keeping up pretense | open
The Spring Ball.
Frivolous though these things might be, Nick’s life was an invariable bouquet of such frivolousness and this ball was, whether he liked it or not, painstakingly important. Not to Nick on a personal level, nor an emotional, but in respect to his reputation, his social status, and his life as he knew it as a golden member of the prestigious and elite.
It was also an opportunity. Because with dates mandatory, this was an occasion in which tradition worked in Nick’s favour. Potential girls who would both look good on his arm and make him look even better, would look at him with more than apathetic amusement or attraction this week. They would be looking at him in consideration, if he were lucky. They would be looking at him and musing, were he to ask for the pleasure of their company on such an evening, would they say yes? Would he be a good candidate?
He’d like to think that most of them would think, yes, he would. Because Nick Mercer was a gentleman. He was charming, well-mannered, polite. He had an infectious smile, one which some young woman could foreseeably take home to mother, a sharp mind, and he was flirtatious and sweet. He was also handsome and looked undeniably fine in a suit.
Nick as the Nicholas Mercer he presented to the student population, was a catch. It was only in the privacy of his own dark spaces hardly even ventured in his head, where he had doubts, and even then, it wasn’t his handsomeness or his wit or his charm that he considered up for debate. It was his intentions and his motives that even he questioned. In his weaker moments. The ones he did his best to suffocate.
This afternoon, he was strolling casually through the breezy courtyard, lazily scanning the roves of students as he sipped on a sweet Americano. Lucas would of course be going with Lauren, so it wasn’t like Nick would have much of a wing man in his friend, in terms of finding himself a date.
He was honestly looking forward to a time when he was in a relationship—but the sad thing was, his want for it wasn’t in service of his emotional needs, but rather a convenience thing. Being with someone meant he could stop trying so hard to impress, and to make a statement. Having a girl to call his ‘only’ on his arm, meant she was doing half the work for him. It meant maintaining stature, maintaining relevance. He’d be talked about, thought about and respected, and that was what mattered. At least in terms of what he’d grown up believing and being taught, it’s all that ever mattered.
ONE. Miles was never attractive. If anything, he was well-groomed. His suits were tailored every week, and he polished his shoes every afternoon. The cologne he wore was brought over from Paris, France, where his father would travel to negotiate dealings with his partners. It was also suspected that his father had a lover staying in a penthouse that he owns in Paris. That, though, is to never be questioned. The young boy, nonetheless, was one who did not have the features often marketed across media. All he had, if all accounts measured, was his height. This is a fact that was pointed out by his sister. She would giggle in her angelic beauty, her chocolate hair in curls, and her sweet smile would tease him for looking like a sloth. She even mentioned that her friends found him to be a character from a cartoon. How charming.
TWO. The girl that fawned over him was beautiful. Her strawberry blonde hair rolled down to the mid of her back, and her lashes would bat intrigued with the pale complexion that differed from her olive tone. She found him mysterious, and after reading Twilight, all she wanted was her own Edward. Miles made the perfect match, for he sat in the back with no company, his skin was too pale, his eyes were depicted by Stephanie Meyer to an exact, and he was smart enough to claim that he knew enough due to his long life. The girl was not in love with Miles, and she was not heartbroken because Miles broke up with her. She was upset that her Edward Cullen was not devoted to her Bella aesthetic.
THREE. This ball was another event thrown that was a waste of money. It was an excuse for the elite to occupy their time, for they have nothing better to do. It’s a design that tricks the public into thinking that they are all grander than life when the truth is that they are just lost souls with money as their only friend. It’s an event of validation. Miles Kenilsworth was familiar of the phenomenon, for his family would host parties to cover the fact that they would be sitting on the couch with no communication if the parties were not thrown. He was all too aware of the truth that manifested.
Strolling in the quad, he was crossing a path with his hands stuffed into the inside of his tailored dress pants. Miles was appreciating the nature of spring, enamored with the music of shuffling trees and the whistles of birds. He was, in that moment, a naturalist. It was the contact of gravel and feet that caught him off guard, for his walk was not as obvious---his steps were light. Averting his focus toward his approaching company, he would have been keen of passing along as if he did not notice the other, but with where the pair stood, it only made sense that he, at the least, said hello. It was good conduct for the Riot Club members.
“The event calls for all white.” Miles nonchalantly claimed with the roll of his neck, a mocking chuckle following leaving the taste of alcohol onto his lips. It was a permanent flavor that only lingered for he drank too much. It was not alcoholism---it was more him being desperate to not feel the emptiness; his eagerness to get his heart beating once again. “When have you ever seen me in anything other than black?”
