Snippet #1534721

Ian adjusted his mask with something approaching trepidation; it was not a feeling that struck him save in a few situations, most notably those in which he would be expected to interact with people. People were strange creatures, he had always found, and sometimes the mere sight of them was enough to send his mind spinning off somewhere other than where he had intended it to remain, until he was wandering along the paths of poetry, guided by the scent of music and the sound of color.

If such a thing would have been nonsensical for someone else, it was perfectly reasonable to him. On some level, he knew this was unusualoddfunnyweirdcrazy, but then consigning something as profound as a thought to something as simple as a mere category was not an indulgence he often partook of anyway. He’d much rather associate it with something that required more finesse. Perhaps an equation, or a melody.

He decided that contact lenses made his eyes feel stifledsuffocateduncomfortablewhitedirge, and was glad he had thought to slip his glasses into a pocket. Not that there would be much opportunity to replace one with the other, at least not if the mask was to remain in place with some semblance of dignity. And certainly, if the nature of the invitation and transportation was anything to go by, dignity was a requisite.

Of course, such social functions were not outside the realm of his experience; there are a certain number of things that growing up in a wealthy, traditional German family was bound to teach you, and comportment was one of those things. Still, there were obvious imperfections in his appearance that he was certain would not go unnoticed if anyone there scrutinized half as closely as his own father. His suit was elegant and tailored, but he did not move in it as naturally as he might have with more practice. His hair was well-groomed but just a shade too long, to say nothing of the hints of silver that shot through what was otherwise a pale blond hue. A genetic detriment; he need not worry about losing any of the fine pale strands, but they would all color to silver, perhaps before he was thirty-five. With the mask, he might be taken for a man older than he was.

His movements were contained, abbreviated, but they were not elegant. His limbs were too long for that. Dozens of small imperfections, but he of all people knew that human math was never perfect, and depending on the set of eyes, they would approach either zero or infinite clumsiness, like the edge of a parabola forever rocketing upwards. Unfortunate, but unchangeable. Social chameleon, Ian was not.

The limousine pulled in front to the polished exterior of the home, and he checked his coat as he had expected at the front. The butler was a gray somber promenade, an oracle among men, the blinded who espied, and for that the peculiar guest paid him a silent oath of respect. His escort lived in aquamarine and wisteria, quiet, so quiet. His own silence was a matching homage, and he was left to cling to the shadow of a wall whilst the host engaged all present with his voice.

Eyes with all the world’s pigment and none of its color swept more gracefully than his limbs ever could over the grand stage that had been set, and it occurred to Ian that he had always been audience-shy. The sensations were at first overwhelming, and he sensed perhaps a tension somewhere besides the bowstrings of the quartet, and wondered from whence it came. Surely it was not a tightness in his own heart, for that would hint at a level of involvement that he had not felt in too long to remember. If he had ever felt it. What need had the solitary of community? To be lonely in a room full of people was for him the simplest thing in the world, and he was a man for whom many things were simple.

---

Mischa had little else to offer the driver of her limousine but a smile, and this she gave in earnest. He seemed a tad confused by the brightness of the gesture, and she wondered if maybe it was a thankless sort of job. Sometimes, she had found, those who took such services for granted forgot to thank those who preformed them. Being from a more working-class background herself, she made it a personal prerogative never to do so.

Hence the genuineness of it. When one could not offer words, those strange things that could hold so much power and yet be thrown away as though they were nothing, one had to find some way to compensate, after all. Stepping out of the car, she regarded the mansion with something between awe and mere interest. It was strange; in so many ways, she had brushed at the elbows with this kind of elegance before, but it had never truly been hers. It was as though she was allowed to play in someone else’s world for a time, but when the end of the night came, there was always a reminder that she was not a princess but a poor girl.

It was not as disappointing as one might expect. After all, with the exception of the ballrooms she crossed in the heat of a competition, she had always found such places as the dwellings of royalty and wealth to be eerily cold, made perhaps all the worse by the fact that she had known little but warmth before. She was a creature of it, truth be told, that warmth, and she tried to carry it through in everything she did, not that the effort was really necessary.

Whoever had seen fit to make her without a voice had not taken from her her presence, and she glided where others walked, head held high even when it might be better to hide from the gazes of others- such was something she would not do differently.

Communicating with the blind man who received her might have been difficult, and fortunately enough, it was not necessary. She made her movements audible and deliberate enough to mark her presence without arrogance, and handed the invitation over to be checked. Led to the ballroom proper by a boy of a mischievous-seeming demeanor, her yes were immediately drawn to where their host, the enigmatic “Jonathon the Promise” as he titled himself, began to speak. His wordsmithing was most interesting; was he hiding something, or was she simply imagining that feeling she had about it?

A woman rushed by (Mischa avoided collision by moving aside deftly), saying something about a cigarette, and another followed a bit more sedately. There were two people in conversation by a cluster of chairs, and another man stood leaning against a wall. The woman in the discussion left, the man nearest her gazing after with a look that Mischa recognized but did not dwell upon. She was not much of a drinker, though she did enjoy the more fruit-flavored concoctions, and she gently waved away anything that was offered to her for the moment.

She wondered if any among them danced; the music was enchanting, and rather begged for someone to take advantage of this.