“Jevon, dear! Are you quite finished yet? I understand the appeal of being “fashionably” late, but right now, we really can’t afford it! 

“One moment!”  

He could practically hear the impatient clicking of Xolani’s heels as he gave himself another once-over in the tall dressing mirror. Even then, he could only judge the bottom half of his ensemble— it was not exactly designed for people of his... immensity. Well, that contumacious lion’s mane on his head was a bit of a lost cause anyhow, no matter how many products— per Xolani’s recommendation— he has slathered into it.  

He must admit that he was not overly enthusiastic about the outfit Xolani had chosen for him. It was stuffy and far too tight for his liking, not to mention horrendously gaudy... but he supposed that these events were all about ostentatiousness and fanfaronade. He was dressed in a corseted tailcoat that ran in shades of navy blue— hemmed with a superfluity of obnoxious frills, lace, and delicate ghosts of ornamented gold, wrapped around a common dress shirt.

 It was matched with a crisp pair of trousers and a set of laced boots that climbed up to the height of his thighs— augmented by sharp platforms that took care to add a monstrous inch or two to his already staggering physique. He was bedecked with a myriad of unnecessary accessories, importuned and thereafter dispensed by his fashion-crazed friend. Namely, a feathery jabot that was affixed to the bottom of his neckline alongside a pair of satiny white gloves and a pearlescent earring that formed the shape of an oval— hitched and dangling from his left lobe— moonstone, Xolani had informed him unprompted.  

After a few more moments of brainless fiddling, Jevon sighed, dissatisfied, and lifted his fingers, rubbing the lingering weariness from his eyes. Several sleepless nights of scripting reports and mindlessly sifting through paperwork have left him understandably fatigued, which were unduly accompanied by an unrelenting onslaught of grotesque nightmares that plundered every instance of rest he was scarcely offered. But in spite of his prevailing exhaustion— and ever the man of his word— he fully intended to carry on with his vow. It was merely a single night, he told himself: he would waltz in, duck behind the rabble, sneak onto the stage, and wordlessly provide their superfluous background music.  

At the very least, Jevon was well-acquainted with the general topography— even if those halls have felt emptier, colder— without the prince and his brimming, all-encompassing zeal.   

He appended his diamond-shaped brooch— a long-held and cherished gift that he tended to incorporate into all his apparel one way or another— to the crown of his jabot. Jevon then donned a white mask that was earmarked by ornate, golden patterning and exquisite swirls— albeit it only cordoned off the charred half. Once it was determined that he looked palatable enough, Jevon abandoned his reflection and made for the door— however, he spotted something— something glinting in a laceration of dark sunlight, sequestered behind the dark plane nestled beneath his mattress. In a moment of subconscious curiosity, he kneeled down and investigated. Thereunder, he would uncover a certain object that, he wagered, has been collecting dust for the better half of a decade.

His lyre, another precious bequeathment— was engineered of ethereal silver and festooned with firm, undaunting strings and carvings of constellations and stars while the base was inlaid with a cerulean gemstone cut to resemble a crescent moon. Where the instrument curled delicately, it almost echoed the folded wings of an angel. Jevon traced a gloved thumb along the ridges of the decorative etchings; he flicked the strings, producing a low groan in reply— but though rusted after years of disuse, it still sang clear and true. And something in his soul stirred— a heart-pang of sentimentality and fearsome longing— for both the mourning of a sincere passion long-abandoned and the eager set of ears that once hounded him for performances day in and day out.

… But since that undue departure— since fate cruelly wretched him out of his arms— needless to say, his pen has not dared to move; his compositions and rhapsodies unwritten; his drive— his natural desperation as a dedicated artist to wreathe those private monuments, to reinterpret the beauty of his muse by inking ballads built upon flowery verse and idyllic wondering— Jevon has only opened himself to seeing nothing but the stale, reclusive walls of his home. Life all but drained of its delicate wanderlust since he was forced to let him go.

The thrusting of the door and the subsequent flounce of heels dispelled his fleeting daydream. He placed the dusty instrument on the bedspread and then shifted his attention toward the direction of the outburst. “Goodness, what’s holding you?” Barked his friend. “Unlike the rest of us, you were born with natural beauty! There’s no need to loiter around and fiddle with your lapels until dawn... oh, my! Look at you!”  

His friend, as expected, had gone all-out with their own costume. A sleeveless form-fitting dress that was shaded an appliqued, enthralling black. The dress flared out just below the knee, creating the elegant illusion of a mermaid-like tail with waves of ruffles. Their usual eyepatch was traded in for one of dainty lace and ornamented roses. Additionally, they wore a frilly choker and a pair of elbow-length opera gloves that were purfled with ornate lacework, which came over their mouth as they suppressed their surprised squeal. Their diaphanous shawl was worn loosely, partially sagging off their barren shoulders. Their hair was untouched and allowed to cascade freely along their shoulders. 

As expected, they impressed. Jevon knew a thing or two about beauty, as a self-proclaimed poet— but among his corpus of romantical knowledge, he could not find a single adjective that could accurately describe his friend’s radiance.  

“Oh, how quaint, darling! You look absolutely spectacular! I must say I was a little concerned— it is so difficult to find clothes for a man of your... stature. But hey! It all worked out!”  

Of the two, Xolani was the one who deserved panegyrization; however, the wholeheartedness of their tone painted his face pink with gratitude as he shyly scratched his cheek. “You flatter me...”  

“And you doubted me. Go on, go on— admit that you were wrong,” they urged with a flick of their hand, the other posed on their hip. 

“Of course, I never should have questioned the impeccable wisdom of the Great Xolani.”  

“That’s right... oh, is that sarcasm, I hear? You cheeky little thing; you’re lucky that I adore you so,” Xolani laughed, lightly tugging his cheek. “Now!” They brought their hands together in a thunderous clap, then hastened for the yawned entranceway. “Let’s hurry! We haven’t a moment to lose, darling!” 

Xolani tossed him a wink and a roguish smile over their shoulder. “I mean, the show can’t very well begin without their lead performer, now can it?”