library card /brohm + an

[gamemaker kelsier]

a n s e l m .

"in the deepest ocean
the bottom of the sea
your eyes,
they turn me."

Noise against his back, Anselm leaves the Salvatore's ballroom, a finger tugging at his tie to loosen it. He's smiling, despite everything, smiling because his teeth are numb and when he runs his tongue along them he knows he's drunk.

His ribs are purple, each breath hurts the littlest bit but it hurts less and less with every cup he sips from. There's a desperation there, not thirst, just removal. A need to be a little bit less than he is. It'd be good to slip away, out the front door, into nothingness until morning. But there are people still streaming in, the night is still young and Anselm seeks a hiding place instead.

The library is always safe on nights like these, close enough to the ballroom that he can come back easy even drunk but far enough away that it's not so loud anymore, far enough away that he won't run into someone he doesn't want to see. He's been using it as a getaway for a couple years now to the point that the staff always keeps a fire going and the drink cart stocked.

Anselm pushes one of the large double doors open and slips inside, locking the library doors behind him. There's always the risk that his father might want to use the room for a private discussion, but if that's the case, there are a few other exits.

He shuts his eyes, back against the door, just catching his breath for a moment. Anselm always loses himself in the middle of the ballroom, leaves himself behind every time and one day he'll wake up a stranger to himself.

A shuffling sound.

He opens his eyes, gaze going to first the fireplace and then to the walls of books.

"Who's there?" he asks, voice quiet but still firm.

[[nyte]]

b r o h m .

"wanna know if
you're not okay
but i get too attached
to the things you say"

He's drowning in his own inadequacy. It's a cruel little feeling scratching at the back of his skull - the kind of thought he can't share because no one will agree but he can't quite bring himself to disbelieve. There's calluses on his fingertips, worn raw by hours he'd wasted trying to reach perfection and never managing to surpass perfectly adequate. Where his siblings are made of vibrant neon it is undeniable that Brohm Rathbone is rather muted.

So that's why he's found himself is in the Salvatore library - a place he has absolutely no business in being. There's a lock-pick burning a hole in his pocket that he hadn't ended up needing because the window was open and there seems to be some sort of party going on anyway. Breaking and entering had ended up being an anticlimactic affair.

While Brohm's intent was malicious, he'd yet to decide exactly what havoc he intended to reap. Most of his time preparing for tonight had been spent figuring out how to get in to the estate, not what he'd do once he had. So he takes a moment to admire the Savatore's expansive library. They might all be stuck-up bastards but they were rich bastards.

Alas, it seems he spent far too much time admiring. "Who's there?" The boy's gaze lands on him and Brohm freezes like a deer in headlights.

"Is it any of your business?" Brohm bites back, ignoring that it is entirely Anselm's business. "Aren't you meant to be -" He bites his bottom lip, casting about for something witty to say "somewhere else?"

He'd come up dry.

[gamemaker kelsier]

a n s e l m .

"in the deepest ocean
the bottom of the sea
your eyes,
they turn me."

There, between the poetry section and the fiction, a boy not dressed for the occasion. Anselm stares at him, reactions slow from the vodka burning a hole through his stomach. He's good at faking it though, at holding back the laughter that tends to loosen his lips after too many drinks, and puts on a serious expression to match the moment.

Is it his business? Maybe not, it's not like Anselm really cares all that much about petty thieves. The Salvatores have enough money to keep the world spinning for years, a few trinkets here and there aren't an issue.

"is that your idea of a comeback?" he asks, more curious than anything, "This area's off-limits, and..." he steps closer, slinking around the pools of light cast by a reading lamp and the hearth like a cat, "You're not dressed for the party." He looks the kid over again now that he's closer, "Though you are dressed for something."

He chooses to ignore the boy's question, yeah, he should be back there being a perfect son but that boat sailed years ago. The subject's still sore to the touch though. His brow furrows, a memory tugs at Anselm's foggy mind, there's a familiarity to this kid but he can't quite place him.

Anselm gives up and sits down heavily in one of the reading chairs beside the fire. "You want a drink?" he asks and gestures to the drink cart just a few feet away, "I came here to be alone but you're here so might as well."

[[nyte]]

b r o h m .

"wanna know if
you're not okay
but i get too attached
to the things you say"

It was supposed to feel dangerous. Walking into the lion's den and baring his throat, locking eyes with a predator from across the room. Unfortunately for Brohm, Anselm is in no mood to fight. Brohm watches him melt, caving in on himself with a tired breath. Not so impressive under the library's soft yellow lighting, in fact Brohm would say he looks almost melancholy.

"It's a comeback." He mutters under his breath as Anselm speaks, deciding the cover of Wuthering Heights is far more interesting than the interesting boy across the room. He hears the tentative steps of his companion drawing closer, so he turns over the book and studies the back as well. There's a good chance he'll lose his nerve if he meets his eyes - Brohm isn't very good at this.

"Don't you think you're a bit too... calm? Considering I'm obviously-" He gestures to his all black outfit, down to his black socks and navy blue gloves. If he's being honest his pride is a bit wounded at how little threat his presence exudes. Nonetheless he takes the seat he's offered, drumming his fingers on the table and chewing on his next sentence.

"You probably don't have the kind of alcohol I like." Because Brohm has never drank before and is too prideful to admit it, "I have expensive tastes." The way his tongue fumbles around the lie is painful and obvious.

"And I don't think I make for very good company."

[gamemaker kelsier]

a n s e l m .

"in the deepest ocean
the bottom of the sea
your eyes,
they turn me."

Anselm sinks into the chair and it's just comfortable enough that he might not get up again tonight. His head is heavy with drink, the effort of being anything but content too much to make.

"Maybe I am," he says, "But I just figure if you were going to do something, you'd have done it by now." H gives the intruder the benefit of looking over his outfit again anyway, seems he put a lot of work into it. He's dressed for stealth, to the point where it's almost charming. Anselm isn't sure burglars even usually put that much effort in.

His gaze slows on the boy's features again, and Anselm's head falls a little to the side as he tries to work out where he knows him from. There are far too many possibilities, too many parties and nights that never end, going on for forever.

"If you're looking to steal something, the library's an odd place to hang around," he says and then stands. The movement is a little much, Anselm places a hand on the back of the chair to steady himself and then crosses to the drink cart.

"Oh," he says as he pours whisky into a glass, "Unless you're trying to do something more extreme?"

Anselm, ever the gracious host, holds the half full glass out to the would-be burglar, "Finest whisky in the district, go on."