not_a_goddamn_princess | MASQUERADE PARTY, 33 Apocalypse Ave, Friday Evening

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MASQUERADE PARTY, 33 Apocalypse Ave, Friday Evening

Party night. The best of nights. An ornate sign on 33 Apocalypse’s door invited all to knock and make themselves known.

The space inside was bigger than it looked from the outside, stretched and displaced by magic. The wallpaper was green and textured, hinting at the English countryside. On one side of the room sat a significant bar offering food and drinks, while the other gave ample space to sit. A large Jenga tower held prominence in a corner.

It was easy to miss it, though, in favor of the little streams of water that ran across furniture and floor. Tiny glass gondolas, animated by magic, made their way back and forth across each stream. The gondolas were real, though the water itself was an illusion. It called attention to the ceiling, doubly enchanted: both to draw all cigarette smoke to itself so it wouldn’t blow in anyone’s face, but also to mimic the starry sky above Venice.

You could watch the stars twinkle, or see the occasional cloud go by. Magical fireflies added to the illusion, dancing through the air like tiny lights. If you listened closely, you could hear the sea rolling in across an invisible beach. Even the air smelled faintly of it: the sea, warm food and good wine.

Welcome to Eliot and Margo’s pad, people. They’d make damn sure you had a good time.

[ocd up, come party!]

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Miguel showed up in leather pants and a tight navy tank-top he'd bought almost entirely for Rosa's benefit, but hey, they were public-appropriate! He'd even found a mask rather than wearing his own.

Shut up, it was thematic. And this one was easier to drink in.

“Friend of Eric’s?” Margo guessed with dry amusement.

Miguel laughed. "Boyfriend of Rosa's." He stuck out his hand. "Miguel O'Hara. And if you haven't heard what she calls me, I'll bask in that ignorance for a few minutes."

“I haven’t. She just kinda stormed through here on her way to the bar,” Margo said dryly.

"Sounds about right." Miguel shrugged. "It's nothing personal, by the way." Not that Margo sounded like she minded. He looked around the bigger-on-the-inside house. "Okay, I have to know - science or magic for the dimensional thing?"

“Magic,” Margo said. She wasn’t even going to bother with the ‘humble’ part of a humblebrag here. “Just the kind that takes a fuckton of math.”

"Damn." Miguel scrunched his nose. "Science I can do. Though hey, I suppose I can talk math with the best of them. Or at least the very-above-average of them."

“You need math, a fuckton of trauma, and some magical talent,” Margo drawled. “You got all three, or you’re just some nerdy science dork trying to feel better about himself?”

"Two out of three," Miguel said. "No magic in my world that I know of," because he'd never met Strange, "only fucked-up superpowers. But see, if it was science, I'd be able to make conversation over the details. I know fuck all about magic."

"I see someone felt the need to bring a little Halloween to the gala," Eliot said, amused. "It does have some sparkle, so I'll allow it."

"Spiders are my thing," Miguel said, grinning. "At least I'm not wearing my usual outfit. Figured it was a bit too costume-y." He held out his hand. "Miguel. Are you one of the hosts?"

"I am, yes. Eliot. And I find I absolutely have to ask now just what your 'usual outfit' is."

Miguel snorted. "Yeah, fair. It's...hold on." He got out his phone and quickly looked himself up in his home dimension and found a Public Eye pic, which he showed to Eliot. "Started as a Day of the Dead outfit, turned into a...thing."

"Wow," Eliot said, his habitually dry tone a contrast to the amount of blinking he was doing at that picture. "That is . . . certainly a look."

"Hey," Miguel said, a little defensive, "it was the one thing I had that would stand up to...everything." And it did make his ass look damn good.

“And strike fear into the hearts of any who would defy you, I’m sure.”

"If only." Miguel rolled his eyes. "You know, I never expected to come here and be judged on something I didn't wear."

"Yes, well, then you shouldn't have brought it up," Eliot said cheerfully. "Can I get you a drink?"

"You asked!" Miguel protested, mostly for the sake of arguing. "Sure, what have you got?"

"Yes. Because you brought it up."

You weren't going to win, Miguel.

"We have an array of cocktails, and lots of wine. What's your preference?"

Eh, story of his life.

"Whatever tastes best," Miguel said. "I can't get drunk, so it's all the same to me."

"What, at all?" Eliot looked personally wounded. "That's tragic!"

"If I drink a lot really fast, I can get buzzed for a bit," Miguel said, shrugging. "Not usually worth the price tag. Does mean I can always do all of Summer's jello shots, though."

"But what do you do when you need to just -- not deal with your shit?"

Look, Eliot came about his chemical dependencies for very specific reasons, okay?

"Scream a lot?" Miguel shrugged. "Go out in the terrible outfit and beat up criminals? Yeah, usually one of those."

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