New Reflections (Burnsmithers)

Part Nine: Try to Understand

Friday passed without much incident or event otherwise; Waylon picked out a suit for the gala. On Saturday, Burns decided he would wear the tailcoat sans the gloves that evening. "It would be excessive."

"Alright."

"You haven't shown me what you are wearing," Burns whinged, "you did find something, didn't you? It is tonight."

"I did, yesterday."

"Well...?" Burns folded his arms.

Waylon sighed, retrieved the suit from its place hanging in another closet, and displayed it for Burns. The suit wasn't anything special or spectacular- but Waylon liked it, and had worn it before. It was a dark navy, fitted with a narrow lapel.

"Ah, this one. I recall you wore it to some gathering years ago, yes? Or was more recent?" Burns' eyes scrolled the suit in casual scrutiny; he nodded. "Have you tried it on?" He fingered the fabric near the hem of the jacket.

"Er. No." Waylon hadn't considered that. "I only wore it about a year ago..." Why hadn't he tried it on, to be sure it still complemented him?

Burns shook his head. "I was not... you misunderstand. I was asking for my benefit. Perhaps I'd like the satisfaction of seeing it before everyone else."

"Oh." Waylon snatched the suit from where he'd hung it, failing to hide his grin. "Of course, sir."

Burns rolled his eyes, but his manner was light. "Go on, then."
Waylon hurried off to dress, avoiding the mirror for fear of another headache. He flattened out several wrinkles in the fabric on his walk back, not wanting to appear too hasty.

Burns' door was ajar; he was standing against a bedpost, his head titled down at something in his hand. Upon closer inspection, it was his hair. He was twisting strands over one another, in apparent thought. Waylon cleared his throat. "Sir?"

At once, Burns pushed his hair behind his shoulders, and only then did he catch Waylon's eye some feet away by the threshold. His initial glare faded as he looked Waylon over, his posture relaxing.

"It is just as I remember," he said of the suit, "you shall be the envy of many a fellow tonight."

Waylon reddened. "I don't know if- thank you."

"Hm." Burns posited himself against a nearby chair. "We both will be, you and I."

The gala was held at a mansion indeed situated by the lake. The house's impressive, yet dully uninspired front was a bit discouraging, Waylon thought. Beyond the structure, from the lake, moving, blinking lights shone, and voices rang in tandem, with those emitting from the house.

Stepping into the interior foyer, the view was refreshing among the increase in noise level. The somewhat art nouveau architecture featured intricate, sweeping patterns that graced the staircase and banister, continuing in the same pattern rounding a balcony, preceding identical balconies that stretched two storeys further up. Colourful Persian rugs covered large expanses of floor; lacquered wood tables were laid with silk runners and unassuming art pieces. The décor was somewhat unique, at the least.

Burns seemed self-conscious around the throngs of people, though he tried to conceal it. He glanced about, eyes darting to pinpoint someone he knew, and then skirting their periphery.

"Mr Burns?" A woman appeared in front of them out of the congregation, clad in a thin, jade gown and jewellery, black hair braided. "Mr Burns, excuse me, I'm Matilda Lannister," she greeted. Waylon detected an accent, either English or Welsh.

Burns frowned. "Lannister... is it you, then, who is 'M. Lannister'? The hostess, I gather."

Matilda nodded. "Yes, I organised this event."
"Then... I am pleased to meet you, Ms Lannister."
"You too. Thank you for coming."
"Mm."