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The gold paint on his bangle is rubbing off.
He’s been trying to hide it all night, shuffling it to the back of the pile and into the crook of his elbow, but the bloody noble on his lap keeps toying with his jewellery, running his fingers over Frirr’s earrings and pulling on his necklaces to yank his face closer. Thank the gods for the low light in here, because if they get too close they’ll see the pigment coming off in their hand, the gold gleaming and alluring until it turns to sand under their oily touch. Frirr untangles their fingers from his wrist, twining their hands together instead.
‘Careful now,’ he teases, a disarming grin on his face. ‘That gorget is worth more than I am.’
‘Surely not,’ the noble slurs, and he’s close enough Frirr can see his pupils are blown wide, the sweetness of tersa leaf on his breath. ‘The Orchid of Ul'dah… something like you can’t come cheap.’
‘What’s the going rate for viera boys these days?’ the other one asks, idly twirling the stem of what he thinks is a crystal wine glass but Frirr knows damn well they’re sold by the crate down at the markets. ‘Perhaps I should get in on the game. Find some mythril amongst the crags, eh?’
Frirr gently slides the grabby man aside and saunters over, watches the other man’s eyes travel up the slit of his skirt, the exposed skin of his torso. He leans over his admirer, the silk of his head wrap drifting onto the man’s shoulders, one ear unfurling to tickle his cheek.
‘Oh, but I’m a rarer breed, me. Orchids don’t do well in the cold.’
‘And how much would it take, to keep you? I’ve a room of gold you’d look splendid in. Curtains with hand stitched brocade. Gilt on the mirrors. The silks draping the bed...’
‘That’s up to the powers that be. They keep an eye on the valuables.’
Frirr deliberately draws back out of reach before the man can grasp his scarves, the cloth slipping through their fingertips. Hopefully they haven’t seen the way his eye shadow has become more smeared than smoky, that his hair sticks to his skin because the humidity has risen to a disgusting degree. Just keep up that smile, those teeth bared.
He’s finally freed from this dull game when Merura appears to offer them an escort to their seats, her smile painted on just as expertly. He offers them a cheeky “See you at the show?” as he slips out the door because he’s known his cues for a very long time.
He glances up at the chronometer. Ten minutes. Just enough.
The dressing room is a decent walk away, but it’s the little window tucked away around the corner he’s after now. He found it years ago, hidden away behind drapes and storage crates that no one bothered to move, and it was easy enough to persuade the cleaners to let it alone. It’s like an illusion, a velvet cloak to vanish behind where the orchid disappears and Frirr turns back into… well, whatever he is now.
The slate of the roof is pleasantly cool underfoot; the stonework is comforting in its roughness at his back. Stone is stone and never pretends to be anything else. No paint, no costume jewellery that dangle from his ears masquerading as rubies. His little hiding spot overlooks an alley and the back of some rundown houses. For all its gilded lies and poisoned wine, he prefers Ul’dah like this. Where you can hear couples arguing and guard dogs barking and street hawkers closing up for the night.
Frirr pulls the scarf over his head, winds it round his ears, closes his eyes. He just needs a moment. That’s all. To have one, tiny second to be Frirr and not the orchid on display.
The wind dances across the roofs. In the distance, there's someone laughing. The bell tower tolls ten.
In another life, Frirr is sitting on the balcony of an apartment that he owns. There's sparkling peach juice next to him because he has no need for wine to get him through the evening. He's wrapped in a ratty cotton tunic and trousers that have been laundered so many times they're a little stiff and scratchy. The door is locked and he's not even sure there is a key.
The announcer's voice echoes out of the open window, promising dinner and a performance from the finest treasure the Platinum Mirage has to offer. It's always the same, night after night, the leers of the crowd and greasy hands sliding over his skin.
Frirr is so, so tired. But the show must go on. It always does.
He hauls himself to his feet and drags himself back to the dressing room. Smooths out his silks and secures the scarf coquetishly around his shoulders, skin winking through like stars hiding behind clouds. Swipes some kohl from Ruby, who cheerfully threatens him if he dares use the last of it, swaps out the crappy bangle for an equally crappy copper one that's a little bit newer. Checks himself in the mirror one last time. He's lost more weight, his skin taking on a sallow, sickly pallor that you only notice when you look too close. The dark circles under his eyes aren't going away. There's a bruise on his arm from where one of last week's VIPs gripped him a bit too tight, but it's fading into an ugly yellow that you can't really see if you aren't looking for it. The usual.
The part of him that wants to give up and walk out into the desert is getting louder all the time. Whispering to him in the dark, crooning its fantasies to him while he tries to sleep, that it wouldn't be hard to find something sharp to take to his wrists, that Citrine takes a sleeping draught she keeps leaving in the washroom cabinets and wouldn't that taste good washed down with cheap wine? Sometimes Frirr likes to copy the tone it uses, lowering his voice to a purr while he plays with their hair and tells them that of course he loves hearing about their new business buyout or how they've found another gold vein to stripmine. At least listening to them ramble means they aren't touching him.
He shoves those thoughts away, slams them back into the box and swallows the key. Just get it over with. Don't think about it. Take what little pleasure you can, because this next part is the only thing that keeps him sane.
He drifts towards the stage, pulling himself back together with every step. The Orchid of Ul'dah is beautiful. Hypnotic. A plant expertly cultivated in artifical soil and the city's everlasting bright lights. The second he starts to wilt, who knows what they'll do.
Frirr smiles at the audience, the corners of his mouth turning up like flower petals unfurling, blooming under the fake sun. He has to make them believe the lie, that he lives like a king, rescued from the bitter cold of Skatay, ever grateful to Estrid for his benevolence. And for a little while, he'll let them believe it.
Frirr closes his eyes.
The first couple are the usual crowd pleasers; Gold Saucer songs jazzed up with innuendo, something Frirr can sing in his sleep. They've actually had bards come through this moon so he gets to have fun with some bawdy Limsan pirate tunes, even if he is making up most of the words because Merura had only overheard it in the local tavern. It's barely even a crowd tonight, the Platinum Mirage's casino floor not quite half full, which isn't too unusual for a Firesday. Hells, he hasn't even seen Estrid anywhere all day, not even in the VIP rooms. Nanada's not paying the blindest bit of attention, boredly cleaning glasses and ignoring the punters. No one around to complain. Sod it.
It's a romantic song. Slow and sad, like he's calling out from the bottom of a well. Something that channels all of lonely thoughts rattling around in his head and sets them loose on the world. It's a pretty tune with a soft veneer, enough to lull you into thinking you're listening to a ballad about a lost love, left behind on the mainland until you hear it again. It's like spiked mead, a poison steeped in sugar, oddly bitter. Look at what you stole. Look at the thing you've turned me into. Look at me.
As the song comes to a close, his gaze drifts around the room. They're staring, which isn't a surprise considering he just thoroughly killed the mood, but something's caught his eye, something different. Frirr almost thinks he's imagined it until he spots a stranger standing over by the kitchen door. Despite this place's reputation, there's only a handful of staff and he knows them all by name, and there's definitely no viera. Let alone viera men. But just like that, there's a tall red-haired man leaning against the bar, his long braid glowing crimson in the low light, eyes fixed squarely on Frirr.
Well. That's interesting.
Frirr deliberately makes eye contact, directs the last line solely at him:
'Lead me from the rooftop. Hand in broken hand.'