black ties & little lies | vince & tyler | suwha auction
It had been said before—by people who had nothing better to talk about, which was far too many of them—that Tyler Warrington Jr. was not the same person without his house that he was within.
Of course, it was all conjecture. True conjecture, even so; rock solid fact sifted, by accident, out of the fantasy.
But those that crossed his path outside the house rarely saw the many masks he took off (or perhaps put on, depending on whom one asked) when he crossed the threshold and relaxed into the privacy of his own space; his own wife, his own son, his own world. Nobody except Marya knew what her cold, foreign husband was like when he locked himself away in the warm, homeland hearth of the manor; other than Nathanial, who’d yet to know his father outside of these walls.
All this to say: Tyler fucking hated entertaining.
He liked parties just as much as he was required to; liked socializing for the power gains, despite never quite learning the unspoken language that slithered between the flowery English words that tasted like rank perfume on his tongue. The shorter the better, was his preferred method of socialization. One drink, two tops, and as many long silences as could be packed in before the ice cubes melted.
Events at his own manor? They were the worst of all. A dinner party he could make chilly peace with, because Marya was always charming and there was a reliable cadence to those affairs – drinks, dinner, dessert, drinks, goodnights. But beyond the stressed and frantic lead-up that spun Marya into a tizzy before any important event, and the echoes that overstayed their welcome long past the guests who’d done the same? Beyond the reminders of other people’s fingers touching this things; other people’s overfamiliar energies crowding his halls? Even beyond the recent pregnancy news and his protectiveness; lingering remnants of his Master’s bidding tucked away inside the house; the fact that objects were changing hands under the table even as money passed over it?
It was fucking awful—чертовски ужасно—to have to be the world’s version of the Warrington heir when he was here, unplanted on his own soil; choking on the dirt and feeling like his roots were cut.
So, with a charming and polite smile, Tyler excused himself from the auction for some air.
Air was the last thing on his mind; it was motion he needed, a brisk walk and a room free of an audience. There were myriad ways to regain his composure, all of them at his fingertips once he was freed. Going over the accounts and family financial statements; scribbling off a quick letter in caustic Russian cursive to his mamochka; simply pacing his study and ensuring that the safe was still locked and the real artifacts he’d swapped for the cheap fakes downstairs had not been touched, could still be delivered to the Dark Lord after nightfall.
It was the ajar door, not any of those things, that caught Tyler’s attention first.
Nobody else was supposed to be in the library but surely this young man—this stranger—knew that already.
Anyone who smiled as quickly and as persistently as him either thought they were getting away with something or didn’t have much capacity to think at all.
Clearing his throat, Tyler set down the drink in his hand on a nearby console table. He watched as condensation sweat ran down the glass and pooled onto the unprotected wood, unable to realize that his temper was rising until he first realized where his caution came from – not wanting to leave potential evidence of having been here, rather than something petty like a stained ring. Tyler positioned himself solidly in the doorway, impassable as his expression.
And though he said it with a smile, the words were not kind. HIs implication was clear enough: I don’t believe you, but I like to play with my food before I eat it.
Tyler had burned too much energy today mollifying the people he needed to in order to make his life easier. He would not set himself aflame to warm this strange intruder that didn’t mean a thing to him.
“Unless you were hoping to piss in one of my books,” he added. It was a very reasonable type of anger, the type he held onto. In his opinion, anyway. There was no sadistic gleam in his eye, no jumping desperately at the chance to let something out. Just a man who knew what had to be done, if it had to be done; if lines were crossed.
Politely, Tyler readjusted one cuff of his shirtsleeve.
“This area of the house is off limits. The right direction—for you—is likely through the front door, down the walk, and back to wherever you arrived from.”
Truth be told, Vince wasn’t terribly used to his charm - cranked up to eleven as it was, dressed as sharply and as put together as he was - not... working.
Sure, there were the odd times here or there were it just didn’t land with people, but Working Vince and Regular Vince were very nearly two different men. If he was in a casual setting and his charm didn’t work, well, that was some defect on the other person’s chemical makeup. This was Working Vince, though; personable and charming and thoughtful for a living, until he wasn’t, but that usually didn’t happen until a good twenty minutes or so into a rough interview.
This wasn’t even an interview; this was a man, a smiling but clearly quite tightly strung man, who did not like Vince off the goddamn bat.
Fuck, Vince thought to himself, eloquently, mostly at himself for getting caught so easily, blinking at the blonde man and keeping his best, most charming grin still on his face. He wasn’t an amateur, at least.
“You caught me, man. It’s an insatiable curiosity - I wander into the wrong room, I see a bunch of books, I can’t help it. Proper bloody rude of me,” he looked the man up and down as subtly as he could. Looking for a sign of lessening tension, no luck, or even something that might identity a better avenue of conversation. “You must be Tyler Warrington,” that was a no-brainer if the books he was potentially about to piss in were his. There was a trace of an accent, too, which he’d known would be there going in. Not that he knew he’d have to go head to head with the man of the fucking house.
Warrington’s next few statements, accompanied by the scariest-casual adjustment of a shirtsleeve, did at least do one thing positively: sharpened Vince’s awareness, slid him firmly toward taking this seriously when he was still hovering in that balance of, well, maybe a joke or two could help.
“We really have gotten off on the wrong foot, haven’t we?” A bold step forward, a bolder hand held out for a shake. “I’m Vince Sinclair, from the Daily Prophet. I really mean no harm, mate, I’m just here to do a little write up of the auction. I was invited, got the note and everything.” He blinked again, mentally noting the exit options - Moody’d be proud, maybe, if Warrington wasn’t blocking the only obvious exit and the only other one was a lovely little window at the back of the room facing, he assumed, the bloody street.
“It’s a lovely home,” he offered up, wondering how far flattery would take him with such a... serious looking man.
