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Ronald had a very particular image to upkeep.
For the most part you ignored it. What he did with his hair or with his clothes, even how he changed his accent and the little quirks of his personality were truly none of your business. It didn’t change the fact that he was your friend.
At least, that’s what he told you.
It had started to feel like that more and more. He had to tell you things in order for them to be true, they couldn’t just exist.
This was one of those moments.
The bar of the Atropos’ Rose theater was nearly empty, for once. You and Ronald were the only ones occupying it, and he was doing a spectacular job of failing to keep your attention with his flashy drink mixing tricks.
“You’re bored,” he half-laughed, half-scoffed in a faint French accent, his r’s getting caught between his teeth as he bared them to you in a glinting smile.
“With you? Never,” you hummed, dragging your finger in another blasé circle around the rim of your glass.
Ronald’s smile faltered just a smidge. “Then you’re angry. You must be. You’ve been giving me that face all night and I know it means nothing good.”
He set his shaker down with what was certainly more force than necessary. Under the warm, dim glow of the bar lights above, his honey brown eyes looked nearly red. You glanced away from them.
With great effort you resisted the urge to sigh. “If my face offends you that much you can just tell me.” You leaned your cheek into the palm of your hand, finally lifting your glass to take a sip of the fragrant drink he’d made you. “Or are you waiting until I’m drunk so I won’t remember you calling me a ’bullshiting bitchy berk’ again?”
The old Ronald would have laughed. Would have barked out a witty remark in that terrible cockney accent of his about how it was more than just your face that was making him sick.
You waited for it, breath caught in your throat with pleasant anticipation.
It never came.
Instead, Ronald shrugged, tossing his head to throw his blonde locks out from his eyes and resumed his mixing. “Even I don’t remember that.”
Right. This was not your Ronald anymore. This was the people’s Ronald. The high class’s Ronald. The Ronald that had every news station creeping about the Atropos’ Rose Theater’s windows at night looking for an exclusive scoop.
The Dazzling Ronald, who couldn’t be pinned down.
It wouldn’t be fair to think he was ever your Ronald, because even back when you first met him he never could’ve belonged to anyone.
Maybe that’s what you liked about him.
“You’re not seriously about to drink a Bowlevahh.. whatever you call it.” You switched the subject, carefully skirting around that uncomfortable tension that simmers between you both whenever the silence gets too heavy.
“Boulevardier,” Ronald corrected, pouring said drink over the ice in his obnoxious crystal cup. “It’s quite sweet, you might actually like it if you didn’t turn your nose up at every drink with more than a drop of whiskey in it.”
“That’s because we have very different definitions of sweet,” you muttered, eyeing the amber liquid that swirls around his cup as he brings it to his lips.
“You think I’m sweet.” Ronald flashed you that winning smile, the one made of stardust and straight sex appeal.
You wrinkled your nose and scoffed with an affronted laugh. “Yeah, as sugar.”
Ronald laughed with you, taking a sip from his drink without so much as a blink at the bitter taste, then set it down with a heavy clink.
“So tell me,” he began, in a tone that spelled mischief, “What sorts of trouble are you and the crew up to backstage when I’m not looking? No one has been keeping me up on the latest going-ons since we started the new showing.”
You eyed him over the rim of your glass, using it to hide your growing grin. “Was this your plan all along?” You asked, smile obvious in your voice. “Lure me here with drinks then interrogate me until I confess?”
“I have no master over subtly still, hm?” Ronald sighed, his own grin spreading at your exasperated stare.
“In those pants? The only one you’re fooling is yourself.” You shook your head. “You’ve got the wrong person, I’m no sellout, you know that.”
“I don’t believe you for a second.” Ronald’s teeth reminded you of a carnivore’s at times, when he was grinning wolfishly like that, all malice in the face of striking a deal. “Name your price.”
You considered carefully, swinging your legs in rhythmic kicks off the seat of your high barstool, a finger tapping your chin with melodramatic flair.
Just when it seemed Ronald had enough of your ridiculous pondering, you snapped your fingers, pointing down at the glass of boulevardier that hid beneath his palm.
Ronald lifted a brow. “You want to steal my liquor from me after that whole show about not liking my taste,” he said, incredulous, “You’re ridiculous.”
“Look who’s holding out now,” you tutted, arms crossed over your chest.
Ronald held your defiant stare, his unimpressed one boring into you for a few long seconds before he shrugged and lifted the glass.
You reached for it, perhaps a smidge too eagerly, because not a second later he replaced it with his opposite hand, which wagged a finger in your face as he chugged the contents of his glass until it was nearly empty.
Gapping at the audacity, you watched in mute repugnance as he set the crystal cup before you gingerly, barely a teaspoon’s worth left (and that was with what the ice had watered down).
“What on Earth was that for?” You asked, bemused.
“For wasting my time,” Ronald answered simply. “I know everything that goes on around here, it’s my theater. I was just testing you.”
For some reason, you got the sense he didn’t really mean that. That he was just saying it because he wanted it to be true.
As if speaking the words might make it reality.
You flick the side of the crystal cup, but it rung duly. “And I’m the ridiculous one.”