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The year was 2018. The month was September. Graduated from Columbia University a year earlier with a pretty little degree in Philosophy - a thoroughly useless subject, as his brother had so kindly put it - Mihail had elected to take off the next year of his life in order to 'find himself' before he was suddenly thrust into the Family Business. It had taken some convincing. Father had not exactly been for it, and Dysius had complained, but Nethis had always been an excellent advisor to their father's decisions ever since she had been old enough to be considered a woman (doubtlessly the cause of her controversial election to the role of consigliere) and it was she who had brought the others around. It had been amusing: usually, it was from his other sisters that Mihail found it easiest to get that which he willed with a cutesie smile and rightly placed words. But, when all was said and done, Nethis was the reason why now, almost a full year after making his original request, he found himself in Helena, Montana.
It was not a particularly exciting state, as far as the man was concerned. It was the thirty-eight on his list and, after Wyoming and Arkansas and all those other dull places, the people only seemed duller and the fields emptier and plainer. Mihail was not entirely sure what he intended to do here, just that he was eight states away from reaching Washington and there was something inherently sexually appealing about the prospect of seeing a cowboy in the flesh. Those other southern states had barely given him anything, which was a shame, since he would have ridden those men better than the rode their horses but, alas, the opportunity had yet to arise, and no sexy cowboys had been sighted as of yet. No matter: Mihail could make his own fun if he had to.
On the hour-and-a-half-long ride from the airport to the hotel, with Draco curled comfortably on his shoulders, he had researched somewhere to go that evening while the personal assistant he had hired for the trip, Leonard, flicked through the week's itinerary. Mihail didn't see why he bothered; there was nothing planned for Montana, it was a dead state, the closest person on Grindr was three miles away. He was going to die here and, oh god; he was going to die in sweatpants. Dior sweatpants, but sweatpants nonetheless.
As luck would have it, however, he had stumbled across a bar that seemed not too far from his hotel and which seemed reasonably undead by its reviews (although the Thanasi would have considered anything more than three patrons as being lively in a place like this) and had decided that it was worth gracing with his dear presence that evening. And, fear not! If the state of Montana had not deigned to provide him with the cowboys he had so hoped for, then he would naturally become one himself; the outfit chosen for that night's outing proving that point or rather, proving it unless one was, in fact, a real cowboy and could not the blindingly obvious fake. He had opted for a light brown suede jacket covering his red-and-black chequered shirt, matched with a pair of high-waisted navy blue jeans decorated with white staining. He was accessorising excellently on this day as well, sporting a thin black belt in vegan leather with a snake emblem emblazoned on the silver clasp and pointed Louboutins which matched the belt in both material and colour. When Mihail had glanced over his reflection in the mirror of his hotel room to apply his burgundy lipstick as a complement to his shirt and to curl that one bang perfectly over his forehead, he'd been convinced he looked ever part the kind of cowboy anyone (himself included) would want to hire for a bachelorette party.
The viper was to stay in the hotel room, Leonard left behind with the standard instructions to unpack and take care of his baby and then disappear. Mihail had left for the bar, taking a car the hotel had booked for him so as not to risk any potential attacks for being too pretty or too well dressed or anything of that ilk. It wasn't a very long journey, and he was bright and joyous as he lit up a cigarette and burst through the front door of the establishment.
"Princess Mimi has arrived!" he sang out, gaze sweeping over the room's occupants with clear intentions of finding someone to spend the night with, though he cared not for the gender of his supposed companion and really only for whether or not their outward appearance tugged at his heartstrings in the way he imagined. Some might have called it superficial, and Mihail would have agreed. What did personality even matter when it came to a one night stand, hm? It wasn't as though he planned to stay in Montana more than a week anyhow, especially now that he'd had a chance to experience its absolute lack of entertainment and hospitality.
There had been a slight pause in the general buzz of the room when he had entered, dragging heavily and slowly exhaling the smoke into the room as the habitues glanced up to note this newcomer interrupting their conversations with his eccentricities, their expressions anything but friendly. For a brief moment, the man felt a flash of panic as he looked back at them, long fingers decorated with a half-chipped dark manicure and fancily-designed rings reaching up to grasp at the golden necklace announcing him as 'princess' to the world which hung around his neck; rubbing over the cold metal as though to boost his confidence before it appeared to find him once more and his spare hand snaked back down to rest on his hip.
"Isn't anyone going to stop staring and buy a pretty girl a drink?" he questioned, pouting mildly in a plea for attention, the sort of face he made when he really, really wanted something from one of his sisters. "I'd die for a mint julep."
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The year was 2018. The month was September. Graduated from Columbia University a year earlier with a pretty little degree in Philosophy - a thoroughly useless subject, as his brother had so kindly put it - Mihail had elected to take off the next year of his life in order to 'find himself' before he was suddenly thrust into the Family Business. It had taken some convincing. Father had not exactly been for it, and Dysius had complained, but Nethis had always been an excellent advisor to their father's decisions ever since she had been old enough to be considered a woman (doubtlessly the cause of her controversial election to the role of consigliere) and it was she who had brought the others around. It had been amusing: usually, it was from his other sisters that Mihail found it easiest to get that which he willed with a cutesie smile and rightly placed words. But, when all was said and done, Nethis was the reason why now, almost a full year after making his original request, he found himself in Helena, Montana.
It was not a particularly exciting state, as far as the man was concerned. It was the thirty-eight on his list and, after Wyoming and Arkansas and all those other dull places, the people only seemed duller and the fields emptier and plainer. Mihail was not entirely sure what he intended to do here, just that he was eight states away from reaching Washington and there was something inherently sexually appealing about the prospect of seeing a cowboy in the flesh. Those other southern states had barely given him anything, which was a shame, since he would have ridden those men better than the rode their horses but, alas, the opportunity had yet to arise, and no sexy cowboys had been sighted as of yet. No matter: Mihail could make his own fun if he had to.
On the hour-and-a-half-long ride from the airport to the hotel, with Draco curled comfortably on his shoulders, he had researched somewhere to go that evening while the personal assistant he had hired for the trip, Leonard, flicked through the week's itinerary. Mihail didn't see why he bothered; there was nothing planned for Montana, it was a dead state, the closest person on Grindr was three miles away. He was going to die here and, oh god; he was going to die in sweatpants. Dior sweatpants, but sweatpants nonetheless.
As luck would have it, however, he had stumbled across a bar that seemed not too far from his hotel and which seemed reasonably undead by its reviews (although the Thanasi would have considered anything more than three patrons as being lively in a place like this) and had decided that it was worth gracing with his dear presence that evening. And, fear not! If the state of Montana had not deigned to provide him with the cowboys he had so hoped for, then he would naturally become one himself; the outfit chosen for that night's outing proving that point or rather, proving it unless one was, in fact, a real cowboy and could not the blindingly obvious fake. He had opted for a light brown suede jacket covering his red-and-black chequered shirt, matched with a pair of high-waisted navy blue jeans decorated with white staining. He was accessorising excellently on this day as well, sporting a thin black belt in vegan leather with a snake emblem emblazoned on the silver clasp and pointed Louboutins which matched the belt in both material and colour. When Mihail had glanced over his reflection in the mirror of his hotel room to apply his burgundy lipstick as a complement to his shirt and to curl that one bang perfectly over his forehead, he'd been convinced he looked ever part the kind of cowboy anyone (himself included) would want to hire for a bachelorette party.
The viper was to stay in the hotel room, Leonard left behind with the standard instructions to unpack and take care of his baby and then disappear. Mihail had left for the bar, taking a car the hotel had booked for him so as not to risk any potential attacks for being too pretty or too well dressed or anything of that ilk. It wasn't a very long journey, and he was bright and joyous as he lit up a cigarette and burst through the front door of the establishment.
"Princess Mimi has arrived!" he sang out, gaze sweeping over the room's occupants with clear intentions of finding someone to spend the night with, though he cared not for the gender of his supposed companion and really only for whether or not their outward appearance tugged at his heartstrings in the way he imagined. Some might have called it superficial, and Mihail would have agreed. What did personality even matter when it came to a one night stand, hm? It wasn't as though he planned to stay in Montana more than a week anyhow, especially now that he'd had a chance to experience its absolute lack of entertainment and hospitality.
There had been a slight pause in the general buzz of the room when he had entered, dragging heavily and slowly exhaling the smoke into the room as the habitues glanced up to note this newcomer interrupting their conversations with his eccentricities, their expressions anything but friendly. For a brief moment, the man felt a flash of panic as he looked back at them, long fingers decorated with a half-chipped dark manicure and fancily-designed rings reaching up to grasp at the golden necklace announcing him as 'princess' to the world which hung around his neck; rubbing over the cold metal as though to boost his confidence before it appeared to find him once more and his spare hand snaked back down to rest on his hip.
"Isn't anyone going to stop staring and buy a pretty girl a drink?" he questioned, pouting mildly in a plea for attention, the sort of face he made when he really, really wanted something from one of his sisters. "I'd die for a mint julep."
The year was 2018. The month was September. Graduated from Columbia University a year earlier with a pretty little degree in Philosophy - a thoroughly useless subject, as his brother had so kindly put it - Mihail had elected to take off the next year of his life in order to 'find himself' before he was suddenly thrust into the Family Business. It had taken some convincing. Father had not exactly been for it, and Dysius had complained, but Nethis had always been an excellent advisor to their father's decisions ever since she had been old enough to be considered a woman (doubtlessly the cause of her controversial election to the role of consigliere) and it was she who had brought the others around. It had been amusing: usually, it was from his other sisters that Mihail found it easiest to get that which he willed with a cutesie smile and rightly placed words. But, when all was said and done, Nethis was the reason why now, almost a full year after making his original request, he found himself in Helena, Montana.
It was not a particularly exciting state, as far as the man was concerned. It was the thirty-eight on his list and, after Wyoming and Arkansas and all those other dull places, the people only seemed duller and the fields emptier and plainer. Mihail was not entirely sure what he intended to do here, just that he was eight states away from reaching Washington and there was something inherently sexually appealing about the prospect of seeing a cowboy in the flesh. Those other southern states had barely given him anything, which was a shame, since he would have ridden those men better than the rode their horses but, alas, the opportunity had yet to arise, and no sexy cowboys had been sighted as of yet. No matter: Mihail could make his own fun if he had to.
On the hour-and-a-half-long ride from the airport to the hotel, with Draco curled comfortably on his shoulders, he had researched somewhere to go that evening while the personal assistant he had hired for the trip, Leonard, flicked through the week's itinerary. Mihail didn't see why he bothered; there was nothing planned for Montana, it was a dead state, the closest person on Grindr was three miles away. He was going to die here and, oh god; he was going to die in sweatpants. Dior sweatpants, but sweatpants nonetheless.
As luck would have it, however, he had stumbled across a bar that seemed not too far from his hotel and which seemed reasonably undead by its reviews (although the Thanasi would have considered anything more than three patrons as being lively in a place like this) and had decided that it was worth gracing with his dear presence that evening. And, fear not! If the state of Montana had not deigned to provide him with the cowboys he had so hoped for, then he would naturally become one himself; the outfit chosen for that night's outing proving that point or rather, proving it unless one was, in fact, a real cowboy and could not the blindingly obvious fake. He had opted for a light brown suede jacket covering his red-and-black chequered shirt, matched with a pair of high-waisted navy blue jeans decorated with white staining. He was accessorising excellently on this day as well, sporting a thin black belt in vegan leather with a snake emblem emblazoned on the silver clasp and pointed Louboutins which matched the belt in both material and colour. When Mihail had glanced over his reflection in the mirror of his hotel room to apply his burgundy lipstick as a complement to his shirt and to curl that one bang perfectly over his forehead, he'd been convinced he looked ever part the kind of cowboy anyone (himself included) would want to hire for a bachelorette party.
The viper was to stay in the hotel room, Leonard left behind with the standard instructions to unpack and take care of his baby and then disappear. Mihail had left for the bar, taking a car the hotel had booked for him so as not to risk any potential attacks for being too pretty or too well dressed or anything of that ilk. It wasn't a very long journey, and he was bright and joyous as he lit up a cigarette and burst through the front door of the establishment.
"Princess Mimi has arrived!" he sang out, gaze sweeping over the room's occupants with clear intentions of finding someone to spend the night with, though he cared not for the gender of his supposed companion and really only for whether or not their outward appearance tugged at his heartstrings in the way he imagined. Some might have called it superficial, and Mihail would have agreed. What did personality even matter when it came to a one night stand, hm? It wasn't as though he planned to stay in Montana more than a week anyhow, especially now that he'd had a chance to experience its absolute lack of entertainment and hospitality.
There had been a slight pause in the general buzz of the room when he had entered, dragging heavily and slowly exhaling the smoke into the room as the habitues glanced up to note this newcomer interrupting their conversations with his eccentricities, their expressions anything but friendly. For a brief moment, the man felt a flash of panic as he looked back at them, long fingers decorated with a half-chipped dark manicure and fancily-designed rings reaching up to grasp at the golden necklace announcing him as 'princess' to the world which hung around his neck; rubbing over the cold metal as though to boost his confidence before it appeared to find him once more and his spare hand snaked back down to rest on his hip.
"Isn't anyone going to stop staring and buy a pretty girl a drink?" he questioned, pouting mildly in a plea for attention, the sort of face he made when he really, really wanted something from one of his sisters. "I'd die for a mint julep."