Being agreed with always feels good, especially for Salvador. He casts a glance over towards Tony in response. His expression remains plain, calm, allusive, though his insides stir.Â
“Well,” Salvador starts padding around the room. He settles on the opposite side, examining the extra shelf of books adorned within the wall. He doesn’t recognize a single title. Salvador didn’t allow himself much time to read, aside from a few classics that he forgets about the minute he sets the novel down for the evening. Besides, books were boring, and Salvador didn’t enjoy being bored. “Rich people love to show off. It’s all they have outside of all that wealth, because when you’re rich you never know what or who’s true. So, you drown yourself in lavish events and items. You show off, you make a scene.” He continues, shrugging his broad shoulders. Perhaps Salvador’s thinking is helplessly black and white, simple, but it’s not something he’s ever been able to shake. He had his prospects aligned already and his opinion was difficult to sway no matter the subject.
Salvador moves to approach the other man, settling a few feet beside him before the bookshelf Tony was exploring carefully. He glances down towards the book in his hand then, wondering what might have intrigued him enough to pick it up. Another obstinate projection within Salvador is that he believes every action has some kind of motive. Nothing is ever simple. Nothing is trivial in pursuit of mundane pleasure. No, everything was something and something was everything. And as Tony turns to him now, putting away the book, Salvador averts his eyes to his face, observing his expression carefully. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. I mean, the man is letting us prance around his home as if it’s nothing. I’m surprised others don’t find that curious even in the slightest.” Or maybe Salvador was simply just not trusting. For a moment, Salvador feels a brief sense of nervousness at the sight of Tony, and he’s quick to look away once more. Maybe it was the fact that the cogs inside the other man’s mind were certainly working, questioning Salvador’s own words and motives. With his eyes settled elsewhere, he continues, “You’re smart to question.”
“Hmm. Then I’m glad I never became this sort of person. I’d hate to have become so—shallow,” Anthony admits. He wonders then, is that what his parents used to do? The answer springs into his mind immediately—of course they did. He remembers all the dinner parties they used to throw when he was a child, all those times he’d try to escape his governess’ watchful eye and sneak into the smoking room late into the evening, to see his father talk and drink with his friends. Sometimes, his governess would consciously look away and let him and for some reason, neither his father nor his mother would get mad. Most of the time, they had Tony play something on the piano in the library in front of everyone and he always happily did so—he loved the attention.Â
But now, even though his parents aren’t very happy about the fact that they can’t host like they used to anymore—both because they lack the funds and because their so-called friends turned their backs on them the moment their wealth dropped down to an unsatisfactory level—Anthony is. Most of the time, he finds these balls a waste of time. He prefers his gatherings smaller, more intimate. And yet, he’s still not sure what to think of tonight. At least anything other than how absolutely bizarre it’s been.
Anthony notices the way Salvador’s gaze follows his movements. “Coleridge. I had a friend at school who was obsessed with reading him. We learned some of the poems by heart,” he explains, a fond smile spreading across his face at the memory. “A couple years back I was inspired to write a concerto after reading Christabel—never finished it, though. Probably because Coleridge never finished the poem in the first place,” Tony adds as he trails his finger along the book’s spine once it’s back on the shelf.Â
“Mister Ashton’s been smart enough to provide people with distractions. The food, the music, the drink. There’s hardly any room for thinking when you have wine and champagne flowing this freely.” Anthony himself has made sure to stay relatively sober tonight—even though he’s been rather excited about tonight, there’s still an element of distrust that governs his thoughts. “Have you tried to leave, though? I haven’t seen the carriages since they dropped us off. And no matter where you go, which gate you seem to pass through, you always come back into the gardens. I tried going twice—the first time around I just thought I took a wrong turn. But then I tried again and the same thing happened. I don’t really know what happened. I keep thinking I must’ve imagined it.”
It did not bother Anthony this much before but now that he’s told another person about this, it gives him a fright. He wonders what the other man will make of this—whether he’ll think of it seriously or blame everything on the excitement and alcohol. The latter is exactly what Anthony’s been trying to do to rationalize what happened.
The comment Salvador makes draws a hearty chuckle out of Anthony. “I’m really not,” he says as he drops his gaze to the floor. A smile remains on his face, though. “I think I’m rather dull.”
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