09-14-2018, 08:33 PM
Vulgaris
“Your money is on the table.”
The old Italian man helps him with his cufflinks and mutters something that Vulgaris does not understand. He almost flinches when the barber pats his face lovingly but he refrains and instead offers a shrug as he dismisses the excited thanks he receives.
“You’re the only barber who makes house calls anymore. I should be thanking you,” he says as he wipes the last of the aftershave from his face. Then the man is speaking more hurried words before showing himself to the door, being sure to close it as gently as possible so as not to disturb his client. A slow sigh eases from his lungs before he adjusts his tie. His phone has gone off twenty-seven times and he can only assume his own clientele are eager for answers regarding their accounts but he just can’t be bothered at the moment. Besides, that’s what assistants are for. Tonight has been set aside for Leliana and he blacked out the whole day for her two months ago.
He slips on black leather gloves before sliding behind the wheel of his car and heading to the venue. Without a girlfriend pleading for him to drive like a sane human being, he takes curves however he pleases and wonders what speed he would have to be going to get the car airborne down these steep hills. But the building comes into sight too soon and he’s frowning slightly as he pulls up to the valet. There’s a scowl on his face as he hands the keys to the young boy whose vest isn’t even tailored to fit him. His own is tailored precisely to his measurements, boasting his broad shoulders and proud chest while maintaining a certain level of sleek elegance to it. The tie around his neck is silk and just a bright enough red to distract from his busted knuckles when he removes his driving gloves. The valet boy swallows nervously and leaves to park the matte black car.
Vulgaris had entertained the thought of covering up his neck tattoos and wearing a mask to fully immerse himself into the masquerade. In the end, however, he supposed he was always wearing a mask anyway. His eyes burn through the crowd without much concern as to which of his clients (or ex-wives) are here. They can eat shit after all the money he’s earned them this year alone. They all might as well be invisible the way he looks right through them, the way his eyes seem to stare into someone he hates far ahead of this moment.
Until he spots her.
Then, he’s weaving through the crowd a whole head taller than most. The corner of his lip still has dried blood from the last fight he got into but it looks better than yesterday, than the night he came home drunk and still declaring his victory to the neighbors. Leliana never asked why he slipped out of bed in the middle of the night or how he got into these fights and maybe that’s why he loves her. She doesn’t follow him into dirty basements where he beats men to a pulp for the thrill of it like one of his former wives had. Leli just holds him and cleans the wounds every time, listens to his shitfaced love poems and tries to kiss him holy.
In the dull roar of the music, he is silent as he slinks up behind her and presses tight against her back. His hands slide along the curves of her body unabashed, hungry for her touch as he always is. His lips find the crook of her neck and he plants delicate kisses all along her skin as he breathes in the perfume she’s wearing. It’s probably something he can’t pronounce but words aren’t his thing anyway.
“I left my lair just like you asked. Now maybe you can reconsider my request?” he asks against her ear before laughing crudely. He releases her hips finally and steps in front of her to offer his arm for her to hold on to. This benefit may be a sham but there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do to keep her happy.