TW: Implied Divorce, Past Kidnapping, Implied Past Child Abuse (not by Mark), Dysfunctional Relationships, Toxic Mindsets.
A.N. - A lot of personal interpretations in this one. It may be hard to read at times if you have experience with poor family relationships.
Muffled yells ascended the staircase, lingering on every third or fourth step for a brief moment before continuing. As the noise drew closer to the bedroom, its indistinct nature cleared into a bitter argument.
"Your parade is costing my fortune," snapped a feminine voice. It was brittle from age and years of learned poise, but the indignant accent demanded that it be heard.
"This 'parade' is the greatest event you will ever witness, and it's my zeroes on the bill." The airy voice of Mark Beaks was laced with a defensive impatience, his footsteps reaching the top of the stairs and idling outside the door.
"Please!" barked the woman. "You don't own a dime." Tone wilting to a grumble, her voice wafted further down the corridor.
The entrance to the bedroom was flung open. Mark rushed inside and slammed the door shut behind him, pressing his back against it as if fearing someone would attempt to enter. After a second of unfulfilled anticipation, he slid to the floor and expelled a sigh so deep that he seemed to deflate.
"Man, Mom's a total buzzkill these days." The parrot bumped his head on the door and looked at the ceiling. Fatigue of too many wrong words lingered in his sluggish movements, but the sight of you freed him from the emotional nail pinning his mind to unwanted depths.
When one regarded another with such unrestrained affection, you expected a prior attachment. Months or even years of intimacy could only try to match the fondness he expressed, yet, despite its potential for greatness, the feeling was at once mystifying and disquieting. To consider someone who was little more than a stranger as the antidote for all the complaints he had with his life was a delusional level of faith.
It humbled the grandest achievements and placed an unfathomable degree of importance on the most trivial of interactions. It repelled you like a butcher who had examined the latest shipment and smelt rot, but the exit was locked behind a test of perseverance.
Mark jumped up and balled his fists at his side, dropping a hand into his pocket to retrieve his phone. "Let's crash her photoshoot."
* * *
The sun beat down upon your form like an invisible tide, its sweltering aroma dragging your head closer to the ground. Each step forward was a tired and forced endeavour, and collapsing in capitulation to the heat was a threat that wormed further into reality with every breath. As your lungs struggled to retain oxygen, seemingly forgetting how to behave under duress, a collection of spasms twisted the inside of your chest.
Flares of pain jabbed the corners of your skull, receding like ocean waves lapping the coast before assaulting again with greater strength. If your sanity had not been protected by your determination to endure, you would have thought your brain was attempting to explode out the back of your head. With your fists clenched at your side, you managed a cloudy look at the broad-shouldered silhouette sparing you from the direct reach of the sun.
"Did it have to be today?" It was a simple question, not requiring much effort to conceive but costing the health of your mouth. The dry air latched onto your tongue, which shrivelled like a spoiled grape, and crawled down your throat as if it were a wave of fire.
A quiet sigh, one born from the exhaustion of both physical and mental means, drifted through the breeze. "This family is not renowned for smarts." Falcon Graves uttered his complaint with hushed vexation, bowing his head and eyeing the lanky parrot coasting a few paces in front of him through the top of his gaze.
Rapid beeps emitted from the hoverboard carrying Mark Beaks as he slowed to ride beside you. "I thought I heard some chitchat back here. What's the lowdown?" The billionaire leaned towards the two of you, but despite Graves having spoken last, his focus centred on yourself. The eager gleam in his unblinking eyes betrayed the veneer of playful curiosity that coated his voice.
Through the haze pervading your vision and smothering your thoughts, the aversion to his presence refused to silence itself. You allowed a short distance to expand between yourself and Mark, and your expression darkened to reflect a calm hostility. The composure that the parrot had fought to uphold faltered for a brief second, slipping from his face like a loose piece of glass to expose the sensitive vigilance underneath.
He rode onwards with unshakable confidence that his path would be clear, not bothering to scan the road for potholes or civilians. "Oh, this heat is the worst!" Mark swung his head in the direction of the sky and burdened his tone with an exaggerated sense of misery. Spinning on his hoverboard, the billionaire stopped at the entrance to a mall and outstretched his arms as if introducing a miracle. "But dry your tears, people, because we're here!"
The massive building had escaped your attention, but its tall shadow provided a welcome respite from the unyielding sunshine. The gust of cool air that batted your face upon entering was like quenching your thirst with the fountain of youth.
Hordes of people crowded the restaurants sprinkled throughout the many floors, while others were riding the escalators to an unknown destination. A variety of department stores were wedged into the nooks of the corridors, each one sporting a different colour scheme than the last. The bright signs hanging on the walls above the entrance to the shops clamoured for the services of every potential customer who ventured near.
Mark viewed both the stores and the people who were absorbed by their products with disdain. "Who goes to malls anymore?" he taunted, twirling his wrist and pointing his head at you with the expectation of agreement. When you refused to pull your gaze from the end of the approaching corridor, the parrot succumbed to a pang of irritation. "My mom does, apparently."
Mustering only a slight tilt of the head, Graves remained stoic as Mark swerved his hoverboard next to him.
The twin wheels screeched across the tile floor. "Gravesy, be ready to play offence in a sec, 'kay?"
The corporate saboteur faced his employer with modest suspicion, but he chose his career over his grievances and straightened his tie. Images of the alleged threat he would be confronting danced in his mind. Hardening his expression into the cold, unreadable glare one might expect from a hitman, he followed the billionaire into the adjacent corridor. It was then that Graves realized the superficial nature of the danger.
Rather than a genuine surprise that demanded the time to be understood, the falcon beheld a common disappointment that puzzled him no more than a bird doubted the value of a worm. Rows of fans and paparazzi filled the corridor with bursting seams, and the flashes of cameras obscured the subject of their devotion every few seconds. So many voices were fighting to be heard that the array of shouts and whines reverberating through the floor had devolved into a collective buzz.
The static hum of a broken television set could have replaced the noise without anyone knowing the difference, prompting Mark to retreat closer to you and Graves. The parrot crinkled his eyes and looked past the lights at the older African grey parrot, who was perched on an elevated chair that sat above the centre of the crowd on a small platform. Stairs sloped towards the seat on all sides except the rear, and three security guards were spread between them.
"Ms. Glamour," sputtered a reporter. They ascended the steps with a ravenous zeal and shoved a microphone towards the apparent celebrity, bending their arm around the torso of a security guard. "Any word on the court hearings?"
Glamour raised her head, which had been resting on her fist, and looked at the newshound as if she were a hyena that had spotted a wounded gazelle. Even with the white sunglasses concealing her eyes and the straight line of her mouth, the fresh anger was palpable. She uttered nothing, yet her vigilant posture ordered the front guard to act.
Within a single moment, the reporter was being ushered to the nearest recess of the crowd. No one offered a word of protest or sympathy. Instead, the gap plowed by the security guard was filled like a body of water, with all traces of the reporter having been erased. A dishevelled fan dressed in a variety of baubles and colours that portrayed a desperate attempt to seem fashionable scurried to the top of the stairs.
Their mutterings had quieted to indistinct syllables upon reaching your ears, but the elegant appearance of Glamour was clear behind their puny stature. The tastemaker was swathed in iridescent shades of blue and green, with a headpiece comprised of lanky feathers decorating her white bob haircut. A torrent of sunshine spilled from the skylight positioned above her chair, the lenses of her sunglasses having blackened to combat the beams of daylight oppressing her figure.
Glamour observed the crowd with the poise of a queen monitoring her subjects. The round shades obscured her yellow eyes like a mask and moulded an impression of anonymity. She lowered a pen to the notebook in a robotic motion before waving a hand at the fan as if they were a noisy insect disrupting her peace.
The billionaire searched the tile beneath his feet for ideas. A flicker of anxiety seeped into his expression as he glanced in your direction, raising a finger to scratch the side of his beak. The massive shadow of Graves caught his eye, and he assessed the falcon's height with a renewed sense of curiosity.
Graves eyed his employer with skepticism.
After a moment of meditation, Mark embraced his hastily conceived strategy and approached him with outstretched arms. "Gravesy, I need to stand on your shoulders."
The corporate saboteur waved an arm to deter the parrot's movement and recoiled, arching his back to a defensive stance. "Absolutely not!"
The attention of a security guard was captured by the ruckus, their eyes swimming in suspicion.
Glamour spun in her seat and jerked her head towards the shape of her son. With her tepid frown tightening to a pensive scowl, a groan slipped past her beak. She pressed a hand to her forehead and lowered her gaze to the floor, massaging an imminent seed of discomfort sprouting in her skull. "Let him pass."
Mark cheered, drawing his fist to his chest, and bounded to the front of the crowd. He abandoned his hoverboard at the foot of the stairs.
The security guard stepped aside, only to restrain a member of the paparazzi who attempted to shadow the parrot.
Silent irritation radiated from Glamour as the billionaire dashed to the side of her chair and leaned forward to be at eye level with her. Mark patted the armrest and tapped his feet on the ground with a spirited rhythm, but the rapid movement of his beak was swallowed by the hollers of the throng. Reporters were hurling microphones and queries at the pair, while the paparazzi were taking enough pictures to blind themselves.
* * *
Tall chairs filled the entrance in symmetrical rows. They were devoid of occupants, but the Babylonian furnishings promised discomfort to anyone but the most opulent viewers. Falcon Graves, with tired annoyance, guarded the door to the outside world. Its extravagant height and golden trim contrasted his black suit and brown plumage.
A bored voice cleared its throat beside you.
The silence that followed Mark's absence had grown to a familiar ally, and the abrupt noise spurred you to whip around in surprise.
Emma Glamour stood a few paces to your left, removing her sunglasses and wiping the lenses with a handful of her cloak. "So, you're the one who Marcus is fawning over." She raised the accessory to her beak and inspected her effort through tapered eyes. Finding a modicum of satisfaction, the parrot rested a hand on her hips and looked askance at your anxious form.
"I suppose I should congratulate you." Her tone was dry and empty of sentiment, conveying vague interest with a touch of bitter apathy. "Distracting him from his electronics was always a chore best left to the staff." Glamour lowered her sunglasses to her side and began to saunter to the foot of the stairs, heels clicking on the marble floor.
The bottom of her gown chased her feet and shrouded each spot it touched. The layers of vivid designs stitched to resemble the plumage of a male peacock glid along the steps to form the shape of a flamboyant tail.
The door to the ballroom swung open to announce the return of Mark and the arrival of a seagull clad in an orange hardhat. It was a reunion that perturbed your thoughts and squashed your wish for him to be distracted by the endless halls of the mansion. The footsteps of Glamour had ended, and as Mark approached you with a carefree slowness, you found solace in this fact.
The parrot stopped at your side and faced the seagull, but his eyes were focused on the phone in his hands. Mark gazed at the screen with distant joy, fingertips darting across the screen.
The seagull lowered the feet of a chair to the floor and released a sigh of exhaustion. He wiped an arm across his forehead and propped the seat on his hip, observing the walls strewn with ornate frills in wonder. "Reminds me of your parents' wedding."
The tapping of Mark's fingers stalled. "What?"
"Your mom and pop--they had the whole ceremony right here. Looked about the same, too." The construction worker shook his head and turned to collect the chair with a weary chuckle. "What a mess." He strolled towards the ballroom, oblivious to the turmoil threatening to unfold behind him.
A wave of anxiety washed over the billionaire, its frigid tendrils sinking into his shoulders. Frenetic breaths escaped him, and his feathers flattened. The cold embrace of panic clashed with the rancour boiling in his gut. All traces of joy drained from his visage, wide eyes staring at the array of decorations adorning the anteroom.
Every luminous streamer and plate of confections that had elicited cheers encouraged him to hurl.
"Would you like a sample?"
Mark swung his head to the side to behold a batch of cupcakes hovering in front of his beak, glass cover shimmering under the radiant light of the chandelier.
A white cockatoo wielded the silver platter. Interpreting his gaze as interest, the caterer closed his eyes and raised a hand to remove the lid.
The sweet aroma of the pastries swelled to unnatural proportions as if mocking the parrot, and painful thoughts of a wrong repeated infiltrated his mind. It singed his nostrils, and with a swing of the arm, the dish clattered to the floor in a jumble of broken glass and mashed frosting.
Swallowing between pants, Mark grimaced as the muscles in his stomach contracted. Stones seemed to accumulate in his gut, and the perturbed stares of the caterer and designer amplified the distressing sensation.
The disarray escorting his frantic movements prompted apprehension to bloom within your mind, and you began to retreat to the front door.
Mark spun around with a tattered banner in his clutches, a boisterous rip reverberating through the anteroom as the fabric was split down the middle. Scraps of cloth wafted to the floor like confetti. Half of the pennant dangled from the nail as if it were a foe bowing its head in defeat, while Mark tossed his share at the designer. "Get rid of it!"
The duck clutched his face as the garish streamer smacked him and enveloped his neck like a serpent. He yanked the material into his arms, examining it with crinkled eyes and a baffled frown. "This is one of the rarest fabrics on the market." His perplexity matured to wrath as the cloth exposed its jagged edges. "How could you be so careless?!"
A hiss escaped the billionaire, mind clouded by a desperate fury. He seized the remaining portion of the banner and pressed his foot to the wall. "This is my day!" The parrot tapered his eyes, glaring at the pennant as if it embodied the source of his resentment. "Not theirs."
A spark of fear erupted in your gut as Mark dashed around the table and lunged at the exit. He clutched your arm with childish distress, resembling a frightened boy begging for his parent not to leave. "We won't end like them, I promise!" He conjured a smile of reassurance, but the dread lurking beneath his quivering limbs betrayed an inner terror.
A harsh voice descended from the second floor. "Marcus!"
The parrot flinched and retracted his arms, whipping around in a mixture of surprise and uncertainty.
Emma Glamour stood at the top of the staircase, face contorted with weary aggravation. "What is going on down there?"
The frigid edge of her inquiry drew a grumble from Mark. Sour bitterness adorned his beak, and he lowered his gaze to the floor.
Glamour rested a hand on the balustrade and peered at the barrage of ravaged cloth and shattered porcelain decorating the entrance. A splash of outrage flared on her countenance, the chaos drawing a gasp from the tastemaker.
She began to march down the stairs, and Mark confronted her umbrage with a disdainful glower. The pounding of her boots on marble stirred feelings of animosity in the parrot, his eyes narrowing with each step. When his mother paused in front of him, he turned to obscure you from her sight.
A pang of irritation permeated Glamour, but her voice reached Mark as a strained whisper. "You're making a fool of yourself."
His reaction was one of startling confidence. "Correction: I'm making a fool of you."
It bewildered her intention to assert control, and Glamour was forced into a brief silence.
Seeing this show of weakness as an invitation, Mark did not relent. "I'm putting myself in charge of today, and my wedding doesn't need any of this." He unfurled his arms towards the myriad of ornaments coating the anteroom.
There was a certain, brazen pride in his display that seemed familiar to Glamour.
"I'm already doing it, and guess what?" He pressed a thumb to his chest. "I'm the only Beaks invited!" Mark extended his arm and pointed a finger at his mother's stupefied expression. "Not you, not dad, and definitely not Ms. Big Shot Senator."
Glamour recoiled in dudgeon before reflecting outrage and snapping, "You will not speak of your sister that way!"
Mark stood tall, feathers inflating and pupils shrinking. "I'll say anything I want."
This prompted the tastemaker to retract a step. She observed her son as if he had been replaced with a different person, but her perplexity soon morphed into indignation. Glamour tilted her head downwards and looked at him through narrowed eyes. "Your father said that to me once."
The authority he had enjoyed fled from his body like a popped balloon, leaving the birth of shock and confused humiliation to fill the void. Mark, for all his bluster on social media and the animated personality he expressed on stage, failed to do more than look at his mother like a disillusioned child.
It was a look that had frequented his face in simpler times, and Glamour turned away. She inspected the damaged decorations with an attentive eye. "Clean this mess." Without clarifying whether she was addressing her son or one of the many idling workers, the tastemaker ascended the staircase and disappeared inside her bedroom.
Hushed chatter began among the designer and caterer as they gathered scraps of their creations. The nearest trash bin was overflowing, so the organizers fetched a replacement and travelled back and forth from the ballroom with spare bags.
Illustrating the nuance of the situation, Mark had yet to recover from his mother's words. He watched the spot at the bottom of the stairs as if his mind were struggling to proceed. Finally, a broken sound that mimicked a chuckle shattered his daze. The billionaire looked over his shoulder at you, resembling a man haunted by his memories, and voiced a thought that you did not know how to answer.
"I'm not like him, right?"
* * *
"Mr. Beaks has requested your presence." Falcon nudged you to the doors, his hand resting on your upper back. There was a quiet strength behind the action as if he were threatening to prove the credibility of his physique. While unquestionably dedicated, he moved with a weary disinterest that prevented his insistence from conveying anything more than a desire to succeed in his assignment.
Perhaps it was his apparent lack of attachment to the situation that allowed you to process your own. The muscles that had contorted and writhed in your shoulders like snakes relaxed to facilitate an urge to flee, but a stone plummeted to the pit of your stomach that reduced your legs to quivering branches on the verge of snapping. A wheel of blue and red flashes danced in the bottom of your vision, popping from underneath the doors and tainting your figure with shades of green and purple.
The colours had a murky quality like an explosion beneath the ocean waves. Each flare of a different hue was likened to an eyeball peeking through the crevices to confirm your arrival, and the room on the other side, with its vivid illumination combatting the black depths of the corridor, seemed an alien world. As the doors unfurled like a pair of golden wings, the eruption of light that ambushed your face was akin to bearing the might of the sun.
Your eyes begged to dissolve, and the gale of pain that clenched your skull almost knocked you to the ground. The music was louder than the roars of ten beasts and reverberated through every fraction of space with a discordant rhythm. It shook your eardrums until your thoughts were a scrambled mess, vibrating your body and stimulating your heartbeat.
Everywhere were unfamiliar faces. Raving ducks and howling dogs paraded across the floor with raucous energy, and a thin layer of fog shrouded the celebration as if you were a detective entering an alleyway in a film noir. The further you traipsed into the room, the more imagined the possibility of escape became. Despite the expansive walls and ceiling that reached half the length of a football field, every partygoer that brushed your shoulder or bumped your arm caused your lungs to contract.
Spotting a familiar face among the sea of anonymity drew you forward like a child lost in the supermarket. It was a reminder, welcome or unwanted, that the situation was real and not a dream spawned from bits of memories forging an illusion, but the face of the parrot was all that you recognized. The grey plumage that had gleamed beneath the spotlight at the convention was darkened to charcoal by the strobe lights painting his shape like a dappled coat. The yellow eyes that glowed against the shadows summoned images of the nightclub, staining your relief with a pool of cold dread.
This hesitancy was not shared by Mark. The billionaire was clad in a stunning array of garish cloth and chintzy accessories that reflected each sliver of light pointing in his direction, a spectacle that clamoured for the attention of every pair of eyes in the room. Purple sunglasses were dangling from his left hand, and he observed you with a sharp turn of the head. The rise of his shoulders and back were subtle but open to your wary gaze.
Budding euphoria sprouted at the corners of his beak and flooded his breathing until it descended into eager puffs. The way his eyes widened with awe, as if you were a mythical entity capable of erasing all sadness, cast a tremor onto the nape of your neck. Before you could fade into the masses, Mark was dashing through the crowd like a traveller returning from years on the road. The partygoers seemed to flow back and forth around him, unveiling a path with almost instinctive precision.
Plopping the sunglasses on his beak, the parrot swept your hands into his own and began to tug you closer to the centre of the room. "I had a new pair fashioned," Mark shouted over the booming symphony of electronic sound effects to ensure that his words were heard, but his voice retained its usual nonchalant tone. He leaned forward to display the alleged similarities between his new and old eyewear. "Perfect replicas, in fact!"
The throng receded from the middle of the dance floor to form an opening, which Mark, with his tawdry outfit and unruly enthusiasm, filled. The billionaire released you and launched into a series of bizarre dance moves. With his head bobbing along the rambunctious tempo echoing through the mansion, he leapt backwards and raised his arms in a diagonal motion. The parrot mimicked the sound of laser guns in old science fiction movies as he directed his thumbs and index fingers at the ceiling.
"No light racks to crush me this time, huh?" Mark paused and looked up with a hint of worry, recalling the massive shape of the falling stage light. A weak noise of humour and distress slipped from his beak, and he took an exaggerated step towards you. "So, I thought we could skip the whole ceremony thing." It was his stab at distracting himself from the uncomfortable memory, but you recalled another detail every time he opened his mouth.
The billionaire flipped his hand as if discarding a piece of trash. "Standing around while some old fuddy-duddy gives a speech?" He tilted his head back and pretended to fall asleep, tongue protruding from the side of his mouth. "What a snoozefest, am I right?" Mark bobbed his shoulders in amusement and looked at you with a desperate hope that his stance was shared. "I mean, it's obvious that we're already a thing."
With each moment of your silence, his craving for validation evolved. "We don't need some kind of official ..." He twirled his wrist like a wizard attempting to channel his magic. The uncertainty was swelling within his mind, and the excess bling hanging on his limbs failed to hide the way his passion shrivelled. When you retreated to maintain the previous space, his spirited aura dulled to apprehension. The billionaire spun with a frantic intensity and outstretched his arms to the partygoers. "Crowd surf!"
The enthusiasm with which Mark grasped your forearm spawned from a place of anxiety rather than joy, and the crowd that neared you seemed inseparable from the mob that had surrounded the stage. A thunder of footsteps trampled forward as dozens of hands extended to clutch your shoulders and torso. You ripped free of his grip like an animal struggling with a trap, legs scurrying in the opposite direction. Mark turned with a look of horror, but he was lifted above the throng before he could interfere.
Instead of meeting the smile of a deceptive robot, you ran into the brick wall that was Falcon Graves. He placed a hand on both of your shoulders and pushed you away from the door. "Return to the dance floor," grumbled the corporate saboteur, with a lack of passion infecting his voice.
"Tell him I'm still here."
Graves heard your plea, but as the cries of partygoers tumbling to the floor drew nearer, he shook his head. "It won't be enough." The falcon spoke with solemn assurance, his mind drowning in an unwelcome sense of deja vu. The part of him that recalled obnoxious employers and sympathetic targets respected your attempt.
"Please, all I need is a few minutes."
The garish figure approaching him from the centre of the crowd stirred a battle between the resentment that plagued his thoughts every time he noticed the billionaire and the sense of duty that had propelled his career for decades. Graves witnessed the desperation in your eyes, and it was a sight his livelihood had taught him to ignore. Despite his impassive expression, he had granted an audience to the voice in the back of his head that was urging him to do what he believed to be a mistake.
Mark staggered to the edge of the throng. His outfit was gnarled and wrinkled by the journey, but he swivelled his head towards each visible recess with invulnerable panic. "They're not here!" The parrot gripped his head and clutched handfuls of his plumage, nearly knocking his sunglasses to the floor. "I do everything right, and, still, they can't stand to be around me!"
When he turned to Graves, a new wrath bloomed in his gaze. The corporate saboteur was propped against the exit with his arms crossed. Graves understood his intention, and he greeted his employer with stoic indifference. "You just missed them." He extended a hand in the direction of the dance floor, spurring Mark to dart between either side of the crowd.
After the search proved to be fruitless, the parrot repeated, this time with more rage and less despair, "They're not here!" Mark lunged at Graves and seized the lapels of his suit, tugging the falcon down to his height. "Where are they?!" He was shoved back as Graves stood upright and adjusted his clothes with a growl.
"Waiting for you on the dance floor."
* * *
Every long hall was draped in luxurious paintings and lavish wallpapers, but the gradual decrease in the number of banners signified that the front door was a few corners away. At first, you had monitored the noise of your footsteps, but after remembering the boisterous music that shook the foundation, you sprinted through the corridors with reckless enthusiasm. The sight of the golden door beckoning to you from the entrance summoned the final stretch of energy.
It was a great burden to open, but the gust of unruly wind that slapped your face was a welcome award. You would have fallen from its strength if not for the pair of hands that grasped your arms.
"Are you all right?" A light, concerned voice arose in front of you, belonging to a duck with tan feathers. His white tuxedo and lavender tie reminded you of salsa music and flamenco dancers, while the black tailcoat of the chicken idling beside him seemed to leap from a portrait of Victorian England.
"We were informed that there was a-" the chicken paused to adjust his glasses and squint at his phone screen "-'dance party wedding' taking place at this residence." Lowering the device, he looked at your frazzled appearance with calm interest. "I hope we didn't miss the best part. The grammar of the invite was very confusing, to say the least."