»opulence{miles kane x alex turner}

i n t e n t i o n

sorry for the long wait, i've had exams and shit and then this ended up being far too long and tbh it all just took longer than expected, i'll try and up my update game. thanks for reading:) ((oh and again i stole some lines off drxculateeth ty ily))

There were two fragile, oblong shapes protruding from Miles' tuxedo pocket. Not one pair of eyes seemed accusing as he slid through the crowd, his almost-gripless shoes gliding against the floor. Everyone who had wanted to speak to him appeared to have done so already, since there were no garbled half-sentences being thrown at his passing figure. That was an occupational hazard of being so renown and successful, Miles thought, barely pausing to focus on the odd face that he could have recognised. When you were successful, everyone wanted to talk to you. He knew that all too well- tonight was a shining example since he'd been here for almost five dragging hours, and had spoken to so many people in poorly-tailored suits with whining, enunciated voices that he would have gone home had it not been for the opportunity to make some money.

The predictability of the conversations would have been amusing if they didn't overwhelm him with boredom. Every ear-grating drone wanted the same thing. It was always the same fucking thing, no matter where he was or who he spoke to. All anyone ever wanted to talk to Miles Kane about was money.

Admittedly, there were three or four serious-looking older men who Miles knew anyway, purely from reputation who meant the idea of a credit-fuelled conversation was not unwelcome. There was enough power in the Turner household to attract people like these, and even though it wasn't his party, Miles had benefited from it massively in the last few hours or so. There was a chance that he had completely taken advantage of the 'social' aspect of the gathering, but if it meant opening the casino in Chicago that he was still inexplicably short on funding for, then there was no guilt hanging heavy in his chest. Though he complained to himself as he fired awkward-half smiles at anyone whose eye he happened to catch, and though he'd rather have spent the night in the offices to work on the accounts, Miles had new contacts, and new contacts meant more money. Thanks to the Turners- who he'd barely even spoken to tonight anyway- there were several very attractive investment opportunities sitting in Miles' immediate memory.

Whilst he was never going to complain about the availability of money into his business, there was the slight disappointment that he, again, had not managed to even begin to socialise. Since becoming so inherently successful, Miles had found himself also rather isolated from people his own age who he could simply have an average conversation with. Of course he knew the men who worked for him, who were all around his own age and lived in the block to the left of his hideously too-large house, but he couldn't exactly count them as 'friends' since he was paying them to spend time with him, and he only really put up with them because he had to. No, the large majority of Miles' social circle were all people double his age who had money to burn and were willing to offer him financial help purely because it would be amusing to watch if he failed.

That, then, explained why Miles had snuck two small crystal glasses off the drinks table when everyone had had their fill of hearing him talk about how he'd broken into the American gambling business and was paying him no attention. The fact that those glasses probably cost the same amount as a small, second hand car did flutter through his head as he slid them into his silk-lined pocket, but Miles was no thief. There was every intention to put them back once he'd finished with them- and really, he wasn't even doing anything with them besides move them, since he wasn't going anywhere out of the house.

One very clipped conversation that he'd had earlier was sticking out in his mind purely because it was different. If it could be called a conversation- more a strained exchange of words than anything else. But it hadn't been about money, not really, and that was the main reason that was standing out. He'd gathered in that short, honestly quite meaningless space of time that he wasn't the only one here that was sick of standing in this too-bright ballroom like some kind of oddity because he was rich. There was someone in this house, Miles knew almost instinctively- that wouldn't care if they were talking money or not.