Chapter Text
If there's a night you won't forget, it's this one. Mind you, there's a lot of nights a guy like you won't forget, but this one's got a special place in your mind.
You have it locked up inside a tiny chest in a corner of your brain, with its key thrown away into the foggy darkness of another room. Your mind's like a god damn fancy ass mansion, and it has countless rooms — the one with the dark fog is where things get forgotten. The chest, however, is in a closet, in a room you rarely even visit, and on a floor you rarely go through. But that's enough metaphors, here; the key's lost, and you want nothing to do with what's inside that small wooden chest.
Why, you ask?
Because it hurts.
It all started a couple weeks earlier, when you knew your boss was up to something. You're known to be quite observant — it's part of your job description, even though it's not exactly a job, and it doesn't really have a description — and you tend to figure things out pretty quickly. He's planning another heist, but for some reason, he hasn't said anything to you yet. Which is odd, let's say, because you're his second in command and he's supposed to trust you and tell you all these things, see.
It doesn't take him long to spill the beans either, and for that, you're grateful, since you don't like being kept in the dark when it comes to business. He has a lot of beans to spill too, and even if it seems from an outside point of view that you're not really paying attention, you're actually listening very carefully as he explains where everyone fits in all of this.
It's all kind of like a game of chess, you know? Because everyone in the Crew has a purpose, has something to do, and has to move in certain ways in order to successfully achieve the final goal. It's teamwork, and even if these three other fuckers annoy you a lot most days, you're pretty certain you'd die for any of them, any day. Eventually, your name is brought up, and your white eyes find Slick's face over the newspaper you've been idly skimming over.
Looks like you're the least inconspicuous one here, he says. Should you be flattered or insulted? You quirk a brow at him.
"Do I have a choice?" You're supposed to accompany Slick, in this. Teams are teams, and you guess he has his reasons — he always does, and that's why he's your boss, no matter how many times you have implied you'd do better than him. He's very smart, and those who genuinely underestimate him tend to soon end up meeting their end while choking on their own blood.
"Nope," he answers, and you hold back a sigh, "I've already made the arrangements. All you need to do is wear yer' usually fancy schmancy get up with a different hat, and we're good to go."
Fancy schmancy get up? Excuse him? You bite your tongue, on this. "And what about yourself, boss? You're just as recognizable," you point out.
"Not in the outfit I've planned, I won't be." Before you can ask him for more details, he's already explaining your roles on this further. Well, that's fine — You look back down at the paper in your hands. But the thing here is, the more he talks, the more easily you notice he's avoiding giving you the explanation you may need, in order to fully know what your specific role in all of this is, this time around. Soon, he's done, and you're left in the dark once more. Damn him. Why does he gotta be like this with you sometimes?
He gets up to leave, and when he walks by, you grab his arm and gently tug him towards you. When he turns to look at you, you're frowning up at him little, indicating to him you're not pleased by the pieces of information he might be keeping from you. "Don't I get a more detailed plan too, Spades?" You don't like being fed crumbs, and he knows this, doesn't he?
"We're posing as a couple to get in," he answers, and yeah, your eyes widen faintly for a split of a second in genuine surprise. Okay, that's strange, you inwardly muse. "Then we're gonna shmooze our way close to the jewels and let Boxy and Deuce in, while we keep an eye for things going wrong. Then they'll wait for us in the getaway van. That's it, easy peasy." Yeah. Okay, that makes more sense. Still...
"Right. I do hope you have an appropriate outfit," you say pointedly, hoping to the Godhead he doesn't wear something overly shitty and distasteful.
"Yeah, yeah. Don't bunch ya' boxers, I got something real nice." Hm. You suppose you have to trust him on this, so you let him go, for now. Something's itching in the back of your mind though, and it's only when you look back down at your newspaper that you notice you've crumpled it a little where you've been holding it.
Great. Alright. Fuck this, then.
Fuck you.
Throughout the next day, nothing particularly important stands out. All four of you have your own routines, see, and the heist doesn't change a lot out of them. Slick appears to be focused on everyone's roles however, but that's not a bad thing, exactly. It's annoying at best, but you understand Deuce may need several reminders to keep the information in. The little guy's smart too, mind you, but he unfortunately can be very forgetful. It plays against all of your interests on the worst days, but for some inexplicable reason, he always manages to get the job done in the end.
Whatever the case, it's after dinner that Slick retreats to his own room to get ready, but you're not in a rush yourself. You like enjoying the food you eat and taking some you time to relax before a heist even begins. You like what you do, it's exciting and it pays off, and you wouldn't really change it for the world. But on the other hand, it can also be rather stressful.
That's why you wear a metaphorical mask.
In Earth's Venice, masks were originally made out of waxed cloth, canvas, velvet, lace, leather, and even papier-mâché. They were carefully crafted to represent different figures or perhaps even characters from the famous commedia dell'Arte. The Pierrot, or the Pedrolino, represented a personable, charming and kind individual, who often blamed himself for wrongs never done, and because of his good and trusting nature, he could easily be tricked by others.
It's ironic, you'd think. How out of all the masks there are, you'd pick this one to wear. Perhaps it's not done out of a conscious choice, and let's not even bring up the fact that you're certainly not aware you're wearing it. But at the end of the day, you'd find it quite fitting, for you. Not because you're naïve and kind, but it's because you'd admit to being the opposite. Or maybe you could be these things, when it comes to someone very specific.
It's all rather stupid, see. In the end, you are who you are, and if the mask you wear is this one, or the stoic one you always present yourself with, is very much up for debate.
You're confused, though.
You're confused because you don't know who you are, some days. Who is Diamonds Droog? Is he a cold tool? A lethal killing machine that does only what Spades Slick tells him to do? Or are you Pierrot the fool? A joke? The lunatic who lives in his own little world, unaware of what's actually going on around him?
Eventually, you head towards your own room to get ready. Though you may have countless suits, they are not quite the same, no matter what your colleagues may think; some are more fitting than others, some are more expensive and delicate, while some you may simply wear to go do the weekly shopping at the nearest grocery store. This night, you pick a nice one: an expensive black suit that's almost perfectly cut, and fits your figure like rarely any other piece of clothing can.
It takes you a long time to get ready, because you want to look good. You'd like to think you always do, but this time you have to look the right kind of good. You won't be Diamonds Droog tonight, no. You'll have to pretend to be someone else, and even if you are the less inconspicuous carapacian in the Crew, you believe you are pretty recognizable in the very City you helped create from scratch, are you not? A sound coming from outside draws your attention to the door while you're carefully fixing your tie and the collar of your shirt. Next, someone's aggressively knocking on it.
"Hey, asshat!" Ah. Your lips press themselves together into a thin line upon hearing Slick's voice. "Hurry up or we're gonna be late!" Fine. Whatever.
You finish fixing up your clothes, and when you think you look good enough, you walk out. The fuck is all the god damn impatience about, you want to ask him. But your words get stuck in your throat when you notice how he looks like now. Whatever you've been expecting your boss to wear, it wasn't this.
Gold and dark red decorate his eyes, while his usually dark lips are painted a dark shade of red as well. Blush and eyeliner, and — Godhead the dress. Well, whatever you were about to say is now long forgotten. Are you staring? Fucking dumbass, close your mouth. That's it, good.
"Ya' gonna stand there gawking all night at yer' boss in a dress, or ya' gonna get yer' ass in gear?" Yeah, that definitely helps. And by helps, you mean what he says is like a slap to the face, which easily earns him a glare from you.
"Don't be so impatient, Slick, looking good takes time."
"Then ya' shoulda' given yourself two hours like I did, if you were gonna drag yer' feet." And he's gone again. Fucking okay, then. You roll his eyes at him as he leaves. Asshole.
You need a cigarette.
The silence in the back of the van is awkward, you'd agree. Deuce and Boxcars are chattering away in the front seat, but you're distractedly looking out your window with a cancer stick between your lips and fingers as you approach your destination. You ignore their voices, you ignore the cold air trying to slip into the vehicle, and you idly focus on your breathing, the quiet sound smoke makes when it slides out of your lips and into the air like velvet. It's a beautiful night, you note, and the endless stars painted above are oddly relaxing to look at.
They remind you of many things: of hot sand beneath your tired feet, of purple ships, and of more — countless, at this point of your life — nights like this one.
They remind you of Her. Of them. Of him.
The van comes to a stop at the right spot, and you get out without a word. The cigarette is carelessly dropped, and you purposely step on it with your shoe, before following your boss down the street. Boxcars and Deuce drive on, going to where they're supposed to be. Spades keeps muttering to himself while he walks, as though he's practicing something, but you're too caught up in your own thoughts to pay it too much attention. Looking at him from the corner of your eye, you wonder how the Hell you two are supposed to look like a couple without actually being one. Maybe…
You slip your hand out of your pocket, and move it to rest it upon his back. He's noticed though, and wow, you sure look like a dumbass now, don't you?
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Droog," he snaps, "We're pretending t' be a couple, don't be such a piss baby 'bout touchin' me." He grabs your hand and places it on his hip. Yeah. This is fine. Fucking incredible of you to get like this, what are you, some freshly cloned chalkshell? Pathetic.
"Right," you answer, glancing forward again, your expression falling back into your usually stoic façade. Your dark, clawed fingers twitch against his dress, and you force yourself to somewhat settle for holding him more confidently. Suck it up, Diamonds.
The doorman politely bows to you both, and Slick hands him the tickets you need to get in. Your colleague turns to you, once you're inside. "I don't have pockets, keep this safe," he instructs, glitching his bag into a card and handing it to you. You mutter a, "Fine," obediently nod, and put it away. The main entryway has scatterings of carpacians, both dersites and prospitians alike, which are huddled together having private conversations. The ballroom though, is far more lively, you note.
Laughter, music, the smell of food and voices fill the air, and the atmosphere is warm and welcoming. Like your boss, you discreetly scan the crowd to find any familiar faces in them. You don't currently find any, but keeping an eye open still won't do either of you any harm. It's easy to slip by unnoticed now, and you two blend in without a problem.
Knock on wood.
"Oh! Darling, your dress is gorgeous!" You take a deep breath and straighten up more properly. A short dersite approaches you both, and you don't think you've ever seen her, or the partner she's dragging around before. That's good, you muse. She might just be especially friendly, judging by the toothy grin she's wearing while she chats away with Slick. Again, you look around; being the centre of attention tonight is the last thing you'd want. Thankfully, this seems to be a normal interaction thus far.
You feel Slick tense up, and immediately, you look back down at him. But it's difficult to not snort when you notice how uncomfortable he is, and how hard he is trying to hide it when the enthusiastic stranger keeps patting and toying with his hands. He looks like he needs a way out of this, in spite of your growing amusement, and your brain quickly starts to cook up a useful excuse for him. Thank fuck though, when another, much louder voice seems to flare up from the speakers placed around the room.
"Welcome all! The first dance of the evening is about to start!" A large prospitian has taken the stage, and is currently speaking into a microphone. "Please grab your partner, and get yourselves situated!" Get — huh?
"Oh, joy!" the short woman exclaims, turning to Slick once more. "Come on. Grab your partner there and let's dance!" Oh, joy indeed.
There's something about dancing that comes naturally to you. Sometimes you think you were coded with the innate knowledge of how to move, but sometimes you think it was part of a glitch in who you are, instead. It's certainly come in useful during the centuries, and you won't deny it can be fun in some circumstances, but now? This is stressful. Your anxiety spikes, and you do your best to keep your calm expression from wavering in any way.
You swallow down and stomp on your stupid and nonsensical insecurities, finding comfort in the insistent voice in the back of your mind that reminds you a dance is just a dance, and that's all there is to these things. Business is business, and getting the snotty host's safe full of jewellery is the only thing that matters here.
As you're dragged to the dance floor, you stay perfectly composed. This is all a game of chess, and it should be in your best interests to go with the flow and have fun, right? A hand is placed on your partner's hip, while he slides an arm over your shoulder. Long fingers intertwine with each other's, and you carefully scan Spades' expression for any sign of further discomfort. There seems to be a lot going on in his mind, so you emotionally detach yourself from the whole situation, in order to give him some space.
You gently push and tug him around the place when the music finally starts, white eyes locked onto his features.
There's a lot going on within the depths of your mind too, but you manage to remain just as calm as you're supposed to be. How gorgeous he looks tonight, how your blood-pusher longs and aches for crumbs of his attention, how you deeply wish this was something more than good business and teamwork. His face is so close to yours that you can't help but glance briefly down at his lips and be drawn even closer to him.
You can feel his hot breath ghosting against your dark lips, the never dulling fire in his eyes — the strength and persistence in them —, the comforting warmth radiating out of his body.
You take a step back.
You spin him away, and it's now that you notice that all that's keeping the room from going dark, is the golden flickering of candles and fairy lights. You'd like to think he's your light, sappy as it may be. He's the reason you're here, alive and well, and you've always been very much aware of how much you actually owe this man. You owe him your life, you owe him everything. He chose you for your team, he chose to trust you with his plans, to help keep him safe in the desert later on, and to keep you around when the City started to rise from the remnants of a long gone civilization.
Whatever he may see in you, you're thankful, and you know you'd follow his light to the frayed edges of the universe if he were to ask you or need you to.
You can smell his scent when you wrap an arm around him and dip him low: a mix of perfume and something that's undeniably his, which you can't quite put your finger on. It's intoxicating, and dizzying and thank the Godhead, the song's ended now, because you need some air. Curtly, you bow to him, and give him a quick look you hope he'll understand. And then, you walk away.
Clawed fingers delicately stab a piece of cheese with a toothpick, and then bring it up towards your mouth. The place is messy in an organized way, and you've noticed a pattern between all the guests. Certain groups get together and then dissolve, showing off each person's economical status and their role in this fucked up society you find so amusing. Some people go in pairs, while others appear to be alone, or in slightly bigger groups. You suppose everyone's wearing a mask tonight, showing everyone else just what they want them to see.
It's entertaining to pinpoint, and more than a little useful, just in case something happens to go sideways tonight.
You play your part well though, slipping into and blending in with a couple groups here and there, engaging in idle conversation and displaying the fake persona you've pulled out of your well-ironed sleeves for this one occasion. You gather information, calculate everyone's moves and map out the whole situation in your mind. Everything is going according to plan, but you try to keep things as neat and tidy as possible. You're an efficient and polished gear in the machinery that is your Crew, as always, and you take some pride in that fact.
As for Spades? He's away playing his own role in this, making sure Boxcars and Deuce are doing what they're supposed to do backstage — therefore, he disappears for a while on you, as it's expected of him. But you do, however, spot him later on, and upon excusing yourself from the polite conversation you've been sharing with a fine and taller prospitian, you decide to ask your boss for a quick report on your other two colleagues' status and work.
A hand on his shoulder, and a hushed question. He turns to look at you, and you pause almost right away when you notice there's something off about him. You blink. You frown. "Are… Are you drunk?" you ask him under your breath, in what could be considered a scolding manner.
"Just a little —"
" Sir —"
"Only a lil' tipsy," he continues, words slightly slurred together, like his tongue's now gone numb or some shit. Oh, this is fantastic. A little tipsy, your ass. "You're… not mad at me, are you?"
A heavy sigh leaves your lips, and you promptly pinch the space between your eyes with annoyance. "No, I just…" Ugh. Fuck's sake. The Hell's going through his head now, exactly? He should've been more careful, is what he should've done. "... Let me text H.B. and C.D."
Perhaps it was a bad choice for you to leave him alone when he's in an inebriated state, but at the moment it seemed logical to talk to Clubs and Hearts first. You hide in a darkened and empty corridor, walking past a couple of carapacians that were carelessly engaging in a particular kind of dance with their lips, and far away from prying eyes and all the god damn noise that's accumulated in the main ballroom.
You pull out your phone, and start tapping away on its dimly lit screen with your thumbs. Boxcars laughs, Deuce is a bit concerned. You tell them you'll keep an eye on him, you tell them to listen to you, for the time being. Next, you ask them what you couldn't ask Slick, and they answer that everything's going as smoothly as it could be. But you yourself will have to stay for a while longer where you are, and make sure no suspicions arise from between the party's many guests.
You don't like this. Why is something bad always bound to happen? The possibility of a heist being as successful as it was originally planned keeps being lower than the very dirt you four built your hideout over. Which is definitely saying something, considering all of you live underneath the City's streets. An annoyed chitter escapes you, and you hold yourself back from crushing your thin mobile phone with your hand. You stuff it back inside your pocket, and head back outside to the noisy crowd and music.
Your heart drops, your body goes cold.
In the other end of the room, Slick is practically all over that friendly prospitian from earlier, playfully smirking, and talking and — she kisses his head.
You feel like throwing up.
Suddenly, your throat is very, very dry, and you need a drink, too.
You don't know how you got here, but it's too late to think about such a trivial thing when you down a third glass of whatever the fuck alcoholic drink this is supposed to be. Your eyes are locked onto Slick, and there's a loud voice in the back of your head, telling you how you should fucking stop drinking at once, how one drunk asshat is enough, but by god, it helps dull the persistent pain within your ribcage a lot. Everything starts becoming a weird blur to you after that.
You remember being outside again at one point, you remember the cold air harshly biting against your shell, you remember his pointless complaints.
Lazily taking off your suit jacket, you hand it over to him in order to shut him up and warm him up. He's shivering, and you imagine that wearing only a dress in such a chilling night might end up giving the guy a cold if this is kept up. "Alright. Come on and… ah... ебать."
"Where's Boxcars and Deuce?" he stammers out, somehow putting on your jacket.
"Hm… I think…" you start, your accent thick, "I told them to go home? After they were done getting the jewels." You frown, trying to recall whatever other conversation you had with them.
"We gotta walk back?"
Slowly, you blink. "... It seems so," you mumble in response. This simply keeps getting better, doesn't it?
"Cabs," he says suddenly.
"Huh?" You didn't catch that.
"Cabs."
Oh, right. That's not a bad idea. You've brought enough cash for a cab ride or three, didn't you? Wrapping your arms around yourself as the cold starts to slowly settle into the rest of your body, you watch Spades flag one down quickly enough. Stumbling into one of the backseats, you sigh at the slight change in temperature. The inside of the car is warmer, comfier, and since you can't keep your posture straight any longer, you lean back and slightly to the side, towards the window tiredly.
Slick must have a similar idea, since he ends up basically plastered to your body, an arm wrapped around your waist and with his head resting gently on your chest. His growing warmth and the little movements of the car as it drives on, is enough to almost lull you to sleep right then. The cab stops a couple blocks away from the base soon enough, though — you might be drunk, but you don't want this guy knowing where you live — and the two of you are forced to submerge yourselves into the cold air once more.
When you get back home, the both of you are shivering again like a pair of god damn maracas, limbs numb and frozen; going down the ladder in such a way is therefore no easy task at all, and your boss ends up stepping on his dress before landing on his ass on the cold floor, making sure to punctuate the embarrassing sight with some loud curses. He's still shivering when you offer him a hand to pull him back on his feet.
Now, let's keep in mind you're also dizzy as Hell, just as cold, as inebriated and shaky just as he is, so it's no wonder you end up on the floor with him too.
Fucking fuck. Your nicest suit's touching the floor, dishevelled and wrinkly, and damn it, you absolutely hate this night. There's nothing positive about any of this. Your thin lips part in a sneer, sharp teeth threateningly displayed; an angry growl that flares up and boils from your chest dies as soon as you notice how close the two of you are to each other again. You stare down at him, your faces not too far away from the other's, and you're reminded just how truly close you were to kissing him earlier. His hips are warm next to your arms, and like two planets that keep orbiting and drawing closer to each other due to the force of their gravity, you feel undeniably drawn to him once more.
Your earholes are ringing, you hear your own heart beating furiously inside your chest, and you look into his eyes.
People often say cheesy shit like everyone's eyes are windows to their very souls, and at that moment, you have to both agree and disagree at the same time. You see stars burn, stars die, black holes hungrily swallowing everything that surrounds them, you see something endless and wonderful, strength and power, and beauty .
You lean down just as he leans up. You hear him curse, you feel your heart leap from your chest and soar in a painful, yet amazing way as your lips meet and engage in a dance much like the two carapacians' you walked past some time earlier near the ballroom.
Without pulling your mouth away from his, you manage to get both of your asses off the ground, and promptly push him backwards until his' hits the edge of your bedroom's desk.
This is not how you ever imagined things to go like, and if anything, you were expecting something more on the romantic side of things, after a long-needed cheesy confession and some genuine affections. But you're certainly not complaining, and neither is he, this night.
There's something oddly pleasing about all of this though, and not only in a physical sense. Something warm settles inside your chest and wraps around your blood-pusher while you two engage in such a private affair. Is it strange to think of him as a piece of yourself that's been missing? Or to think of this closeness as something akin to coming home after a long and tedious day of work? There's a certain connection between you two that's almost tangible tonight, and it's so very hard to ignore.
You wonder again if you're a fool, if whatever you've been feeling through the whole evening is entirely one-sided, or not. If you're being tricked and used, if you're the Pierrot that keeps living in his own imaginary world, and whatever you may sense is actually there, or if it's simply another figment of your active and boring imagination.
You melt because his lips fit perfectly against yours, because he's all you've ever really wanted — jewellery and money, and power be damned — and because for a brief moment, you feel as though you have it all. After a few more moments, you're free-falling over the edge of a tall cliff right after him, clinging to his body as though if you were to let go, he'd completely disappear from your life.
Burying your face into his neck again, you do your best to calm your racing heart and your agitated breathing. A mutter in Russian slips past your lips, and you're not even sure he's actually heard or understood it. A sigh — hesitantly, you take a step back, but before you can drag him to bed with you, he's standing up on his own and… patting your shoulder.
What?
You blink at him, giving him a questioning look. Confusion turns into raw, undeniable pain when he walks past you and leaves your room without a word or even bothering to glance back your way.
Maybe you're both, it finally occurs to you: the fool, and the tool. A joke, and a killing machine.
One same god damn mask.