[ GRAYSON ]

GRAYSON HAD ONLY ONCE NOT BEEN A GOOD DANCER.
When he had never learned what dancing was.

Being a Hawthorne was simple enough. Or so he was taught.
Being a Hawthorne was perfection.
The epitome of mastery.

Nothing less.
Everything more.

Every step he took was measured.
Every place his hand was kept was sure.
Every curve of his lips was confident.

Grayson Davenport Hawthorne was the Hawthorne.
He was raised to be.

Until she walked into his life, flames of chaos right at her feet.

The woman in his arms was too giggly for his liking. She had an obnoxious laugh and a haughty look peeking through her lavish mask. Safe to say, Grayson was admittedly hit with a wave of relief when his dance ended. 

Grayson scanned the ballroom.
Memorizing every face and every person.

And yet his eyes landed on softly lit gold and stayed.

Grayson was not Jameson in any way. He didn't take risks. He didn't have wants. He didn't get to have wants. He had them several times too many. And he lost them just as much.
And the most striking difference between the brothers was one thing:
Grayson dared never lose himself.

Why, then?
Why did he always lose his words, actions, and thoughts when those gold eyes shined? Why did he keep falling into the same ditch again and again?

It was dangerous. He was treading on a thin rope. 
Grayson ripped his eyes away, sipping the honey-colored liquid from his glass.
He wasn't going to fall again.

The way he tried to with the Laughlin girl.
The way he did with...

"Quite the drink, isn't it?" The man leaned against the wall, his glass held appreciatively. "The light hits the sticky sweet color just the right way. Finest scotch there is." He took a swing a smiled at Grayson, "Mr. Hawthorne, a pleasure to meet you. Once again, that is."

Arnold Douglas held his hand out for a shake.

Unlike his (his?) Doll, Grayson had taken copious amounts of time to learn about every person attending the Jondes Central Ball (and also unlike his Doll, he knew what the ball was officially named).

Arnold Douglas: 52 years old, retired military commander and father of none, husband of an Irish woman; name, unknown.

The man was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and a posture radiating discipline. A scar ran across his left cheek to his jaw. Maybe, Grayson wondered to himself, that is what kept his two faces together. 

Grayson didn't learn the art of facial expressions—he owned it. His face charming and as commanding as any two-faced Military Man, "A pleasure indeed," A tight shake of the hand, a deal with a devil, "Mr. Douglas."

"I must apologize for the scene before," The man sipped his drink, "Ms. Martha is all good now, grace be upon her." Grace? Or politics? "Though I must say," Douglas' eyes raked up the walls and columns, climbing the curtains and landing upon golden eyes that started to look sullen and lost. "She was quite affected by it, Ms. Grambs."

Don't you even think about it. 

It did not matter to Grayson at all.
It did not. 
No, he did not feel a knot tie in his chest at the man's gaze on her. No his, hands did not clench into fists to hold back from doing something rash. No, he did not care if the man dared linger his eyes on her figure. No, he did not.

He did not...

... and even if he did, it was only because Arlene was a woman. She deserved pride and dignity enough to not be objectified by a man nearly thrice her age. 
Hawthornes were raised to protect honor, theirs, and others.

That. Is. It.

"Yes," He said to his glass curtly, "But she will recover. Maybe Ms. Martha reminded Ms. Grambs about someone." Her mother or her sisters? 

"Indeed so. Well," Douglas tipped his glass up. Grayson barely managed to catch the blur of motion across the room. But he did. Something was happening again. "To all..."

The clown was above her.
The clown wasn't.

The clown was gone.

All left was a simple present.

"Who remain fine."

——————

To Grayson's unwelcome relief, Ezra managed to catch the box before it fell upon Arlene.

Judging from their expression, the contents of the box did not reside within the definition of a normal admirer's gift. Said admirer being a light-fast mime with the actions of a circus clown.

Grayson was tempted to march over there himself but held back. The Sinclair girl's presence with the two did do something to ease his worry.

Gold met silver. 
We need to talk, it whispered without a word uttered.

Grayson wanted to. He really did.(For making sure she didn't bring any screw-ups to the Hawthorne name, of course)
But the women and high men clawing for his attention and time, like hungry hounds for meat, did not give him the privilege. 

So he looked away and smiled.
He smiled confident.
He smiled brave.
He smiled power.
He smiled Hawthorne.

A Hawthorne he deserved not to be.

——————

Arlene had this childlike wonder in her eyes as she watched Kezia do many words and messages in the language of fan. This wide eye pout, those defined cheeks rounding a bit. 
It was quite cute.

Grayson will not admit it.

What he will admit, albeit painfully reluctantly, was that face was someone else's. Someone young, someone wild, free, and kind.
Someone who once was the most precious of beings to Hawthorne.

Once.

He had to tear his eyes away as he focused on the other, more desperate women.
The ones lacking thrill.
The ones lacking compassion.
The ones lacking innocence.

No one, Grayson thought to himself, no one will ever exist in the same way you did.

Live the way she did.
Laugh the way she did.
Make him smile... the way she did.

Grayson had to use all his strength to push those thoughts aside. Every time he thought about her... No, Grayson would not think about her.
He had no right to.

"See?" The old man's eyes were dull. 

The flames cast a soft glow on them,
contrasting the arrow sharp gaze.
"Look at what you have done."

He didn't want to.
Not now.

Not ten years back.
He didn't want to.

Then again, who was he to have wants?

"I..." His voice was higher. 
His eyes were damper.

"You," His grandfather glowered down at him.
Those mischievous eyes that would smile at her.
They were gone.

That spark in them was distinguished.

Only a cold and empty stare stayed.

It was all Grayson's fault.
Everything always was.

He knew what his grandfather would say.
He failed.

He disappointed.
He wasn't perfect.

He wasn't worthy.

He... 
"Killed her." 

He killed his everything.

·······•✦•······

So, a gift from a psycho clown, who also apparently has a thing for me, can be put onto the Traumatic Shit That Has Happened To Me After Playing LoL list.

And you'd think the shooting, psycho receptionist, poison, inheriting billions from some old dude I've never met, saving a girl I've never met (trying to at least), and getting fake skin removed by my surgeon who doesn't even exist, was enough for me. 

Oh and add the fact that I'm getting real sure that I'm not who I think I am.

Shoving all that aside, and talking about gifts from crazy mimes:

"Holy shit."
The fan made me its fan within seconds. The feathers were dagger-sharp and their sticks were literal gold needles. The handle of the fan was rich wood and after wrestling Ezra for it, when I pulled on it, a dagger was unsheathed.
And all the feathers were removable.
"So this is love."

"Easy there, Nana," The Martin boy warned, "If you so much as prick your little fingers with that thing, your Pretty Boy will skin me alive." 

I rolled my eyes, "I've been through worse in the past week, Martin," She spun the fan perfectly in my hands, "And he wouldn't care less." A moment later, I added, "And, he's not my Pretty Boy." 

Ezra shrugged, he kept quiet, but the amused grin on his face said enough.

I shot him a glare, before handing the masterpiece of a weapon to Kezia. The woman smiled at it and fluttered it in front of her face, "Fancy thing." She held it up and fanned it on her, "Good breeze. Hm, quite the gift, Ms. Grambs." She walked up to the railing, her eyes roving over the crowd, "Though I wonder, was it to woo you or kill you?"

Kill me? Sure, but if I get more of these things, consider me wooed, Sir Clown.

"Well, seeing how sharp these things are," Ezra stood beside me and Kezia, "I'm pretty sure dropping it on her head, even in a very thin cardboard box, clearly meant to, ya know," he made the motion of slicing his neck.

"Real funny, Ez. Would never have guessed." My eyes searched the crowd for no particular someone.

A Hawthorne was no particular someone.

Again with the women? Should I demote him from Pretty Boy to Play Boy?

"All things considered," I say, my eyes never leaving that pristine Armani coat, "We should probably do something about that mime-clown thing."

"We should," Kezia nodded, "the security is horrifying, but causing a ruckus would only bring us unwanted attention and ultimately nowhere." Her eyes seemed to follow mine. If I had not been so engrossed in my thoughts, I would've raised a brow at her slyly curved lips. "Well, I suppose Mr. Hawthorne might have some ideas, should we speak, we'll be able to get somewhere."

"I would go down, if that's what you're asking," I looked at her, "but I don't want to seem like some creepy jealous date trying to drag him away. Plus the women scare me. Trust me, I spoke to them for about fifteen minutes."

"You're his date," Kezia frowned, "You're supposed to be with him."

"The word date has less use than the 'k' in 'know'." I deadpanned, "And I know, the second I step onto the dance floor, some old ass man is going to drag me away and start going on about fabrics of suits and gems and shit."

Kezia clearly wanted to protest but held it in, seeing my stubbornness. 

"Well, you do have to tell the guy," The Martin boy not so gracefully scratched his ears, "He may be an aloof asshole, but he knows how to deal with shit."

I knew I had to.
But I didn't want to.

Just going near him feels so repulsive. So magnetizing.
I don't like it. I don't like the unfamiliar familiar feeling near him. Around him and with him.
I don't like how they all feel like home to me.
How he does.
A home that burned down.

"Oh!" Kezia exclaimed, making me jump a bit, "Perfect! Your fan."

I held up the black hand fan Pretty Boy had given me. "This thing?"

Kezia shook her head and held the weapon fan, gingerly placing it in between my fingers. She in turn took my fan and fluttered it in front of her face, "Follow my exact movements, okay?"

"Alrighty, Sensei."

·······•✦•······

"You know, maybe going down and calling him isn't really that bad of an idea." I deadpaned at the fan for the fifth time that minute.

Kezia did the courtesy of teaching me every word in fan language.
Fifty times.

Each.

"Oh, hush," She rolled her eyes, and somehow even that looked pretty, "Go on, now. Try it."

I purse my lips as I glance at a very amused Ezra. They know something and their being sneaky. I walked up to the railing and scanned the crowd for silver.

There he was. 
And of course, surrounded by willing company.

My lips suck in a deep breath. 
This is stupid, I hold the fan wide open in my left hand: Come and talk to me.

Pretty Boy's eyes are now on me and the fan. Not an ounce of reaction escapes his perfected expressions. I blink my eyes as slow and smooth as honey dripping down soft, fluffy, delicious cakes. Yes, I was hungry, but back to the point. With a soft rotation of my wrists, the fan twirls: Someone is watching us.

Silver eyes narrow in acknowledgment. Some part of me is impressed with the Victorians for making this language up. I take a moment and hold his gaze as I recall what Kezia asked me to do finally.

Ah, yeah. I smile at him, fluttering my lashes and letting rose tint my cheeks as I place the cool and smooth handle of the weapon onto my lips and finally draw the soft part of the feathers against my cheeks. 'Talk to me quick, Pretty Boy' in fan. Kezia said so.
Although Ezra had the biggest shit-eating grin when she did.

And that was done with.
Now I expected a curt nod from his side. Maybe even a scoff and ignore.
What I didn't expect was to see Grayson Davenport Hawthorne—let me say it again for the guys at the back, Grayson Davenport Hawthorne to have his face cosplay as a tomato as he coughed and snorted out his drink from his nose. Which, by the way, hurts like hell. I almost felt bad for the guy as much as shock.

His blonde eyebrows shot up to the moon and with eyes as wide as saucers, he gawked at me as if I grew a second head or had more than one brain(cells). I cocked my head to my side, confused.

Grayson blinked sheepishly—and I will spare you from listening to how weird it felt watching Mr. Perfect do that. A man placed a hand on his shoulders and it was as if he finally realized how out of character he went. He coughed into his fists, getting a hold of himself within seconds, and went back to conversing with the company after wiping his lips and nose with his regal handkerchief.

And yet that stubborn stain of pink clung onto his cheeks for dear life.

I turned around to meet a very proud-looking Kezia, sparkling me a smirk (literally, she was sparkling. How? Ask god) and a doubled over Ezra, covering his mouth, shoulders shaking as he fought back a laugh with all his might. He seemed to be losing his battle.

These little— I narrowed my eyes sharply. The two had definitely not taught me what I thought they taught. And then people ask why I have trust issues. I let out the second sigh I sighed in ten minutes as my fingers massaged my temples.

All I could and would think about was: 
Maybe I should've taken Lyra up for that drink after all.

·······•✦•······