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Something is wrong. Silas isn’t entirely sure what, but he’s starting to think some of his peers' paranoia may have been warranted – that, or he needs another drink. Both are entirely possible, but one is a lot easier to deal with.
Except, he isn’t sure where he is anymore, hopelessly far from either the wine cellar or dining room. Because for all of Meadowgloom Manor's ornate, lavish beauty, speaking of a life that had become sparse for many years during the war, it’s certainly quite dizzying, almost maze-like, every corner revealing a new, unfamiliar hallway. Surely Daytona’s finest work, but he can’t find it in him to appreciate it in his current state.
This one isn’t as unknown, carried by nothing but vague, far-off memories through the library towards his quarters. He isn’t sure what he wants there – to collect himself maybe? Escape any chance of running into anyone? There certainly won’t be any alcohol in there, not with it being so heavily restricted as of late.
His hand rests on the doorknob as he hears another set of footsteps round the corner, glancing over to find the refined, angular figure of Oskar stopping dead in his tracks, looking back as if there’s a chance Silas hasn’t spotted him yet.
“And where have you been?” Silas turns to him, crossing his arms and cocking his head to the side, harnessing a confidence he couldn’t muster even a fraction of earlier in the night.
Oskar eyes him for a moment, studying him with a faint look of distaste (which is probably warranted; he hasn’t passed a mirror in a while, but he knows he isn’t quite as put together as he had been last time they’d spoken) before sighing, “Socialising, unlike you.”
“I’ve done plenty of socialising!” He’d been joking before, but this one feels more visceral, filter lost somewhere between glasses two and five. Not that it really exists between them anymore anyway.
“Right.” Oskar rolls his eyes, already making for his room.
After all this time, he and Oskar are civil – or as close to it as you can get with him. He appreciates what he does for him professionally, the artefacts he’s enabled him to find, the way he seems to care in his own carefully distanced way – but it’s always work with him. He doesn’t drink (in Silas’ company at least), doesn't smoke, doesn’t so much as relax his posture, forever conscious of who he is, the world around him and his high and mighty place above it, but never anything less.
Usually, it doesn’t bother him. Silas is perfectly happy keeping things professional when needed, and if this is the only front he is destined to see, then so be it. Usually. But there is nothing usual about this party or anyone involved in it, and god does the world spin as he steps closer to the other man.
“Oskar?”
“Yes, Silas?” He sighs.
“Do you ever relax?” Even drunk, the embarrassment manages to find him, oddly sobering as he meets bewildered violet eyes, unreadable in the soft light “Like ever?”
“Nope.” He shrugs, grinning as if it was a compliment “Now, if you’re done asking stupid questions-”
“Never.”
Oskar's expression dims slightly, abandoning his efforts at escape to draw closer, stopping only a foot away.
“How much have you had to drink?” He exhales, giving up any chances of a real answer before the words even leave his mouth. A hand comes up to untie his half-done bowtie, redoing it with an efficiency Silas is still yet to master “Lord Byewill’s never going to invite you back if you make a fool of yourself like this.”
“It’s fine.” Maybe he’s been a little negligent in his restraint, and maybe he almost knocked over an incredibly expensive vase one too many times – but it’s fine. Probably. He’ll worry about it in the morning.
Oskar seems to resign to it more than anything, pushing a few errant strands of white hair out of his face “Whatever you say…”
So close, Silas can barely see more than his hair; its jarring white streak against jet-black, not a grey hair in sight. It’s odd, really. He’s never asked, but he has to assume it’s natural, and for that he’s a little jealous – he’s hardly younger than himself, yet Silas has been greying for decades! Quite frankly, it’s unfair.
Instead, he gets to be perfect. With his freshly trimmed hair and sharp features, dark eyelashes which flutter deceptively as if he’s something gentler than he is, and soft, enticing lips - familiar in a way he may never fully grasp. Incredibly unfair.
And god, he’s close, isn’t he? He should’ve pulled away by now, hands hovering idly as if he’ll find another piece of him to fix if he looks hard enough. Silas should stop staring at him, right? That’s the normal thing to do.
What else is there to look at, though? He isn’t blind; he knows Oskar is pretty, everyone with eyes does! A Renaissance painting brought to life (until he opens his mouth, and all that comes out are thinly veiled business proposals and nothing else), who cares?! There are bigger, more important things to worry about than why he’s still here before him. Like how Lady Angel is doing after her collapse, and why there were whisperings of shady figures and poisonings being thrown around, and the diamond…
But Oskar looks up at him, and it all melts away; “Silas?”
The space between them closes before he even realises he’s doing it, truly and utterly caught in the web that is Oskar Rex — hopelessly mesmerised.
Shock tenses his body for barely an instant, dissolving before it can linger, allowing Silas to pull him in, lips slotting together so easily it feels like muscle memory. His own hand buries itself in neat, styled hair, and slender fingers find Silas’ arm, tentative at first until they’re clasping at him with a vengeance.
This isn’t their first kiss, and he hopes it won’t be their last. Even still, he clings to it as if this moment will be ripped away from him and he’ll be left with nothing but the faint taste of peppermint on his tongue. Oskar isn't his, but if he tries, he can almost delude himself into believing he is, if only for a moment.
It isn’t particularly deep, and Silas is certain that if it were anyone else he wouldn’t get away with not pulling his weight, too lost in savouring every inch of contact, the drag of his lips against his own.
This is what contentment feels like, he thinks — warm and real, unable to tell if his head is light from the alcohol or oxygen deprivation, aeons better than how the first drink of the night had felt no matter how good it was to be at ease finally, yet another piece slotting back into place (the Prohibition has done more of a number on him than he likes to admit.) He wants this to last forever, stuck here until the universe collapses in on itself.
When Oskar inevitably pulls away, there’s something lighter to his eyes, a flicker of someone he’ll never know — so gentle it borders on pitying.
“Get some sleep, Silas.” It’s barely a whisper, faintly pleased, slipping back into a more familiar demeanour, lips glistening slightly in the low light.
As quickly as he’d appeared, he’s gone.
Silas is used to it by now.
He pulls out a cigarette from his pocket (pilfered from Judge Meagon when she’d gotten sick of him asking for hits of hers and had given him his own), lighting it with a nearby candle.
It scratches at his throat on the inhale, letting it wash over him like the tide to the shore, settling all of what his gradually encroaching sobriety is threatening to drag up.
Tomorrow will bring a new dawn, and the charade will march on. He’ll get right back to fumbling his way through every attempt at networking, as Oskar would prefer him to be doing, and be done with it all.
First, though, he needs to get a better look at that diamond…