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Chapter Text

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul.

Gepard's stared down many people before. Their eyes always reveal the truth behind their honeyed words and little simpers - this nobleman wants to curry favour with his house, this noblewoman is hoping to set Gepard up with her daughter for marriage. To be a noble is to live a life of perpetual dishonesty, and for the genuine, frank soul that Gepard Landau is, such a life is nothing short of exhausting. For the sake of the Landau name, he's always smiled through everything, politely turning down offers to get to know a certain lady's daughters over tea, or to go hunting with another nobleman's young son. Such political pursuits don't interest him.

What does interest him, however, are masquerade balls. Think about it: the opportunity to socialise without knowing who anyone is, thus removing the weight of societal expectations completely. It's such a strange thing, that the addition of a single mask could change so much, but that's what makes these events interesting. They're always hosted by a variety of different noble houses, to allow for maximum participation. The only requirement is that all partygoers must wear masks. Technically, there's nothing actually stipulating that guests must be of noble descent, but there's a certain standard of dress code required that's nigh impossible for the average commoner to achieve with their earnings, even if they saved their entire lives.

Here, no one knows he's Gepard Landau, heir to the esteemed Landau house, second wealthiest of all in the land - the Rands have the privilege of being at the top, in that aspect. Here, the only real thing that can be seen of anyone aside from the elaborate outfits is their eyes. Gepard lingers in a corner of the ballroom, listening to the minstrels plucking at their instruments and marvelling at the miraculous scenario that has unfolded before him. By this point, he'd usually have been approached by no less than three people wanting something or other from him or his father - who doesn't like events like this, so that's really just one more reason to attend.

"Oh, looks like we've got a new player on the scene," drawls a masked woman from a distance, observing the lone Gepard. Tapping her fan thoughtfully to her lips, she flicks it open, concealing her smile. Beside her, her tall and brooding companion merely sighs, crossing his arms across his chest. Both of them wear masks - the woman's is painted a deep wine purple, swirls of black ink spiderwebbing across one half of her face. Her compatriot's mask on the other hand, is a simple black piece that covers the entirety of his face, with gold cracks etched onto the surface and a frown permanently carved where the mouth should be. 

"Don't do anything rash, Kafka."

"Oh, I won't," she giggles. "I'm just here to see how this plays out. Elio said he'd show up, and here he is. It's time for the opening act to begin, Bladie." Her eyes, a haunting lilac, gleam with eager anticipation. Blade follows her gaze across the ballroom, eyes narrowing as a certain figure makes its way through the crowd of idly chatting guests. Kafka notices, but merely chuckles in amusement.

"Well, well. I guess Elio really was right about tonight's predictions." She watches the masked woman weave her way through the crowd - turning multiple heads as they go - flute of champagne in hand. Blade huffs.

"Please. As if you weren't the one who slipped the invitation under his door."

"All according to the script. Look, there she goes." Kafka's gaze tracks the newcomer's movements, flitting from one social circle to another like a butterfly - never quite content to stay put, always leaving after a few minutes of cordial small talk. The good lady has certainly made a few waves with her appearance, having only been recently sighted at these masquerade balls. No one knows which house she truly hails from, nor the origins of her birth. Most of the regulars have somewhat established identities, or at least, if they are well-known among the royalty, no one says a word about it. Even in a room full of masked strangers, however, this woman is a complete enigma.

The midnight blue of her dress shimmers as if the very stars themselves are woven into the fabric, hugging her ample curves. Unlike the billowing, layered dresses worn by most of the noblewomen present, hers is sleek, cut to accentuate a perfect hourglass figure. There's an artful slash running up the side of the skirt, baring long legs wrapped in black stockings and a pair of matching dark blue heels. Draped artfully around her bare shoulders is a luxurious white feather boa, paired with silvery earrings shaped like roses. Her every step exudes confidence, strutting proudly across the room without a care as to the numerous eyes fixed on her - or maybe she's secretly enjoying the attention, who knows.

Right now, however, she's making a beeline straight for Gepard, who's unsurprisingly already caught sight of her. It's too late for him to run, though. She's got him in her sights, and before Gepard can even think to excuse himself, there's a gloved hand resting on his arm and a sweet, sultry voice purring for his attention.

"Are you new here, sweetheart?" she croons, in that silken sweet voice. It sends a shiver coursing up Gepard's spine, eyes locked on the stranger's face and the mask that covers half of it. It's a deep blue, with silver swirls under one eye, several ostentatious white feathers framing one side of the mask. Her lips are red as sin, darker than any shade of lipstick Gepard's ever seen any respectable noblewoman wear. He's acutely aware of how revealing the top of her dress is, with a hauntingly low neckline just tempting him to look down - but he refrains, because Gepard Landau is not a common degenerate. It's her eyes that draw him in the most, though - he's never seen such a vivid shade of green before. They shine almost like polished jade, cat-like and shimmering with unspoken mirth. 

Right. She's asking a question. Swallowing down his initial nervousness, Gepard musters the most polite smile he can manage - he's certainly had plenty of practice, after sitting through one too many boring social events. Tonight, however, is far from one of those. "I don't believe we've met, no," he replies, before gently removing her hand from his arm - ignoring the lingering warmth of her palm. As is befitting of a young gentleman, Gepard instead takes her hand in his and presses a respectful kiss to the back of it, before letting go. "How may I address you, Miss, ah..."

The woman giggles, seemingly amused at his manners. "Oh, you. No need to be so formal, boy, just Lady Brughel will do." Strangely enough, she doesn't ask for his name in return, which is a relief - Gepard hadn't actually thought that far, and he's also a terrible liar when put on the spot.

He tries to clear his throat to break the tension in the air, only to find that it's a bit too dry. There's servers hovering around the edges of the room, offering drinks served upon trays or delicate little snacks meant to be eaten in one bite. Somehow he's barely noticed them, they blend too much into the background with their relatively plain attire - at least, compared to everyone else here. Brughel must've have noticed, because the next thing Gepard knows, she's waving over one of the waiters. Plucking two flutes of champagne off of his tray, she hands one to Gepard, before sending the man off with a blown kiss. Watching him stumble away with a noticeable flush on his cheeks, Gepard raises an eyebrow at her.

"Was that really necessary, Lady Brughel?"

"Whatever could you mean, my good sir?" Brughel titters, before holding out one of the glasses to Gepard. "I merely flagged him down so I could get us drinks. Seeing as he was so kind as to do his job, I was merely showing my appreciation." There's an amused twinkle in her eyes that makes it clear to Gepard she's mostly just teasing, one hand raising the glass of champagne in toast. "Come, come, let us toast - to our newfound friendship, and may it last as long as we live!"

Knowing nobility and their unfortunate tendency to fall prey to 'mysterious circumstances', that's not saying much. It's a grim thought, but it's true. The power struggle is perpetually ongoing, and frankly, Gepard wants no part of it. It occurs to him then that there's every possibility - no matter how slim the chance - that this drink is similarly poisoned, and that some cruel god of fate is up there laughing at his naivety. It's a cheap, but effective tactic amongst nobles - discreet, with zero bloodshed, and just vague enough that half the time it's excused as a sudden death due to unexpected heart attack.

He'd only accepted the glass from her out of polite habit, but the longer he thinks about it, the heavier it feels in his hand. Not drinking would likely offend her, and some part of Gepard's brain would prefer to believe that the first person to approach him all evening isn't out to get him. He'd come to this party in hopes of getting to let his guard down, what's the point if he's just going to fret over unseen knives in the dark? Brughel's gaze is fixed on him expectantly, still waiting for him to drink. 

To hell with it. 

"For as long as we live," he echoes too late, clinking his glass with hers and lifting it to his lips to take a sip of the clear, bubbly liquid. Unnoticed, Brughel's eyes darken for just a fraction of a second, before she too, laughs and takes a swallow of her champagne.

Gepard's expecting some kind of inquiry as to why the long pause. What he doesn't expect is just how direct Brughel is about it.

"Aha, did you think I slipped a little something in your drink?" She's watching him through half-lidded eyes, a coy smile curling at the corners of her painted lips. Gepard nearly chokes on his next sip of champagne, forces it down with a grimace and a mild fit of coughing.

"I - I beg your pardon?"

Surely Gepard misheard. There's no way anyone would dare speak so openly of assassination. Especially not in a room where anonymity is key to ensuring the safety of everyone attending. His little outburst has attracted a few curious looks, but Gepard hastily waves them off with a weak explanation of "something got caught in my throat". For her part, Lady Brughel looks far too amused at his fumbling, even if she's trying to hide it behind her fan - since when had she even been carrying that? 

Leaning in closer, Brughel taps him on the nose with the tip of her fan as if in reproach. "You're so easy to read," she chides, and Gepard nearly apologizes before realizing he really shouldn't be admitting further weakness to this strangely devious woman.

"Being paranoid all the time is just no way to live," she sighs, shaking her head. "If you're going to jump at every little shadow around the corner, you'll die of fright before anyone can even get to you. Where's the fun in that?"

She's not wrong. It's just unusual - and rather morbid - for someone to speak of such things so casually, as if completely unbothered by the concept of death at someone else's hands. He's saved from having to make any further response by the sound of the giant bell tower tolling, signalling the midnight hour. Most of these parties tend to be held in the late evening, and he's seen many a couple steal away from the ballroom for some privacy. Brughel glances up at the clock, lips forming a small "o".

"It's been nice meeting you, darling," she drawls, snapping her fan shut and tugging her feather boa closer around her shoulders. "I'm afraid a lady must catch her beauty sleep, so this is where we shall part ways for now." Throwing him a coquettish little wink, Brughel sets her glass down on the tray of a passing server waiting to collect it, before turning towards the exit. Gepard's hand shoots out before he can stop himself, catching her by the shoulder. Brughel pauses, surprise written in the high arch of her eyebrows.

"Are you really leaving so soon?" Gepard blurts, already beginning to regret having acted out of impulse. They mean nothing to each other. All he knows of her is her name, and even that might well be fake. It shouldn't matter to him whether she leaves early or not, and yet Gepard can't help but be somewhat disappointed. Her lips tick upwards, Gepard flushing at his own brashness.

"Why, do you miss me already?" Brughel shoots back. Gepard's left stuttering on his own words, helplessly outfoxed by the wily woman. Giggling at the look on his face, Brughel gives him a little pat on the shoulder. "I know we've only just met, but try not to get too attached, sweetheart. Besides, there's always next time."

Next time, huh. Gepard hadn't originally planned on making attendance a regular habit, but if he's being honest, he just might after this. The atmosphere is so much more freeing compared to any of the other social events he's often dragged out to, and there's the promise of a certain masked woman to bear in mind, now. "Next time, then," he agrees, only to pause when a new thought strikes him. "Next time, promise me we'll get to share a dance together."

Brughel seems somewhat surprised at that, eyeing him with barely-concealed mirth. "Scared I'll run away from you?" she teases, running a gloved finger down the middle of Gepard's suit jacket. His jaw works, forming nothing but empty syllables. Brughel takes pity on him, then, lifting a hand to her lips to blow him a kiss - just like she'd done before. "Don't worry, I'm sure we'll meet again. I'll dance with you next time, I promise."

Just like that, she's sweeping out of the ballroom, leaving behind only the lingering traces of her perfume and the haunting image of those jade green eyes burned into his mind.

In the depths of the spider's web, she awaits.

"Well? Did you get what you were looking for?"

One hand fiddles with the masquerade mask, toying with the white plumes attached. "I suppose you could say that," he replies, staring at the way the dim light seems to make the silver paint on the mask glimmer like the moon. 

She regards him curiously, head resting in the palm of one hand, elbow propped up on her knee. "You don't look so pleased to have met him. What's wrong? I did as agreed - I left him that invitation letter underneath his door, just as you asked."

 "Ahaha. It's nothing, really. I just didn't expect him to be quite so handsome." The smile is back, but it doesn't quite fit as well as it should on his face. "What's it to you, anyway? I thought your lot didn't care what happened so long as you got to enjoy the show." Giving the mask another long look, he carefully tucks it into his inner jacket pocket for safekeeping, before turning to face Kafka once more. 

"It's nothing," she echoes, but there's the faintest hints of a mocking smile present, pulling at the corners of her lips. "I just thought you'd be happier. I made it easier for you to do your master's bidding, didn't I?"

His expression morphs into something more dangerous, eyes narrowing to slits of dark, almost poisonous green. "That's enough, Kafka. The rest isn't any of your concern."

Kafka laughs, and the sound echoes throughout the hollow chamber. "Is it, now? I suppose I'll just have to watch and listen, then."

Chapter Text

There's fewer guests in attendance today. Maybe it's the recent political unease that's been getting stirred up as of late, or maybe people are just too busy to attend - Gepard's heard some unsettling rumours here and there of a potential future shift in their current power struggle, but he would really rather not get involved in things beyond his reach. It does mean, unfortunately, that he sticks out like a sore thumb just by hovering around the edges of the room, watching couples twirling across the dance floor.

He's come here early in hopes of catching Lady Brughel, but it seems the good madam is determined to once again be fashionably late. Disappointing, but somehow Gepard's not the slightest bit surprised. Hell, he's not sure why he's even looking forward to seeing her again this much - they're practically still strangers, even if they'd shared a toast together and a promise to dance the next time they met. So caught up in his thoughts is Gepard that he barely notices the young woman standing in front of him until she clears her throat rather pointedly, jerking him out of his reverie.

She's so short Gepard has to actually crane his head down to look at her properly. "Sir? If you don't mind me asking... why are you not dancing with someone?"

Does it look like he has anyone to dance with? Gepard fumbles for an excuse, but comes up pitifully short. "I didn't feel like it," comes the honest answer eventually, though he's more curious as to why she even approached him in the first place. The mask she wears is crafted to resemble an owl's face, with feathers adorning the sides and delicate markings painted on in imitation of an owl. There's even a little hooked section where the nose should be, to mimic a bird's beak.

She nods, reaching for something at her side before coming up empty-handed and shaking her head. Gepard can just about barely make out the self-reproaching words uttered under her breath. "My apologies for bothering you," she begins. "I was just wondering what you were doing all alone off to the side, when everyone else seems to be otherwise occupied."

It's a bit of an odd way to initiate a conversation, but maybe that's just how she is. Brughel certainly hadn't minced words with him either. Out of courtesy, Gepard holds his tongue, instead smiling somewhat stiffly down at the young lady - her blue eyes are strangely piercing, it almost feels like she's staring right through his mask. "I was waiting for someone, but she's not here yet," he replies, glancing over at the entrance just to check again - still no sign of Brughel. "Is there something I can help you with, miss?"

"There is, actually. I just wanted to ask if you've heard anything about the recent," and here she drops her voice to a whisper, so soft Gepard has to bend down just to hear her. "The recent assassinations. It's been a frightfully tense time for everyone, but no one seems to know who's responsible. I'm not accusing you of anything," she hastens to add, waving her hands to dismiss any protests Gepard might have. "But I just thought someone here might know more about what's been happening. Have you... heard any news?" She's leaning forward practically on her tiptoes, almost too eager to hear his opinion.

Unfortunately, the intrigues of the nobility and their power struggle have never interested Gepard. "I can't say I have," he answers, though he's got the feeling that isn't what she's looking to hear. "It's awful, but I'm afraid I don't know any more than you do. Secret plots and murders aren't something I like to think about."

"Ah. I see." Her disappointment is palpable, clouding her expression with something almost akin to resignation. One hand moves to push her mask up by the nose, even though it hasn't once budged in their entire conversation. Gepard frowns, struck by an odd sense of deja vu. He's seen that gesture before, hasn't he? It makes no sense for her to be trying to adjust her mask like that when it isn't even loose, so why would she...

And then it clicks - the owlish blue eyes, the tiny stature, the way she'd seemed almost out of place in a room full of masked strangers - almost as if she herself isn't used to wearing a mask. "Pela?" Gepard questions somewhat incredulously, and the way she whips her head up to goggle at him only confirms his suspicions. "What are you doing here?"

"Wha - how did you...?" She trails off, squinting suspiciously at Gepard, before her eyes widen with realization. "Gepard Landau?" she breathes, as if everything is falling into place, now. "I should've known, but wait, how did you know it was me?"

Well. He can hardly tell her the exact reasons without coming off as rude. "Lucky guess?" he offers, though Pela's instantaneous squint is rather telling of her belief in him. This is both unexpected and awkward. Who's to say he hasn't already seen someone else he knows here, just disguised? "Sorry, was I not supposed to know it was you?"

Pela sighs, one hand on her forehead. "Considering this is a masquerade event, yes, my identity was supposed to remain a secret. As long as you don't reveal it to anyone else, however, I believe it'll be alright."

Now he's curious. "You haven't answered my question," he presses. "What are you doing here? I never took you to be the type to like these sorts of things."

She stares at him flatly. "Speak for yourself. Serval never told me you were fond of these - and she tells me plenty about you."

Fair enough. Pela and Serval have always been fairly close - they'd bonded over their love of music, though a more unorthodox kind than the usual classical music often played at such formal events. Pela's sigh brings his wandering eyes back to her - he'd been looking at the doors again. "In any case... I'm here to investigate the recent assassinations. Normally, it's the product of some house war, and the assassins are always caught soon after." Pela pauses to once again push up nonexistent glasses, before catching herself and huffing out a sigh. "This time, they're having trouble - several high-profile targets have already been taken out, and no one's any closer to finding the person responsible, or even their employer."

That can't be good. While Gepard doesn't exactly have many friends in high places, murder is seldom a good thing to be pleased about. Justice must be served, somehow, but with a killer on the loose and the next target unknown... it's rather unsettling, to say the least. No wonder there's fewer people here tonight. Pela coughs into her gloved hand, expression suddenly far more serious than he's ever seen it. "You should be careful, too, Gepard," she murmurs. "You're a Landau, and that might put a target on your back, if their aim is to take down every wealthy noble house."

Before she can say anything more, there's a sudden increase in the murmuring of the crowd. Gepard automatically turns his head to look, and there she is in all her bewitching glory, Lady Brughel Poisson. This time she's wreathed in wine red, with yet another sinfully high slit cut into the thigh. The white feather boa hasn't changed, though, and neither has her mask. 

Pela follows his gaze, lips pursed. "Is that who you were waiting for?" she queries, but Gepard doesn't even get the chance to answer, because Brughel's already started strutting towards them.

"Ah, what's this? Talking to another woman behind my back... you're so cruel." Once again, Gepard finds himself hopelessly distracted by the blood red of her lips, now drawn into a pout. "And who might you be, little missy?"

Startled by the unexpected address, Pela raises her hands and shakes her head quickly. "No, no, it's nothing like that! I was merely asking this gentleman where the bathroom was located, that's all. Right, uh..."

"Leo," Gepard helpfully supplies, as soon as he catches on to her cover story. "Yes, I was just telling her it was that way," raising a hand to point in the direction of where he hopes the bathroom actually is, because he has no idea. Pela shoots him a somewhat panicked glance, but goes along with it anyway, dipping into a polite curtsey and hastily excusing herself from the conversation. Gepard watches her go with the distinct feeling he's directed her in completely the wrong direction.

"So, Leo," Brughel drawls, gods, how does she make two syllables sound so alluring? "I must say, I didn't take you to be that sort of man. The moment I'm absent, you turn your eyes to other women, is that how it is? How naughty of you."

Gepard raises his hands in defense. "I would never dream of it," he declares earnestly. "Please, Lady Brughel, I'm afraid you've got the wrong idea. Pe - she really was just asking for directions, and I happened to be here early waiting for you, so she approached me."

Brughel cocks her head, clearly intrigued. "You were waiting for me?" she coos, and Gepard flushes. "You're such a good boy. Hope you weren't waiting too long, then - ladies need their beauty sleep, after all."

Gepard's quick to shake his head, eager to dismiss her concerns. "No, it wasn't that long of a wait," he says, before hesitating, almost afraid to come off too eager. "If you don't mind, Lady Brughel, could I take you up on that promise we made, the last time we met?"

Behind the mask, Brughel's eyes widen, one hand coming up to cover her mouth as if in shock. Has he said something wrong? Before he can backtrack, she's giggling and holding her gloved hand out to him in invitation, eyes alight with mischief. "My, aren't you the bold one tonight," she teases, and Gepard can already feel the blush creeping up the back of his neck to reach the tips of his ears. "I've barely been here five minutes, and you're already asking me to dance? If I'm not careful, I daresay you might sweep me off my feet before the night ends and carry me away to your home."

He has no comeback for that, so instead he takes her hand with as much dignity as he can muster and leads her out onto the dance floor. The orchestra is playing their usual soft, slow waltz, and even their faces are covered with plain white masks - probably to retain anonymity as well. Gepard's only ever learned to lead in dances, so out of habit, he holds his left hand out and places the other on Brughel's left shoulder, assuming the usual position.

Instead of placing her hand in his, Brughel flashes him a foxy smirk, before reaching up to slide his hand off and plant her hand on his left shoulder, grabbing his right hand and pulling him into the steps before he can protest too much. "Let me show you how it's done, boy," she croons, Gepard stammering out various weak, short-lived excuses before he's forced to shut his mouth - there's enough eyes on them as it is. A lady leading her male partner in a waltz like this is unusual enough to begin with, and Gepard's far too aware that Brughel is already by far the most striking person in this room alone.

"Are you sure?" is all he manages to get out in the end, struggling to adjust to the steps - he's not used to this, too distracted by the warmth of her hand in his and the delighted curve of her lips. This was never in the lessons. "This isn't exactly - well, I'm not saying it's not allowed, but it's just rather..."

"Unusual? Unheard of? Not something commonly done?" Brughel finishes the sentence for him, though her smile is far too wide for her to be feeling any sort of remorse for the position she's forced him into. "Oh, you nobles and your stuffy traditions. Is it so bad for a woman to take charge now and then? I think you've probably figured this out by now, Leo, but I'm no boring noblewoman."

That much, he has to agree. "It's not like that's a bad thing," he mumbles, cheeks already stained pink - probably to the tips of his ears, too. 

Merciless as ever, Brughel's quick to seize on the muttered admission and hound him for it. "Oh, I see how it is," she hums, clearly delighted with herself. "So that's how you like your women, then?"

If he's being honest, he wouldn't know the answer to that. He's never liked women in that way, per se. Growing up was a thoroughly awkward experience when he found nothing in common with his peers, who would often sneak off to have forbidden dalliances and trysts with pretty girls of all kinds - from other ladies to mere servant girls, as long as they were willing. Some of his hesitation must show in his expression, because Brughel pauses, though her feet don't stop moving. With the mask on, it's impossible to tell what she's thinking just from the pursing of her lips, the way her eyes burn through him. "Well, no matter," she eventually declares, somewhat proudly. "I wouldn't mind being your first, in that sense. How's that sound?"

Gepard predictably splutters at that, nearly squeezing her hand so tight she winces. She's not even remotely wrong, though - he's never yearned for the presence of someone else this way before, has never quite anticipated someone's arrival with such eagerness. It's out of character, most unusual, but then again, nothing about Lady Brughel Poisson can be quite said to be 'normal' in the first place, so there's nothing new there.

"I, well," he fumbles for the right words, not wanting to potentially come off too crass. "I would be honoured to call you my first, I guess?"

Brughel stares at him for a moment, as if she can't believe what she just heard. Then she throws her head back and cackles, heedless of the annoyed stares immediately directed their way for disrupting the peaceful environment. "You really are something, Leo," she chokes, pretending to wipe a tear from her eye before setting her hand back on Gepard's shoulder. "Goodness, dear, you really don't know your way around women, do you? Well, I suppose that can't be helped, it's just part of your boyish charm. Get ready, you'd best hang on tight for these next few steps, and don't let go, alright?"

Before he can open his mouth to ask why, she releases his hand in favour of supporting his waist, with the other on his back while she dips him backwards with a fanciful flourish, so low his legs have to bend to stay standing. The hand that's still on her shoulder is clinging on for dear life, but thankfully Brughel pulls him up after that brief, heartstopping moment with the wickedest grin he's ever seen on anyone. For a moment, their faces are inches apart, Gepard's flush only deepening when he realizes just how closely she's holding him. There's even more eyes upon them now, but he's too flustered to begin thinking about them, not when Brughel's smirking at him like that. It's a move usually performed by the male lead, after all, and here he is getting absolutely walked over by a strange woman he's only met twice.

"You-"

"Aw, don't be mad, sweetheart, you should've seen the look on your face. Good job holding onto me, by the way, very nice balance you've got." Brughel's hands are back in position, though the warmth of them lingers on his back and waist where she'd held him earlier. She's eyeing him up, trying to read his expression through the mask. "Did you really hate it so much? Promise I won't do it again next time, if you do."

Next time. Oh, does that promise send a shiver down his spine. What is he doing, getting attached to someone whose real name he likely doesn't even know? "I didn't hate it," he sheepishly admits, falling back into the rhythm and matching his footwork to hers so they don't both stumble. "I just didn't expect you to do that. You're quite the mysterious woman, aren't you, Lady Brughel?" It never occurs to him how strong she is, to be able to easily support his weight without letting him drop, and how unusual that is for a noblewoman.

"Let's just say I've got my own charms, too," she giggles. All too soon, however, the music comes to an end, and several couples shuffle off of the dance floor while others file in to take their places. Brughel leads him in not just one, but three dances, surprising him each time. From a slow waltz to something with a little more pep that has him fighting to keep pace while following her every move, it seems there's nothing Brughel doesn't know how to dance. By the time they're done, they've both worked up a bit of sweat, and thankfully, she escorts him off the dance floor after the third song. They end up occupying one of the empty tables, Gepard politely pulling her chair out and waiting for her to take a seat before joining her. 

"I never took you to be such a skilled dancer," Gepard admits, still a little out of breath. Normally he dances with one person, and then opts out for the rest of the night, lest he be swamped by people trying to curry favour with him. Brughel doesn't respond immediately, instead scanning the crowd and waving one of the wait staff over, with flutes of sparkling champagne at the ready.

"Here you go, darling," she hums, handing Gepard one of the glasses and taking one for herself, before dismissing the waiter with a little wave. "I thought you might need a drink after all that exercise. Drink up, now, wouldn't want you collapsing on me."

Coming from anyone else, that might seem more than suspicious. Gepard pauses to level her with a stern look, which only causes Brughel to burst into a fit of laughter while covering her mouth with one hand. "Come now, dear, we talked about this the last time, didn't we?" she teases, eyes sparkling with mirth. "Why, you just saw me call over the waiter for that glass of champagne, surely you don't think I'm out to poison you?"

Once again, she never fails to surprise him with just how openly and bluntly she mentions the concept of poisoning - an assassin's tool, as well as a nobleman's best friend, in many cases. It's not a topic most like to hear about. "One can never be too careful," Gepard retorts, giving the glass another brief inspection before determining he can't find anything wrong with it, after all. Shrugging, Gepard takes a grateful sip of champagne and swallows, the bubbly liquid fizzing and popping at the back of his throat as it goes down. 

A glance at the massive clock face overlooking the entire room shows it's once again nearly midnight, and as expected, there's already several guests starting to trickle out the doors. He ought to be one of them, but there's a tugging pull that bids him stay just a little longer in Brughel's magnetic presence. He's never quite known anyone so bold and unapologetic, a far cry from the usual reverence he's accustomed to being met with. Brughel catches him staring at her once, lips curling into a knowing smirk. In the end, it's she who makes the first move, draining her glass and setting it down on the table before standing up. "Well, as I've mentioned, ladies need their beauty sleep," she declares, and Gepard takes that as his cue to stand as well. "It's been fun, Leo, but I must be going, now. Don't miss me too much, alright?"

"I'll try my best not to," he jokes. "At least allow me to see you to your carriage, Lady Brughel."

Smiling, she shakes her head. "That won't be necessary. But before I go - you've got a little something on your face, darling, let me get that for you."

A pair of gloved hands cup his cheeks, before Brughel abruptly leans in so close he can smell her perfume - heavily floral, with the faintest hints of something odd that he can't name. This close, he's struck by the vivid jade green of her eyes, the pupils almost slitted like a cat's. Then she brushes her lips just shy of Gepard's own, kissing the corner of his mouth and pulling away with a triumphant grin at his flustered state.

"I - you, what, did you just -"

"See you next time, sweetheart," she coos, flouncing off as if she didn't nearly just give Gepard a heart attack, while he gapes after her in stunned silence. His cheeks are unbearably hot, Gepard can feel the blush spreading down his neck already, and it's not from the alcohol. Slowly, he raises one trembling hand to trace the spot where she'd kissed him, surprisingly gentle despite her forwardness. His fingertip comes back stained wine red - her lipstick, presumably. Drawing in a shaky breath, Gepard wills his heart to quit pounding so fervently in his chest, beating an incessant, irregular rhythm. Only once he's certain it won't leap out of his throat does he blow out a heavy sigh, still staring in the direction she'd left in. 

"You... You really are a most unusual woman, Lady Brughel."

Chapter Text

"It's time you started settling down with someone, Gepard."

"Excuse me?"

From his seat behind a massive oaken desk in the centre of the study, Gepard's father glowers at him. "You heard me. When are you going to cease this foolish game of playing hard to get and refusing every noblewoman who throws herself at you? I assumed it was just some silly thing youths do, but you're too old for such games, now."

"But it's not-"

"-not a game?" his father finishes for him rather testily. "I see no other reason for this behavior other than you finding amusement in it. Your older sister is unmarriageable as she is, that wildcat, and as my only son, it is your duty to marry well." Lowe Landau eyes him, cold blue eyes sharp as shards of ice. "I've been gracious enough to turn a blind eye to your boyish pride, but no more. You will find a wife, or I will do it for you."

Gepard's fists are clenched at his sides, trembling with barely suppressed frustration. He's barely into his 20s - just shy of 25, even, and already his father is insisting on marriage? "I don't see what the rush is," he tries to protest, only for his father to raise a hand and stop him in his tracks.

"And just why are you so set against marrying?" Lowe demands, rising from his seat to slam a hand against the table with a resounding thud. "You've always known this was your duty. Out of all my children, Gepard, I assumed you were the one that understood my expectations best, but it seems I was wrong." 

Gepard flinches. The barb stings, and for a moment, there's that familiar guilt he remembers all too well growing up, whenever his father caught him doing something deemed too 'unmanly' for the likes of a Landau heir. But he's older now, surer of himself, stands his ground resolutely. He's not a child anymore, relying on the praise of his parents. His fists tighten, knuckles white from the strain, blunt nails digging into his own palms hard enough to leave little crescents in the skin.

For a moment, they mirror each other - two blond-haired, blue-eyed men, with the same stubborn set jaw and identical wills of steel behind them. "I have no need of a wife at the moment," he begins, only for Lowe to cut him off once again.

"Maybe it's your mother's fault for spoiling you too much, boy, but in case you haven't noticed, nobles have been dropping dead like flies as of late." This again? Gepard's about to protest when his eyes catch sight of his father's hands, shaking imperceptibly. 

Cold sweat trickles down Gepard's back at the dawning realization - that his father's voice shakes not just from ire, but fear. As if to press the point home, Lowe continues, every word sharp as a knife. "As my only son, it is your duty to marry and produce heirs for the family as soon as possible - before they decide to set their sights on me, or even you." His point is punctuated by a finger aimed straight at Gepard, who staggers back as if he'd been struck. 

"Do you understand now, Gepard?" his father rasps, and all of a sudden, all the rage seems to seep out of him, leaving behind only one old, defeated man. "This is for the good of the whole family, and you're the only one who can do it. Be grateful I'm even allowing you a choice in who you marry, so long as the marriage benefits our family."

With his heart sinking in his chest, so low he fears he'll never feel it in his body again, Gepard nods. For the family, that familiar voice in his head echoes, and for a moment, he pictures Brughel's face, smiling at him with that coy expression of hers. Brughel, the only woman who's ever caught his interest, the only one he could ever see himself marrying, if he absolutely had to. 

Then the doors swing closed, shutting out her face from his view, along with what little hope he might have had. Even without asking, Gepard knows it's impossible to ask for her instead of any of the others.

"Do you understand, Gepard?" his father asks, firm as a commanding officer on the field, and just like an obedient soldier, Gepard nods, swallows his screaming heart back down into his chest.

"Yes, sir."

He shouldn't be doing this, but that very same night finds him back at the masquerade party, scanning the crowd for any signs of that mischievous smile he's come to miss. After all, who's to stop him from seeking out company when his face is hidden behind a mask, and no one - save Pela - knows who he is? Yet amongst the sea of masked nobles, none stand out to him the way she does, and Gepard leans back against the wall, disappointed. Perhaps coming here wasn't the best idea. He's about to make for the exit when a warm hand settles on his lower back, startling Gepard into whipping around coming face to face with the most handsome man he's ever laid eyes on.

Now this stranger, he's sure he's never seen before. With a white and red half-mask and a devastatingly charming smile that has Gepard's stomach swooping down to the pit of his gut and back up in a flash, just who is he? Dark blue bangs fall over one side of his face, almost artful in their messy display, the tips ending in white at the nape of his neck. Jade green eyes dance with barely-concealed mirth, lips curved into the ghost of a smirk. Even as he stares, jaw working to form some form of coherent greeting, the stranger chuckles - the sound is rich and velvety, has him hooked from the minute it spills past his lips.

"Like what you see?"

"Um," is all Gepard manages to get out in that awkward moment, all too aware he's been staring for far longer than is considered appropriate and yet unable to tear his eyes away. "Hello."

The man cocks his head to the side, lips curling into a smirk that has him thinking instantly of Brughel, and what she would say if she were here. She'd probably tease him for being such a flustered mess. Suddenly desperate to salvage the undoubtedly terrible first impression he's made, Gepard presses his hand to his chest and dips into a slight bow - the simplest way to show respect he can manage.

Much to his dawning horror - because gods above, who allowed this man to be so unfairly attractive? - the masked man doesn't return the gesture, but instead reaches for Gepard's hand and presses a kiss to the back of it, all with that same devilish smile. "I seem to have made quite the impression on you, good sir," he drawls.

"Leo," Gepard blurts. "My name is Leo."

"Sampo Koski, at your service, milord," the man - Sampo - replies, clearly trying not to laugh at Gepard's apparent eagerness. It makes him feel like such a fool, but he pushes past the embarrassment regardless. "Leaving so soon? I'm sure the ladies would all be in tears to see such a handsome face go."

"I can stay," Gepard immediately replies, only to cringe at himself - is he coming off too strong? Much to his relief, Sampo seems to like that answer, extending a hand out to Gepard in invitation with an almost expectant look.

"May I have the honor of claiming your first dance of this lovely evening, then?" Sampo queries, and Gepard places his hand in Sampo's gloved one without thinking about it - it's warm, even through the fabric of the glove. "I'd hate to leave someone like you both bored and lonely - there's no worse way to spend the night. This way, my sweet prince."

Gepard's no prince, but the way the pet name falls so easily from Sampo's tongue makes him want to indulge in that fantasy, even if only for a single night. Ordinarily, you'd never see such open coupling up of same sex pairings, but in a room full of secrets and hidden identities, he supposes it couldn't hurt. He's known for quite some time now that women have never interested him, but he's never met a man so easily capable of taking his breath away - that is, until tonight. 

They take to the dance floor just as the music shifts to something more jazzy, with a bit more spice in it than the average slow waltz. As soon as Gepard places his hands in the standard leading position, Sampo clicks his tongue and swiftly rearranges them so that he takes the lead instead, not unlike a certain bold lady Gepard knows. Sampo's got one hand on the back of Gepard's shoulder, with the other firmly clasping his free hand. 

"What are you-"

"Less talking, more dancing, sweetheart," Sampo chuckles, before stepping forward with a surety that nearly has Gepard stumbling to catch up. It's only quick reflexes and the vaguest recollections of dancing lessons from years ago that keep him from making a total fool of himself. Sampo gives no quarter, challenges him with every step forward and to the side - Gepard has no choice, swept up in the tempo Sampo sets for them both, not even hearing the music anymore. All the blood roaring in his ears has drowned out the violins in the background, every muscle in Gepard's body taut with barely-suppressed thrill.

It's not everyday he gets such a skilled dance partner, or the opportunity to perform such a lighthearted, quick dance. Where Sampo leads, Gepard follows, helpless as a puppet manipulated by its strings. He hasn't touched a drop of alcohol, and yet somehow he feels like he's already drunk, swaying in giddy ecstacy in time to Sampo's movements. They're gliding across the dance floor like ghosts, heedless of anyone else around them - Gepard's world has narrowed down to just him and Sampo.

Like this, he can feel the weight of Sampo's steadying hand keeping him grounded, subtly nudging him in the right direction whenever Gepard falters. There's no time to pause and wonder just how or why this mysterious stranger picked Gepard of all people to dance with for the night. All he knows is that he's never been more enraptured, attention caught as surely as a fly in a spider's web. "Having fun?" Sampo teases, spinning Gepard in a quick turn that nearly has him tripping if not for other man's arms around him. "Oh, hang onto me, now, wouldn't want to drop you during this next bit."

"Excuse me?"

In response, Sampo releases his hold on Gepard's shoulder and throws his arm out to the side along with Gepard himself. Quick as a flash, Sampo reels him back in and plants both hands on Gepard's waist as soon as he's in range, before raising him aloft in a breathtaking spin that has him clinging to Sampo like his life depends on it. Gepard's knees nearly buckle beneath him the moment his feet touch the floor, saved once again by the grace of Sampo holding him upright. It's not a move he's ever seen performed by any traditional ballroom dancer, far too extravagant and flashy for most nobles' tastes.

"You - you could've given me a little more warning than that," Gepard gasps somewhat indignantly as soon as his legs have quit shaking. Sampo just laughs, before twirling him around and pulling Gepard close on the tail end of the spin, one hand resting on the small of his back.

"I had a feeling you'd follow through just fine," he simply replies, that knowing smile almost infuriating in its smugness. Once again, he's reminded of a certain cheeky masked woman, has to fight to shake the image of her face out of his mind. "Do you need a break to let your poor legs recover from the shock, perhaps? I don't mind getting us drinks."

Much as he'd hate for Sampo to release him, he likely does need a breather - that dance had been a lot more than whatever he was originally expecting. Gepard casts him a somewhat thankful look, reluctantly letting go of Sampo's hand as soon as they near the edge of the dance floor in order to grab ahold of the nearest chair and lean on it. Sampo barks out an amused laugh at the sight, before whisking two glasses of red wine off the tray of a passing server faster than Gepard can blink. "Here's to a delightful first meeting, Leo," Sampo declares boldly, pushing one of the glasses into Gepard's hand before he can refuse it and raising his own glass in a toast, waiting expectantly for Gepard. 

"To our friendship," Gepard says eventually, lifting his wine glass and clinking it with Sampo's. "May it last for the rest of our lives," he adds, if only because it sounds right - he hasn't had much experience in making toasts, that's usually something saved for the event host. Much to his relief, Sampo doesn't laugh at him, and instead obligingly drinks down his wine. Gepard does the same, expecting the usual unpleasantly bitter aftertaste he's accustomed to with alcohol. This time he's surprised by the overall sweet tartness of the wine, swallowing just a touch faster than he normally would and setting the glass back down on the table beside them.

"I do apologize if I came off as snappy earlier," Gepard begins, eager to smooth things over even if Sampo hadn't looked like he'd taken any offence to Gepard's earlier chiding.

"No need for that. If anything, I should be the one apologising for stealing you away from the countless ladies who no doubt wished to dance with you." Sampo pauses, looking past Gepard's shoulder at something behind him. "Well, I daresay you'll get your chance to do so now, seeing as there's a little flock of birds coming our way. Look sharp, handsome, to your left."

True to his word, a trio of young ladies soon approaches the both of them. The one closest to Gepard clears her throat shyly, nudged forwards by both of her giggling companions. All three are masked, dressed in beautifully made gowns tailored for the occasion, adorned in sparkling jewels meant to catch the eye of any interested gentleman. Dread creeps up his spine, Gepard plastering a polite smile on his face as the young woman dips into a curtsey. He already knows what's coming.

"Excuse me, dear sir, but would you be interested to join me for a dance?"

There it is. That's how it always starts - an invitation to do something together, whether be it dancing, having tea, or something similar. Gepard has to fight the urge to immediately say no, briefly irritated at the interruption. Instead he reaches for her hand and places a gentle kiss to the back of it, before releasing it and stepping back with a shake of his head. "You flatter me with your offer, my lady," he replies, the lines as fake and rehearsed as the flowers adorning her gown. "Unfortunately, I could hardly allow myself that honor - I'm sure you'll find other worthy gentlemen to entertain you for the evening. I'm afraid I have some pressing business to discuss with my friend here, and I would be poor company at best."

As expected, she pouts a little, but takes the rejection with as much grace as a highborn lady ought to. "I appreciate your kindness in looking out for me," she answers, though her two friends clearly look rather disappointed. "I shan't waste any more of your time this evening, but perhaps next time, then."

Sampo watches them go, waiting till they're out of earshot before gesturing for Gepard to follow him. Curious, Gepard trails behind as Sampo leads him up a half-hidden set of stairs to a little balcony overlooking the rest of the room, with a small table for two set out for guests in the corner of it. "I figured you would appreciate the privacy," he remarks dryly. 

"I do," Gepard murmurs. "Thanks." 

"You know, I expected you to say yes," Sampo muses, with what Gepard would almost call surprise, if he knew the man better. "What gives?"

"I'm not that much of a dancer," Gepard confesses. Sampo tilts his head, arms crossed over his chest.

"Never would've guessed it from how you were like out there earlier," he says, and Gepard can only shrug, cheeks coloring slightly beneath the mask. "Isn't half the point of coming to parties like these to dance, anyway? What's a pretty boy like you doing here all by yourself, not dancing?"

Gepard nearly chokes while sipping his wine, has to fight to suppress the fit of coughing that ensues shortly after. Did he just call Gepard pretty? "I don't usually come to parties like these either," comes his eventual weak reply, opting to douse the fire in his cheeks with another long sip of wine. Strange. Has his heart always been beating this quickly?

"Oh, is that so?" Sampo leans forward, intrigued. "Then if I may ask, what brought you here tonight?"

Brughel, he nearly says out loud. "I was hoping to see someone," is what he actually responds with. "But she's not here tonight. I was about to leave when you stopped me, as a matter of fact."

"A woman?" Now Gepard's sure Sampo's just teasing him. He's heard that upward lilt often enough to know. "My, she must be quite something, if she caught your eye amongst all the other wallflowers at this party. Do tell me about her, I'm sure we'll run into each other someday."

Where does he even start? "She's not quite like your average noblewoman," Gepard admits. "She's surprisingly forward with what she wants, and isn't afraid to take it. I've never met someone with more audacity, really." Just thinking about how she'd gone so far as to lead him into a dance and lower him into a dip in front of everyone else has his cheeks heating up. How does one even begin to describe the allure of her presence, the sultry husk of her voice or the daring little comments? "She was very pretty, and I quite enjoyed our conversations together," he finishes somewhat lamely.

Sampo raises a hand to cover his mouth, like he's smiling at some secret inner joke Gepard isn't aware of. "She sounds like quite the extraordinary woman," he concludes.

"You remind me of her, actually," Gepard blurts, catching himself far too late to take the comment back. It's true, though - all evening he's been seeing the ghost of Brughel's presence. From the way Sampo had approached him with unrelenting, unapologetic flirting, to the way he'd so effortlessly taken the lead on the dance floor just like Brughel had - even the way his lips curve up at one corner when amused resembles Brughel. It's almost uncanny, but Gepard can't quite put a finger to why - they're completely different people, after all, and yet...

Maybe he just has a type. It's not hard to see why Sampo would be considered attractive, after all, with his natural charisma and dashing features - even if half of his face remains hidden behind a mask. And Brughel, well, he's spent too much time being entranced by her already. "Nevermind," Gepard sighs. "It would be rude of me to spend all night talking about someone else. Please, don't let me hog all the conversation - is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

"You know, with those manners of yours, you'd surely make a lovely lady happy someday," Sampo remarks, taking a sip from his wineglass. Gepard winces, sets his own glass down - he's not in the mood to drink anymore. Casting his gaze out over the sea of partygoers, all adorned in similar masks, Gepard sighs. Sampo picks up on his gloom immediately, reaching over to tilt Gepard's chin up with one gloved finger, studying his face intently - or what he can see of it anyway, with the mask covering half his face.

"What's wrong? Surely someone as distinguished and charming as you has had a lover at least once?" Sampo queries teasingly, the hints of a smile curving his lips upward. Gepard can already feel himself flushing beneath the weight of that piercing gaze, breaking eye contact to stare at the swirling red depths of his wineglass.

"No, never." It's as honest of an answer as Sampo's going to get. Not for lack of trying, mind you - goodness knows how many marriage offers and attempts at matchmaking he's been subjected to by countless noblewomen or their parents. "I've never been interested in women."

Suddenly, Sampo's far too close, hovering inches away from Gepard. They're fortunate that the balcony they're on is fairly secluded, kept mostly out of sight of the dancers below, but anyone looking up right now would see them. Gepard's breath hitches in his throat, unsure of where this is going, and yet strangely thrilled at the same time. Sampo's close enough for Gepard to breathe in his cologne - sweet as roses and intoxicatingly heady, with the faintest hints of something metallic underneath.

"Would you be interested in trying men, then?" Sampo breathes, lips inches away from Gepard's own, and Gepard swallows.

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't be," Sampo chuckles, before hooking a finger into the loop of Gepard's cravat and pulling him in, until Gepard could drown in those haunting green eyes. "You're cute when you're flustered."

As soon as Gepard opens his mouth to protest, Sampo's lips are on his, and time crashes to a freezing halt. There's the taste of the wine they were both drinking, sweet yet tart at the same time, as well as a hint of something Gepard can't quite pick out. Sampo's arm circles his waist, the other hand tangled in Gepard's hair. It's nothing like the chaste little pecks he's accustomed to leaving on the backs of ladies' hands. Sampo kisses him like he's in love with him, and that thought is so dangerously exhilarating that Gepard finds himself pressing back against the other man's lips with a quiet little shudder, hands fisted in the lapels of Sampo's suit jacket.

By the time they break apart, they're both flushed and breathless. Gepard's lips are tingling. Around them, the hushed murmuring of the guests below hasn't changed, but Gepard's entire world has just been shaken. "Sampo," he breathes, not quite sure what to say. It's like he's drunk, even though he hasn't even had a full glass of alcohol. There's a feverish heat in his cheeks, a tingle in his blood that wasn't there before. "Did you - did you do something to my drink?"

It's the only explanation his addled brain can come up with. Surely Sampo must have done something other than kiss him, because why else would Gepard's head be spinning so wildly? What else could possibly be the cause of this erratic heartbeat, the ringing in his ears, the trembling of his hands? Sampo just stands there with a look far too smug for Gepard's liking, chuckling to himself.

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't," he hums, picking up Gepard's glass and swirling the contents about. "So what if I did, sweetheart? You were so eager to accept whatever I gave you that you drank it without a second thought, didn't you?"

"You-"

Before he can say anything else, Sampo downs the rest of Gepard's wine in one smooth gulp, placing the glass down on the table with a little clink. His eyes widen. Impossible. If that drink had been spiked, then what would be the purpose of drinking it as well?

"It's not spiked," Sampo corrects, as if reading his thoughts. "I'm not that much of a scoundrel. Whatever you're feeling is entirely your own." Smirking, he eyes Gepard up once again, tongue darting out to wet his lips as if contemplating stealing another kiss. Gepard flushes. "I must say, Leo, you're a lot more fun than I thought you'd be. No lover, no future partner... You'd best take care, or someone might just steal you away." 

"Me?" Gepard repeats dumbly, still reeling from the shock of everything that's just happened in the last five minutes. Steal him away? If anything, Sampo's just stolen his first kiss, which only adds to his flustered state. "I, um, I don't, ah..."

Sampo saves him from the humiliation of remaining a slack-tongued fool by leaning in close once more - for a moment, Gepard thinks he might kiss him again. Then those lips press against his heated cheek instead, and Sampo pulls away with a wide grin. "I'll see you some other time, handsome," he coos, turning away just as Gepard's lagging brain catches up to him. He reaches out in a vain attempt to grab Sampo's hand, nearly crashing right into a waiter attempting to clear their abandoned glasses. By the time he's done stuttering apologies, the man has vanished, leaving Gepard with only the lingering warmth of his mouth against Gepard's own lips.

Chapter Text

"It's time you made a move on that Landau boy, Sampo."

Sampo's jaw tightens. His head remains bowed in forced deference, carefully staring only at the shoes of the man, Cravan, who plucked him off the streets and gave him a roof over his head. Once, perhaps, he might have had some respect for the nobleman before him. That time has long passed, though, and now there only remains a sense of lingering resentment. Sampo's not that grubby, half-starved street urchin he used to be, anymore. "What's the rush?" he scoffs, "surely you don't think he's such a threat that leaving him alive a little longer will be problematic?"

"And what's the delay, then?" the nobleman counters somewhat testily, gripping both sides of the chair. "It's not like you to put off a kill for so long. I give you a name and a face, send you out with all the gold you could possibly need, and they wind up dead of unknown causes the next day. It's that simple, so why is he still alive?"

"I have my own methods," Sampo retorts, arms crossed over his chest. As if someone who'd never dirtied his hands before would understand. "You're a fool if you think ordering an assassination is something as simple as pointing out a target and slitting their throat. Since when have I failed you, anyway?"

The man's beady eyes narrow. "Don't you talk back to me like that, you gutter trash. Without me, you wouldn't even still be alive right now. Are you losing your nerve, boy?"

I'd sooner gut you like a fish and hang you by your innards. Instead, Sampo smiles through his teeth, though his jaw is so tense he feels it might just shatter if he clenches it any harder. "Hardly. Besides, you've given me multiple marks. How do you expect me to keep up with this farce if you're so impatient? The quicker they fall, the more suspicious they'll be."

Cravan squints at him, considering. His normally pasty complexion has turned ruddy, sweat beading on his receding hairline. Sampo holds up a small, innocuous glass bottle, tilting it. The contents are clear. "I have my ways," he repeats, and slowly, Cravan nods.

"But he must die," the older man insists after a beat, much to Sampo's exasperation. "I refuse to let him slight my daughter with... with that puffed-up ego of his. He's just as bad as the others, thinking we're beneath him." Sampo rolls his eyes, but the movement does not go unnoticed.

"Look at me."

Sampo turns his head away. "If you'll excuse me," he begins, tucking his hands into his pockets, "I have preparations to make for tonight, so I'm afraid I don't have all day to -"

Crack!

Quick as a flash, the whip comes flicking out like a serpent's tongue. It catches his arm, hot and stinging where leather meets bare skin. Hissing, Sampo recoils, clutching his arm protectively. There's already the hints of a welt beginning to form, an angry red line scoring across his forearm.

"I said, look at me."

Suitably cowed, Sampo bites his tongue, reluctantly raising his head to meet those loathsome black eyes. Cravan stares him down without blinking, whip still in hand. "I raised you," he hisses, every word dripping with arrogant contempt. It makes Sampo want to retch. "I fed you, gave you a home and even an education, when anyone else would have left you to die. I own you," he snarls, and Sampo keeps a wary eye on the hand still holding the whip. "You do as I say, when I say, no questions asked."

Sometimes he wonders why he hasn't just left. Packed his few things and slipped away in the dead of the night, it's not like Cravan could keep him from doing so if he tried. "You are replaceable," Cravan spits, glowering down at Sampo, now standing over him. "Remember that, dog."

That's right. He's replaceable. If Cravan can afford to raise him, pay for everything he needs to infiltrate these events, he could easily pay for another assassin. Not all of his desired targets have rightfully earned such severe punishment - most of them, in fact, have at most committed the crime of slighting the easily-offended lord somehow. A pair of baby blue eyes comes to mind, cheeks splattered with blood, but Sampo shoves the grisly image away before it can get the best of him.

At the very least, he has to protect Gepard somehow.

This time, when Gepard arrives at the ball, mask fixed firmly in place, it feels like there's something in the air that's got everyone on edge. There's less chatter than normal, fewer friendly faces. The dance floor is startlingly empty, save for the occasional couple that decides to step onto it for a song or two. Almost everyone has retreated into their pre-determined groups, whispering amongst themselves, which leaves Gepard standing out like a sore thumb on his own. Uncomfortable, he retreats to the one sanctuary he knows exists within the building, courtesy of Sampo, walking up the stairs to the little balcony only to find it already occupied by a certain lady he's never been more glad to meet.

Her expression is oddly solemn, sipping on a glass of red wine while staring out over the entire ballroom, lost in thought. Gepard clears his throat politely.

"What a pleasant surprise it is to see you here, Lady Brughel."

Brughel nearly jumps, but recovers soon enough and turns to Gepard with her usual winning smile, setting her glass down on the table beside her. "If it isn't my sweet Leo," she gushes, waving him over. "I didn't expect to see you here, either. Oh, don't tell me," she holds up a finger, winking mischievously at Gepard, "were you looking for me, by any chance?"

Heat rises to his cheeks. Gepard ducks his head, embarrassed. "I admit, your absence was somewhat missed at the last ball," he coughs out.

"Aw, I hope you weren't too bored while I was away. So, what did you end up doing? Talking to other ladies behind my back again, perhaps?" It's a tease, and they both know he would never, but Gepard thinks back to just how thoroughly engrossed in Sampo he'd been the entire evening, flushing guiltily. Brughel's mouth quirks up at the corner, eyeing Gepard's face.

"So there was someone!" she crows triumphantly, jabbing a finger into Gepard's chest. Gepard stutters uselessly, trying to cobble together an excuse. He's not sure he can handle talking about Sampo to someone like Brughel - they're far too similar, in their own ways. If he didn't know any better, he'd almost think they were twins. Suddenly suspicious, he narrows his eyes at the still-cackling Brughel.

"You wouldn't happen to have a twin, would you?"

"What, me?" Brughel places one hand on her chest - which, for once, is covered up by the long-sleeved dress she's wearing tonight. "No, why? Is one of me not enough for you, Leo? Goodness, I'm shocked. I never imagined a man like you to be the insatiable type."

For a fleeting moment, he considers playing along, if it'll get her off his back. His hesitation, however, must have shown on his face, because Brughel ends up tutting disapprovingly at him.

"You don't have to pretend to be interested in anyone else, Gepard," Brughel titters, one hand coming up to cover her mouth, though it does absolutely nothing to hide the amusement written clear as day across her face. Gepard's cheeks only redden further, mouth opening and closing on empty air before something clicks in his head.

"How do you know my name?"

Brughel merely laughs some more, not even bothering to cover it this time. Gepard coughs into his fist, waiting for an answer.

"Silly boy. You think everyone's identities really remain anonymous here? Look around you," and she spreads her arms out wide, encompassing the entire ballroom. Gepard looks, takes in the sight of the dancers twirling on the dancefloor, the way their masks seem to glitter under the light. Brughel sighs, takes him by the chin and turns his head to the side. "There. Now what do you see?"

He sees... a familiar set of silvery curls, cascading down a young woman's back, and a pair of striking grey eyes he'd know anywhere. Bronya Rand. The veritable princess herself, hidden in plain sight. Beside her is someone Gepard doesn't recognize, facing away from him. He's never seen that shade of bright purple in any court before, though. It's hard to tell through the mask, but the two seem to be having quite the engaging conversation, judging by how animatedly Bronya's hands are moving. Interesting.

A meaningful cough startles him back to his current reality, Brughel tapping one heel somewhat impatiently. "You're still not looking at the right things," she sighs, sounding almost disappointed in Gepard. "Over there to the left of those two young ladies. That group of three, standing in the corner."

Obediently, Gepard looks. These three, he doesn't recognize. They're all staring straight at Bronya and her masked partner, disapproval marring what little he can see of their faces. If he can recognize her, so can they, he realizes with a somewhat uneasy start.

"You understand, now?" Brughel's eyes are boring into him, dark and serious. "I'd be willing to bet I'm not the only one who knew you before you ever spoke to them. You'd best be more careful, darling. Not everyone is as nice as I am."

Swallowing down his apprehension, Gepard musters the courage to ask, "And just why are you so nice to me, Lady Brughel?" 

In response, she merely smiles, though it doesn't reach her eyes. "Would you believe me if I said there was no reason, Leo? I doubt it. Let's just say you're better off not knowing... and you'd also be better off going home early tonight, too." 

That catches him off-guard, Gepard's brow creasing with a frown. Why tonight? Still, something in his gut tells him he ought to listen. The atmosphere has been off all evening, and if he's being warned in advance, perhaps it might be best to heed that advice. Brughel's still staring intently at him, lips pursed, as if waiting for him to catch on. "You're not going to tell me why even if I ask, aren't you," he sighs, already knowing the answer. 

"Now there's a clever boy," she praises, reaching up to ruffle his hair lightly. "Be good and run along, now. I'd hate for you to get caught up in something nasty." 

Reluctantly, Gepard nods. "Thank you for the warning," he says, before adding on a softer, "I hope we will meet again soon."

She waves farewell from her position at the balcony railing. Gepard has to resist the urge to keep turning and looking back at her as he makes his way back downstairs and towards the exit, not wanting to draw any undue attention to him leaving. If she's right, and something big is about to happen, then he'd rather not get swept up in it. 

It's only when he arrives home later that night that he realizes she never actually answered his question in the first place, about how she'd known his name. Maybe she never meant to, he muses, and he'll just have to live with that knowledge.

With the innocent cub out of the way, the serpent's coils begin to tighten around its unsuspecting prey.

Brughel slips back into the crowd just as easily as she'd left it, taking time to mingle with just about every group imaginable. Even if they're less amenable than usual due to the heightened tensions, her silver tongue and no small amount of flirtatious comments help ease her into each small circle. It helps that just about everyone here is too busy gossipping about someone else to bother with her identity, and in between the occasional quiet toast made to friends, no one notices if the contents of a certain inconspicuous bottle get emptied into a certain nobleman's glass.

By the time he actually takes a sip, she's said her goodbyes to half the groups she's visited that night. As soon as he starts coughing, she's stealing out the door and into the night, casually readjusting her mask as she makes her unobtrusive exit. Back in the ballroom, the nobleman gasps and sputters, the air leaving his lungs just as surely as his life is leaving his body. He's clawing at his throat, staff tripping over themselves to help him while his fellow companions exclaim and mill about in helpless dismay. No amount of water or pats on the back can keep his throat from swelling shut, wheezing pathetically until the only sound to leave his purple lips is a hollow, chilling death rattle.

The serpent's jaws clamp shut.

Chapter Text

"Let's play a game, Leo."

Gepard blinks, turning his gaze away from the twirling dancers below to stare questioningly at the man standing beside him. It's been a largely quiet evening thus far, the faint sounds of the live orchestra drifting up to the balcony where they both are. Sampo had found him up here, waiting to see if Brughel would show, and promptly greeted Gepard with a kiss to the back of his hand like a true gentleman would - that is, if he hadn't winked at Gepard right after and made some cheeky comment about Gepard wanting to spend some time with him in private.

"A game?" Gepard echoes, interest piqued. "Go on."

Sampo's lips curl into a wolfish grin, gesturing for Gepard to take a seat across from him at the little table for two. Setting his wine glass down, he leans forward, elbows braced on the table. "Good, good. I thought it might be nice of us to get to know each other a little more, so here's how this works. I'll tell you two lies," he holds up three fingers and then folds the third one down, "and one truth. You must guess which of these are the lies and which is the truth, and then we'll switch places. You'll tell me two lies and one truth, I'll guess which is which."

A test of wits. Gepard's never heard of a game like this before, but he can't say he's opposed to it. If anything, he's keen to learn more about the man who so boldly kissed him the first time they'd met. "You should start us off," he suggests. "Since you're the one that suggested the game, anyway."

Sampo doesn't even bat an eye. "Whatever you say, dear. First statement: I've got a broken leg right now. Second: I'm drinking wine, not champagne. Third: I'm related to the princess herself as a second cousin twice removed." He ticks them off one by one on his fingers, then waits for Gepard to give his answer.

It's just far too obvious. Is he even trying? A glance at Sampo's amused expression only further solidifies his suspicions. "Now you're just making fun of me," Gepard accuses, folding his arms across his chest. The lies are just too blatant, too outlandish to believe. "Do you really think I'm that stupid? The first and last ones were lies, the second was the truth." As if to further prove his point, Gepard picks up Sampo's glass and tilts it, revealing the dark red liquid within.

"Clever boy," Sampo praises, reaching out to ruffle Gepard's hair, much to his annoyance. Scowling, Gepard pushes his hand aside, eyeing him somewhat warily. "I'm sorry," Sampo apologises, though the hints of a smile are playing on his lips. "I just wanted to be sure you understood how to play the game. Your turn, now."

Sulky, Gepard levels him a flat stare, all while his mind is busy rooting for information harmless enough to be revealed to a relative stranger. Best not to play all his cards right away, after all. He's never been a good liar, but there's got to be something he can use, and considering Sampo knows close to nothing about him personally, it shouldn't be that hard.

"Fine. First, summer is my favourite season. Second, my favourite color is orange. Third, I know how to braid hair."

Sampo shakes his head with a short bark of laughter, crossing one leg over the other. "Easy, one and two are lies, three is the truth."

Gepard's lips purse tight in a pout. "Am I that easy to read?" 

"Just a little," Sampo admits. "I must ask, though, when and how did you come by that skill? I didn't think you were particularly fond of ladies."

Two can play at that game. "I don't see why I have to tell you that," Gepard retorts, raising his chin somewhat haughtily. Having the upper edge over Sampo feels strangely satisfying, even if it's over something relatively minor. Sampo's stunned silent for a moment, but recovers quickly enough, chuckling.

"Have it your way, then."

And on it goes, this little back and forth between them. Soon it gets harder to differentiate between what's true and what isn't, but in return, he's learning more about Sampo than he ever thought he would. Like the fact that he apparently likes roses, and how he's friends with a woman who runs an orphanage. Or how his favourite desserts usually involve some form of dark chocolate, but never anything sweeter - it's too much for him to handle, according to Sampo.

In exchange, he tells Sampo about himself. Some of them are things that most other nobles already know, some are more personal.

"You have two sisters?" Sampo queries, and if he didn't have the mask on, Gepard could swear he's raising his eyebrows. "Ah, so that's how you learned to braid, then."

He can feel his cheeks reddening, though it's hidden by the relative dimness of the balcony they're on. "I never said that."

"Your reaction to me only confirms it," Sampo points out, grinning far too smugly. Gepard resists the urge to smack him, and instead reaches for his glass to take a sip.

"My turn," he eventually declares, placing the glass back down onto the table. Coming up with things about himself is proving a greater challenge than he initially expected, unfortunately, but then again, he's never been a good liar. "Um, I hate plants, I know how to play the violin, and I enjoy playing it in my free time." He can only hope his former loathing for his old violin lessons doesn't show too much in his face.

Sampo hums thoughtfully, resting his head in the palm of one hand. "Two in one, huh? Something tells me only one of those statements about the violin is true." It's clear he's just testing the waters, but Gepard has to fight to keep his reaction from showing. How is he so good at this? "Then again," Sampo continues, still staring at him, "who could really hate plants? I'm not sure I believe you on that one, Leo."

"You don't know that," Gepard protests defensively, only to realize his mistake too late when Sampo's lips curve upward in that delighted little grin he's come to know too well.

"Oh, but I think I do," Sampo chuckles. "So you like plants. An aristocrat like you... Well, I'd be inclined to believe you can play the violin, and if you couldn't, then you wouldn't be able to enjoy playing it at all."

Gepard's shoulders slump in defeat, sagging back in his seat with a disbelieving huff. "Are you sure we should be playing this? It feels more like I'm the only one telling you things about myself, at this rate."

Sampo regards him with an expression of mock-hurt, swirling the wine in his glass, one hand pressed to his chest. "My dearest Leo, you wound me," he coos. "Is that how you feel? Fine, I'll tell you more about myself - things people don't know about me. Will that sate your curiosity?"

If he was curious before, he's burning to know, now. So far everything he's learned of Sampo has been on the surface level, but a part of him just *knows* there's more hidden behind that smile than that. "Go on," he urges, leaning forward in spite of himself. Sampo thinks it over for a minute, before snapping his fingers.

"Right, so I've eaten rats before, I got my first dagger at the age of seven-"

"Hold on," Gepard interrupts, one hand held out to stall him. Is he hearing right? "You've eaten rats?"

"Hey, you asked," Sampo retorts. Shrugging almost nonchalantly, he continues. "Anyway, yes, I ate rats, got my first dagger at seven, and I like wearing cologne."

Then why don't you smell like it? Gepard muses. Back when Sampo had first kissed him, all he'd smelled were roses and gunpowder, nothing like any type cologne he'd ever smelled before. That's not what has his attention, though: Gepard's still not quite over the whole 'eating rats' thing. On top of that, who gives a child a dagger at age seven? It sounds almost too ridiculous to be true, and he's inclined to believe Sampo's just messing with him again. "You don't even wear cologne," he points out. Sampo acknowledges this with a slight nod. "No one in their right mind would give a child a weapon," he reasons, but then he catches sight of Sampo's smile faltering ever so slightly, and the unease in his gut draws taut.

"So you'd believe I ate rats over me being given a dagger as a child?" Sampo queries. Now second-guessing himself, Gepard nods somewhat uncertainly. Unnoticed by him, Sampo's fingers pinch around the stem of the wine glass, relaxing seconds later. "Well, congratulations, then. You'd be right."

Gepard's nose wrinkles, mouth twisted in a grimace. "Rats? Really? Why?"

"Not everyone had the privilege of knowing where their next meal came from, you know," Sampo drawls sharply, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't expect you to understand, of course, but some of us ate what we could to survive, so we could make it to the next day." There's something akin to scorn lacing his words, they burn like acid as soon as they've left his mouth. Gepard flinches.

"I'm sorry."

"... Well, I suppose it was a long time ago. Also, for the record, I got my first dagger when I was nine."

"What?"

"Your turn," Sampo presses, and much as Gepard's got thousands of questions crowded on the tip of his tongue, he's forced to swallow them down. His mind is too busy buzzing from the new information to come up with anything elaborate, so Gepard fumbles for the next quickest thing he can think of. The sooner he ends his turn, the sooner he gets to learn more about Sampo. The first things that come to mind, of course, are his family and his hobbies.

"Okay, well, my favourite place to spend time in is the library," he begins, watching Sampo's face for any hints that he might be giving himself away. So far, so good. "I have three dogs at home," he adds, only for Sampo to snort.

"Should've figured you'd be a dog person."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sampo waves for him to continue. "Nothing, nothing. And the last one?"

Uh oh. He's really got to rack his brains for this. Gepard casts about the sea of his memories, before plucking one at random that isn't too deeply embarrassing. He's aware that Sampo's offering him a rare gem in the form of personal information about himself - the least he could do is be genuine with him. "I used to spar with my sister when I was younger," he admits, smiling fondly at the memory. Those were good times, even if Serval used to trounce him quite soundly when they were still children.

Sampo pauses, clearly intrigued. "You? Sparring with your sister? I didn't think noblewomen took up that sort of sport."

He's got a point there. Gepard's careful to keep his face as neutral as possible. "I'm not saying anything else about it," he instead warns. "That's all you're getting out of me before you make your guesses."

Sampo hums thoughtfully, fingers drumming lightly on his thigh. "You do seem like the kind of person to like dogs," he concedes. Gepard has to shove the rising grin back down before Sampo can see it. "And I've never heard of a noblewoman who liked fighting. The library, I'm not too sure about, but let's just call this whole thing a gamble and say you do have three dogs back at home."

Gotcha. "Wrong," Gepard declares triumphantly, and the floored look on Sampo's face is enough to pull giddy laughter from him. Sampo, to his credit, takes the loss with a simple shrug of his shoulders.

"Oh well, can't always win them all," he sighs, picking up his glass and taking another swallow of wine. "So, what's the deal? Where did my fabulous intuition go wrong?"

Maybe he shouldn't be so proud of getting to one-up Sampo, but he is, anyway. "It's two dogs, not three," he clarifies, to which Sampo merely rolls his eyes.

"A cheap trick," he grouses, but gestures for Gepard to continue nonetheless. "Was the one about fighting your sister a lie, too?"

Gepard can hardly suppress his own smile at that. "No, actually. We really did used to spar as children, and she used to beat me quite soundly, as a matter of fact. We only stopped because the servants found out and told our father, and then we were forbidden from playing like that again."

Sampo makes a questioning noise, but then realization dawns seconds later. "I don't suppose your father liked the idea of his daughter roughhousing like a boy, did he?"

"Of course not. It was too 'unladylike', according to him." He can still remember that day as clearly as if it were just yesterday - the disapproving stares from the servants, the verbal lashing he'd given Serval behind the closed door of his office, followed by Serval shouting back in return. She'd been sent to her room for a few days afterwards, and Gepard himself had been delivered a fine lecture about the eventual duties he and his sisters were to perform as they grew up.

The smile fades from his face a little at the sobering thought. Sampo's quick to pick up on it, shifting the conversation with a well-timed little cough to bring Gepard back. "And your favourite place? If not the library, then where?"

"The garden," Gepard confesses easily, somewhat sheepish. "I do like flowers, I'm just not the best at caring for them. It's a bit embarrassing, they never seem to last for very long."

"It must be difficult to bloom in the presence of something as beautiful as you are," Sampo muses, almost half to himself, while Gepard gasps in embarrassed shock. "Rest assured, I will take your secrets to the grave. Now, i guess that makes it my turn, so let's see..."

Gepard waits. Sampo's taking a little longer than the previous rounds to think of something, lips pursed as if in deep thought. Now and then, he'll glance over at Gepard, but then look away just as quickly. It's starting to make him a little nervous, sweat starting to dampen the back of his shirt despite the chill of the night air. Finally, Sampo turns back to him, clearing his throat and adjusting the collar of his shirt with one hand.

"Alright. I've got a niece back at home named Hook, scars on my back, and a flower garden full of roses." Sampo's holding his gaze, expression strangely inscrutable. Gepard can't figure out what he's thinking. It's not the most outlandish thing he's heard from Sampo yet, but it's a strange combination of things to put together in a single list. The flowers are somewhat believable, considering he smells like them half the time - but then again, it could just as easily be the work of some rosewater, or even perfume instead of cologne. Gepard's honestly not sure which of these could be the sole truth, amidst everything - none of what Sampo's really told him so far can be tied to what he's being presented with now, except maybe...

"Those scars," he begins, watching Sampo's expression carefully. "How did you get them?"

Sampo's jaw stiffens, hands folded tightly in his lap. Bingo, Gepard thinks. If he's had a rough childhood, it's entirely possible the scars are a result of that. It might have been a bit of a stretch to assume at first, but judging from the way Sampo's posture suddenly straightened, he's on the right track. After all, what ordinary, pleasant circumstances would lead to a child being given a dagger, or potentially starving on the streets?

"As I've already mentioned, my childhood was... not the most pleasant," he replies. "You may have already guessed, but I was not highborn like the rest of you folks here. I grew up on the streets, but got taken in by a passing noble when I was about eight."

Gepard frowns. "That's a good thing, right? You don't sound very happy about it."

Sampo's ensuing laugh is bitter, strained. "You tell me. I thought it was the answer to all my problems, but all that man wanted was a tool he could wield as his own."

"Sampo..."

He continues as if Gepard hadn't spoken at all, eyes shining almost unnaturally bright. "The dagger was a gift from him - to protect myself, or so he claimed at first. But I wasn't allowed to use it on him when he brought the whip out, so what was the point of giving it to me?" His eyes squeeze shut, Sampo breathing out hard through his mouth for several moments, before he calms himself enough to at least look back at Gepard. "Sorry. I guess I really gave it away there, huh?"

A whip. Something ugly twists inside of Gepard's gut, white hot and terrible. He can't even imagine how Sampo must've felt as a child, being beaten by the man he'd once thought to be his savior. It makes him want to do unspeakable things, even if he knows he shouldn't, and can't, anyway. Gepard forces himself to unclench his fists, righteous indignation soon melting away into something smaller, sadder.

What can he even say? There's nothing Gepard can do to ease the hurt of the past, nothing he can say that would make his childhood any less painful. People like Sampo slip through the cracks all the time, he's aware - but he can't do anything about it either, and it's never frustrated him more. "You shouldn't have had to go through that," is what he settles on eventually, reaching out to give Sampo's clasped hands a comforting squeeze. The man doesn't return the gesture, instead pulls his hands away, the rejection stinging worse than any scolding Gepard's ever received in his youth.

"Sampo...?" he begins, quiet and hesitant - like he's offering an olive branch to broker a peace he didn't even know was broken. "I'm sorry for asking. He shouldn't have done that to you, it was wrong."

Nothing. He's not getting through. Or maybe this is the real Sampo, for all he knows - the wary, avoidant soul locked away behind those dazzlingly charming smiles. Lost and uncertain, Gepard fumbles for some way to bridge that gap between them, but suddenly Sampo draws in a sharp, juddering breath and covers his face for a moment. When his hand falls away, he's staring straight at Gepard with eyes that almost seem to be pleading with him - but for what, he can't tell.

"Last round, Gepard," Sampo breathes, almost so quiet he has to strain to hear him. The smile is gone, leaving behind a grim seriousness he's not used to seeing from Sampo. "Last round, Gepard. You'd better guess right, or you won't like the consequences."

Where is he even going with this? Suddenly Gepard's not so sure they're still playing a game anymore, not with the way those jade green eyes seem to be boring into him. The exact same shade of green as Brughel's, he's sure, but Sampo's not giving him a chance to even ask - and frankly, the lack of a smile on his face scares Gepard more than he cares to admit. He's serious. That's not even beginning to cover how he knows Gepard's name, but if his suspicions are correct, he already knows the answer to that particular mystery. He has no time to continue mulling it over, not when Sampo's staring him down with a gaze sharp enough to cut steel. With his heart pounding in his chest, Gepard swallows hard.

"I'm ready."

"Good. Here are your statements. One: I am no man's puppet." Sampo pauses, scrutinising him with an unreadable expression. Gepard's not sure what to make of it. "Two, I didn't put poison in your wine."

Instantly, Gepard's eyes drop to the glasses of wine sitting innocuously on the table between them. His is right where he left it, he's sure of it - but is he? A cold bead of sweat trickles down the side of his forehead, he has to wipe his clammy hands on the front of his pants. Sampo's still watching him like a hawk, observing his every movement, almost like he's daring Gepard to do something to confirm the truth for himself.

"Why would you even-"

"Three," Sampo interrupts, ignoring his question. This time he looks straight at Gepard without even blinking, and Gepard can see the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. "Everything I've said up till now is a lie. I..." Is that fear in his eyes? "I was sent to kill you, Gepard."

Silence. Gepard's heart has never pounded so loudly before in his chest, his blood a deafening roar in his ears. He lied to you, hisses that low, infernal voice in his head, sinking its claws into his heart. He and Brughel both, they were just playing with you the whole time. Don't you see? This is what they were really after - to get you alone and vulnerable so they could strike. It makes that ugly, twisted monster in him snarl, anger and hurt roiling in the pit of his stomach and threatening to boil over like acid. Gepard's fist tightens, but what catches his eye is the way Sampo flinches at the subtle movement, fingers digging into his thighs. 

That's fear, just as he suspected he'd seen earlier. Why would Sampo be afraid of him? The confusion, even if only momentary, quells enough of his initial outrage for the storm inside chest to calm somewhat. He doesn't want to stoop to the same level as that man. 

"Are you still lying to me now?" 

Sampo draws in a deep, shuddering breath. "Two lies, one truth, as per the rules of the game," he answers hoarsely. 

The entire thing is almost so ridiculous he wishes he could laugh, but the look in Sampo's eyes says otherwise - for once, there's no hint of mischief or amusement. No, what Gepard's seeing in those green eyes is undoubtedly desperation - a silent plea for help to be saved, even though Gepard's supposed to be the victim here. It confuses him, makes his heart ache to believe that Sampo would never do such a thing, but they're playing a dangerous game here and a single miscalculation could lead to his death. Sampo's staring at him, so still Gepard could mistake him for a statue.

It doesn't make sense. Surely he wouldn't have had to wait this long to kill Gepard. Even as Brughel, Sampo's had more than ample opportunity to end his life. Gepard's brows furrow, trying to recall every encounter they've had so far: the kiss on the balcony, the glasses of wine they've shared... he could've chosen any of those moments to slip something into Gepard's drink. Had all those instances meant nothing to Sampo - all just been a game to get him to lower his guard? Or rather... isn't his continued existence proof in itself of how much Sampo cares?

The realization dawns on Gepard so suddenly it sends him reeling, fumbling blindly for *something* to ground him, because if what he's thinking is true, then Sampo's hands are just as tied as his. Someone else is pulling his strings, and if it means Gepard has to walk through hellfire to cut those bonds holding Sampo hostage, then so be it.

After all, what sort of person would Gepard be, if he didn't try to save them both?

Gepard's gaze drops to his wine glass, still sitting innocuously on the table. "You said you didn't poison it, right?"

Sampo's eyes widen sharply. "Gepard-"

His fingers close around the wine glass's stem. Raises it aloft, before Gepard looks Sampo in the eyes and tips it back.

Sampo's scream echoes through the air.

Chapter Text

"NO!"

Sampo surges forward, knocking the glass from his hands before any of its contents even touch his lips. It shatters on the floor with a sharp crash, shards of glass sent flying like the glittering remnants of fallen stars, dyed blood red by the wine. Stunned, Gepard gapes at Sampo, whose chest is heaving raggedly, more distraught than he's ever seen the man.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Sampo snaps, and it dawns on Gepard that he was worried - that for a brief, heartstopping moment, he feared the worst had come to pass. "Why would you even do that?" 

"You told me it wasn't poisoned," Gepard counters. Sampo only hisses, frustrated. 

"You're insane. Only someone suicidal would've done that." His voice is shaking, as are his hands. Sampo hunches over, shoulders trembling. It takes Gepard a while to realize he's crying. "I told you I was sent to kill you, that I poisoned your wine, and you still went ahead and tried to drink it anyway? What's wrong with you?"

Below their little balcony, there's voices being raised, demanding to know the source of the outburst. Gepard ignores them, instead stepping forward to pull Sampo out of view from the crowd. When a concerned waiter tentatively peeks his head around the corner to ask if everything's alright, Gepard waves him off - they can clean the mess up later. Right now, there are things that need to be said, things Sampo needs to hear.

"Listen to me," he begins, clasping Sampo's hands in his. "You don't have to be afraid of telling me the truth."

"But you-"

"Even if you did poison my wine, I'd have drunk it anyway." Gepard meets those haunted, jade green eyes - now shining wet with tears. "Because it's you."

A strangled noise escapes Sampo. "What do you mean, because it's me? Gepard, I tried to murder you-"

"- and you could've done it long ago, on any other occasion, but you didn't," Gepard finishes calmly. How odd. His mind is strangely clear, as if he's known the answers to these questions all along. Maybe he has. Reaching up to remove his mask at last and placing it on the railing beside them, Gepard's fingertips gently ghost along the curve of Sampo's cheek, finding the edges of his mask. Before Sampo can protest, he reaches behind him to untie the ribbon holding the mask in place, and finally comes face to face with the real Sampo.

He's even more beautiful up close than Gepard thought. The only thing marring the image are the tears that spill down his cheeks, which Gepard wipes away with his thumb. "I think I'm in love with you," he murmurs, half-to-himself, and in spite of everything, Sampo snorts.

"Of course you are. What other explanation could there be for your behavior?" Sampo sniffs, still somewhat sulky. "I can't believe you did that. Do you know how scared I was, watching you pick up that glass? Forget that, how are you not..." 

"Angry? Upset?" Gepard fills in, watches the way Sampo's jaw snaps shut. "Honestly, you're right. I should be. But I'm not." He ought to be more shaken, he knows. Yet there's nothing but tranquility in his heart, a sense of relief so profound it's swept away everything else. He's alive, and Sampo doesn't really want him dead - they can work this out.

Besides, it's not like Sampo never tried to warn him. Looking back now, the signs were so glaringly obvious. First Brughel, then Sampo... How did he not connect the dots sooner? He supposes he's just lucky that things turned out this way, or he'd really be dead by now. Sampo rubs his eyes, puffs out a shuddering sigh. 

"Come here."

"Huh?"

Then Sampo's mouth is on his, and Gepard can taste the salt of his tears on his lips. This kiss is different from the last one - this time Sampo kisses him like he's dying, and he'll never get to kiss Gepard again in his life. It's breathtaking, it's intense, it's everything Gepard could have ever wanted and more. Unbidden, Sampo's hands wind themselves in his hair, crushing his mouth to Gepard's with a kind of desperate fury, until Gepard's head is starting to spin from the lack of oxygen. Only when Gepard makes a muffled noise of protest through his dying lungs does Sampo pull away just enough to give him a break, breathing hard. 

"That's for my love," he murmurs against Gepard's lips, sending a delighted thrill down his spine at the mere thought of Sampo returning these feelings of his. 

Then Sampo bites his lip. Hard. 

"Ouch."

"And that," he huffs, chest still heaving raggedly, "was for scaring me half to death."

Grumbling, Gepard reaches up to touch his sore lip - thankfully, Sampo didn't break skin. "Sorry. I just... I acted on impulse, I know I shouldn't have."

Sampo snorts incredulously. "Wow, what gave that away? Couldn't you have just said 'I love you' normally? You know, without trying to drink the poisoned wine?"

Gepard shrugs. "It seemed appropriate at the time."

Scowling, Sampo shakes his head, muttering something under his breath along the lines of "damn nobles and their dramatics". The word "nobles", however, does remind Gepard of Sampo's rather unfortunate circumstances, his smile slowly fading into something grimmer at the reminder. "Your..." gods, what word even is there to describe the monster who did such things? "The man who took you in," is what Gepard eventually settles on, clearing his throat awkwardly. "He sent you to kill me? Why?"

Sampo snorts, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "He's a stupidly prideful man. You snubbed his offer to set you up with his daughter, and he didn't like that. Believe me, he's sent me after people who hardly did anything wrong, so it's not just you." Sampo's eyes darken. "Not all of them were entirely innocent, though. I admit to having killed people, Gepard, but I won't say I did it without good reason. These nobles... they're hiding far nastier secrets than you could ever imagine, some of them." 

Gepard doesn't even want to know. Still, to think that a bounty had been placed on his life all because of something so minor... "Prideful is one way to put it," he sighs, exasperated. "What was his name?"

Sampo's eyebrow ticks upward, amused. "Wow, he really wasn't kidding when he said you didn't care for the invitation at all. Can't even be bothered to remember his name, huh?" It's a gentle jab, but Gepard finds himself flushing regardless.

"It's not like that," he huffs, while Sampo looks at him knowingly, lips still curved in that damnable smirk. "I just... It's been awhile, and I don't remember the names of everyone I turn down." In a softer voice, he adds, "It's not like I was ever interested in them to begin with." 

"Ah, too many ladies throwing themselves at you to count them all? Been there."

"Sampo!"

His laugh is the warmest thing Gepard's ever heard. "I'm just teasing, Geppie. Don't waste your time on the likes of Cravan, he's not worth it."

Cravan? Frowning, Gepard searches the depths of his memory for any sign, any recollection of the man, but it's truly quite the challenge. At best, he's likely some minor noble who was attempting to curry favour with the Landaus.  "By not killing me, you're going against his orders," he points out, watching the mirth fade from Sampo's expression. "What will you do, then? Surely he won't be happy if you left me alive."

When Sampo next speaks, his voice drips with so much venom that it takes Gepard aback. "Oh, I assure you, I have plans for him. I plan to ensure he never, *ever* gets a chance to hurt anyone again." His eyes burn bright with years of unspoken resentment, voice almost shaking with suppressed rage. His hand reaches into one pocket, pulling free a small, seemingly innocuous bottle of transparent liquid, before closing his fist tightly over it - nothing more needs to be said. While Gepard wouldn't say he could ever bring himself to kill a man in cold blood, he knows enough to understand that sometimes, karma has a way of finding its way back to people.

He places one hand over Sampo's fist, squeezing it gently. The touch seems to bring Sampo back to reality, the fire in his eyes settles down. "Whatever you do, I'll be there for you when you're done," Gepard promises, and means every word. "I won't stop you from doing what you must. Just promise me that you'll come back when your business is finished, Sampo."

Gepard's other hand finds itself on Sampo's cheek, thumb brushing over the skin tenderly. "Please."

There's a long pause, before Sampo breathes out a soft sigh and gives a little nod. "I promise," he vows, and that's all Gepard can honestly ask for. He won't ask how he intends to carry it out, nor will he stop to ponder over the morality of it: this is Sampo's decision to make, not his. All he can do is see him off as the man slips out through a hidden back entrance - one that Gepard never even knew about until now - and pray that nothing will go awry. Gepard stays just long enough to make it seem like their exits are coincidental at best, then takes his leave quietly, without any fanfare. There's no plans made on when and where to meet again.

Sampo knows where to find him, after all. He always does.

"So? Did you do it yet?"

Cravan's all but leaning out of his seat in his eagerness to hear all the undoubtedly unpleasant details of his assassination. Disgusting. Sampo's in no mood to play nice, but he contents himself with knowing that this will be the last time he ever has to see that revoltingly wide grin again. "You've got nothing to worry about," he assures Cravan, who cackles and rubs his hands together with undisguised delight. Sampo has to resist the urge to retch.

"Go on, tell me," the nobleman urges. "Did you poison his wine like I told you to? Oh, I bet he never saw that coming, prideful little princeling."

His smile is paper thin, but Cravan doesn't seem to notice, too caught up in his triumphant glee. "I did as you asked, sir. Perhaps we should have ourselves a little toast as well, to celebrate the downfall of your enemies?" There's already a bottle of wine sitting conveniently beside him on the table - he's always known the man to have quite the thirst for wine, never liked how much he drank, but for once Sampo's glad for the excuse. Cravan claps his hands together in delight at the suggestion, gestures for Sampo to go ahead and pour him a glass. There's two of them set out this time, one for each of them. He must have really been looking forward to his return. 

With practiced ease, Sampo uncorks the wine bottle and bends to fill both glasses - careful to fill the glass just over halfway, just how he knows Cravan likes it.

Just one drop. One drop is all it takes. It's done before the arrogant old fool even realizes it, Sampo turning to hand the man his glass of wine before taking his own and bringing it to his lips. His eyes never leave Cravan's glass. The tiny bottle of poison sits comfortably in his pocket, tucked out of sight.

With a gleeful chortle, Cravan raises his glass in a toast. "To the death of that spoiled Landau brat," he declares, chest puffed out. Sampo clinks their glasses together and brings his own up to take a sip, though he doesn't taste a single drop of it as it slides down his throat. Instead, his eyes are on the way Cravan practically throws the drink back in a way most unbefitting of a nobleman and more akin to that of a tavern drunkard, smacking his lips noisily at the end. At least he has the grace to wipe his mouth when he's done.

"I've taken care of all your little 'problems' for you, including the Landau boy." Calling Gepard that makes him cringe, but he has to bear with it. Just a little longer. "Don't worry. There's no one else who's going to be giving you any trouble from now on," he assures, and Cravan's beady black eyes shine with far too smug a light. Sampo wants to watch the life fade from them. 

Many of those 'problems' are now buried six feet under. He couldn't let them all live. If he had the choice, he would, but with failure comes consequences, and Sampo still wears the marks of his past failures on his back even now. Cravan's face is flushed red with triumph - or the alcohol, or maybe both. The cards have all been played. All Sampo's waiting for is for this twisted game to come to an end. 

"Aren't you so glad I gave you everything you needed?" Cravan boasts, taking another deep swallow of his wine, wiping away a little dribble of it from his chin with one hand. "You used to be so reluctant, when I gave you that knife. Now look at you, perfect killing machine that you are. Aren't you grateful I decided to take pity on you that day, when I found you in the streets?"

He has to keep talking. "Of course I'm grateful," he answers as honestly as he can manage. "Without you, I wouldn't be here today." Wouldn't get to watch you drink your own poison, wouldn't get to tell you how much I've always despised you. "Your generosity has always been something to admire." And soon, your corpse will be added to that list.

Cravan preens, practically oozing smug satisfaction. "That's right. I raised you, fed you, gave you all the tools you'd need to make a living for yourself in this cruel world - you should be delighted at your own luck, really, being taken in by me."

Sampo chuckles. If only he knew. "I'm very grateful for your support, sir," he murmurs obediently. "You taught me so much, after all, when I was just a young boy."

You taught me to fear you. To obey, or be punished. That defiance meant pain, and bravery meant nothing in the face of cold, gnawing hunger. "Truly, where would I be without your guidance?" Sampo sighs, and Cravan bobs his head eagerly in agreement, tipping most of the glass's contents down his throat. "I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't given me all these splendid gifts. The knife, yes, but the poison, sir, was a most brilliant idea from you."

Cravan's smile stretches so widely across his face that it makes Sampo itch to slap it off of him. "Wasn't it? Colorless, odorless, leaves practically no trace behind when added - those fools never would've seen it coming. They deserved it, all of them - I only wish I could have seen their faces before they died, choking on their own wine."

None of their faces had been pretty in death. Sampo remembers them all too well, has every face etched into his mind's eye. He hadn't relished any of those deaths, but this one, he will. "A very effective method. No one ever suspected you at all, I made sure of that."

"Good, good." Cravan sets the glass down with a loud clink, coughs once. "I'm not so cruel as to drag out their deaths. Something quick and relatively painless like poison is best." Another cough, this one louder than the last. "Goodness. Wine must've gone down the wrong pipe."

Sampo smiles.

"I could've ordered you to make their deaths painful. I could've had them killed any number of ways," Cravan muses, almost talking to himself instead of Sampo. "They would have deserved it, those wretched, arrogant idiots. It's just too bad that I -" he breaks off with a startled wheeze, coughing wetly and pounding his chest with one fist. "I don't... what's - ack - happening...?" His eyes find Sampo, who's simply standing in place, not even bothering to move an inch to help. "Sampo? Don't just stand there-" another hacking cough, this time followed by rapid, winded gasps. 

"Colorless, odorless, leaves practically no trace behind," Sampo echoes mockingly. Cravan's face is tomato red, bordering on purple. "I have you to thank for this wonderful opportunity, sir. You really did give me everything I ever needed to dispose of you."

A strangled, gurgling noise. Cravan's body judders, clutching at his throat so desperately that his nails leave raw, red lines in the skin. His eyes are practically bulging out of their sockets, staring accusingly at Sampo. There's froth bubbling from his lips.

"For the record, I've always hated you. Also, the Landau brat has a name, and it's Gepard."

Cravan's on the floor, now. One hand stretches out, as if trying to grab Sampo's ankle. With a disgusted "tch", he sidesteps the pathetic attempt, kicks his hand away with one swipe of his foot. 

"Also, he's alive. And we're in love, and we're going to..."

Well. He doesn't know what they're going to do yet, but he's sure they'll figure something out. Cravan utters a rattling wheeze, his hand flopping to the floor limply. His fingers twitch.

"Eh. Not like you can hear me now," Sampo muses, watching as Cravan's form twitches in its last, shuddering throes, before stilling. "None of your business what we do, anyway." After a moment, he kneels to place two fingers over Cravan's neck, before pulling them back with a satisfied hum. No pulse.

It's time to leave. He's been here too long - both today, and for the years he spent growing up in Cravan's shadow. Besides, he has someone to meet, and hopefully pester into staying with him.

Tonight will be the last night either of them spend here.

Up on the little balcony, swaying in time to a tune only they can hear, Gepard thinks Sampo's never looked more beautiful than he does now. There's a new weightlessness in his step, his smile comes easier - freer, almost. On the table lie their masks, both removed in favor of being able to better see each other. 

"What are you thinking?" Sampo's voice cuts through his thoughts, Gepard blinking back at him as they step and turn, dancing to their own rhythm. 

"About you," he admits, open and honest. "About us."

Sampo chuckles. "Good to know I'm always on your mind, sweetheart."

Before Gepard can scowl, Sampo spins him around - Gepard's feet move without thinking, following Sampo's lead without question. It's the same dance he shared with Brughel - no, Sampo - when they first met, and the memory brings a smile to his lips. "I was just thinking where we'd go from here," he hums, and Sampo tilts his head questioningly. "With that man gone, where does that leave you? Besides, you know my father would never approve of us."

Another beat, and Sampo walks him backwards, leading Gepard by the hand as they twirl. "I have my ways of fending for myself," he assures Gepard, though he doesn't answer the other question. Uncertainty makes him falter, just for a moment, saved only by Gepard's quick reflexes in correcting his balance before he can trip. 

"And what about me?" he asks. "Would you stay with me?"

Sampo studies his expression carefully. "Do you want me to stay with you?"

The answer comes as easily as breathing. "Yes," Gepard replies immediately, prompting Sampo to lean in and press a kiss to his lips. They're inches apart when the other pulls away, staring at him so intently Gepard fears he might drown in those endlessly green eyes. "I do, I just don't know how this will work..."

"You could come with me," Sampo suggests, and for a moment Gepard thinks he's misheard him. "Wherever you want to go, I'll follow. We don't have to worry about your parents or what they think, I have enough money to travel."

Gepard would be a poor liar indeed if he said he didn't consider it. No more expectations to shoulder, no more pressure to marry and live his life alongside a stranger he doesn't even love. Serval and Lynx, however, are still his family, and it's hardly as simple as that to just leave them behind. Some of his hesitation must show on his face, because Sampo squeezes his hand reassuringly. "Just for one night, at least," he pleads, and that much, Gepard can do. "You can decide in the morning. Tonight, it's just the two of us." Pressing a kiss to the back of Gepard's hand, Sampo flashes him that bright, winning smile he's come to love. 

"One night," Gepard relents, but he can't keep himself from smiling back. 

"That's the spirit." Sampo pecks him on the cheek, before tugging his hand to lead him away. "Come, I know a secret way out of here. Whatever you want to do, just say the word." 

On the table of that balcony, two masks - one red and one blue, sit silently, no longer needed by their wearers.