the hands of love.

THE DANDY. arthur taylor-wright. to be redeemed at the hands of love to love and love and never give enough i honour the ghosts by keeping in love to love and love and never love enough

[ataylorwright]

T H E   D A N D Y.

written by adrian (he&him)

* SKELETON / INTRO / MUSINGS / PLAYLIST

[ataylorwright]

the poet.

Nathan knows what Arthur is doing. The mention of Dorothy is not lost on him, and in a way he appreciates it. They shouldn’t be fighting, it’s all silly, but it didn’t feel silly in the moment and Nathaniel’s relentless stubbornness got the better of him. “I apologized, they aren’t accepting it.” A half truth, given the fact that Nathan never offered a real apology. Just one heart-felt enough to get them through an evening without Arthur following the two of them around and chastising them until they make up.

“I’m working on it, though.” He had a plan to fix his mistake. It was just a matter of time. And Dorothy seemed to be in good enough spirits tonight, it seems he didn’t damper all of their fun for the evening. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.” Mainly, he felt bad Arthur needed to get involved at all. How childish of them.

Despite the maze’s intent on making all that venture inside lost, Nathan didn’t mind its confusing paths. The maze, while needlessly complicated, is one of the few private respites of the evening–the first time all evening Nathan has been alone with Arthur. Nathan awakens sharply when Arthur says he does not like the maze. And it makes sense. There was better company to keep here than him. He’s popular, floating through these types of societal events with ease, charming his way in to the hearts and minds of all of London’s elite. It was an aspect of high society that Nathan tried his best at, but he never was as enchanting of a conversationalist as his best friend. The lilacs that sprouted from the maze were rare and bright and impossible to ignore. Meanwhile the overgrown ivy clings to the edges of the maze, overgrown and unwanted.

And before he can approve or object he is dragged down through the lilacs and the ivy and entangled in the grass. And he doesn’t quite know what it means or what to do, so he looks at Arthur, a constant sight among the quickness and coldness of the ground. And he forgets everything else for a small moment.

Until he is caught staring at a sight better than the stars, or lack thereof. And Nathan can’t tell if Arthur is joking or just being himself. And so he laughs, as if he is in on a joke he most certainly is not. “What are you going on about?”

“right, don’t worry about it. have we met yesterday? i’m incapable of not worrying when it comes to the two of you,” arthur says. contrary to popular belief—and he knows that some people think so—he does have feelings and he does actually care for people. granted, the number is limited and the rest of the population could just as well not exist for him but it doesn’t change the fact that arthur’s desperate for nathan and dorothy to make up. things just aren’t the same otherwise. “i’ll chaperone your next conversation and force you to make up. you’ll make me go gray unless i do that.” it comes out as a joke, mostly so nathan doesn’t actually feel pressured to get it sorted as soon as possible just for arthur’s benefit; he’ll continue to complain about their fight being pointless and childish but he also trusts his friends to fix what ought to get fixed and take all the time they need to do it. arthur needs to be patient with them, he knows that—it’s going to be difficult but he’ll do his best.

the hand he holds gives him so much comfort that arthur almost forgets about how the maze seems to work against them and refuse to let them go. it makes him forget that this is a party with hundreds other people out there. the way he sees it, it’s just the two of them and nothing else matters. 

“oh my god,” arthur sighs and then laughs, slightly nervous because he can’t stop thinking about how he’ll have to kiss nathan soon or else he’ll go crazy. he looks away, stares at the sky again to give himself some time—a few more seconds of thinking and second-guessing and being surprised at his own reluctance. but this is new. the truth is that he’s never in his life cared more about anyone than he does about nathan and it is scary and disarming—and marvelous and intoxicating. arthur turns his head to the side again, he finds himself unable to look away for too long. “i thought i’ve been really obvious lately. especially tonight,” he says; the words are surprisingly difficult to say but he masks it with a wide smile. 

“you can tell me to piss off,” arthur laughs again and it still sounds nervous. this is so unlike him. he only hopes nathan doesn’t think he’s joking—he’s never meant anything more in his life. 

arthur lets go of nathan’s hand and shifts onto his side, propped on his arm, his elbow digging into the grass. his other hand cups the side of nathan’s face, his fingers soft but determined against his cheekbone. arthur leans in, slowly so as to give the other enough time to pull away if he wants to, though the possibility of that happening is utterly heartbreaking. he tries not to think about it right now. “last chance,” arthur almost whispers when he’s close enough that their lips brush. 

[ataylorwright]

closed to: @dayanitas​ 

evening of July 30th, 1889  Arthur’s birthday party at his house

The party is going well in Arthur's eyes, especially when he finds out that people are in disagreement on how old he's actually turning. He's not planning to reveal the mystery anytime soon and he hopes that none of the people who actually know the answer won't do so either. The truth does send a shiver down Arthur's spine. Thirty. A rather unbecoming number. If he could stop time, he'd do so in a heartbeat—his twenties are certainly treating him well. Or rather had treated him well. This should've been a funeral themed party, an au revoir to his youth. 

The ground floor is swimming in guests; friends, mere acquaintances and, frankly, a very large number of strangers—he's been rather generous with giving out invitations. The more the merrier. The music, the loud laughter and the conversations all bring Arthur an immense amount of comfort. They're also a distraction—while the hauntings have grown calmer and became almost dormant, Arthur's started obsessively thinking about them instead. He's so tempted to write about it all but he still remembers what happened the last time. He does not want a repeat any of it. 

There's one person Arthur sent out an invitation to that he didn't think was going to show up. That’s why the surprise is clearly visible on his face when he finds Daya entering the celebrating crowd. He rushes down the stairs to meet her, catch her attention before anyone else does. "Do my eyes deceive me? This cannot be true," he says, his tone teasing and especially dramatic. He breaks out into a smile right after, as if it were going to make them both forget that they haven't really spoken in a while and when they did, it wasn't all that pleasant. Arthur's in a very amiable mood tonight, though, and he tries to sounds as genuine as he can. “I didn't think you'd come, actually. But I'm glad you did."

[ataylorwright]

the spiritualist.

“My thoughts exactly.” She nodded with a grin, pleased to find someone who seemed to genuinely share her intrigue towards the curious garden. Now officially united, they proceeded to approach the gates, yet when her companion ushered her in before him, Magdalena was quick to halt and turn towards him with a playfully vigorous shake of her head. She knew that he was being courteous but she simply couldn’t help but take up the opportunity to tease him – she had a feeling that he would play along. “Oh, no. I’m not taking the brunt of it while you stand back and watch if it turns out to be actually poisonous. We’re going in at the same time. Deal?”

With their agreement struck, they continued to venture into the garden, crossing the threshold of the gates with careful, tentative steps. Once inside, Magdalena stopped to appraise the flowers around them; they didn’t seem unusual in any way – and she felt perfectly fine, completely unaffected by whatever hazard was presumably hovering in the air around them. Planting her hands at her hips, she turned towards her companion. “Nothing seems off to me. Have you noticed anything unusual?”

“Right? Poisonous garden, sure, of course,” Arthur mocks the name again. If he had a mansion like this he probably would’ve done the same thing—poisonous garden, lake of death, meadow of misery and all that. He’d have so much fun with naming literally anything and everything on his estate. Maybe he should get himself a spot like this, even if just for this reason, for the pure fun of it. “Oh, come on. While it’s a truth universally acknowledged that I love throwing myself head first into questionable ideas, I am also, in fact, not as brave as people might think. I need others to feel the waters first. That’s why having two best friends is absolutely terrific, at least one of them will do the dirty job for me,” Arthur rambles as he eyes the inside of the garden. “Ah, what the hell,” he says after all, offers Magda his arm and they enter together.

“Looks and smells rather lovely. Maybe there’s just...one poisonous plant in the entire garden but Mr Ashton decided to advertise the entire thing as such anyway. You know, enter at your own risk but only so nobody tramples his flowers,” he jokes, although he wouldn’t be surprised if that were actually true. “Is there some rhyme and reason to the layout, you think? I know...nothing about plants but I think that alphabetized gardens should be a thing. I’ll have one when I grow up.”

[ataylorwright]

the poet.

“Should we do some detective work, then?” He goads. If Arthur is out stealing bottles of wine and that is somehow Nathan’s fault, what does he have left to lose? “The man said we have free reign of his home. I’m sure there’s a ledger full of incriminating details of his business somewhere–or at the very least a photograph of his face.”

He glances around once more, as if just remembering their situation. “Once we get out of here, of course.”

Arthur squeezes Nathan’s hand and his grip is tight but somehow comforting. Arthur may be nervous about their predicament, but in a strange twist of fate, it is Nathan who feels nothing but the soft lines that trace Arthur’s hand, the way they clasp together so naturally, puzzle pieces easily finding their match. Suddenly being lost with Arthur feels like the best thing in the world.

“No need to apologize,” he replies airily. “I could stay here all night with you.” And it’s meant to be a thought in Nathan’s head and not a sentence said out loud, but that was the fault of the alcohol, not Nathan.

He let’s Arthur guide them right, very much not keeping track of where they have gone or where they are going. But he laughs because Arthur is here and he is happy. “When do you think is a good time to start screaming?”

.

“Oh, you know I’m a shit detective. I wouldn’t be able to solve a crime even if the answer stared me right in the face,” Arthur says; that’s an odd thing for him to share, considering how he’s the last one to admit his faults. He simply likes to believe he doesn’t have any. “Dorothy ought to help us. Their brain is much better with things like these,” he mentions the name of their friend as casually as possible even though there’s clear intent behind it. Arthur’s far from being done with making Dorothy and Nathan talk everything out properly so they can make up—he’s not going to be done until he sees the two of them all friendly and cozy again, as if nothing happened. To be fair, Arthur still has a hard time wrapping his head around the reason for their fight—but that’s on them, for keeping him out of the loop for so long. 

He wasn’t going to say anything else but he can’t really keep his mouth shut—nothing new. “Please tell me you’re just one conversation away from sorting yourselves out. I’ve only technically found out about this fight today—and honestly, both good on you for being able to keep it a secret for this long but also how dare you keep it a secret for this long—but anyway, it’s already very exhausting. I don’t like it when we fight. Doesn’t feel right.” Arthur’s never been good with conflict but he’s even worse at handling it when he doesn’t actively participate in it—he just wishes he could make it stop, immediately. If only it were so easy.

There’s a smile threatening to spill all over Arthur’s features; he tries to bite it back but it doesn’t work so eventually his face lights up with affection. “As much as I love having you around all the time, I’d rather not spend the entire night here. There are better places to be. This maze—I don’t like it,” he says; it’s a bit too late now, considering that they’re quite a bit into it already and it seems that getting out won’t be as easy as Arthur assumed. Maybe he shouldn’t be so focused on getting out of here—maybe that’s what’s keeping them inside. Perhaps he ought to just let it go and enjoy himself. 

“Honestly, no idea. But before we do, I’m laying down,” Arthur says and because he refuses to let go of Nathan’s hand, he drags the other man down onto the ground with him. “Promise I’m not trying to roll around in the grass, I just want to—” he never finishes but what he means can be easily guessed by the way Arthur’s eyes are glued to the sky above them. It’s still cloud so Arthur can’t spot any stars, which majorly disappoints him. “It honestly seemed like a much better idea in my head,” he says and turns his head to the side to look at Nathan. “Now, that’s a better view.”

[juliawvicker]

[ataylorwright]

the fence.

“I know - I look fantastic. No need to say anything. Your stunned silence speaks volumes.” Zafiro speaks smugly, his second place ribbon displayed proudly upon his chest. Clearly, he has been having a wonderful night - the wig he wears atop his head sits askew, and he is beaming from ear to ear. There are some at the ball tonight who have taken a more reserved approach, lingering on the side-lines, but he has made it his mission to speak to, and dance with, everyone in attendance.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen my vertically challenged husband, have you?” he queries. He lost track of Lionel some time ago. “I should very much like to rub my win in his face. But no matter. I have found you, now, and intend to revel in your company.”

He holds up a tray of food he has picked up from somewhere, snatched from the hand of a waiter, and in an exaggerated French accent, he asks: “Hors d'oeuvre?”

.

“You were snubbed, truly. This deserved the first place,” Arthur says—not that he really means it. He stopped caring about the costume competition the second he found out he can’t vote for himself. Besides, there are more important things at the ball than a silly contest, like forcing all his friends dance with him, whether they want it or not, and the trays of wine glasses weaving in and out of the crowds, handled by some of the most experience staff it seems—he hasn’t seen or heard a single glass being broken tonight. 

“Hold on, ma’am, your bald spot is showing,” he chuckles and reaches out to fix the wig on Zaf’s head; his first attempt only makes it worse but another tug later it finally sits on his head properly. “Your husband left the room a while ago. I think. Actually, I don’t know. Don’t trust anything I say, I’m drunk.” Maybe he ought to take another walk outside to sober him up—the last one helped, sort of. 

“Oh, no thank you, I’ve had enough to eat tonight. If you snatch one of those trays of wine or champagne, then I’ll be interested. Mr. Ashton’s been pouring us surprisingly good wine. And someone I know, a friend of a friend of a friend, might’ve gone on a little trip to the wine cellar and helped themselves to a vintage bottle. Delicious, dare I say.”

[ataylorwright]

the poet.

“She can’t have a week off because then I’ll be the one stuck scrubbing my dirt off the entryway.” He laughs, but Nathaniel wouldn’t put it past himself to be doing just that out of guilt.

Arthur’s hand rests on Nathan’s chest and although he feels his heart leap he simultaneously feels at ease, enough so that his hand moves from Arthur’s back to where it belongs, delicately grazing his hair, like the soft touch of blades of grass. He feels at peace, his head tilts upwards and the banister of the bed falls into focus. He is the anchor on shore, unwavering beneath the sea. No use of strength could unearth such a steady creature.

Just as sleeps seems to be overtaking Nathan as well, Arthur’s muttered words, perhaps not meant for him or his ears, send his mind spinning. His stomach convulses, thoughts turning over as he imagines a world without his best friend.

He knows what being alone feels like, but he cannot not understand true loneliness. For who would fill the dull silent spaces of his mind? Who would work wonders to numb his grief? Who would hold his heart so tenderly? He wants to admit that he would be completely devastated. But he doesn’t. “Me neither” and it’s barely whispered.

But just like that he is thrust back to a world where that is false. Nathan is not left alone. Arthur is so very much here, head buried, hand on his chest, catching his breath and for a moment he believes in things unreal. His heart is held, the grief forgotten. “What could possibly happen?” Nathaniel replies calmly. “I’ll be right here.” And he means it.

Not so tired all of a sudden, Arthur feels like there’s something lodged in his throat, like the words he wants to say but he finds himself incapable of doing—and it shouldn’t be like this, he should be able to tell Nathaniel everything. No secrets, they always tell one another. A part of him feels like he should’ve kept quiet anyway, shouldn’t have mentioned something as grim as death because now his head is spinning and not because of the ale. Arthur’s hearts starts to bleed because his mind goes where it shouldn’t for a brief second—to a future so bleak and so miserable that it almost makes his eyes water. 

People have been dropping like flies lately, dangerously close to them. Perhaps he ought to start praying again, just in case. Don’t let it be them. Keep them safe. Keep him safe.

“Good,” Arthur finally manages, his voice breaking slightly. He clears his throat immediately, tries to hide it as best as he can. “You’re forbidden from ever leaving me,” he smiles in the dark and hopes it translates into the tone of his voice. He moves his hand and blindly searches for Nathan’s and when he does, he weaves their fingers together and finally feels at peace, ready to drift into sleep. “If I suggest we get champagne with breakfast, please tell me no,” he says, his tone joking to finish their night on a lighter note. “Goodnight.”

[ataylorwright]

the widow.

Opposite: Adrian x Location: Ravenswood Manor, Before the Rose Garden

     It was hardly expected. The invitation arrived, and the carriage was at her door. Winifred barely wanted to attend. People would stare, judge her, resent her while they labelled her a murderer, condemn her for having a ‘good time’ whilst her husband lay within the ground at her own hand. Societal events weren’t on her agenda anymore, but the invitation from Mister Ashton left no room to decline. 

     So, she opted for a costume that revelled in their gossip, Mary Shelley, and moved on with her life. Whether they cared for her or not, she had companions in attendance, of that she was sure. Mister Ashton was an anomaly. His name was unknown, his face less familiar. No stake was had in the game of knowing him, and perhaps an anonymity could be afforded. An anonymity that she had grown accustomed to; that she had no idea she wished for so deeply until she stepped foot upon the grounds of his manor.

     Winifred escaped, as the guilty always did, too sober to deal with the judging eyes, the questions that lay behind them. Outside offered refuge; no stuffy dances, gowns, costumes she didn’t recognise. The attendees would be preoccupied. Nobody would watch for her, spy her out of the corner of their eyes and whisper amongst themselves about what a traitor she was. Outside would be her solace, her refuge. Until there was a figure contaminating it. She didn’t want to intrude, but were they not the one intruding? She had decided before the carriage pulled up beside the doors that her evening would be spent beneath the moon. Regardless of whether it was a private vow, she still felt intruded upon. Yet, this was not a hill to die on. Far from it, in fact. Providing they didn’t slap her with the murderer label, she may even enjoy herself at this event yet. 

      ❛❛Do you know him?❜❜ There was hesitation within her approach, as to not startle neither make herself vulnerable for rejection. Perhaps they loathed her, believed all they read in the paper, but this way she could manipulate convince them she was true; they were merely publicised, exaggerated lies. ❛❛Mister Ashton, I mean. Never heard of him, myself. Nice house though.❜❜

Fresh air ought to help him sober up, right? It is with that thought that Arthur heads outside for what’s supposed to be a quick walk around the gardens, something to ground him just enough to be able to continue his fun with a little more of a sober mind. He’s not drinking any more, that’s for sure. Well—maybe later. Once what he’s dealing with right now wears off. 

Arthur is in the middle of negotiating his limits with himself when the voice catches him; he jumps slightly, taken aback by the presence which he did not notice amidst all of this. “God Almighty, you ought to become a criminal with your step so quiet. I did not hear a thing,” he says and then immediately regrets his words—well, at least for a quick second—because he realizes whom he’s facing. “Oh. Well, feel free to mug me anytime you please,” he attempts to recover, a most charming smile plastered across his face, now overly exaggerated due to his drunkenness. “I do apologize for the state of me, I’m just making the most of tonight. What an evening, isn’t it?”

The question makes him feel frustrated all over again because the question of Mister Ashton’s identity has been on his mind ever since he got here. “I really want to say I do—mostly because I just can’t imagine that I haven’t been introduced to him before. I’d expect we run in the same circles but I just—can’t really place him. Nor can my father and that’s unusual. He knows everyone of worth around here and yet the Ashton name does not ring a bell. Curious thing, really,” Arthur explains; he’d hoped that showing up to the party would clear any doubts, that it would provide him with an answer, a face to put to the name but none of that happened. And then Arthur forgot about wanting to care about those things in favour of the champagne, the music, his friends, Nathan.

“Whoever he is, he’s rather brave to host an event like this, No locked doors, nothing off limits. What a bold decision,” Arthur laughs. A bold decision he and his friends already made sure to make the most of. “Lovely costume,” he tells Winifred and offers his arm—a friendly gesture to prove that he truly does not care about all the noise in the papers about her. “Still—could be anyone to me, so who might you actually be?”

[belovedstory]

BRIDESHEAD REVISITED (2008) ∣ dir. Julian Jarrold

[ataylorwright]

the ward.

“That’s high praise, coming from you,” Feriha returns, smirking. “Really, we should thank our host. Our wonderful, generous, mysterious host. What sort of face do you think he’s hiding behind that mask?” She’s giddy with curiosity, and it bubbles over like champagne out of a freshly popped bottle. So filled with wonder, she does not stop to ask, perhaps, the right questions: What lurks in the shadowed corners of Ravensmoor Manor? What if all that shines hides something rotten beneath? ( You did find a skeleton, her conscience tells her. She promptly ignores it. )  

She cares little for caution in the face of fun; at least in this mansion, she does not hear a voice whispering, evil lives here. “No, did you!” she gasps, a wide grin spreading across her features. “Oh, I wish I had. You’ll all have to do it again then, please. Surely there’s another play to put on—he has so many.” When she’s handed the bottle, she tips it back, the wine surprisingly sweet as it passes through her lips. “How do you feel about locked doors?” she asks after her turn, tugging a hairpin out from her curls. “As in, unlocking them. Polly taught me how to pick locks, you see, and I think this is the perfect opportunity to practice. Mr. Ashton did say we were free to explore.”

.

“An ugly one,” Arthur answers immediately, unable to contain his laughter. “I mean—just look at this whole thing. This man is truly trying to make up for some lacking part of himself with all this glamour,” he says. Hopefully, no unfavourable ear is listening to him bang on about their host—but then again, even if it is, Arthur could not care less. If anything he’s said throughout the night so far gets back to their host then Arthur hopes Mr. Ashton can take a joke. 

“Don’t worry. We can do Midsummer together since you’ve come dressed for the occasion. My Romeo can double up as Lysander, I suppose,” Arthur smiles. Though now that he thinks about it, counting the glasses upon glasses of champagne and wine, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to deliver any more lines successfully. But then again, most of the people around here are nearly as drunk as he is so chances are they won’t even notice the slur in his voice.

“Well—I think that in this place locked doors should not be locked for very long. Shall we?” he offers Feriha his arm and the two of them set out in search of closed doors hiding a secret. “It is kind of creepy though, isn’t it? This place?” he says as they walk down a dimly-lit corridor, eyeing the walls lined with numerous portraits. “How many people died here, you think?”

[phoebedynevors]

[ataylorwright]

the crook.

open to everyone. where: inside ravensmoor manor. when: evening.

Exploring came easy to him. Salvador was a natural weasel, so to speak, weaving in and through corridors and rooms with ease. The manor was certainly grand, exceeding many of Salvador’s inner expectations. In truth, he almost didn’t come. He mostly had his proclivity for partying to blame for his sudden attendance. What you need to know about Salvador Ruiz was that he didn’t like to be alone. A man with many vices, loneliness very easily took the top spot. And it’s not a kind of loneliness that so often come with the craving for another. No, he did not think of love or romance, nor did he wonder about companionship within any capacity. He just doesn’t enjoy the quiet. The creaking walls of his empty home, bringing to light the voices that vigorously cling to that same quiet. 

It’s why he whistles in this moment, alone in an office on the second floor of the manor. He picks up a paperweight and tosses it in the air, catching it as it falls back down. “It’s all a bit overkill, no?” Salvador muses aloud, looking to the person who appears in the doorway. “The whole thing. The masks, the manor, these strangers.” He swats his hand through the air as if that might further his point. “I reckon something conspicuous is afoot, my friend.” But when did he not? Perhaps this was an empty sentiment coming from Salvador, as he was always strategic and questioning. 

“Clearly, you need to get out more. Within my circles, I mean,” Arthur replies, following Salvador inside the room. Perhaps not to this level, but he’d seen it all before—parties so elaborate they become confusing. Did it ever matter though? No, of course not. As long as there was music, food, alcohol and another guest—or guests—willing enough to leave with you at the end of it all then any other circumstances just simply lacked importance. Granted, none of these parties Arthur had been to bore any resemblance to the kind of amusement Mr. Ashton seems to have planned for them tonight. The carriages, for one. He still can’t quite get over how ludicrous it was that he, Nathan and Dorothy all had to leave in separate carriages even though they were all leaving from his house. “This is normal, trust me.”

If he were more responsible of a person then he’d probably care more about how odd this whole thing is. Though the only thing on Arthur’s mind right now is the fact that it’s impossible to have gone all this time without meeting their host before. He’s still convinced he knows the man, from some function for all the other rich in the city his father always insist on taking him to, it’s just difficult to prove the theory when the bastard has that kind of a mask on.

“Oh, yes? What do you think? Is he about to kill us all?” Arthur says matter-of-factly, indifferent to the message his words convey. As if that was going to happen. Nobody’s that mad, surely. “I truly don’t care anymore. I’m having too much fun. Did you see the wine cellar? So many rarities.”

[ataylorwright]

the crook.

LOCATION: One of Ravensmoor Manor’s bedrooms. STATUS: Open to everyone!

Permission to explore the manor had been both deeply amusing and entirely unnecessary. If Mr. Ashton is foolish enough to welcome an opportunistic thief into his palatial home, ripe with precious items to carry off into the night, then Edgar sees it as his (im)moral duty to do precisely that. 

The ball itself is of little consequence to him, worth nothing more than a fleeting look of disdain on his jaunt to where the real interest lies. He’s moved from room to room over the course of his evening, deftly rifling through possessions and trying to decide what would be easiest and in his best interest to steal. He’s made it to the second of seemingly endless bedrooms, snooping around without a shred of shame   (If the rich opt to be naive and overly-hospitable, then it’s the god-given right of the poor to leap upon the opportunity.)   A delicate hand mirror is lifted from its resting place on the dressing table, slivers of it catching the light as he turns it over in his grip. He’s contemplating the value, weighing up whether it’s worth taking, when the creak of someone in the doorway startles him. The mirror slips, hitting the leg of the dressing table on its plummet down and promptly smashing into pieces.  Despite the fact that the entire event has happened before both of their very eyes, he apparently still has the audacity to feign innocence.

“Can you believe the way some people treat their possessions?”  It’s punctuated with a delicate sigh, as if the mere thought is too upsetting to linger on.  “Heartbreaking, I dare say.”

.

At what point he and Feriha decided to play hide and seek, Arthur isn’t exactly sure. On second thought, they’re probably not even playing anymore, he wouldn’t be surprised if his friend decided to make a fool out of him and just leave this wing of the mansion so he can spend hours trying to find her. He’s very tempted to avoid her for the rest of the night just so he can show up at her doorstep tomorrow with an I found you to complete the joke. 

No, he’s too drunk to pay this much attention. 

It’s safe to say he isn’t looking for Feriha anymore, he’s resumed his explorations instead. Arthur’s still very annoyed by the fact that he does not know who Mr. Ashton is—with this kind of wealth, he should know, should’ve heard of him at the very least. 

He spends good ten minutes in front of an enormous portrait of God knows which king—there’s a reason why he got kicked out when his father made him read history at university—only to laugh and move on further. He takes a chance on the door the closest to him and slips inside the room. It’s already occupied, perfect.

“I know. What kind of a beast would allow for that to happen,” Arthur replies—he’s always been bad at theatrics but this just takes the cake; he can barely get the words out without giggling. “Seven years, isn’t it?” he says as he picks a random object from the dresser to his right—looks like a figurine of a bird. Or some other animal, the artist left it rather open to interpretation. Arthur looks at it, pretending to take in the artistry but if anything, he’s just really tempted to throw it in the air and accidentally not catch it. “If you were to break a second mirror right now does it even out or just add another seven years of misfortune?”

Eventually, Arthur puts the bird away and then walks further into the room, just so he can drop down onto the bed. The mattress is surprisingly comfortable—it does not have the look of it. “Swiped anything good yet?” he asks, arms crossed under his head, making himself feel at home.

[loveinstreams]

[ataylorwright]

the believer.

Dorothy does not fully hear Arthur before they willingly submit to his demands, it’s only when the realization dawns on them do they insist on fighting it immediately. “No! You know it’s not my fault.” They shift the blame away from them almost instantly. It puts a sour taste in their mouth that they scrunch up their nose at but it doesn’t feel right at the same time, to claim that they were the one in the wrong. They couldn’t possibly understand what Nathan’s disdain with their work had to do with them. Unless he really was that bad of a friend, he would be supporting them.

“If you want us to end this silly joust. I suggest speaking to him instead.” They do not say anything more, instead hoping to continue with their game. A distraction was what they needed right now. If they thought about it for any longer, they don’t think they could manage to hold back any tears. “Anyways, I don’t imagine you could give me much in return…” They bit their lip in concentration. A lightbulb appears to go off above their head, “Alright, if I win, you have to fuss up about whatever you and Nathan have been doing when I’m not around.” Dorothy was perhaps being a bit unfair, but they were also nosy. 

“Ah!” They take another sip, “Biblical reference.”

.

Even though Arthur tried to get his friends to make up just before the ball, it still feels like nothing got resolved and it’s infuriating. He never knows what to do when the two of them fight—if he’s the one who’s involved, he usually apologizes first (but only when it’s Dorothy or Nathan, anyone else does not get this kind of a privilege) and that’s it. But since this isn’t about him, he can’t really just make them iron out their differences. “Alright, I know it’s not your fault but—” Arthur starts off, trying to choose his words wisely. He really does not want Dorothy to be cross with him too, “but maybe you could try and be less...passive-aggressive?” he finally settles and hopes to God they don’t take it the wrong way. “I just don’t get it, why you’re both so stubborn about this.”

Arthur scans the crowd, notices a costume that fits their rules but doesn’t say anything. “So you agree, this fight is silly. And don’t you worry, he’s going to get a talking-to as well. You lot are no fun like this, you’d better sort yourselves out.”

He’s ready to protest the remark because it’s borderline offensive—not give much in return, now that’s a first. What Dorothy says then makes him roll his eyes. “Oh, come on now,” Arthur groans. “I can tell you without you winning. We go out, we drink, we talk. You act as if we’re having some cult-like secret meetings when you’re not around.” He’s really downplaying it and he isn’t sure why—there’s definitely a lot more to the time he spends with Nathan than just drinking and talking; like the inexplicable joy he feels whenever he makes Nathan laugh or the way he’s always wishing for the night to never end when they’re together. That’s something Arthur can’t say and not because of Dorothy but because he isn’t quite ready to hear these things himself. 

“Biblical reference? This could be quite literally anyone,” he says but drinks anyway. “But to be fair, this could be said about my costume as well. Someone asked me if I’m Edward...I don’t even remember which one and I just said yes and went along with it because he brought me a glass of wine. Oh, this looks like a King Arthur to me.” Another sip. “Have you seen anyone you know tonight? There’s a handful of friends but I have no idea who most of these people are. And that’s odd.”

[gatheringswans]