he’s not. He’s so, so incredibly tired.
Florian has just turned twenty five, and he has never felt so lost.