andras

e doesn’t want to go. Really, he doesn’t. 

When the invitation arrives, it sits on his desk for three or four days. A SOCIAL PARTY GIVEN BY THE IESHANS it says, GOOD MUSIC - REFRESHMENTS SERVED. A dove drops it on his windowsill mid-afternoon, just as the first snow is starting to fall in Viride (though, most flakes are filtered out by the thick canopy): a carefully folded envelope neatly stamped with gold wax, first the big, black, blocky letters, and then–perhaps worse–a note scrawled on the back.

“If you come, you will be my guest. Isn't that only fair? You'll finally meet all of the family.

- Adonai” 

He often sees it in the corner of his eye, wax glittering just enough in the cold winter light that it draws the attention. By the time he snatches it off of the desk he’s lost count of how many seconds he’s spent glaring at its place in his room. 

Andras doesn’t want to go to the party. He can think of nothing worse than a crowd full of nobles with cheekbones like knives and decadence dripping off every back like they’re bathed in gold.

It’s just that, the more he looks at it, the more he thinks it must be Pilate’s doing, the more he thinks about Pilate– Andras knows he is going to the party.

---

Andras tries not to see the guards, taking stock of each attendee, exchange glances over his back as he passes, flickering faintly with static. He enters with a small group: two of his people that heard the word party and couldn’t resist, four nobles clad in fine, deep purple silk that waves as it catches the light of the lanterns placed in a row on the front lawn, and him– sparking, glowering down at the path before him as he walks. 

It all feels more familiar than he likes as he follows the crowd first through the front door, then the foyer, then the main hall where each noble is introduced before him–Andras Demyan, Dawn Court Warden–then out through the courtyard to the kitchen. Every banister and inset shelf is rimmed with garlands of holly and outside it is just as light as in. From each angle he can hear music, and when one starts to fade there is another musician there to take its place.

He thinks, with a pang of warmth, that he could never dream something like this into being. 

Before he is aware it’s happening he’s back in the kitchen, somehow even larger without sunlight streaming in through the open doors. Andras carefully shoulders his way through the crowd–a blend of newcomers claiming their drinks before wandering toward their partners to dance, persons starting their second or third rounds, and more than a few lounging in the heat of the room, watching candlelight sparkle in the shelves of glass bottles and (of course) watching Pilate, too–and takes his place at the bar.

He reads labels. He reads labels on green and blue bottles at the back of the bar. When he hazards a glance in Pilate’s direction he feels like he’s falling, and falling, and falling, except no one else looks and he never does hit the ground. Someone leans over the bar with hooded eyes and coos. There is a girl next to him, short and well dressed, that sees Andras watching her watch Pilate and looks away.

The more Andras watches the more he doesn’t quite care. It isn’t surprising. He can hardly blame them when his head is swimming, swimming, swimming– or drowning.

“Prince Pilate,” he waves, grinning that wolf’s grin, all teeth-- because even if Pilate expects him, Andras knows there is something worse than usual in serving him anything. "Is it a bother to ask what you'd recommend?”

This can go one of two ways, he thinks. Andras wonders which one.