FLOWER'S light knocks find their way to my door, his thick doll lips pressed into a smile as I toss him a suit, the boy undressing in a dark corner and grabbing the neatly wrapped present sat on the bed. I comb back my hair as he talks, bouncing lightly on the bed and questioning my every move.

"Do you think you'll get in?"

"To what? Gatsby's entourage?" He nods in confirmation. "No, but I think you'll have a chance, you look innocent." His blush isn't visible in the dark of the bedroom, body slouched against the chipping brick wall adorned with wood.

I beckon him into the small space, brushing down his hair in a brotherly fashion and straightening his black and crooked collar. With a knock on the door we pause, his face falling before sprinting towards the bed, tucking the present beneath it and attempting to calm himself before letting out a shaky 'come in.'

I loosen at the sight of Moxie, his body swaying the slightest, eyes red and opaque and drug filled. He ignores Flower, heading straight for me and blocking my path with his body leant inside the door frame. "I heard you're going to the party?"

My eyes meet with Flower's, wide and afraid as he shakes his head and draws a finger across his throat. It's only with his frantic waving that I straighten up and get the message, eyes widening slightly as I play it cool, rubbing the back of my hair with my hands. "No, we actually are meeting with someone for dinner, reservations at a real nice place."

"That's the most transparent lie I've ever heard you tell. You're losing your game, Baby." Attempting to walk past him his hands catch at my shirt, dragging me across the tile until we're face to face, the distinctly sweet scent of the pills hanging off his tongue.

"Let go of me you're drunk!"

Even with enough thrashing to bruise his whitened knuckles his grip stays firm against the knit of my shirt, grabbing on with his other fist to calm me down. "We're best friends. We're family. You don't lie to family, Baby."

"And you don't assault them either!" With one last thrash his hand is slammed against the dark oak of the door frame, chest heaving and breath short from the burst of energy it took from me. He doesn't seem effected, he never does when he's high like this, a mix of pills and alcohol keeping him in top condition somehow.

That and the private training with Duke, that probably helps too.

"We have to go or we'll be late." By now I'm tired of his games, still huffing from the assault I pick up the jacket thrown on the floor, forcing myself through his barricade and onto the bed next to a quiet Flower, head downcast in opposition of our catty arguments. "We really don't have the time for this now go crawl back to Daddy."

His fist is colliding with the wall behind us before I can register the move, the breath that'd just been regained slipping from me once again. The force of the collision has cursed the room, the vibration of the wood the only noise that slips between the three of us, our panting breaths intermingling with the panic flooding off of Flower.

My arms find their way around his frail body, pulling him tightly to my chest in protection from Moxie, a new hatred overcoming me as the blood boils, an outburst venomous on the tongue and ready to be lashed out. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Mox?" Voice calm it wavers with frustration, a hint of blood on the palette as my teeth grind against my lips to keep me from taking it any further.

Drawing back his bloody fist he stares at the two of us, a spark in his eye has him backing away, cradling the injured limb to his chest. "I-I..."

The grip held on Flower tightens, the boy's whimpers reigniting the slight flicker inside Moxie, our eyes meeting with the same memory of the same night so many years ago. A flash of his arms cradling me in the night, my tears still young and fresh and innocent against the drying blood crusted to his jacket.

It's memories like that that stop me from hating him in these drunken moments, that remind me of who Moxie really is, how much he really cares about me and wouldn't land a fist to my jaw no matter how angry he was.

"We're going to Gatsby's birthday party..."

The flint of my words has him afire, eyes wide and sobered as my words are digested and he falls back onto his heels. I don't wait for him to stand, to speak in opposition or beg us to let him follow but simply slip out the room with the present tucked deep under one arm and Flower under the other.

Moxie is still sat on the floor, an empty carcass left to rot in the dark, his body unwavering and still except for one slight breath, a single name slipping between his lips, smooth and sweet and void of the hatred he once felt. It's the name of a man and an event and a party and a century, a name that lingers in the room long after every one has gone. A name that screams to the expensive and whispers to the poor.

"Gatsby?"

•••

Holy shit.

It's even more extravagant than the first party, champagne towers overflowing and a pile of presents rivaling its grandeur. Flower sticks to my side, gripping the present with all his might and navigating the halls so familiar yet distant as if in a dream.

The ivory piano in the corner is afire, a madman spinning on the keys and a few matching women dancing ahead of him, the crowd cheering their names and throwing their drinks in the air with their excitement.

Everyone's face is flushed, the theme of the party being ignorant gluttony of sin, the discomfort on Flower's features painfully obvious. He loosens when I take the gift from him, replacing it with a shallow cup and a smile and with a tip of my finger on the sparkling glass he's just as flushed as the rest of them.

He giggles in my general direction, hiccuping slightly and grasping at the air around my arm, where I extend it with a silent shake of the head and cast us away into the crowd. You can barely hear the man beside you and that seems to be the point, a new band taking over with blasting brass and a raspy, throaty voice bursting into the air.

We manage to make it to the staircase that leads to the balcony, the faint memory of a few weeks prior coming to mind, the memory of a blonde headed man staring into the crowd, the memory of a blue car so familiar whizzing by in the streets. I'm shaken from my thoughts, the red headed boy loudly taking a seat on the gold banister, a few women and men fondling over his painted cheeks and neck and the way the ends of his words slur into a faint Russian.

Watching from afar the crowd is nothing but a blur of an artist's brush, extravagant colors blending into the professional muted tones of the truly rich, not the masquerades and the falsely made but the true aristocracy of New York.

It's comical how they run the place yet we hold the strings, the shadows that control their superficial puppet shows belong to the corrupted elite, the Gilded's of the world. They sold their souls to us for whiskey, champagne, and pretty pink pills that are covered in diamonds and women, and we let them think they're in control.

The thought hits home but I can't figure out why, the idea of being controlled by a thin set of strings enough to draw my hands into my pockets and draw into myself on the golden banister.

"H-hey...hey Theo...is that him?" The small voice knocks me awake, eyes alert as they scan the crowd for a peek of stage one of the plan. His nimble fingers point to a blonde man in the crowd, an intimate group of boys surrounding him as he makes his way around the room, catching the glimpse of every man and woman in the building.

"C-come o-on!" In his drunken enthusiasm he falls straight off the banister, head knocking into my arms as I poorly attempt to catch him, the force of his body knocking both of us to the pristine floors at the base of the stairs. A few people stare our way but continue to party, our exhausted bodies dragging themselves to the bottom step and sprawling against the marble.

I haven't even partied why am I this tired? The sound of a clock answers, a good five hours having passed since we first entered the house. This place is like a time void, the explanation of Flower's increasing drunkenness finally coming to light, especially when I catch a waiter handing him another glass from the corner of my eye.

As I reach up to slap the drink away a hand comes up to stop me, a tall man leaning over the two of us with a hint of confusion, waving away the waiter and pulling his deep black coat closer together. His blonde hair is cut short, eyes a deep brown that has me lost, his laugh airy and light yet thick and full of the substance of life. His smooth hands reach out to mine, a cigarette in the other and a cool grin sneakily taped to his lips.

"Are you alright? First party?" His voice is smooth, the backlight of the chandelier giving him an unnatural yet radiant glow. The man is a walking contradiction, a dark undertone hidden in every positive gesture and word and smile.

I don't answer, eyes still locked on his as he sits on the steps next to us, watching the party move on in another world, one that's so near and so far as it whizzes by so quickly. "It's rude of me not to introduce myself!" He realizes with a shock, pulling the cigarette from his lips and exhaling a steady stream of smoke. "I'm Gatsby."

"I-I'm-"

"Drunk?"

"Happy birthday."

He chuckles at my remark, eyeing a dizzy Flower on the step above us before glancing back at me. "Thanks, mate, I believe your friend might be a little whoozy there."

I can't think of an answer, his presence leaving me flustered. There's something that's effortless about him, that leaves you flabbergasted and exhausted and embarrassed of your own presence. There's something about him that screams superiority and has you on your knees no matter the occasion. "You never told me your name."

"It's Theo, and this is Alexe- Alex." I remember at the last minute, covering up the mistake with a casual brush through my hair.

"Theo? I like your suit Theo, it suits you." The sound of my name, smooth and sweetly bitter, has me swallowing, glad that he accepts a simple nod as a return of conversation. The man pulls us both up, patting Flower on the back as the boy holds onto him, a few eyes from the crowd baring into our backs from the exchange.

A man with a pearl brooch makes his way to the steps, Gatsby grabbing onto his hand and sweeping a thumb and lip over the bulging veins. He leaves quietly after the strange movement, Gatsby apologizing for the encounter and brushing his hand through Flower's blazing red hair.

"You seem like you're interesting Theo, when you can muster up your words. Would you like to come over for breakfast? Privately that is." A drunken red head answers for me, Gatsby chuckling at the remark and placing the boy in my hands, rubbing a spot on my shoulder with a hint of distant affection.

"I'll see you tomorrow at eight. And here," he places two opal brooches in my hand, closing the palm around it with a sly glint in his eyes. "take one of these for you and Alex, I want to get to know you when you aren't drunk."

With one last squeeze of my shoulder he's disappeared into the crowd, the brooches glistening in my palm from the light of the million crystals on the chandeliers, my hand falling over the cream and gold piece and extinguishing the glow for the rest of the night, never running into Gatsby again.