The Greatest Showman #676 - Taking Over the Focus
The rhythmic splashes from the pool mixed with the deafening electronic music, blending into a haze of noise. Jessica felt detached, disinterested. The conversation held no intrigue—just empty boasting. She enjoyed the lively party atmosphere, yet the weight of countless gazes upon her was exhausting. Holding a champagne glass in an evening gown at a pool party, she was more an ornament than a guest.
"I just ran out of whiskey. Need another, ma'am?" Jeff's voice cut through her thoughts.
Jessica turned to respond, flashing a polite smile, but before she could speak, another voice joined in. Not loud, yet distinct—smooth, elegant, with a magnetic undertone. The cadence carried an effortless charm, casual yet captivating. She recognized it immediately.
Turning, she caught sight of his profile, confirming her suspicion. His speech, his demeanor, the way he held himself—it was all uniquely his. There was something about him, an innate charisma that made the space around him feel different, as though the air itself had shifted.
"Wait a moment, could you get me a glass of rum? Thank you."
Jessica could almost taste the rich sweetness of the rum just by hearing the words. She met his gaze and blinked, caught off guard by this unexpected reunion in such an unusual setting. "I think I must not miss this glass of rum."
Jessica, with her striking red hair and fair complexion, wasn't traditionally beautiful, but when she smiled, she exuded a charm uniquely her own. Jeff chuckled at her response, amused. "I never knew rum had such significance."
Generally, rum was considered a key ingredient for cocktails rather than a drink of choice on its own. "However," Jeff added, "I'm more curious about the taste of 'Death in the Afternoon' than just rum." He turned to the bunny-eared server. "Could you have the bar make one for me?"
"Two," David chimed in, raising two fingers.
Michael Fassbender grinned widely, his sharp teeth giving him a shark-like look. "Three." Then, turning to the others, he added, "Anyone else want to try? His description was so evocative it's hard to resist. Actually, can I get a glass of rum as well?"
Renly watched Michael's animated expression, a playful smile curling at the corners of his lips. On the big screen, Michael often played intense, disciplined characters, embodying the cold rigidity of the German stereotype. Yet in real life, he was nothing like that—more Irish than German, cheerful, boisterous, and utterly unrestrained.
The contrast between his on-screen persona and real-life personality was amusing in itself.
However, this wasn't the ideal moment for making new acquaintances. Renly turned his attention back to Jessica, his expression composed. "For ladies tasting rum, I'd recommend adding a little water or sugar."
Jessica arched an eyebrow. "It seems you have a refined palate."
"I thought you'd say I'm a literature lover." Renly's unexpected response caught everyone off guard. A beat later, they connected his words to the earlier conversation, and their lips curled into smiles. The atmosphere grew lighter, the air itself seeming to hum with energy.
A low, gravelly voice cut through the moment. "Whiskey, no ice."
The group turned toward the speaker—Brad Pitt.
Standing with one hand tucked into his pocket and a nearly empty whiskey glass in the other, he exuded effortless charisma. His neatly trimmed beard and well-groomed hair framed a face that had matured with time. Gone was the roguish, carefree youth; in its place stood a man whose charm had only deepened, much like a finely aged whiskey.
Even other men had to admit—Brad had an undeniable presence.
With just one sentence, the focus subtly shifted from Renly to Brad.
He raised an eyebrow, effortlessly commanding attention. Decades of Hollywood's relentless spotlight had made this second nature to him. With a quiet chuckle, he spread his hands slightly, as if in mock surrender. "What can I say? An old man like me sticks to his habits."
The words were lighthearted, but beneath the surface, they carried an implicit challenge. His tone subtly critiqued Renly's preference for rum and cocktails—implying that such choices were elaborate and performative rather than authentic.
It wasn't personal, merely an unconscious defense mechanism. In a room full of industry heavyweights, Brad was accustomed to being the focal point. Whether he liked it or not, it had become ingrained in him over three decades in Hollywood. Now, with another dominant presence in the room, instinct took over. The room bristled with unspoken tension as invisible lines were drawn.
A low murmur of amusement rippled through the crowd. Some, like Jeff, watched with keen interest, eager to see how Renly would respond.
Renly could retaliate easily. A single quip—something like, "Just like an old Western hero clinging to the past"—could spark an all-out exchange. After all, Brad hailed from Oklahoma, a deeply conservative state, and had spent years distancing himself from his rural "hillbilly" roots. He wouldn't appreciate the comparison.
But Renly chose another path. "Ah, the plight of intellectuals—we always make people uncomfortable." He sighed, shaking his head in feigned exasperation.
The self-deprecating remark landed perfectly, layered with meaning. It acknowledged the criticism, played along with the humor, and subtly turned the tables. Culture, sophistication, and knowledge—these were the marks of true aristocracy, distinguishing the refined from the nouveau riche.
Jeff was the first to laugh, shoulders shaking with amusement. Paul tried to suppress his laughter but soon gave up, joining in. Jessica chuckled, then Michael, then David Ayer. Before long, the entire group was laughing—including Brad himself.
The bunny-eared server returned, balancing trays laden with drinks. Among them, the long-stemmed glasses containing 'Death in the Afternoon' stood out with their milky, pale hue.
Despite its poetic name, the cocktail looked… underwhelming.
Renly examined his drink before commenting dryly, "It's really just rum and champagne. The only reason it's famous is that Hemingway threw it together while he was drunk." He swirled the glass and smirked. "Honestly? I'd rather just drink the rum."
Silence. Then laughter erupted—louder and more uninhibited than before. Even Brad chuckled, eyes lingering on his own glass as he reconsidered his choice.
Jeff studied Renly for a moment, then raised his glass in a silent toast. "Renly, Ben has quite the collection of classic spirits. I'm planning to check it out. Care to join me?"
An invitation—subtle but unmistakable.
Renly didn't hesitate. With an easy smile, he stepped back slightly, gesturing forward with a playful nod. "My pleasure."