[P] grinning mad, light blue and golden. || party

[Adonai]

« you've been locked in here forever and you just can't say goodbye »
—

I

think—that the Warden of Delumine is drunk.

There is nothing subtle to the tell. Though I have met Andras only once before, it was a memorable enough meeting for me to grasp that I had ended up leaving half—less than half—of the impression on him than my brother, supposedly, has.

To put it less euphemistically: I had not been particularly convinced that I'd been liked.

Perhaps, however, this is due more to my own paranoia-tinged sensitivity than to any fault of the Warden's; the longer I stand besides him in struck silence, the longer I grow more certain of my own misjudgement.

Quickly enough, I polish my smile back to the brightness I had approached him with.

"I was going to make an appearance, anyway, but I'm so happy you thought of me."

The roar of the crowd is maddening; I bring my head close to his, to ensure that I am being heard. "Ah—of course!" My chin tilts as I nod amicably; I bite back a smile when I pick up the cloying scent of liquor on his breath. "You are friends with Pilate, after all. I think he'd wanted me to invite you. My brother," I sigh, "is rather cold with his affections."

I am speaking, again, in euphemisms. I wonder if the Warden will be able to tell; I wonder if he already boasts first-hand experience. Smiling, I readjust the ruff of my cloak.

There is a decidedly deadly thrill, I think, to Andras. Is it because he is drunk that he is utterly unpredictable, or is it because he is drunk that he becomes predictable?

It must be this thrill—his unpredictability in either case—that has attracted the attention of Pilate. Even in childhood, Pilate's fancies had been quick to arrive and quicker to flee. I was fickle because I shunned attachment (and rejection); Pilate was fickle because he was as easily bored as a cat.

Slyly, I peer into Andras' pale, dilated eyes. "You have seen him already, I gather?" It is an innocent enough question. I have no idea how he is going to take it. 

It is a little like pulling a pin.

"How are you?" 

The jostling size of the crowd forces me to keep close proximity with him, or risk being swept away. I cough mildly into my wing, waving down a server and plucking off a shot glass carved all of crystal, before turning to find him again. 

My shrug is loose and noncommittal. "Fantastic. Better than I have felt in a while." I drain the glass; place it with brevity back on the silver serving tray. There is nothing like acid in my tone. Only a hesitantly flippant musing. 

Both of those things are true. Like an addict, I recognise the peak of euphoria as much as I know that it will not—cannot—last. That the crash, when it comes, will be horrific. 

Yet what can I say to him except that I am feeling fantastic? I am. I won't be, later, but right now—I am.

Brightly, I ask, "Are you hungry?"

The drink sears down my throat. 

@Andras speaks

♢