Chapter Text
A saltwater breeze drags overgrown hair back off his forehead, cooling his skin and he feels as if his very soul had been lain in soft grasses warmed by the gentle rays of a golden sun. Bullets whize past yet he stumbles to a stop to stare at the immeasurable ocean stretching infinity outwards. The waves throw themselves lazily against the shore, casting off sparks of light exactly as a fire throws embers into the shadowy night. He breaths deeply, filling his lungs with unbidden sea air that he had not tasted in the Asphodel Meadows for many, many long years.
"Midas!" Barks the hound of Hades. Still alive and out for blood. Furious at the burning of their home.
The call drags him from his reverie and he breaks into a sprint. Gravity pulling him down the small hill and towards the zip line anchored to the cliff ahead. On the other end was the Marigold. He runs faster than he had ever run in his life. Moving as if his solid gold armour was nothing but fine cloth. He leaps towards the literal lifeline ahead of him, allowing the strange magnetic pull to take him into its arms and wisk him across the waters towards the boat. Upon the deck he can see Marigold, his snapshot not the boat, barking orders at the gathering of SHADOW agents. The Marigold begins to move, engines roaring to life and pulling the boat out to the sea.
Freedom, he finds, always tastes like saltwater.
A loud metallic twang echos like thunder in his ears and he, like everyone on the boat, realizes that they had snapped the lines.
His heart plummets. Figuratively and literally. Though he is still moving forward the zip line and its magnetic field were cut. He was so close to the damn boat he can see the white in the stunned eyes of the crew as he begins to sink. Weighed down by the plundered golden armour that had felt light as a feather only moments ago.
Midas throws his arm out as one throws a prayer to deaf Gods. As if anyone would reach for him, would bear his golden touch to pull him up only to find themselves sailing down the same rivers he had just escaped and made to run hot with molten gold. Still he claws the unforgiving air for purchase as he slips below the rim of the ship.
A hand grasps his forearm, and without a second thought he grips back. Thin, cold fingers dig into his arm as he is pulled upwards, over the railing and onto the yacht. Momentum pulls him forward a few steps and Midas cannot lift his eyes from the the sight before him. His fingers begin to dig into the soft fabric of the ornate black coat. In awe at his golden palms pressed against a body that remains pliant, unchanged. Almost to spite himself he begins to will his golden touch to change the cloth into that vindictive metal. A cool liquid gold begins dripping from his fingers, running over the cloth as if it were oilskin before falling into the deck, leaving droplets of pure gold speckled into the wood.
"I cannot believe you fools!" An accented voice snaps as the arm he clings to attempts to leave his grasp. Midas holds tight to it, finally looking into the face of his savior, shock addelded brain only taking in the features and unable to process the emotion in the expression, "Go through all that trouble to find him only to let him drown?"
He can only see the profile the man, eyes ondering over the delicate cut of the mans jawline and cheekbones. As if the bones under were crafted from glass labored over by masters in their craft. Then the man turns to look at him, the rest of his features now visible and eagerly taken in by Midas' keen eye. Two thin and deep scars trace up the corner of his right eye and cut two jagged lines through the dark hair of a lightly arched eyebrow. His other eye is as close a mirror to what the unmarred right eye had once been, save for the deep brown iris peering out from the hooded lids. The third and final oddity of this undeniably handsome man was the ice white tips of the hair falling artfully over his forehead. Bone bleached hair in direct opposition the deep black natural color that darkened the rest of the strands.
Because he is staring openly he notes the way the mans eyes dart down his body then back up to meet his eyes. A scowl appears on his lovely face as the arm Midas grips with more desperation than any lifeline is yanked from his grasp.
"I hope you are worth the inconvenience." The man spits the words out, the effect on him is similar to fire. Heat rushing through his body at the dismissive words and warming places that have been cold for quite a while.
The mysterious man steps away from him with a scoff and saunters towards the back of the boat. He cannot remember the last time someone had rendered him so throughly speechless. He begins to call after the man, to ask his name and maybe recover some dignity when a bullet bounces of the side of the boat. From the shore he sees the flash of a rifle before he's quickly ushered off the open deck and into the shelter of the Yachts underbelly. It's chaos below deck. Marigold shouting orders at the gathered company in order to get the yacht up to getaway speeds.
"Who was that?" He asks, voice coming out a pathetically soft and dumbstruck. Marigold barely sends him a glance.
"Montague." She replies, "He owns this universes version of the Marigold. I find him to be a bit of a nuisance, but I'm glad he was there to catch you. I would not have made it in time."
He nods, gazing up at a peculiar statue replacing the one usually depicting himself in golden glory, "He doesn't look like the type to let you use this boat out of kindness."
Marigold grimaces and avoids his glance to stare at the esoteric statute as well, "I promised him a meeting with you, said we could make it worth his while for use of the Yacht."
Midas takes a few moments to enjoy this windfall. He looks down at his arm, eyes tracing the red marks left behind by fingernails digging in without heed to the effects of their strength. Only the Gods, and those blessed by them, had ever lain their hands upon him without fear. No one ever gripped hard enough to leave a mark upon his body in fear of retaliation. He runs a cold golden finger over the cuts, contemplating the feeling of a pliant body in his hands.
"I will make the arrangements."
- - - -
Montague does not speak to anyone on his Yacht, and they do not speak with him. He leans against the railing at the bow a few paces away from the launchpad. Splitting his gaze between the shores darting by as the mighty Yacht cuts through placid waters, and the few "crew" members milling about with nothing left to do. All were people Marigold, the woman, had brought along. Something called Ghost or Shadow.
Montague did not like these people for obvious reasons. Except for the cat. He liked the cat. They had all come together to partake in this asinine mission. Searching for some long dead Greek King escaped from the Underworld? Using his Yacht, to facilitate such a usless task infuriated him almost more than them taking the damn thing.
It was tempting still to try for mutiny even with the extra person in their ranks. Montague was confident that if he drew his gun now and attacked the ending would be in his favor, or pyrrhic. Either suited him as he would not hesitate to sink the Yacht if it meant these people were off his property, but that woman's words echo in his head every time his trigger finger became itchy.
"I promise you, Montague, you will not regret helping us find Midas. He will make all of this worth your while."
Montague knew that it was foolish to burn a bridge before he had even crossed. He would not lose his Yacht without a fight, but that battle will come another day. He pushes off the railing and brings a finger to his ear to activate the ear piece he had been given.
"Marigold I'm going back to the Grand Hotel. I expect to hear from you regarding your little golddn prince soon." He says, keeping his tone light and cheerful, before pulling earpiece out and placing it in his breast pocket.
He did not care for the answers they would give. Briskly he strides to the lancher and hops atop it, facing the neaerst coastline as he rises into the air. At the apex he activates his glider and descends at a leisurely pace. Landing on the sands with a satisfying crunch only inches away from the lapping waves. He pulls the earpiece out of his pocket as he begins to stride off the beach, keeping his eyes out for a car to commandeer on the way. The tips of his fingers can feel the vibrations of conversation from the small earpiece. There was a tracking device in this. If there was not then Marigold was not as formidable as he judged her to be.
It would, Montague thinks, be very easy to toss this aside and let the cessation of his movements convey his message. You are not smarter than me, and if you want to trick me you will have to try harder.
But that did not feel right. He wanted to say it with a little more flare. A little more of a thumb in the eye so to speak. As he considers ways to make this thought a reality when a soft clucking draws his attention.
A chicken is pecking thoughtlessly at a patch of grass and cooing softly. Montague tucks the earbud back into his pocket and begins to approach the bird.
"Cotcotcodet..." He coos, getting the birds attention as he lowers his body a bit, "Come here little bird..."
The chicken tilts their head, large eyes sizing him up before taking a few small hops towards him. He continues cooing at the bird, slowly edging forward before lunging forward. Fingers just barely brushing the soft white feathers before the bird darts away.
"Bastard!" He curses, leaping up and chasing after the chicken as it darts into the treeline, "I'm not going to hurt you."
The chicken obviously did not believe this as it retreats into the brush. He slows from a jog to a walk and looks at his Rolex, calculating how much time he was willing to devote to chasing chickens, "Of course I would be out here looking for two at noon." He murmurs as he sets his sights on the bird once more.
Eventually he corners the bird between himself and a long stucco fence. He lunges again, grabbing the bird and quickly grasping both of it's skinny legs in one hand and pulling it against his chest to hold down its flapping wings.
"Shhh.... shhh calm down you damn cock eh, hen." He grits, adjusting his grip on the chicken to hold its chest, pinning one wing down with his wrist and pressing the other into his chest, cradling the bird in the crook of it's elbow. It calms quickly and he pulls a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his vest. It is a bit difficult to tie the earbud into a knot of the handkerchief with one hand but he manages. Once finished he ties the knotted handkerchief round the birds neck and finally let's it go onto its natural path.
This ordeal had taken almost three hours. If there is no tracker in that earpiece he will have made quite the fool of himself. Though he puts this out of his mind quickly. Hopping the stucco fence and transforming his arm into solid diamond as he approaches the car parked in the driveway. A Scorpion with a discreet paint job. The window shatters under stone of his elbow and he has the door unlocked and open before all the glass had hit the ground. Keys fell into his lap when he flips down the sunshield and the car roars to life. Wasting no further time he shoots down the road towards Grand Glacier, cutting through the newly risen Mount Olympus, taking the way through the abandoned Railways.
His grip tightens on the steering wheel at the thought of Valeria. Off the deep end and leaving him clinging to the cliff. Valeria was always his most frustrating puzzle. None of those he closely associated himself with were stupid by any means, but they were easy to placate with promises of security, whether financial or otherwise. Valeria however, was never satisfied with getting just enough. She always wanted more, she wanted to make him feel every compromise and every capitulation. Nothing less than everything was what she wanted from him.
Ugh. He sounded like a spurned lover instead of a jaded buisness partner. How embarsssing. With a soft sigh he breaths in the cool pine air rushing in from the shattered window. Allowing to quell his anger with it's chill. He pulls up to Grand Glacier and stops the car. Stepping out and looking up at his once mighty estate. Despite the darkness falling he can still see the ethereal glow of Mount Olympus peaking its fingers over the tip of the snow peaked mountains that once dominated the sky. By comparison Grand Glacier looked a little less grand.
The rage that once danced across his skin at the thought of his defiled home came less easily as the watchful nights under the uncaring light of the God's passed like rushing winds. He walks under the awning and pushes the door open. The halls are silent, the few members of the Underground that had taken up refuge here were at least quite at night. With the God's so close no one wants to draw unwanted attention in the softer hours of the day. But that does not mean their presence is unheeded. The smell of fresh spray paint is faint on the air, drifting down from upstairs. He turns away from the stairway and his room. Instead he makes the familiar turns to the vault in the basement. Needing a Medallion to access the Vault made is the last place Montague had to himself.
The keypad lights up as he passes and the mighty door heaves itself open enough for him to slip through. Montague does not bother closing the door, keeping it cracked to let enough sound in for whatever may be worth hearing on the other side. Mechanically he places his AR on the table and shrugs off his pistol holsters to place beside it.
He sits upon a red lounge and crosses and ankle over his knee.
The weapon cases were empty now, the mortals needed all the firepower they could get to face the wrath of the God's. He was displeased at the current situation. Forced to suffer the presence of the former Underground that had not done anything to help their rebrand aside from insisting they are no longer called "The Underground". So unprofessional.
He leans back, relaxing his shoulders and letting out a slow breath. Wondering if he should step outside for a cigarette or put it off for a few more hours. It seems as he begins to close in on a resolution to that query an alarm chimes brightly throught the room. He opens his eyes and looks to the screen as it appears, holographic, on the wall. The words 'motion detected' flash in the corner of the screen displaying footage of the outside entrance. A black Trailsmasher with golden handles had pulled up beside his stolen Scorpion. Windows darkened so as not to show the driver, but the former passenger stood outside, gazing upon the hotel with an expression he cannot parse from the pixels on the screen. What he can see is glinting armour, cape, and laurel wreath atop curled black hair. Another Greek God out to ruin his day. With a literal hiss that makes him feel mildly better he rises and re-attaches his pistol holsters to his back harness. Leaving his AR pn the table as he steps out of the vault. Already one his favorite Guard's was approaching him.
"Have they moved?" He asks, marching briskly up the stairs as he takes a few magazines from Balthazar.
"Not yet." The man says as Montague loads the magazine into his pistol and placing the remaining in his pockets.
"Visable weapons?" He asks, turning into the main lobby and slinking up the stairs to the upper walkways.
"Two pistols, and a dagger."
Montague stops and looks over the railing at the floor below, "Good. I want you and your team to stand down until I call you. I don't want any gunfire to wake the guests."
Balthazar makes a face that is stuck between a confused grimace and half smile, "Have it your way, sir."
Montague waves away the guard and it grows silent around him. He kneels, hands resting in the railing as he closes his eyes to focus his hearing on the floor below. For a long time nothing happens. Just the silence of the night and wailing winter winds.
Then, cutting through the night is the latch of the door. The hinges do not squeak, and the carpets muffle the approaching footsteps to a soft noise that was only heard when searching for it. Slowly Montague peeks over the railing at the golden figure marching into his hotel. He does not draw a gun, expecting to make too much noise in the silence. Instead he grips the railing and uses it as leverage to hop over the wooden beam. Body solidifying into diamonds as he falls so he lands with barely a flutter of fabric onto the carpet below. The man turns, cape whipping as Montague rises to his full height and kicks the man directly in the breastplate with his diamon solid kick to the chest.
The crunch and screech of metal on diamond pierces the air as the man stumbles back, thin gasp of surprise escaping his mouth. Montague presses his advantage, charging at the man and raising a fist to punch him either dead or unconscious. His opponent is quick. Jerking to the side to avoid the punch and relinquishing more ground to back further away from him until a dull thud of armour hitting he receptionist desk sounds. Montague darts closer, pressing in on the man so the only way he could get away again was to slide backwards across the desk. Now Montague tries for another punch.
Instead of ducking the man catches his fist, thin fingers digging into his clenched fingers and forcing their own to entwin. He attempts to pulls his hand back but the grip from this stranger is oddly strong. Tugging uselessly in attempt to free himself, Montague glares at the strange man. They are now mere inches away and when his eye meets the warm gold of the others a spark of recognition lights the dark corners of his mind.
Montague let's his diamond shield shimmer away as he studies the intruders face. He was handsome, exceedingly handsome by Montague's standards. Inky black hair framed a face that he had seen traces of before in marble sculptures made by the Ancient Greeks themselves. The pale white stone given life and blood. As if looking in a mirror his eye traces over the jagged scar marring the right half of his face and the eye rendered a gastly pale white by corneal scaring or cataracts of a sort.
"Haven't I seen you before?" Montague asks, voice low and placid. He glances at the entwined fingers as he speaks, watching liquid gold and diamond run down the others arm. As the molten metal falls upon the desk the small splashes transform the material into inlays if gold and diamond. It's almost hypnotic, but the spell is broken by the softly spoken reply.
"On the Marigold." The mans voice is soft and measured, "You saved me."
Montague tilts his head and looks over the man once more. It was the silhouette of the figure he saw upon the hill, armour and crown glinting in the sunlight. He had cut such a regal figure that Montague could not help but reach for the hand desperately flung his way.
"Ah, King Midas." He says, finally dredging the name up from his conversations with Marigold, "I was expecting notice of your arrival. As you can imagine I've had my hands full with the Greek God's at my door and I've learned to ask questions second."
"I, of all people, understand the nuisance God's can be." Midas smiles gently up at him, and Montague considers the position they are in now that they are no longer locked in combat. Midas trapped between him and the desk. Back arched and their bodies nearly pressed together as Montague looms over him. One hand still caught in Midas' grip and the other resting against the desk to keep him from sidestepping away.
"What is your name?" Midas asks after a few beats of silence.
"Montague." He replies, finally standing up straight and backing away from Midas. The man releases his hand with an obvious reluctance that puzzles him, "You are here to talk, no?"
Midas stands up to his full height, which is rather minimal, and fixes him with polite smile, "If you are free, yes, but if it is too much of an issue-"
"No, no. Not an issue at all, King Midas. Come right this way." Montague makes a gesture with his hand and begins to lead Midas to the vault, "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"
"I don't think I've eaten in thirty years." Midas muses in a light, humorous voice.
"Oh, are you a model?" Montague teases, pressing a button on the keypad to make the vault doors open wider. He steps aside and motions for Midas to enter.
Midas laughs at this, a rather musical sound of genuine mirth, "No, but I can tell you are."
The mans eyes wonder over his body as he passes, a sly half smile tugging at his lips. Montague is flattered by the observation. Before he enters the vault he waves to Balthazar who had been following at a distance.
"Get me a charcuterie board and a bottle Flowberry. Add... I dunno something Greek to board. Honey or figs or whatever it is they eat. Oh, and I want it on a serving cart, with the nice glasses and cutlery. While you're at it print a copy of the contract I had written for Marigold on the cart, and bring his chauffeur in if they are still here. Give them an empty room."
"Yes sir!" Balthazar turns and quickly darts down the hallway towards the kitchen.
He takes a breath and collects himself before entering the vault. Midas was examining the bookshelves, hands clasped behind his back.
"Take a seat, if you wish." Montague says, crossing the room and sitting in the chaise lounge across from his favored one, which was nearer to Midas, "I will not request that you keep your hands to yourself, but if you must touch something be sure to be tasteful about it."
Midas raises his eyebrows and he takes a seat across from him, neatly crossing his legs and leaning back with hands folded upon his propped knee, "Of course."
Montague observes him for a moment, taking in the still immaculately regal figure sat before him. There was a lot to gain from this man, he could tell by the way he carried himself. The confidence in the way he moved and addresses him. Montague could not help but excited at the thought of their looming conversation. The silence stretches for another few breaths, Montague is contemplation a few opening statements when Midas speaks.
"A long time and different universe ago I owned the Marigold, you see, and I was very attached to her. My associate, the woman named Marigold, as you can imagine, shares this attachment. Admittedly, I am not happy with how she went about... soliciting the use of the boat, I cannot say I would have done any differently." Midas states, golden and white eyes meeting his in an unwavering stare.
Montague leans back in his seat, pressing the tips of his fingers together above his lap, meeting Midas' gaze with his own withering look of disinterest.
"Facinanting." He offers to encourage him to get to the point already.
"I'm interested in buying The Marigold from you." Midas says promptly, a small cordial smile appearing on his face.
Montague runs his tongue over the sharp tips of his teeth, tempering his hot anger to something colder.
"You keep saying The Marigold, or The boat." Montague says, keeping his voice neutral, but making sure to spit the words with as much animosity as he feels, "It is my Yacht, King Midas. If you are going to ask me for it, do it right."
He watches the ancient Kings face, looking for a sign of weakness or a crack in the façade before him and seeing nothing.
"I would like to buy your Yacht, Montague." Midas corrects, unflinching and humble as a Saint, "Name your price."
Montague let's out a bark of a laugh, soft and dismissive. There was no weakness is Midas' face, in his eyes. Only a look of insatiable hunger. He could use that to his advantage. Hungry men were predictable, and with the right food he could get anything he wanted.
"I imagine you want to pay me in gold? Are you waiting for me to say and number then touch my table, or my lounge?" Montague asks, narrowing his eyes and he leans forward and bit, "Gold is cheap, King Midas. I want more from you."
- - -
Midas licks his lips, heat was coursing through his chest and the tips of his fingers tingled. Montague was proving to be everything he had ever wanted.
"No one has ever said that to me." He muses, glancing up at the vault door being pushed open, "What's this?"
A masked guard wheels a serving cart into the room. Montague perks up and waves him over, taking the modified AR from the table and leaning it against his lounge, "You said you have not eaten. It pains me that I cannot treat you to a meal, but the hour is so late our chef has gone to bed. This will suffice, yes?"
As he speaks the guard then sets a charcuterie board upon the table, two small plates, cutlery, champagne flutes, and a ornate solve bottle chiller holding a blue tinted bottle he did not recognize. The spread was small for two people, but held a vast array of fruits, spreads, meats, and cheeses. Considering he had not eaten since his death it might as well have been a feast.
"It is plenty, thank you Montague and..." He inclines his head to the Guard as he opens the blue bottle that had 'Flowberry' inscribed on the lable.
"Balthazar." Montague supplies for the man as he plucks manilla envelope from the serving cart, "He does not speak much English. Try French or Italian."
"You are welcome." Balthazar adds in heavily accent English, pouring the drink into two champagne flutes and setting them down. Once finished he leaves the cart and makes a curt exit. Midas turns his sights back to Montague, who had taken up one of the flutes and sipped at the fizzing purple liquid.
"I do not like to talk buisness over food, why don't we eat and discuss the purchase of my yacht later."
"I couldn't agree more." He offers, leaning closer and pointing at the cutlery before him, "Are you particularly attached to the color of these?"
"Touch away, King Midas."
He takes a fork and looks over the board thoughtfully as Montague takes a remote from the table and presses a few buttons. Turning on the fireplace and ambiant music.
Midas had never felt more alive. His heart had calmed from their little scuffle long ago, but his fingers still twitched with a nervous energy. Montague was proving to be just as dangerous as Marigold had said just before he and Meowscles began the drive here.
"Montague is going to have you in his pocket." She had said with a air of finality, "He's everything we ever wanted."
The confidence, no the sheer audacity of this man was like a siren song. No one had ever held his hand and lived long enough to get him dinner afterwards. His palms still itched where that cold smooth diamond pressed against his skin. Where the tips of his fingers touched skin for the first time in many long years. Just the memory made him shiver. Casually, he raises his eyes from the selection to gaze at Montague once more. Taking in placid expression on his face as he sipped at his champagne and stared at the fire. His eyes wonder down the curve of his jaw and the shadow of his throat, tracing over a thick golden chain. Hanging at the center of his chest was a massive pear cut diamond pendant, inlaid with thick gold to hold the jewel in place. From it's very core shown an ominous, ice blue light that reflected internally back on itself. It was something of a wonder that he had not noticed it before.
He leans back in his seat, taking his own flute of champagne and sipping it. The flavor was not unlike a grapefruit with a hint of blueberry, and the carbonation seems to fill his chest with bubbles, masking the burn of alcohol and making him lightheaded. It was a dangerous combination, and Montague was already pouring another glass.
"You don't have to call me King, Montague." He says, between bites of a honey coated fig. "You have no reason to put so much respect on my name. I've been a King in name only for a very long time as it is."
Montague sets his eyes upon his again, lips darting up in a ghost of a smile that makes his heart race, "I'm French, don't you know what we do with our Kings when they displease us?"
Midas subtly crosses his legs again to hide his returning erection, "Are you threatening me?" He teases, smile on his lips as he nibbles a slice of salted meat balanced upon his golden fork.
"I would never dream of it." Montague replies, leaning forward to select a halved pomegranate, "Let's just say I don't want you under any illusions."
Midas sips his champagne, basking in the bubbly feeling and allowing the silence to settle between them. Montague eats a few pomegranate seeds, eyes studying his hands with mild interest.
"Everything you touch turns to gold, yes?" Montague asks, eyes flickering back to meet his.
"As I wished it to." Midas muses, popping an olive into his mouth from a gilded fork.
"Then why am I still here?" Montague's words are casual, light, but the expression on his face is anything but. Midas does not flinch front his gaze, chewing thoughtfully before replying.
"I am wondering that as well."
Midas watches Montague run a finger over the delicate inner fruits of the pomegranate. Short black French tipped nails then dig into the flesh to pry a single maroon seed from the valleys of glistening round fruits then bring the seed to his mouth. Midas can see the fruits had already stained the inside of his firm mouth and lips a deep red that seemed to glow next to pale skin and dark stubble. He wanted nothing more than to thrust his tongue between Montague's lips and taste the tartness of the pomegranate and suck the sweet champagne from his lips.
Midas takes a breath and steadies his thoughts, tearing his eyes away from Montague. He was hot underneath the collar without letting his mind wonder. Montague sets the pomegranate back on the charcuterie board and delicately pulls a fingerless glove off. Midas feels his breath begin to catch in his throat as Montague holds his hand, palm up over the table.
"I would like to see you try again."
Midas stares at the offered hand, heat rising to his face, a gift from his racing heart. Reverently he brings his real hand up and reaches towards Montague's outstretched fingers. Gold begins to rush to his fingertips, threating to drip onto the food below. He swallows, doubt flickering into his mind despite evidence proving otherwise, and hesitates.
"Oh, King Midas," Montague coos in a soft soothing voice, as if he was talking to a lover. Midas is too dazed to react to Montague's hand darting out and gripping his, the touch of a cold palm against his own making him gasp, "Don't be scared. You can touch me."
"I'm not scared." He breaths, struggling to gain control of himself as he stares at the hand gripping his own. Becoming lightheaded at the feeling of something alive under his the tips of his fingers. All of which firmly press into the soft skin of Montagues hand. In wonder he watches gold drip from his palm and into the others. Gathering at the seams between the skin then overflowing onto the charcuterie board. Turning bunches grapes into solid gold. A shimmer seems to dance across Montague's skin where his gold touches, keeping him from the becoming infected with the creeping metal.
"Do you want to know how I do it?" Montague practically purrs, hand pulling out of Midas' grip, index finger dragging down his palm and along his middle finger in a way that makes him bit his tongue to keep himself from whimpering.
"If you're willing to share." Midas replies, voice steady where his hands are not. Shaking slightly as he grabs for the champagne and pours another glass.
Montague reaches for a his pomegranate half, holding the deep red fruit in his palm for a few moments before he twists the thick red rind. Loosening a handful off the bright, slender seeds which he gathers in the palm before setting the pomegranate back onto the table. He then holds his bare hand out for Midas to clearly see the six glittering seeds resting in the curve of his hand. They were so dark against his pale skin, made only lighter by contrast with his lightly tanned finger tips. A shimmer appears in the air. A difficult to describe distortion that resembled sparking lights from the ocean waves throwing off sunlight, but without the sea or sun. From this he watches as the small seeds lose their color, fading to a pale white. Each curve and cut seeming to throw light stubbornly off of itself and creating a dazzling rainbow he had rarely seen from actual cut gems stones.
"I have my own Diamond Touch, so to speak." Montague drops the diamonds into the twisted remains of the pomegranate half. Stark white gems in a sea of red. Then he pulls his glove back on and reaches for his champagne flute, "Yet I cannot turn you into Diamonds."
Their eyes meet again, a thoughtful expression on Montague's face. They sip their drinks in a oddly comfortable silence as they consider each other over the food. It is not often someone had threatened him so brazenly, so many times, and not been rebuked. Considering had made short work of the charcuterie board, knowing well enough not to eat the food of the Underworld on the off chance someone found reboot card. The light meal and fine alcohol had made him quite comfortable, and that could plausibly be to blame for his generous mood.
"I do not know about you, King Midas, but I like to talk buisness over something a little stronger than champagne." Montague breaks the silence almost cheerfully, getting to his feet and lifting the charcuterie board from the table. He sets it on the serving cart before walking to the bookshelf and quickly selecting an ornate wooden box upon a silver tray from the shelf. Returning to his seat without so much as a moments delay "Would you like some?"
Midas watches with interest as Montague opens the box. Waiting to see just what he would be saying yes to. When Montague pulls out a bag of cocain, he cannot hold back a slow smile. Had he ever been as fortunate as he was now? Alive less than two days and already being offered cocain by the most intriguing and attractive man he had ever met.
"You are quite the gracious host." Midas says, nodding his approval as Montague begins to cut a few lines, "Yet I find it difficult to believe owning a hotel is your only passion."
Montague let's out a soft sort of laugh as he gesture for Midas to take the first line, which he does with ease.
"Just one of many." Montague admits, leaning down to take the second line. Leaning back in his seat with a soft sigh. Midas watches him closely, feeling his body become light as the drugs ravaged his system.
"How did you lose your eye?" Midas asks, sipping his champagne.
"I could ask you the same." Montague replies, regarding him with a smug expression.
"I haven't lost my eye." Midas says, running a finger over the long healed scar, "The scarring has rendered it blind, but it is still my eye. Yours is glass."
Montague narrows his eyes, smug expression dropping briefly to a scowl before settling into a blank stare, "Why do you say that?"
"Your pupil didn't dilate."
Montague's his lips curve into a small pout at his words and he tilts his head, bringing his fingers up to run over the two scars as if to remind himself of them. The act is incredibly effective at making him look non-threatening, almost coy, despite the look of cold anger his eyes.
"Staring into my eyes? You're going to make me blush, King Midas." The man lies, voice light and flirtatious with a barely a hint of the true anger he felt. Midas shifts in his seat, breathless and aroused as Montague bats his eyelashes at him. Acting coy as a distraction, and despite being able to see the deception clearly, it is working.
"I had an accident when I was young. Stage lights fell on me during a shoot, and glass tore my eye to shreds. It had to be removed, and my scar was..." Montague looks to the right, hiding the scar from his view and meeting his eyes again with such a demure expression on his pretty face Midas folds his hands and digs his nails into the liquid gold prosthetic to keep himself from acting on his desire. The cocain was making this very difficult.
"That is all in the past now." Montague says after a perfectly timed silence. His lips twitch in what must constitutes as a smile for him and he adjusts his posture, reaching for the manilla folder that had sat unassuming at his side for some time, "Let's talk about my Yacht."
"Ready to name your price?" Midas raises his eyebrows as Montague pulls out a small bundle of cream papers and flips through them.
"I am not interested in selling my Yacht." Montague says with an dismissive hand wave, "However, I am interested in you."
Midas allows himself to feel giddy at the compliment and smiles, "The feelings mutual."
Montague glances up from the papers, eyes searching his for a moment before looking away. He leans forward and sets three pages on the table facing him, then takes his champagne glass and sits back.
"If you want to keep using my boat, those are my conditions." Montague says, placing a few papers into the manilla envelope and setting it aside, "I am open to discussion on all points."
Midas begins to read over the pages infrint of him. It's a relatively standard contract for his needs, and he was very impressed with the wording of the document. The stipulations were as follows.
First, Whatever dealings Midas was to have on the island with any group, organization, or individual while inhabiting the Yacht; Montague or a representative would have to be present during such meetings, and have a hand in any agreements that were made between Midas and said entities.
Second, Montague would provide Midas and his crew with supplies, arms, and tech at their request, on the condition that Montague could request their assistance of any member at anytime.
And third, once the God's have been rendered a non-threat the ownership of the boat would remain with Montague, but if Midas was still interested they could discuss the sale. Otherwise his group had to evacuate or be subject to removal by force.
All he had asked for was a Yacht, and what he was offered instead was the world. On the small condition that he sell his soul to Montague, solve all of his problems, and walk away with nothing in return.
Midas was going to sign the contract of course. He could see through Montague as if he were made of glass instead of diamonds. Midas didn't care that he was going to be tangled up with Montague for the rest of his time on this island. He didn't care about the Yacht, or the God's, or anything else for that matter. Not anymore.
He wanted Montague. Everything else would be a means to an end.
Glancing up he immediately locks eyes with Montague. The mans expression is enchantingly vacant for only the barest of moments before he tilts his head and raises an eyebrow.
"Did you discuss this with Marigold?" Midas asks as he leans back, pretending to consider.
"She was exceedingly vauge in our talks." Montague replies, voice a low almost whisper as his eyes remain steadily on his, nothing discernable in them besides focus, "Insisting that I wait for you to be found before anything be put in writing."
"I'm glad you didn't listen to her then." Midas says, resting a elbow on his knee, then his chin in his cool palm, "You sign first."
Montague doesn't break eye contact for a few seconds. Mismatched eyes attempting to read him just as he is trying to read Montague. It was a losing battle. Then he slides the last paper in the line over to himself and draws a fountain pen from the inner pocket of his coat. There seems to be a look of dissatisfaction on his face as he writes his name on the one of the lines then turns the paper back and holds out the pen.
Midas take the fountain pen, noticing that the pen doesn't change to gold until Montague releases it from his grasp. He then signs his name, taking care to write it in Phygerian then signing with the Latin alphabet under the stiff lines of his mother tongue. The ink of the pen had turned to gold, and his name stood out beside the black cursive script spelling out Montague D. He liked the look of their signatures together.
"What an interesting turn of events." Montague muses, collecting the papers and tucking them away into the manilla folder. Glancing at his Rolex with a contemplative expression, "You must be exaughsted."
He wasn't tired in the slightest, having been dead for thirty years and on cocain, but he nods in agreement. It was always awkward to continue polite conversation after a buisness deal. Not to mention he needed time to think about the nights events.
Montague stands and offers his hand. Midas usually ignores these actions, usually done out of habit, but this time he takes Montague's cold hand and allows himself to be pulled from the sofa. His knees are a little wobbly from the alcohol, drugs, and hand held in his own. Taking a deep breath he steadies himself and pulls his hand away.
"I'll need to call my associate."
"No need. I had Balthazar bring them inside and give them a room." Montague assures him, hand resting upon the small of his back and gently guiding him towards the door. It makes his heart race, "As for you, King Midas, I have a room that should suit your needs."
Midas does not trust himself to speak, giving a curt nod as he's gently lead out of the vault. Montague removes his hand to type something on the keypad that causes the door too heave itself closed. Sadly, he does not replace his hand onto Midas' back but falls in step slightly ahead.
"Thank you for your generosity." Midas says, eyes now scanning the Grand Hotel, "It will not go unrewarded."
"I know." Montague says, a smug smile almost audible in his voice, though the small part of his face that Midas can see is blank, "Let's not worry about that now, Midas."
"Not calling me King anymore?" Midas asks lightly, crossing his arms behind his back as they climb a flight of stairs. Montague inclines his head, making a show of glancing back despite Midas being on his right side.
"Are you going to have me punished?" Montague teases, almost sounding like he was smiling, "It will not happen again, my King."
Midas feels a shiver run over his entire body. Those words, spoken in a voice sweet and dripping with golden honey, did not refere to him as a provider, a protector, a ruler.
My King.
It was a claim of ownership.
"Over so slight an offense? I wouldn't dream of it." He says carefully, licking his lips in excitement as he attempts to contain himself, "You simply got my hopes up."
Montague stops at a door and opens it, stepping back to allow Midas through with a slight incline of his head. Curiosity obvious on his face.
"I'm afraid I do not understand your train of thought."
Midas walks past him and turns in the threshold of the door, tilting his head up to meet his mismatched eyes. He gives himself a few seconds to admire the large, cow like eyelashes hovering over deep brown and blue irises.
"I was hoping you were growing fond of me." He replies, looking up through his own lashes and smiling as if confessing a fond secret.
Montague's jaw tightens, teeth clenching under his cheeks. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, and then a corner of his lip quirks up for a scarce second.
"That remains to be seen..." Montague pauses, feigning hesitation before speaking again. Midas holds his breath, heart racing in excitement as he waits to see what Montague will admit to, " Goodnight, King Midas."
Midas feels a wave a dissatisfaction at the answer, much preferring to have heard his name, bare upon Montague's lips or another haughty proclamation of ownership. Montague steps back from the door, turning his back to him and facing the stairs. Midas has enough wherewithal to begin closing the door slowly.
"You're right. Good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow." He quotes, allowing himself to sound just a little sad. Montague perks up a bit, and after a second quickly turns.
"Oh, before I forget." He starts as Midas eagerly opens the door wider, "If you need anything, anything at all, please call for room service. I will attended to you personally, Midas."
Midas opens his mouth to speak, but Montague has swiftly turned and is striding down the hallway. Faintly he can hear the man murmur a few words as he retreats.
"Sleep dwell upon thine eyes..."
He closes the door, hand clutching the golden knob as he rests his forehead against the cool wood.
Somewhere a clock ticks, and if he listened with enough care he can hear soft muffled footsteps. Eventually he manages to pull himself away from the door and begins undoing the numerous straps holding his crushed chest plate, shoulder holsters, and shin guard. He set these on the bed and sits on the edge and releases a slow breath.
"Damn you, Marigold." He curses the woman and the boat in one fell swoop. She had warned him, and while he had heeded her advice it had been in vain.
Montague was everything he ever wanted and more.
Relaxing his shoulders Midas removes his crown, runs his fingers through his hair and replaces it atop his head. Then he pulls out the phone Marigold had given him before leaving and turns it on. Laying back on the bed as he checks Marigold's email for the file Shadow had put together on Montague. He had not read it in the ride over. Preferring to meet people with as little preconceived notions as possible, then comparing what he had seen with what he had learned. Now he reads feverishly over the words on the screen.
Montague Delacroix was born in Northern France and is currently forty-five years old. He was apparently a dancer at some point, and then, as he had mentioned before, a model before he became a "socialite" and hotel owner as a full time job after his injury. There is a link to a video after that bullet point and Skye, he could tell it was her who wrote it since she was incredibly through, had flagged as 'suspicious'.
"No evidence backing claim." Was underlined in black, the color of suspicion she had explained to him once.
He clicks the video link first and turns his phone horizontal as a French talk show began to play on his screen. Nose wrinkling in annoyance that Skye had not provided a video with any subtitles. If she couldn't find a primary source why didn't she send it to Peely for transcription? He almost pauses the video to send a stern Email to Skye, but stops when Montague walks on the screen.
His eyes widen and he sits up. Hunching over his phone as the camera zooms in on Montague walking on stage. The lights blooming against the cameras lenses almost blur the image of him, but the camera resins steady. Trained on his face.
Montague was young here, early twenties, and he looked as if the world had caved in. The right half of his head was wrapped in thick gauze bandages that pressed close to his short cropped hair. A bruise bloomed along his cheek and his lips were split in two places. Still he has a certain twinkle in his eye and a vauge attempt at a smile as he sits across from the talk show host. They make polite banter for a few minutes. Montague's voice sounded different, being so young and speaking another language. He adjusts to the cadence of it rather quickly, and begins to understand the sentences.
"And you say stage lights fell on you?" The woman seems to say, looking at the camera and raising her eyebrows.
"Yes, it was a rigging issue. So much glass fell into my eye it had to be removed." Montague drones, voice as smooth as a river rock.
"We have a few pictures here of your injury, may we show the audience?"
"Go right ahead." Montague says with a stiff wave of his hand.
The screen changed to show Montague's young face, red and wrecked from monstrous gashes cutting across his face. Heavy black threads hold the puckered edges if flesh together. Crawling down his face from eyebrow to cheekbone. The bruise under his eye spread across his entire face, and his nose was set in a splint. The brown eye staring out from the deep purple bruised eyesocket was cold and empty.
The sane eyes he saw looking at him today. The photos blink away and Montague is idling in his chair, looking disinterested.
"What are you going to do now? Continue modeling?"
Montague shakes his head, eye turning towards the camera. Despite the feigned elegance his posture was stiff, shoulders raised and fists clenched, "No, no I don't think I will. It was fun while it lasted, but I think it's about time I move on from this."
Midas cannot get a real read on the inflections behind the voice and the cadence of his words due to the language difference. However he is inclined to believe that the younger Montague, half blind with his future ripped away, was at rock bottom.
The Montague of today was acting exactly as he was twenty years ago. The tells were hidden so well only someone who had spent thousands of years picking people apart could spot them.
He could be wrong of course, and that the version of Montague he was painting for himself was simply what he wanted to see and not how the man truly felt. In time the truth would reveal itself to him, and as long as he kept his mind open to it there would be no issue.
He had been half listening as the interview had divulged into small talk on political affairs that were of no interest to him. Now the conversation had steered back to Montague's career as a model. Montague looked rather pleased with himself now, leaning back in the chair as his single eye flickered between the host and the audience. The video feed cuts to a still image, and the audience let's out a polite murmurs at the image displayed to them. Midas studies the image eagerly, eyes tracing over the young man's face and noting the differences. His hair was styled differently, but still black with bone white streaks in it. He was on the runway in a sharp, dark blue suit that was plain, but fashionable.
The screen cuts back to the two, and they discuss the outfit and event. Midas taps the screen, seeing that there's only a few minutes left of the video he decides to exit out of it, having seen enough from there. Under the link to the interview Skye had sourced a few news outlets, machine translated by the looks of it, discussing the accident. Apparently the details of it were vague at best, and she could not confirm beyond a reasonable doubt that it happened at all. Midas agreed that it was odd, but there were plenty of reasons to hide the truth behind an injury. Maybe one day he would coax the true story out of him. The last of the file is brief, but just as intriguing. Montague had slipped away from public life after his injury, but he could not escape a few allegations regarding his buisness dealings with known art traffickers, drug dealers, and multi millionaire real-estate owners. None of these allegations ever stuck so needless to say Montague knew how to be clandestine.
At the end of the document was an unlabeled link and a rather foreboding footnote from Skye.
"You'll love this, boss."
He clicks the link and feels his breath catch in his throat. It was a picture Montague, still young but definitely closer in age to his retirement compared to the other modeling image he saw. In the advertisement he was sat at an outside bar, head resting in a cupped palm and eyes on the camera. His hair was styled as a spikey undercut, the shaved part a deep black and the top bleached a bone withe with a vibrant streak of gold to it. The sunglasses he wore were golden and the obvious focal point of the add. In large bold letters the word Midas was printed across the legs of the sunglasses.
He scrolls down to see another shot of Montague in the same outfit but now leaning against the open the doorway of an apartment building, the Eiffel tower visable through a window behind him. The sunglasses from the previous advertisement are perched atop his head, giving him a real look at the young Montague's face. He preferred the stubble and scar over the clean shaven fresh face, but there was an appeal in the youthful half lidded eyes that gazed from the page.
The last image from this photo series makes suck in a shocked breath. Montague was laying back on his elbows on a bed of gold, silken sheets. His black shirt was unbuttoned and fell open to expose his torso, decorated with thin interlocking golden chains. His pants were unbuttoned and open enough to show the waistband of his briefs with the words Midas encircling the tight elastic. The mans eyes were bright and wild, looking up at the camera in expectation.
Midas stares at the photo for a long time, mind running wild at the sheer eroticism of it. Tracing his repeating name across the mans tight stomach and hip bones. Then admiring his soft pink nipples underneath thin golden chains that seemed to beg for his touch. Midas considers leaving his room to find Montague, to coax him into this very room and lay him upon the bed so he may touch him. Every inch of him caressed by his hands and to feel him writhe and moan beneath him.
The screen darkens on it's own and he sets the device to the side. Taking deep, slow breaths to allow his hardening cock to settle down. It would be sweeter in the end if he waited. Allowed the desire to burn until the coals were hot and glowing. Ready to blaze anew when the indulgence came. To be greedy and still be happy was to be patient. To draw out the game as long as possible so the victory was all the more precious, and the dissatisfaction slower to come.
In the dark and silent night he listens to the faint footsteps pacing in the hallway. Counting the long minutes that pass whenever they stop outside of his door.