Bubble bubble, toil and trouble (private)

[Zachary LaRousse]

No matter how hard he might try to hide it (and he is trying, mind you), the frustration he felt with Fiona’s little ‘temper tantrum’ left the pompous teen feeling a bit too sour than usual. His pace too stiff, his shoulders tense and a scowl etched seemingly perfectly on his face. If it was anyone else, he would’ve began ranting already; but since this was Naomi who seemed to be so prim and proper and perfect in all that she is, he resigned himself to periodic eye rolls and deep sighs. “I’m really sorry our evening got off to quite the start Naomi,” said Zac, giving the hand on his arm a pat (though something tells me it’s more for him than her really), “There’s just something about Fifi tonight. Maybe it’s her period or something.”

Because among the three, he was expecting her to be the sane one. He’s the annoying one, Naomi’s the eerily charismatic one, and Fifi takes on the helm of being the voice of reason between them. But no. She had to go back to her past prissy princess self (or at least Zac thinks anyway) and demand they ditch the party for some supremacist accusation on the host. Which the self-proclaimed prince thinks is boundless and completely bogus.

If only he knew.

The boy’s disappointment just kept on piling on top of each other when they entered the manor itself. While there were a few people he recognized from the past family parties he’s in, something tells him that the party isn’t all that ‘exclusive’ as he thought it’d be. Case in point: Ann Hudgins.

“You know Miss van Drakke?” he asked, sneaking up on her from behind. Cue in the derisive look of disbelief plus the supposedly insulting head-shake-with-eye-roll. Then came their host and Zac’s face quickly changed from a scornful scowl to a warmer grin. “Hi Miss van Drakke. Long-time no see,” uttered the boy, “Sorry we were late. Fiona Hart created a scene outside and wouldn’t come out. Weird really. Oh, and this is Naomi. I believe you invited her too, right?”

ooc:
This took too long. Apologies. >.<

[Mitya Makarov]

The only thing going through Mitya's mind at the precise moment of arriving at his unlikely new acquaintance's residence was that he was late. He really hated to be late, but he had of course had to take a trip to any local shop to buy some sort of offering sacrifice gift for his hosts. He had never been a fan of the superstitions that his family had subscribed to, but bringing a gift, even something small, was just common decency. Even in the case of going to the home of someone he had initially been wary of.

It was odd, actually. He had been so nervous of Ms van Drakke and Lurch her gentleman friend before, but going over the incident in his head afterwards, he couldn't find any logical reason why he should have been. He'd brushed off the feeling of being.... controlled somehow... as sheer paranoia, something he was still trying to bring himself to let go of. Even so... he still wasn't sure he liked him all that much.

Making his way inside, he hoped his paltry gift of flowers (it was the biggest bouquet they'd had and yet it still felt rather small, especially in this place) wouldn't earn him some sort of black mark against him. Looking around, he was pleased to note that he was not the only one in costume. He wasn't the sort for dressing up unless he was dancing, but at the same time he wasn't the sort to put on his fanciest suit and claim to be James Bond. So instead, he'd gone out to find a suitable costume, and after a long search for something respectable, instead he'd turned up as a mime, dressed in a black outfit that clung far too close to his body for a gathering like this... and he'd only realised it now on approaching his hosts.

He greeted them each stiffly by name, though he was fairly certain that a "lol silly mimes don't talk; stfu" was about to be sprung on him. "I brought flowers, simply a token of gratitude; I'm sorry I couldn't bring something perhaps more practical." Like a box of vodka. To him, during parties? Oh yeah, he hated vodka but it could surely be practical. Spotting Josh across the room, he waved hello with a white-gloved hand.