Snippet #1540670

A mass of people twirled about on the dance floor, dainty fingers entwining with strong, calloused hands and leaving each other, only to be snatched up once more. Each mask was more beautiful than the last, a thin reminder that there was someone hiding beneath it. Who is it your dancing with? You can never tell, and Felipe guessed that was what the enticing thrill was. Lavish dresses and high-end suits, all are flowing to the seemingly darkened cords streaming from those elegant musicians; hands extensions to their instruments, plucking and slipping and sliding, to create the most beautiful melody. Paper faces appeared to look like porcelain, and it left Felipe idly wondering where they'd attained their masks. In all honesty, a small package had come with the impressively tendered letter—a mask that complimented the only suit he owned; black and white, gilded with silver. It was odd. In the company of shadows and strange men and women, he couldn't help but shudder against the peculiar feeling the masquerade hall invoked. Why had they been invited, and what was the purpose of the ball?

His stomach warmed against the strong liquor that burned down his throat. Felipe blamed the rocky mixture for such idiosyncratic thoughts. He couldn't help but think that he didn't belong here, and doubted very much that any of them did—such mansions, thrashing with regal intentions and properly celebrated events, didn't hold strangers who seemed as misplaced as he was. Lush, deep red curtains, drawn back as custom decrees, didn't make him feel any less anxious. For once, he'd be glad to breathe in fresh air and stumble out into the starry night. The night didn't threaten to engulf you, and the night didn't hold gauze-covered inhabitants that refused to talk, see, or hear. Well, unless you were in some kind of crazy zombie movie. Did anyone else feel this disquiet, or was he just feeling paranoid? Plucking the fabric of his tailcoat, he resumed his attentions on the rugged-looking man; weather-beaten from experience, and hawkish in manifestation. His dark eyes spelled tragedy, or unasked questions. If he had the ability to see straight through him, he wouldn't have doubted it. Perhaps, he felt as out of place as Felipe did.

Felipe's dark hair was beneath the constriction of a single piece of elastic that ran around his head, keeping his masquerade mask over his face, barely making room for his golden eyes to survey the room at a leisurely pace. But now, his attention was on this man sitting calmly, twirling the olive in his Martini. Any image of a small boy sitting by himself at prom quickly disappeared; this man was all sheer confidence and patience, waiting for his chance. Felipe resisted the urge to place a hand on his hip, and arched an inquisitive eyebrow, finishing his drink. As soon as he'd gulped down the last drop, one of the twins glided in and took his glass, replacing it with a smooth rum and coke. Funny, it'd been just what he was thinking about having. Thoroughly impressed, he only gawked after the serving man. Psychic? Maybe. Coincidence? Probably. The mansions unwelcome enigmas' would surely vamoose along with his own inhibitions, the more he drank. A pharmaceutical voice admonished that it'd be best to keep a clear head; Sansa disagreed, she always did. Hearing shrill laughter and bouts of excitement rattling across the marble floors, Felipe couldn't help but glance over his slender shoulders. Whatever reserves the guests had been holding back quickly retired for the night; slipped back into their pockets so they could enjoy the night and have a good time. Maybe later, he'd end up joining them; but as Sansa, or Felipe, he couldn't be sure.

The jewelled ball pulsed with wry amusement, laughing and singing with its' dancers as they twirled and threw their arms over their heads. Felipe could only grin in response, looking down at the older man who seemed wholly engrossed in his perfected drink. The arched ceiling illuminated by thousands of dim lights watched anxiously, casting lustrous reflections across Van's plated mask. It created a mysterious, but classy effect. A small smile tugged on the sides of his lips; his honey eyes promised good conversation and sated appetites. It was a shame that Sansa couldn't unabashedly act on her feminine desires; her reserves were full of mischievousness, and she wished she could ayayaya along with that redheaded woman. Instead, he brazenly stood as a man should and awaited the stranger's response.

“I keep expecting The Promise to sweep in here again, and say that this' just some joke,” Felipe quipped mirthfully, glancing around for justification. If Jonathan the Promise had swept back in announcing that it'd all been some piss poor joke, or an experiment to see how the social ladder worked, he wouldn't of been surprised. Nothing, he was sure, would've surprised him tonight. He caught Van looking him up and down; as if deciding if he was suitable company, or as if he'd figured him out. The look in his eyes told him that nothing really escaped him. Small goosebumps prickled across Felipe's forearms, and his stomach flopped from more than the comfortable tingle of alcohol thrumming through his bloodstream. All men could be Sansa's worst enemy, especially if they found out her true identity. None were too kind, then. Mercy was reserved for women.

When Van reached out his hand, Felipe gladly took it and shook it with the grace of a woman, and the strength of a man. It was nice that old niceties hadn't died. “Felipe LeBlanc, and you can call me whatever's easier to pronounce.” He introduced, nodding his head. Liar. He almost felt guilty. He matched his smile with one of his own and eyed him suspiciously, flopping down next to him. “So, what brought you here—fancy, curiosity, or that incredibly personal letter?” Felipe's mouth eased into a frown, before quickly grinning again. “Must say, I've never been to a masquerade before.” Dirty, writhing bars were more his style, or crummy pubs. Whichever suited his mood. He wondered whether or not Van had wondered the same thing—what was so special about Felipe LeBlanc, or Donovan Petrov? Or any of them, for that matter.

A mirthful twinkle danced behind Felipe's mask and a smirk curled across his lips. He slouched in his seat, draping one hand across his face. In the most casual voice he could muster, he said, “We should make a wager; a parlay between new acquaintances.” His stomach flopped with renewed excitement. Gambling and bets might've been his middle name. Sloshing the contents of his drink in small circles, he eyed Van from his peripherals. He might've thought he was odd, but that was fine. “Let's see who can manage a dance, first,” He added, chuckling softly. “Awful habit, I know.” He brought the glass to his lips, draining its contents and gave a satisfied sigh.

Everyone loved a good wager, right?