miles baines: riff-raff! street rat! (mimicks) wrote in emillion, |
The gardens were one of the few places where nobles and commoners could safely cross paths; Miles wasn’t in disguise this evening, and he’d slipped past the guards for fresh air and the outdoors, gulping down the cold and letting it burn off the alcohol in his system, a cold burn. He’d been drinking too much, he knew. It was refreshing, not having to keep his wits about him at a party, perpetually guarding each and every last movement—but there was such a thing as being too free. Miles dug his hands into a nearby pile of snow on a bench, letting it numb his usually-nimble hands, and started packing them into a snowball. Letting the cold seep into his bones. From behind, another man had been creating a snowball. Like mirrors (or brothers), Evander’s heart, too, pumped alcohol that night. Perhaps that loosened him enough to hurl the icy projectile at his friend’s back. Under bright lights or the city’s gaze, he side-stepped truths and avoided true friends to keep appearances. At this party, in this garden, the guests were preoccupied. No one was watching. They could afford one night. The snowball hit Miles square between the shoulder-blades, caught completely off-guard (who the fuck threw snowballs at the royal palace?). But the judge’s stifled chuckle gave his position away if the ambush had not already, and the mime spun with his own weapon raised. He flung it, but the element of surprise wasn’t on his side as it had been for Evan. The shot crumbled upon hitting the other man (who had opted to laugh again rather than dodge the attack) in the chest. “Asshole,” Miles said, after his eyes quickly darted around the darkened courtyard, ensuring they were alone. “That’s your honorable asshole to you.” Evander corrected with a mock sternness in his furrowed brow and wagging finger. “Ah, pardon.” The mime executed an overly-theatrical bow, with a flourish of nonexistent coattails (his clothes were cheaper tonight, less the expensively-tailored wardrobe of Mssr. Norwood, Esq). He lowered his head in effusive obeisance, the snow trickling into his collar and down his neck with a shiver. “Your most righteous and honourable asshole. I forgot I was in the presence of a very dignified, very serious Judge.” But there was a lightness in Miles’ voice and bearing as he grinned at the nobleman. After a pause, the reason became apparent: “You look better,” he said (and if Miles was equally surprised at the sincerity that slipped out, he tried not to show it). “Better? Dashing, I’d say,” the older man said with a dramatic wink. These playful reprimands of Evander’s bore none of the forced authority he had when schooling stray nobles, shepherding the black sheep back into the family (painting them to be colors they were not). No business for once, no false fronts. No pretending he had to be perfect. No stuttering, either, Miles noted. “But,” the judge continued, still beaming in the dark of night, “not here to talk about my good looks, aye?” “What if I am? You wouldn’t know.” The mime dusted off his hands, wiping them off on his coat. “I don’t know why I’m here, to be honest. I’m not performing and I’m not—” A beat, a slight fishing for the right term, “working, so there seems little point.” “For drinks and merriment, then,” the orator suggested, closing the distance between them with a stride. Miles paused, pondering, “Well. I suppose that’s as good a reason as any,” he said with mock reluctance, but he was smiling. “Let’s take a stroll. Some merriment, then, before we have to return to each our roles.” It was a brief interlude, a saunter around the snow-covered gardens. Were he some fifteen years younger, Miles might have grabbed more snow and dumped it down Evan’s aristocratic collar—but they weren’t teenagers anymore, and there was some semblance of class required of them (though their classes diverged) So off they walked, into the cold. |