#12.31.15

[falloutboyfan18]

Fall Out Boy

[books-sweat-and-a-sweettooth]

It's three am. Friends are winding down to sleep. It's been a decent night. I'm exhausted and feeling reflective. I think there will be a fair bit of journaling tomorrow. Tonight, well tonight I am happy the people I love are as safe, warm, and happy as I can make them.

[vvon-8]

🌬

May I. Say Oui if you think you ready. Twirl you round girl we’re going steady Headed off shore where the waves ain’t sure The winds change on whims Heard other couples sinking, we ain’t them The glisten in your eyes tearing out your big ass lens Send your family invitations & some real ass friends. The text message ain’t working maannn just resend. This moments timeless as a good film and just can’t end.

[xavierreznik-blog]

Sight. Sound. Smell. Taste. Touch. Never a crowd to disappoint, the Villiers had perfected the recipe for an immaculate event, and it appealed to all five senses. B e h o l d ; the ballroom of the Chescote Manor-- a meager moniker in comparison to the estate’s grandiosity, glittering with the grandeur of the Hope Diamond with every twist and twirl of every socialite’s enchanting dress. The happy chatter of prosperity intertwined with the theatrical narratives of gossip filled every crevice. Wafts of unpronounceable delicacies and saliva-inducing pastries teased Xavier’s nostrils as penguin-suited men and women skirted by bearing plates with rich snacks. It would figure that they’d taste even better. Its inhabitants were the picture of upper-crust, with their gloved hands and pearly smiles. They mingled with a liquid ease. Nearest to Xavier, a man had nearly doubled over in guffaws as the two men in front of him fabricated a story that couldn’t possibly hold its entire truth. 

And on the fringes, Xavier. Always watching, never participating. In his eyes, the portrait before him was a distortion. And he did not like falsities. 

( This, in any case, is what he fancied. In his second-hand suit and uneven haircut, Xavier Reznik of Hell’s Courts stuck out like a sore thumb among the modern royalty. Even if he longed to belong, he would not know where to begin. )

And so our vigilante did what vigilantes do second-best; Xavier took to the shadows. With a fluke in his hand-- that would remain full, taken only because it was forced into his calloused palm, he had ducked from the ballroom and now wandered down a lavish corridor adorned with Renaissance paintings. ( Perhaps the thin glass of bubbling champagne gave his fingers something to do. Stripped bare of his tools, the knives and wrenches and crowbars that were worn with love, his hands felt naked and throbbing. ) His steps were calculated. His ears were fine-tuned. If there was to be a disruption, Xavier would catch it, and this duty gave him a comfortable sense of purpose, one that the aforementioned ballroom had not borne. 

The sound of a footstep directly behind him caused him to whirl around. For the first time that New Year’s Eve night, his face was alive.

[haleroth-blog]

Hale Rothschild. Even after so long a time since he’s connected with peoples in the heist society, he is no less easy to fall in love with and be infuriated by ( as was only natural ). Indeed, a both beloved and loathed mouth of arrogance with devilishness in the curve of it can be seen for miles as soon as he falls through the front doors in a bronze haired and ebony suited vision, accented by a woman of crimson as he does --- anyone knows, though, that he will not leave with the same woman he’s come with. It’s more of an vain show of his appeal if anything, but anyone who knows him is well used to his penchant for dramatics.

For the longest time, too, he’s untouchable --- a flittering ghost between the room of joviality among friends and a silent language of proposition to those who catch a dangerously wandering eye. They are daughters and wives and fiancés, but he’s always been a bastard anyway. Or so he’s been told. Nevertheless, for a moment, he finds solace in a momentary silence --- not the bastard, of course, but a suffocating man underneath. Though, not that he doesn’t also well play off an uncharacteristic melancholy when his name erupts in song behind him, turning quick on the heel of an Oxford shoe.

“That certainly is my name,” he quipped, raising a flute in his hand to whom of which had called him, out of politeness one could suppose, but one can never be sure if his gestures or words are sincere. After all, most of the time, they are not. A consequence of a honeyed mouth are sweet lies which taste divine going down, but then, most poisons are. “Long time, no see. Am I right?” an English accent brims over the top of his glass where his lips are poised for a taste of champagne --- same striking grin fitted to his face.