And now here he is.
Peter is going to break his promise because this is not the fucking plan. He’s going to get to this fucking party and he is going to shut the whole thing down, hope there is enough alcohol so he can get stupid drunk, and then he’s going to cause a massive scene and get Sebastian to spank him and then fuck him.
This fucking murder mystery party is at a house outside the city. He’s had to leave his car at the gate. No one else is parked at the gate but there was a padlocked fence and no other option. Also there is no goddamn cell reception.
So he can’t call Sebastian and ask him if he’s in the right place. Plus it’s almost dark. And it’s quite cold out and likely to rain.
Where is everyone? He’s been dreading it so much he hasn’t even asked any of his friends if they’re going.
How can there be all these people turning up to his party and not a single one of them is parked outside the gate like he is? He kicks a rock, which draws his attention back to his absolutely insane shoes. They’re horrendous. They look like something a clown would’ve worn during the Depression. Scuffed and poorly made.
And his suit, the expensive and custom suit Sebastian had made for Peter so he could be in character has somehow been switched with Sebastian’s outfit, so now he’s in this dumb outfit looking like a dirt-poor day laborer. As if the person who wore this outfit couldn’t hold down a job and likely had a drinking problem. The material is unbearably cheap and shiny and it itches.
He only put it on because there’d been a note stuck to the bag that saidyou promised. Peter is basically wearing the wrong outfit out of spite.
Peter contemplates just sitting down on the road, maybe even screaming, but through the trees he can just make out what might be the house. Thank fucking god, he thinks, and continues to walk.
It starts to rain hard and he wipes at his face. His arms and shoulders are damp. Water is dripping down the back of his neck by the time the house comes into view. Well, mansion. Gothic and at least a hundred years old, the house must have ten or fifteen bedrooms. How much did Peter (via Sebastian) pay for this?
It’s quiet and there are only a few lights on. Is this the right place? It has to be the right place. Peter walks up to the door andtries to open it but it’s locked. He’d hoped to sneak in and find a bathroom, get freshened up before he has to be polite and happy. Maybe pull Sebastian into a bedroom and get sorted out before joining the party. But he can’t sneak in if the door is locked.
Oh god. Is this supposed to be a surprise party? Wouldn’t he not know if it was?
Is it possible he’s in the wrong place? There still isn’t a car in sight. He presses his ear to the door, unable to hear anything that sounds like a party. Fuck. He knocks on the door and it takes a full thirty seconds before someone unlocks and opens the door. A man who can’t be younger than seventy-five peers out at him with rheumy eyes, holding an honest-to-god fucking candle.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Peter. I’m here for a party? My party? I think my boyfriend rented this place? Sebastian Craft?”
The man blinks at him. “There is no one here by that name.”
“Fine. Can I use your phone? I have no cell reception. Please.” He manages the word through gritted teeth.
“Let me go and ask the master.”
He closes the door, locks it, and walks away.
What the fuck!Master?Has he time traveled to the eighteen hundreds?
Peter is so beside himself with rage he yanks his tie off. A button pops off, too. Figures.
The door unlocks and cracks open.
“My master is currently engaged, but if you would like to come in and wait, you may.”
“Is this a joke?” Peter asks. “I just need to use the phone. It’s local and it won’t take more than thirty seconds.”
“If you cannot obey the rules, then I cannot invite you inside,” the man says. “You may come in and wait for the master and ask him if you wish to use the phone.”
Peter opens his mouth to protest and then closes it again. “Fine. Whatever you say,” he says and follows him inside. The place is a mansion, dark wood paneling, pictures of long dead people on the walls, the smell of wood polish and dusty books. It’s very, very dark.
He leads Peter through the house into the library. He opens the door and gestures for Peter to go inside. There’s a roaring fire in a stupidly large fireplace and an endless number of books that go from floor to ceiling.
Peter shivers from the wet. “Where is the phone?”
“You must wait for the master,” the man repeats.
“I have somewhere to be. Won’t take more than a moment.”
