Death of a Prince | ✓

EP 11: A DRINK OR TWO

EPISODE 11

'a drink or two'

     

    

LEON COULD NOT hold his drink.

The bubbly nerves that waved off him despite his impressive look - make note that Leon Song looked ridiculously good with his hair pushed back - should've been the first clue.

But after the second shot was down, the mojito he was cradling emptied out — he smiled and wound his arms around me, his neck stowed low. As if his head was barely hanging from his shoulders.

He sighed. Content.

"I'm starting to remember how alcohol is so freeing despite it being incredibly disgusting," he murmured, whispering as close to my ear as he could, his warm breath raising hairs on my shoulders and arms.

It was a very intimate moment, and if I hadn't plied myself with a couple of shots whilst nursing a rum coke, my soft heard would've melted. But my head was clearer and my heart more confident this way. Leon was not an exception from this magical bravery borne from alcoholic consumption.

Of course, with confidence borne from alcohol — this could lead to a different disaster entirely.

Me and confidence has a long standing, rocky relationship.

But I couldn't help it. I leaned into his touch, squeezed him back for assurance, then unraveled my arms and smiled, tilting my head up at him. We need safe spaces, and with this new distance, I pushed aside whatever confusion I had in my chest and instead, marvelled at Drunk Leon.

He was half a head taller with his neck craned, his eyes droopy, almost half shut, and his lips, moist and pink. No doubt from the substances and what the 35% alcohol content entailed.

I was a good drinker, but it was obvious Leon was not.

"We have to keep our heads together," I said sternly, unable to keep the grin in.

The music finished. Appreciative shouting ensued.

He tilted his head. "Pardon?"

I pulled him close, hands to his face. He shivered from the cold. "Sorry. I said we have to keep our heads together. We haven't even infiltrated the private section of the club where Cassandra is at." I turned to the enclosed booth with two bodyguards flanked on either side. Cassandra Bernault—Arjenios sat in the middle. She was crowded over with the same pretty and sparkly A-Listers, but she was not engaging with anyone. As a matter of fact, she was half bowed over her seat, her legs crossed, and her sparkly lips sipping occasionally sipping a bright green drink that hardly seemed replenish.

And yet, she was the sole focus. Though they pretend to be occupied with each other, heads bobbing to the beat, conversations bouncing across heads in half shouts and carried giggles, every single person on that table — and even those with close proximity enough to it, dancing idly just outside the distinct line, was aware of her presence.

Their eyes darted every few seconds. Every small movement she made, they took note of. Every sip, every inhale, everywhere her eyes landed whenever she wasn't having a staring contest the table, her drink, or her diamond-filled fingers. Cassandra wasn't exactly the most interesting specimen in the room by my account; she sipped, sat, and need even strayed her eyes away from her general eye view.

But they watched her; is aware of her.

"This is harder than I thought," I said, still string. We were a good few feet away, still by the bar. Truth be told, with the music and alcohol, it reminded me too much of when I sneaked out to clubs in fake IDs, heavier makeup to help it, and heels higher than my hopes and dreams. The sensations, the situation, brought memories that felt like another life. An old lifetime.