milliways_bar | (no subject)

Pause, and then a broad grin.

"Romeo and Juliet."

"I haven't had a chance to see that. It must be off-Broadway. Off, off Broadway."

He smiles wide and broad. It's a perfect smile.

"And you would be the first actor I've met here. Aside from that Merdaut fellow that is now a security guard." He shrugs a well-tailored shoulder. "Patrick Bateman, and you are?"

"Mercutio of Verona."

He doesn't get up, but his bow from the waist is flawless.

He processes that for a while longer, and automatically thinks of Venice, not Verona. He grins.

"How is the weather there?"

"Being dead, I would not know."

He glances at a window.

"I would imagine better than here."

"How did that feel?"

He inquires, leaning his elbow on the table, hand clasping around the glass tumbler of whisky.

"Dying? Quick. Sharp."

He rests his chin on a hand and considers, eyes blue and hazy.

"Metallic with blood and tears and full of knowledge. Everything was clear and bright for a moment. I regretted all, I regretted nothing."

Patrick pauses with a beatific smile and very obviously seems ready to laugh or cry. It's just a hint, glimpsed from a crack in his flawless face. It vanishes.

He picks up the glass, takes a distracted drink.

"Is that so?"

"Aye, 'tis."

He shrugs.

"I am glad 'twas not the end. Life for me, aye?"

"It sounds liberating, in a certain way. Very convincing."

Nice hair and great cheekbones, he thinks, and if you turn an ear away from the accent the entire picture was charming in that way that actors have.

"I had little that I desired to be liberated from."

Mercutio waves a hand.

"It depends on your life. And it was painful. My heart felt fit to burst."

"Fit to burst." He repeats, and looks apologetic. "I'm sorry. But don't you have another chance?"

"Here?"

He shrugs.

"Eh. At least it is not Hell. But it is not Verona. I have nephews who are almost as old as me, and I have never met them."

He smirks, and skates smoothly away from the thin ice.

"Still, the people are prettier here than there."

"Exceedingly good-looking." He agrees with another look.

"Why, thank you."

He preens exaggeratedly, and laughs.

"Eh, I function."

"You should do more than simply fuction, Mr. Mercutio."

"My looks, I mean. Or slight lack of."

He grins.

"My face serves its purpose. And I am no 'mister'."

"Your looks. There is no discernable lack of them, from I can see."

He sips.

"What purpose do you use it for, if I might ask?"

Aww, shucks. Mercutio has really fair skin. It can be a curse in these situations.

"For conversation, of course. For seduction. Suchlike."

Shutup. The blush is fading already.

He laughs, and when he makes an effort, it does not sound so hollow and false. "I see. Very interesting." A violent toss of his head back, draining the glass of whisky. The melting ice clinks to the bottom of the glass as he sets it back to the table. "Oh, very."

"I am glad to entertain." A truncated bow, and a slow smile.

"What do you do, then, flatterer?"

"I work in fiance, on Wall Street. Pierce and Pierce, vice president of Mur--Mergers and Acquisitions."

"Is that a good thing?"

His face is blank and uncomprehending.

". . .It is an occupation that allows me to enjoy all of the fine things that life provides."

"But what actually is it? Many occupations do that."