for krystal
Feb. 9th, 2025 12:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
borntoreignIt's important to be seen in the right company. To mingle with the elites, especially the glamorous ones - even if it's the less sparkling guests who are usually the most valuable. To pose for selfies and paparazzi, and perhaps more importantly, to not pose - to be caught in candid elegance, a proof that the image he presents is authentic.
Authenticity. The watchword of his profession (at least, the most socially-acceptable of his many professions), and the best joke of the modern era. People don't want authenticity. People recoil from the authentic, the living and sweating and bleeding and struggling. People want comfort.
(Comfort and, judging by last month's sales figures, a lot of nootropics.)
People want to believe, in short, that the great and the good come to these affairs out of some genuine belief in charity. Fine: then he is charitable. He is also charming, and he is influential, and he looks very good in an Armani suit. Authentically so.
But the fundraiser isn't just an opportunity to be seen mingling with billionaires and rebuffing the advances of beautiful women. It is as much about seeing as being seen. A clever man can deftly weave his way through the crowds and the tables, and notice who is anxious, who is angry, who is there under protest. Who is talking to investors, and who is trying not to catch the eye of their husband.
And who is watching him. Across the dining room, he meets Thomas Mulvaney's eyes and gives him a brief, genuine smile: the type which has no teeth, only sharpness. I see you, seeing me.
He waits until after the dinner to act. As always, he eats frugally, and not until others have begun; he drinks no alcohol, although the wine is, he's sure, a very good vintage. He makes conversation. Mainly, he listens. And, when the dessert plates are cleared away and people have begun to circulate, he stands, disentangles himself from the conversation, and without ever seeming to have a particular direction, nonetheless finds his way to where he intends to be.
"Mr Mulvaney, isn't it?" His smile is authentic again, rather than real: a flash of teeth, a polite grin with just a twist of humour. There is a hint of the Slavic still in his voice, not enough to seem like his English is weak, just enough to give his origins away. He holds out one manicured hand, ringless as always. "I've been wondering when we would get a chance to meet properly."
Authenticity. The watchword of his profession (at least, the most socially-acceptable of his many professions), and the best joke of the modern era. People don't want authenticity. People recoil from the authentic, the living and sweating and bleeding and struggling. People want comfort.
(Comfort and, judging by last month's sales figures, a lot of nootropics.)
People want to believe, in short, that the great and the good come to these affairs out of some genuine belief in charity. Fine: then he is charitable. He is also charming, and he is influential, and he looks very good in an Armani suit. Authentically so.
But the fundraiser isn't just an opportunity to be seen mingling with billionaires and rebuffing the advances of beautiful women. It is as much about seeing as being seen. A clever man can deftly weave his way through the crowds and the tables, and notice who is anxious, who is angry, who is there under protest. Who is talking to investors, and who is trying not to catch the eye of their husband.
And who is watching him. Across the dining room, he meets Thomas Mulvaney's eyes and gives him a brief, genuine smile: the type which has no teeth, only sharpness. I see you, seeing me.
He waits until after the dinner to act. As always, he eats frugally, and not until others have begun; he drinks no alcohol, although the wine is, he's sure, a very good vintage. He makes conversation. Mainly, he listens. And, when the dessert plates are cleared away and people have begun to circulate, he stands, disentangles himself from the conversation, and without ever seeming to have a particular direction, nonetheless finds his way to where he intends to be.
"Mr Mulvaney, isn't it?" His smile is authentic again, rather than real: a flash of teeth, a polite grin with just a twist of humour. There is a hint of the Slavic still in his voice, not enough to seem like his English is weak, just enough to give his origins away. He holds out one manicured hand, ringless as always. "I've been wondering when we would get a chance to meet properly."
