[ time sure does fly, and akira's honestly wishing it wouldn't at the moment, because he only has about a few hours to prepare and not make an ass out of himself at the fanciest black tie event. no pressure, really. ]
I'll take my time then
[ the rest of the day goes by in a blur, but as most things in his life, he manages to make it work somehow. the suit chiori graciously loans him fits well—less ornate than likely what most of the guests will be wearing, but it's black with red accents (wriothesley's usual color palette) and does the job in showing off his physique that he normally keeps hidden beneath baggier clothing. his hair is trickier, but gets slicked back and into a side part, and honestly, without his glasses, he's strangely less recognizable. he's really going to be clark kent-ing his way through it and praying for the best.
all this is to say that he gets to the fountain likely fifteen minutes after wriothesley, but look, at least he made it at all. ]
[ look, wriothesley wouldn't even care if akira turned up in a potato sack, that's how little he really cares about this event ... but on the other hand, he does have the standards as the duke of the fortress of meropide to uphold. if there is one thing he knows, it's that authority is a short lived and fragile thing. you have to keep up your guard around others. hm. maybe he did kind of spring this on akira? should he start to feel bad about it?
but it seems like he's lucky enough a second time at least - he should really thank akira's resourcefulness, because it doesn't seem like he'd been waiting a few minutes before he spots akira coming down the steps.
an occasion is an occasion, and because lady furina has had enough foresight (or just a better sense of aesthetic than he does) to send him an outfit prior to the ball, but wriothesley does look notably more cleaned up than usual, though the dark black and red of his usual colours haven't changed at all. his shirt is actually almost fully buttoned, even, though he has left the collars loose. wriothesley takes a few steps forward to meet akira, and then whistles softly through his teeth. ]
Almost didn't recognise you. Should I be calling you Cendrillon?
[ despite how casually he tends to address wriothesley, even he knows he can't show up in anything less than his best. it's as much for wriothesley's sake as his own, really, on the off chance someone does recognize him. appearances mean everything when it comes to these kinds of things.
case in point: as expected, even if he says the ball is a waste of time, wriothesley is still out here, dressed to the nines and looking like he just woke up like that. he probably did, the asshole. there's still an odd little flutter of—nervousness? anticipation, more likely, at the thought of going together; of occupying a space outside of the occasional round of wriothesley beating him up. in the end, he still decided to invite akira, however, and that probably says something, doesn't it?
things to dwell on later, when he's not getting distracted by that open collar. ]
That depends, [ he bats his lashes, because just because he's cleaned up doesn't mean he's any less of a cheeky shit. ] Will you bring me back home before midnight?
[ what, don't you think his hair looks at least a little more neat than usual? no changes whatsoever? for once, wriothesley looks less like some underground thug (no pun intended) and more like your usual hobnobbing noble, you know. he would be insulted, if he even cared an inch about something like that - just like how he doesn't seem to care whether his date for the night is someone else more polished and respectable, or just some no-name part timer of several establishments from the depths of common populace.
he doesn't go so far as ruffle akira's head (look, he knows how long it takes to wrangle these things to some semblance of order, he just had to live through a similar experience) but wriothesley does snort, each movement exaggerated as he leans towards the other, extending his arm so akira could take it. ]
That depends on whether you've been a good boy or not.
[ he's trying not to look too closely, because he knows he wouldn't be able to look away once he does and that would give everything away, wouldn't it? not that he thinks wriothesley can't tell—the man may be obtuse but he isn't blind, and akira hasn't been subtle either. but no one's called him out on it (yet), and if plausible deniability is his only saving grace, then he'll take it. underground thug and hobnobbing noble or not, he doesn't think he's ever had a choice anyway with the way he lets himself be pulled into wriothesley's orbit, so hopelessly attuned to him; like a weight hanging from his every word or maybe a noose (either way, they sway).
even outside of their sparring wriothesley's still knocking him on his ass, hitting him with the one two punch of good boy and offering his arm. it takes effort not to look away, to hide the blush that is most definitely spreading over his cheeks, and he only hopes that it's dark enough to at least tone it down a little. ]
So you'll have me suffer with you for the rest of it, if not? [ his tone is dry as he lets his hand settle in the crook of wriothesley's elbow, and since they aren't keeping any pretenses at the moment, he may as well sidle a little closer until their shoulders brush. ] You're a cruel man, Your Grace.
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I'll take my time then
[ the rest of the day goes by in a blur, but as most things in his life, he manages to make it work somehow. the suit chiori graciously loans him fits well—less ornate than likely what most of the guests will be wearing, but it's black with red accents (wriothesley's usual color palette) and does the job in showing off his physique that he normally keeps hidden beneath baggier clothing. his hair is trickier, but gets slicked back and into a side part, and honestly, without his glasses, he's strangely less recognizable. he's really going to be clark kent-ing his way through it and praying for the best.
all this is to say that he gets to the fountain likely fifteen minutes after wriothesley, but look, at least he made it at all. ]
no subject
but it seems like he's lucky enough a second time at least - he should really thank akira's resourcefulness, because it doesn't seem like he'd been waiting a few minutes before he spots akira coming down the steps.
an occasion is an occasion, and because lady furina has had enough foresight (or just a better sense of aesthetic than he does) to send him an outfit prior to the ball, but wriothesley does look notably more cleaned up than usual, though the dark black and red of his usual colours haven't changed at all. his shirt is actually almost fully buttoned, even, though he has left the collars loose. wriothesley takes a few steps forward to meet akira, and then whistles softly through his teeth. ]
Almost didn't recognise you. Should I be calling you Cendrillon?
no subject
case in point: as expected, even if he says the ball is a waste of time, wriothesley is still out here, dressed to the nines and looking like he just woke up like that. he probably did, the asshole. there's still an odd little flutter of—nervousness? anticipation, more likely, at the thought of going together; of occupying a space outside of the occasional round of wriothesley beating him up. in the end, he still decided to invite akira, however, and that probably says something, doesn't it?
things to dwell on later, when he's not getting distracted by that open collar. ]
That depends, [ he bats his lashes, because just because he's cleaned up doesn't mean he's any less of a cheeky shit. ] Will you bring me back home before midnight?
no subject
he doesn't go so far as ruffle akira's head (look, he knows how long it takes to wrangle these things to some semblance of order, he just had to live through a similar experience) but wriothesley does snort, each movement exaggerated as he leans towards the other, extending his arm so akira could take it. ]
That depends on whether you've been a good boy or not.
no subject
even outside of their sparring wriothesley's still knocking him on his ass, hitting him with the one two punch of good boy and offering his arm. it takes effort not to look away, to hide the blush that is most definitely spreading over his cheeks, and he only hopes that it's dark enough to at least tone it down a little. ]
So you'll have me suffer with you for the rest of it, if not? [ his tone is dry as he lets his hand settle in the crook of wriothesley's elbow, and since they aren't keeping any pretenses at the moment, he may as well sidle a little closer until their shoulders brush. ] You're a cruel man, Your Grace.