[WIP] paris belongs to us — anthony perkins - elyanma (2024)

Chapter Text

Yet another again of these goddamned parties, thought Simonette as she sat in the empty roundtable, gaze averted to the sea of jewelry-clad elitists and socialites flooding the dance floor. Whisper campaigns are the music — to each their own half-empty wine glasses at hand, second glasses of margarita starting to kick in, conversations getting all the more drunken in modesty.

The social functions are a tired cavalcade. It’s nothing but an excuse to drink and to evade the caseload — all just a bunch of the white collars and their homely escorts talking about weather, the recession and the divorce Sylvia is allegedly going through. Though Simonette preferred to draw a thin red line from the hearsay and keep away from business that isn’t hers, it isn’t much too difficult to keep an ear open when the whisper is a little too louder than it should be. Another sip of Monet.

Not a single one to strike her interest. She couldn’t act all superior from the crowd; she isn’t much different from them. After all, she’s simply one of those brought to the function only to be left come the first congratulation to his closing yet another deal with some Caucasian in Morocco. Find a seat for herself, a good full bottle of Belvedere, and the cycle viciously repeats.

“How’re you doing, Mrs. Fonacier?”

And in pleasant surprise, “How nice to see you here, dear. I’m doing quite good, a bit sore from all the sitting, but I’m doing quite swell.”

“You mean, swollen?” She chuckles at the response. He signals if he could sit on the vacant chair beside her. She nods pleasantly. He turns to her. “A little dance wouldn’t hurt, you know, Mrs. Fonacier.”

“They’re a bit too packed over there, so I’d rather not.” And Yves just simply nodded.

“I understand. Also, is your husband around? You seem to be a little bit lonely sitting here.”

She scoffs, “Oh, you know well that I wouldn’t be here if he didn’t drag me over here in the first place. But I digress.”

“You wouldn’t want to dance, Missus?”

“No, I am very obviously not built for the dance floor. You could go ahead, never mind me.”

“But you’d be too lonely!”

Not all the time are these parties the most insufferable. Quite often, for as long as they get to see each other by chance or coincidence in these little parties, this young charming man would always come up to check on her and ask how she’s doing, always in that same exuberant tone of voice and always said the same way. Almost even too enthusiastic for Simonette’s liking — so boyish and childlike that it baffles her that Yves would even bother with a woman of her, say, tenure.

And suddenly the young man ups almost as if he was breaking into song, some magical musical number where everyone dances in grace and every smile is a call to come hither — almost bumping into some waiter with a full tray of champagne-filled glasses and some elderly lady who just wanted to pass through. “Mmm, Yves Juillien! You and your little tricks again!” And he evokes an irreverent laugh from Simonette, still glued to her seat, watching him from the table as he happily flutters around like some madman.

“You’re a lunatic, Yves!”

“And so are those who sit and do nothing in parties.”

“Oh, can it. You are quite the irresistible scum,” and so she ups from her seat, refilling her wine glass with her vacant hand and taking the thing with her. Yves beams with a brighter, satisfied smile and takes her by the hand to kiss it. “Careful, I won’t risk spilling this whole thing.”

And carefully they do dance, sway a bit to the music so as to grant the young man his spontaneous request. Simonette didn’t ponder too much, and danced some half-baked tango moves to the upbeat jazz that had been playing for the past hour.

“See, you can actually dance, Mrs. Fonacier. You just a little bit of pushing.”

“And I’m tired, sweet thing. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Monette, darling! Juillien sure has his ways of magic to get you up off that chair you’ve been sitting on for quite some time!” And both of them turn to the man who stood right between them: Mr. Fonacier.

Playfully rolling her eyes, “I was just about to get back, actually.”

“Hey, takes two to tango, even better with your sweetheart, hm?” and she sweeps her right from Yves' arms to his, “you’re a wunderkind, Juillien!”

“It’s nothing, Mr. Fonacier. Somebody had to get her out of that chair — though I prefer to be [referred](http://referred.to) to as Yves by my mother’s acquaintances.”

“Alrighty, would you be so kind and let me have a dance with my wife over here?” he jauntily asks, and Yves simply gestures a vertical salute from the side of his forehead and suddenly disappears like some ghost out of thin air. The couple laughs it off.

After an exhausted sigh, “Ooh, dear Monette, he’s some kind of queer kid, hm?”

“Yeah. Eccentric is what I’d call it. Seems to still have that boyhood in him.”

“You seem to get a’too close to him, quite a lot. That Juillien Yves kid.”

Almost in a humoured distaste, “Mon cherie, younger men are never of my liking. His mother is a friend of mine, may I add.”

“Anything you say, Monette darling,” and so they dance, Simonette taking frugal sips of her wine as she could no longer eye the bottle from afar, assuming someone must have taken it in pure lack of etiquette and common decency.

“And it’s Yves Juillien, dear.”

“His mother sure has got a penchant for those names. You’ve got Yves and some misspelt, mispronounced variant of Julian.”

“Hool-yen. Jool-yan.”

He places a finger on her lip, “Shh, no. Like this, darling: Joo-wheel-liyen. Faithful to the spelling.” She laughs.

“From what I remember, actually,” then too much of another sip, “Yves is actually the name of Dinah’s father, her mother. So technically, it’s the name of his grandfather — catch my drift?” he nods. “The Juillien, I’m just as perplexed myself.”

In some funny declarative voice, he says: “Yves Juillien Sadire.”

“Yes. Government names, sweet.”

“Simonette Fonacier, born Simonette Loman.”

And she scoffs in absolute repulsion, to which her husband laughs comically, “Repugnant. You are not to remind me of that ever again.” And she flicks his nose with her index finger.

“. . . I love you, darling,” and she rests her wrists in the place between his nape and shoulder, wine glass carelessly flailing in the hope for affection. But none returned.

“Alrighty, Monette. I’ll have to entertain a few of my colleagues. Wouldn’t wanna leave them lonely, hm?”

Almost in a sad disappointment, “Oh, is that so?”

“Mhm, darling. You find Dinah if you want. I believe she’s around. Are you gonna be alright?”

“I’ll manage, honey.” And she unlocks his body from hers, slouching back into her emptied glass of wine, fidgeting fingers to her lips. Mind it. Pat her clasped hands to her pockets.

“Sweet. Don’t drink too much, alright.”