Snippet #1548168

Surgeons could fix any aches, pains, or even broken bones. They could set everything straight with gratified, steady hands and carefully arranged words. Patients saw him as God or they saw him as a monster. But the fact is, Felipe's only human. He might've even proposed to fix his new acquaintances aching back if he'd asked, though he was doubtful that it'd lead to any alluring chambers with lavish bedrooms—from his vantage, this debonaire gentleman was anything but gay. No doubt he was interested in laced-bodices, tapered fingers, sweepingly long hair and lavender perfumes clinging to tight-fitting dresses. A pair of ten-inch-fuck-me shoes, and the playing field would've been set. Sloshing what little there was left of his drink around in methodical circles, slowly, before balancing it against his knee, Felipe's bemused eyes surveyed the large ballroom. The ornately decorated ceiling looming high above them, speckled with relentlessly burning candles and diamond embossed chandeliers. It hammered the inhabitants with shabby thrills. Everything felt surreal. It diminished the value of life outside of its' halls, and pulled you into something you couldn't fully understand. Right now, Felipe was observing the flighty servants sweeping across the dance floor, graceful footsteps barely kissing the grounds they stepped on and still treading with as much finesse only the most practised danseuse could produce. They plucked empty drinks from errant fingers, replacing them quickly, and disappeared amidst the crowd. Impeccable service. Impossible service. Impressed goosebumps threaded across his forearms. He found it difficult to feel at ease in such an environment.

Unbeknownst to Felipe's newfound companion, he'd practised his handshake several times with his friends. Several times, male acquaintances had commented on how weak his handshakes were—so uncouth, so insubstantially tender. A handshake fit for women, whom preferred embraces. He wanted to become a stronger version of Sansa; one that wouldn't be immediately recognized for who he was. Someone who could stand proudly, without being underestimated. So, his handshakes were gentile, and unyielding; contending a well-founded strength. His father hadn't been there to teach Sansa the importance of a handshake. There were no fatherly words whispering into his ear as he shook hands with Van, nodding his head with that subtle twinkle in his eyes. Experience taught him that a man who looked him straight in the eye, particularly if he added a firm handshake, was hiding something. It tells you a lot straight at the beginning. Felipe's sunny eyes caught Van's sky-blues, and held them there for a moment, regarding him with enthusiastic curiosity. Perhaps, he'd just made a valuable friend. You there, yes, you there. There's something I want you to know, something I think you need to hear. You're beautiful. Patients might've seen surgeons as heartless cogs turning with surgical machines, but they had the largest hearts when it came to saving humanity. They saw beauty whereas others saw crooked men and women; and whether or not they scrambled for intensive patients, or teetered on the edges of their seats for great opportunities, it didn't matter. Surgeons saved lives, and they saw the good in people.

His mouth simpered into a mooning grin, reflecting his inner thoughts. Just because Felipe preferred to see the good in others, didn't mean that he was completely guileless. He understood that people wanted shallow things, and strove for lesser things—money, intimacy, and power. As debonaire as Van seemed, he could tell that he was opportunistic. A shark, in a sense. Constantly seeking greater swimming grounds, and testing the waters for the juiciest contingency, seeking good fortune through dubious means. Felipe knew all that from the moment he laid eyes on him, and still, his interest was piqued. Everyone had their skeletons, and he was willing to sate his curiosity without enquiries. It's nice pretending to be a nice gentleman, delightfully charming others with an alter ego you've created—just to hide that despicable self you'd rather not reveal, if only for the night. His index finger skirted around the rim of his glass, creating a hollow hum. Soon enough, his burden was lifted from his tingling fingers and he shook his head when the fashionable twin offered him another drink. With a mischievous smile, he bowed low and retreated back towards the mingling dancers, offering his infallible services.

“Likewise,” Felipe whispered, pressing his cheek into his upturned palm. His honey eyes surveyed the dance floor, searching for a suitable partner. Sansa was an amazing dancer, she'd taken lessons as a little girl when she was first adopted by her oriental foster mother. It was mandatory, though her mother believed that it'd be fun for the both of them. Character building and such. Honestly, it'd proven to be a valuable asset. Women loved handsome men who could dance—tango, foxtrot, quickstep, salsa, those were the passionate steps that left them breathless. This masquerade was filled with opportunities when it came to the art of dancing; you couldn't just swoop in, grab a woman's hand and salsa in a sweaty, trashy club. It was filled with cheap grinding, and swaying hips; hands tucked tight against bare stomachs, and heaving breaths against sweet-smelling necks. It wasn't sensual at all. Felipe's hand dropped from his face, and hung off the arm of his chair. He regarded Van with a wry smile, his stomach fluttering with the chance of a good, fair gamble. Well, not entirely fair. Fair games were shots in the dark, and he'd rather play to win.

“Betting on them; dancing with them, whichever,” Felipe responded offhandedly, gesturing with gracefully tapered fingers. He drummed them on the chairs arm, matching the musician's tune. His awful habit stemmed from the adrenaline rush he got whenever he won bets, whenever he pulled the slot machines' steel-cold arm and heard the clambering jingles of coins colliding together. You could bet on anything, and come out a few dollars richer. It wasn't the money that attracted him. It was the thrill; the kind that left men and women alike sitting on curbs, with only lint loitering in the depths of their pockets. Fortunately, he had a good circle of friends who often watched him—making sure that he didn't go overboard, because that's what he often did. He caught the familiar twinkle in Van's eyes, and smiled. It was likely that they shared the same awful habits. “Bragging rights,” He repeated, moving the words around in his mouth like it was something sweet. And then, he fished something out of his breast pocket and wagged two fifty dollar bills in front of him. With clear amusement, Felipe feigned smelling the bills and laughed against the weathered paper, slipping it back into his pocket. “A bet's not a bet unless something's wagered.” He laughed heartily when Van plucked the fedora hat from his head, setting it on his own before tipping it in the most theatrical manner he'd seen. It looked rather good on him, too. A handsome hat for a handsome man. When Felipe's chapeau was returned, he tipped it low over his golden eyes and flicked it back over his eyebrows with his knuckles.

“Surely, a catch.” Felipe smirked, watching as Van finished his Martini. Without another moment's notice, it'd left his hand and Van was rising from his seat, leaving him alone amongst the rows of velvet-clad chairs. He eyed his retreating form and clicked his tongue appreciatively, leaning forward with the rekindled enthusiasm of a gambler betting on horses. Suddenly, his eyes caught sight of a young man with a tumble of golden hair spilling down his back in the form of a ponytail. High cheekbones set on a heart-shaped face; and jagged, beautiful bone structures that looked strong, and feminine, and everything he sometimes felt; a beauty that made you weak at the knees. Felipe's falsely-coloured eyes narrowed to take in the man's sea-blue gaze, and suddenly he found himself moving across the marble flooring, plodding with the confidence of a man who had nothing to lose. Fortunately, his elevated gel heels offered a little height and he wouldn't be completely dwarfed by the elegantly dressed man. Without so much as an introduction, Felipe scooped up one of his hands in his own and pulled him onto the dance floor, peering through his Persian mask.

Bullocks on the bet; women or men, it wasn't specified.

“Dance with me.”