“Plums, come here for a sec. I need ya help.”

A black tie hung limply around Guzma's shoulders, and he fiddled nervously with the ends. “I, uh, I don't know how to tie this thing.”

Plumeria blinked and took in his appearance. Hair combed back, white dress shirt under a black tuxedo that just about fit him when he wasn't slouching. And he wasn't. She blinked again. “Where the hell are you going?”

She took the ends of the tie from his hands, but the way she held them she might as well have been threatening to strangle the boss with them. A thick white letter with the golden Aether emblem flashed dully from a nearby table, and she turned on Guzma. “Really? After all this? You'll lay in bed for days without eating or getting in the fucking shower, but they-she asks, and you do *this*?”

Her voice was hard and low, just soft enough that the grunts outside couldn't hear what she was saying. She looked up at him, but he didn't meet her eyes. “Fine. I'll keep your precious Lusamine in the dark about how you don't even know how to tie a fucking tie.”

 Plumeria pulled the black silky thing down hard, and pulled the tail through a loop. Guzma lost a few inches of his looming height when she yanked him down with hard tugs. He swallowed, and she watched his adam's apple bob before pushing the knot into place. “There.”

Guzma turned towards the door but didn't move. “Look, you don't get it. She cares about me. She's the only one who cares about me.”

He ran a big hand through his tamed hair, and Plumeria smacked it away. She pulled a comb from one of her pockets, and used his shoulder to steady herself as she reached up on her tiptoes to fix the destruction he'd created. When she was done she met his eyes, and hers were flashing with anger. She threw the comb onto the bed beside them. “No, you're the one who doesn't understand.”

Plumeria gestured outside to the grunts milling around. “They care about you. I care about you!”

She spit the last words at him and stepped backwards towards the door. “You always want what you can't have. Once someone comes around to you, you don't give a shit anymore. It's like some stupid fucking conquest.”

Plumeria pulled the skull clips from her hair and shook her long locks out. It dangled loose and messy around her face as she stared at Guzma, daring him to say anything. When he didn't she threw the clips at him.

* * *

It was in a high ponytail, accenting black lipstick and sharp eyeliner that he saw her next. It took him almost ten minutes to get out the door and chase after her, slowed by false starts and unsure mumbling under his breath. Guzma didn't know what to say, hell he could barely put one foot down after the other. When he made it into her room, shirt too tight around his neck and pulling nervously at his tie, she looked up at him with her cold, yellow eyes. Everything he thought about saying shriveled, and he reflexively turned away.

It was worse when she was cold. If she was fired up and yelling at him, Guzma at least knew how to deal with that. But this? It made him feel like he was a kid again, awkward and stuttering and that everything he said was wrong. She dragged the eyeliner pen along the edge of her eye, and flicked it out into a wing. “What now? Need me to walk you to Aether and present you like a blushing bride?”

Plumeria tossed the eyeliner onto the bed and turned away from him to rifle through a pile of black. Without looking up she slipped off her baggy sweatpants to expose a red thong. “Not happening, dickbag. You can go grovel on your knees in front of her, but I ain't having anything to do with it. Now get out.”

She threw the pants at his head, and when he clawed them from his tangled hair, she was a wearing a short, tight skirt. It was only then that Guzma spoke. It was hard. His lips and his head threatened to betray him. The sight of his second in command half naked in front of him still burned in his mind, and he could barely look at her now for fear that he would stumble over his words and say nothing at all.

Sweat beaded cold on his back, and he swore. “Fuck, Plums. I... I'm no good at this stuff, you know that.”

Guzma paused and shook his head, trying to desperately to get his thoughts in order. He looked up at her, only to watch her long fingers pull on tall black heels. His eyes lingered on the chipped nail polish, and he thought back to when he shakily applied the polish. Her hand had been so small in his, so delicate. He thought about the way she leaned into him when she laughed, and how those narrow yellow eyes held his for just too long. The little flecks of gold in them, the way her eyeshadow smudged down her face in the morning, that one time she let him pull her hair into long, skinny braids. It all hit him then.

On top of it all was Lusamine's voice, weaving in and out of the memories. He could hear the words faintly in the back of his head. 'How could you do this to me?' mixed with 'You're the only one who matters,' and 'Worthless.' It was cruel, he realized it now. There was a sourness underneath the sickly sweet tone, even as she was promising him everything, even in the cajoling voice that came only after she had broken him down to where he thought there was no coming back. It was disgust, the same he heard in his father's voice. The same he heard as he continued to disappoint, as his father pulled him down from third place on the podium so hard he pulled the shoulder out of its socket.

“I...”

His was voice was shaking, and it cracked as he trailed off. He looked up at Plumeria again, and this time he met her eyes. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

She scoffed at him like he was a kid. “You think you're the only who's got places to be? I'm going out. I don't wanna be here when you come back and stick your fist through the wall because that hag doesn't give a fuck about you.”

Plumeria held his gaze while she rummaged through the halves of an old and broken premier ball that was serving as her jewelry box. Sometime when he wasn't looking she'd replaced her shirt with something long and tight that covered up her tattoo, and Guzma felt a twinge of anger when he realized she wasn't wearing anything that marked her affiliation with him. She'd even left off the ring, her favorite, after the time she'd used it stamp a perfect replica of their logo on a drunken idiot's forehead who tried to get a little too frisky one night.

“Plums, don't go.”

There was nothing but silence for a moment. She was frozen on the bed, and he was suddenly in motion, fidgeting with his tie to the point he thought he might strangle himself. He had to do this.

“ Stay here, with me.”

* * *
Plumeria had hopped down the stairs in her heels before Guzma even had time to wonder what kind of witchcraft she was using, and in no time every grunt was gathered in the abandoned living room. The furniture had all been pushed to the side, and someone had coaxed their Chandelure into lighting the place. Grunts hung from moth-eaten couches, drinking cheap wine from chipped wine glasses, and milling around the room. They'd dug deep into the attic for the aged finery they wore, and under the candlelight the silk dresses and out of fashion suits looked almost nice.

When Guzma entered the room there was a collective gasp. His tuxedo fit him perfectly, with a jacket that nipped in at his waist, and a white shirt that was unbuttoned just a bit more than it should. He took an exaggerated bow, and then extended a hand to lead Plumeria inside. She'd traded her clothes for a long, slinky white dress, and her makeup for nothing but a soft pink gloss. When Guzma pulled her close across the stained marble and wrapped one arm around her waist, she laughed gently into his ear. “Who would have thought that big bad Guzma would have had an idea like this?”