Elijah
She was back in town for all of three hours before she'd told Elijah I have a gallery opening.. The conversation had gone a little like this:
"Elijah,
what are you doing tonight?" while Jenn was wrapping her hair around a
clipless curler. Glove on one hand to keep from burning herself.
"Recovering," he'd said. From what, he didn't say.
"Want to recover at my gallery opening?"
"You have a gallery opening?"
"Yep." Big. Bright smile.
And it was settled, then. They were going- or rather, Jenn was going to her
gallery opening and Elijah was going to show up at some point and…
what? Something. Probably do what he usually does at these kinds of
functions, stand back wide-eyed and pleased and just take in the fact
that Jenna Laurent looked happy. Looked like she was in her
element and getting the kind of respect that she deserved. he liked it
when she had art shows. A text went out to those who would care:
Jenn's got art at (location), gallery's open tonight.
---
What he didn't know, was this: this really was Jenn's gallery opening.
There
were a few pieces that weren't hers, staples of the gallery that just
stayed there, but the rotating pieces that came in, the pieces that were
showcased were hers. All color and movement and the occasional
hints at something big and bright and so much larger than herself
(people and energy and a world full of cracks and diagrams of the
universe and an umbral reflection that Elijah had helped with because
she wanted to know what it was that he saw.) It was one of those
things- fantastical and beautiful and terrible (because the horror was
part of the wonder)- somehow she'd managed to get a depth in the sky, in
the space between the stars, that could make someone feel incredibly
small. Incredibly humbled and distraught at how insignificant they seem
in the comparison- how vital they seemed in picture.
Elijah
was just taking it all in. He hadn't seen a lot of these pieces. Some of
them had come off of the walls in the apartment (wondered where those
went), but others were of origins he couldn't quite place. He'd been
chatting with some bottled redhead over a glass of wine while looking
over the portrait of the apartment, had even managed to keep his mouth
shut over the fact that he lived there.
He was wearing a
suit. Or, well, most of a suit. Elijah had loosened his tie, vest
buttoned, but sleeves rolled up. Something gray and white and just
precise enough to be notable. Just disheveled enough to make it clear
that Elijah didn't really belong in a suit for terribly long. He had a
leather bracelet wrapped around his left wrist. Necklace still tied on
where he couldn't quite get it off (jesus, how hard did Jenn tie knots?)
"It's, like, more real than real," the redhead said, eyes traveling from the handsome young man back to the painting.
"Whole
different world expressed in metaphor and shaped by meaning. I think
this kind of the ultimate in symbolic communication," Elijah looked back
at the painting. Grin on his face. "I should let you get back to
enjoying before I start rambling." Raised his glass and tossed her a
wink. The redhead blushed, and Elijah meandered on his way. She gave him
a second glance as he left, couldn't help but watch him leave.
That grin stayed on his face.
Ian
Ian
got the text from Elijah when he finished final dress, and though he
could have ignored it - gone home and crashed on his couch with some
wine and takeout - he was actually curious to see Jenn's new work (what
he hadn't seen hanging on Elijah's walls.) Moreover, it was the last
evening he'd have free for a while, and he wasn't going to spend it
holed up alone in his apartment. So he made a quick stop to change into
something more appropriate before driving out to Santa Fe.
Elijah
didn't mention that Jenn was the featured artist, a fact that Ian
realized soon after walking in the door. He surveyed the space with a
wide sweep of his gaze, noting the color and the vibrancy of the pieces
that bore Jenn's unmistakable fingerprint. He wasn't wearing a suit
tonight, but he still looked nice in tight black jeans, boots and a blue
dress shirt. The cut of the shirt was ultra slim, with a high collar
and sleeves rolled below the elbow. A couple of leather bracelets
decorated both wrists.
He'd showered recently, of course. His
hair looked as though he'd spent a good half an hour on it (though he
hadn't really.) A few specks of glitter-dust still clung to the corners
of his eyelids, but it was only noticeable if you looked very close.
Ian
didn't approach Elijah immediately. Instead he wandered past the first
painting to catch his eye and stood there looking at it, hands tucked
slightly into his pockets with one boot turned out. He looked a bit like
what a model posing before a painting would look like. But
then, he often looked as though he'd been posed - even when he hadn't.
(It was probably why he'd been scouted in the first place.)
After
a while, Ian found Elijah. Or maybe Elijah found him. Point is, they
wandered into the same space, and Ian leaned over to say: "I have a
feeling Jenn's about to get more famous than me."
Elijah
They settled in front of the same painting, something with an iridescent hummingbird hovering over some gray, painful, banal
landscape. Trying to get nectar from the scrolls on a metal fence. It's
between a portrait of Persephone in pomegranate juice and what appeared
to be a photo of a woman with the horse head nebula painted on her
skin. (It wasn't a photo- Skyline, pencil and water color. 2013-2014) He just took in the hummingbird for a moment, a little smile on his face- that was joy, you see. Joy in someone else's success.
Ian leaned over and Elijah just laughed, "I've been good, I haven't squealed that's my room mate once."
He looked from Ian back to the paintings. brows rose, "I didn't know she did realism, though, or where she found the freaking time."
His eyes flickered to the corner that Jenn had found herself in,
talking to someone who seemed incredibly interested in, well, talking to
her, "she's on cloud nine right now."
Ian
"I can imagine."
Of
course he could. It was a sentiment that all artists shared - the
exultant high of finally having your work recognized. The first time Ian
saw himself on a billboard, he'd felt... surreal. Like he was looking
at some person who'd stolen his face but wasn't really him. It was a
different feeling - not bad, really, but not... what it felt like to
really be seen (because what people were seeing wasn't really him.) The
first time he'd felt a sliver of what Jenn was feeling now, it'd been
after his name was mentioned favorably in a review for his company's
first show. Funny how something so small could mean that much.
Ian
tilted his head as he stared at the hummingbird. His eyes sketched
slowly over the details of the painting, taking it in quietly. Finally
he glanced over at Jenn - embroiled as she was in conversation.
"Should we go bother her?"
He
didn't wait for an answer, tugging gently on the edge of Elijah's vest
to indicate that he should follow. Ian slipped through the milling crowd
with quiet steps and effortless grace, moving in at Jenn's back so she
wouldn't see them coming. As he came up behind her, he leaned in and
said: "Miss Laurent, can we have a moment of your time?"
Elijah
Ian didn't wait for an answer and Elijah only put up the tiniest of perfunctory, obligatory protest. Oh no, I'm being taken to talk to a friend, whatever shall I do?
It was then off and over to Jenn. He moved quietly, or at least
meandered into crowds, through people, before standing quiet with a
bright grin on his face.
Jenn, for her part, was engaging with
people. Jenn was always engaging, but she was a little too modest for
her own good. Laughed quietly, was an earnest sort of wide-eyed with all
of this even if she was trying to be demure and trying to pretend like
all of this didn't wasn't completely surreal. Trying to pretend like all
of this wasn't something she had wanted to happen worse than anything
since she was fourteen and playing with oil pastels or seven and
coloring on walls at Elijah's house because he said that his parents
wouldn't care. (pretended that this was the Sistine chapel, if only they
could have reached the ceiling…)
There is the dawning
realization when she hears the voice, places it, and the buyer she's
talking to can tell that she's infinitely more delighted to hear the
person behind her than she was to talk about contracts in Montana and
product lines that… really… she wasn't looking to represent. She wasn't a
graphic designer, didn't do logos. Her brows rose, delight crossed her
features- "excuse me, gentlemen, I have-"
"Pre-existing business arrangements she needs to attend to," Elijah offered. Even straightened his tie so he could maybe
look professional. Maybe. Couldn't quite succeed but Jenn was beaming
and more than content to take either man by the arm and turn around.
"Yes!"
she says, even offers an apologetic smile, "you understand, yes?"
Murmurs of affirmatives, and she put her hands on her cheeks. Jenn's
voice came out quiet, astounded, "ohhh my goodness, Ian, I didn't know
you'd show up."
Ian
"And miss out on seeing
your work? Of course I came." He dropped the act once they were far
enough from the buyers to not be overheard, settling into a more relaxed
pose as they came to a stop near the table where the wine glasses were
set out. He snatched one up in a casual gesture (a flute of champagne)
and offered it to Jenn as a gesture of congratulations.
"Some of these pieces are pretty impressive. I like the way you use color. It's very... you."
He paused a moment, his eyes landing on a piece, distantly, that
looked... just a little bit familiar. Like the umbra, as seen through
Elijah's eyes.
"Ah. That one especially." He
indicated the painting with a tip of his head, a knowing smile curling
at one side of his mouth. When he glanced at Elijah he raised an
eyebrow, silently asking the obvious question.
Elijah
Once
they were far enough out, there was some meandering. It was easy to get
through crowds, it was easy to get past people and find places where
you could be alone even when you were surrounded by people. Jenn walked
with her hands behind her back, clasped there while the little black
dress she'd borrowed from a friend swished as she moved. They swung by a
table with glasses. Jenn took what was offered to her, held carefully
like it was something delicate. Something to be cared for.
"Thank,"
she lifted the glass and took a sip, "I feel like there's a lot of
things that are vibrant in the world, and you just need to notice them.
She and Elijah walked, and he was, well, beaming wasn't even the word for it. he was proud, he was proud and he was happy
and he was a number of things and then there's the pointed reference to
the painting of an umbral landscape. Elijah's brows rose for a second,
half an upward nod for Ian. An affirmative, of sorts.
"Oh, that?" she looks, brows raised and cheeks flushed and there is this look
like a small child who is trying to cover her tracks, "yeah, Elijah and
I went really high talked metaphors and it just kinda came out?"
Ian
Ian
didn't go for the champagne. He went for a red wine instead. It ended
up being a merlot, a variety he was inevitably beginning to associate
with Kiara. But if the sense-memory caused his attention to drift for a
moment, he covered it well. There was a slow sip, and then a press of
his lips as he let the wine linger on his tongue. Elijah answered the
unspoken question with something like confirmation, while Jenn did her
best to play it off - to explain the whole thing away through drugs and
metaphors.
Which would have sounded like a perfectly reasonable explanation, had Ian not known better.
"I
suppose that's one way to tap into higher awareness," he replied in a
dry tone. Were they not in public, he likely would have interrogated her
further. But... this wasn't the place to have that kind of discussion.
"Have you sold any pieces yet?"
Elijah
[Manip+sub: I am totally not going to laugh at Jenn]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 5, 5, 7, 8, 8) ( success x 3 )
Elijah
[Jenn's crappy pre-upgrade manipulation+subterfuge: I am TOTALLY cool]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (6, 8, 8) ( success x 3 )
Elijah
"Well,
you know, some people use ayahuasca- there's a large history of using
psychotropic substances to reach a state of higher consciousness. Just,
you know, maybe... we're moving the ritual to a more modern context,"
she said. Conversational, totally playing off the fact that there was
something up with that painting, that there was a higher truth there
that Jenn wasn't owning up to since it wasn't quite the atmosphere for it.
"Oh! We actually did
sell that one though," she turns and surveys the crowd, points out a
man in a turtleneck with a disinterested look who was talking to some
platinum blonde, "he bought that, and we sold a couple more? The
entirety of the photographic portfolio with my tattoo work got purchased
by someone in Florida? And a couple more sold after that, but I don't
remember which ones-"
she stopped, turned to Elijah, "by the
way, we're gonna be missing, like, three things off the wall. The
gallery wants to keep it for now past the show."
Ian
Ian
glanced at the man in the turtleneck with an expression that looked...
well, a little judgmental. "Too bad you can't hold on to that one."
He
didn't say what he was thinking, which was that anyone who wore a
turtleneck in the summer (or really, at all) could not possibly have the
capacity to fully appreciate a painting like that.
"That's excellent news, though. I'd buy one myself if I could afford it."
There
was a time when he wouldn't have hesitated to buy a painting from an
up-and-coming artist that caught his eye, and maybe the memory stung a
little. But one had to pick their priorities in life, and he'd chosen
his.
"So, Elijah. How are things with you and Arionna?" The
question was a little teasing, a little gossipy - but there was an edge
of genuine interest buried beneath it.
Elijah
"There's one that's the whole layers of the universe
thing, which isn't for sale- it's… well, it's over that way-" she
gestured in one direction, "we worked for the better part of a month on
that one."
He would buy one himself if he could afford it, and
Jenn looked down. her cheeks were pink and she pulled the champagne to
her lips and took a sip. Not a trace of lipgloss or lipstick on the
glass. She'd done a good job on her makeup, "you do realize that you can say hey, Jenn, would you paint something for me? and I would do it, right?"
Then?
There was gossip, and suddenly Elijah was in the spotlight and Jenn
gave Elijah a pointed look and a bump with her hip. He ran a hand
through his hair, looked up and laughed, "surprisingly non-possessive?
From a physical standpoint things are fantastic, but I kind of get the
impression that I'm arm candy. Which I can deal with."
No, he couldn't. We digress. "She's gotten a lot better at being less spiky but she still doesn't play nicely with others so… uh… no idea how to work on that."
Ian
"I'd
never ask you to do that without compensating you, Jenn. An artist's
time is worth something." And a painting wasn't like giving someone a
free dance lesson. One took, at most, an hour. The other could take...
days. Weeks. Not to mention the cost of supplies.
Ian made a sound when Elijah related how things had been with Arionna. A little hmm.
The tone was vague enough that it was difficult to tell precisely what
he was thinking. "Arionna is responsible for her own behavior, for
better or worse. It isn't your job to change her."
It also
hadn't entirely been what he'd meant, when he asked the question. But
Elijah seemed disinclined to speak on his own feelings, so Ian didn't
press.
"I've seen the way she is with Grace. Who else doesn't she like?"
Elijah
"I
don't offer my time anymore to people who aren't worth it," she told
Ian. It's a little soft, but most things about Jenn are a little soft.
Not flirtatious, not sentimental, just… what it was. Jenn and Elijah had
a fair bit of things in common with one another, and one happened to be
that Ms. Laurent seemed quick to put people in the category of friend.
Maybe she was a little more choosy, but had since concluded that Ian?
Ian was worth her time.
"Kalen's not a fan, and the feeling is
mutual from what I can tell," he said, "Kiara's cool with her but you'd
think that the woman was personally responsible for the whole child
soldiers in Africa thing with the way Ari bristles. Kiara gives, like,
zero fucks so it's not like that's a big deal. It's just fucking exhausting because there's no give. She meets people, immediately writes them off, and it makes it incredibly isolating when you actually want to spend time with her and other people at the same time."
Exhales,
looks for something to drink, which was about when Jenn offers up her
champagne. He takes a sip before he hands it back, does a good job of
not draining the thing.
"Dude, both times she's met Jenn? She got super weird and then awkward and walked off."
"Oh,
come on, she wasn't that bad?" Yes, she was. Jenn just seemed to be
taking it easy on him. "It was just… uh…" she looked at Ian, "okay, it
was really kind of awkward."
Ian
There was
something about the disparate nature of the way Elijah talked about
Arionna versus the way that Arionna talked about Elijah that did not
quite sit with Ian. Something he probably wouldn't have cared about a
year, or even a few months ago. But it registered to him now. Not that
he blamed Elijah, really. It just struck him as... dissonant.
(Like the way Kalen had talked about Danny like he was something he was settling for.)
"What
the fuck problem does she have with Kiara?" he sounded a little annoyed
by that. Maybe a little more personally invested than he needed to be.
But apparently Arionna had left a trail of bad impressions, and Ian let
his annoyance slide in order to offer Jenn a sympathetic look. "I can
imagine."
Elijah
"It's an ideological thing,"
he said, "she feels like the current pagan movement is a rip off of
older religions and, as a result, she feels like it makes the gods
angry. I get it, that's how she frames her whole world. That's her life, her blood, it's what she'd give up basic fucking necessities for. I can see why she wouldn't budge on it, or where it would be hard for her to take that kind of leap. She's dedicated."
Admirable, that. But Elijah sighs, yes sighs, sighs like it bothers him. Sighs like it is something he thinks about, because it is something that he thinks about, "she's really insightful, fucking listens when she's invested and-and she's… once she's decided you're her people, she's with you for life- and I fucking admire
that about her, but… it just seems really lonely. She's got a dozen
good qualities I can name off the top of my head and she's determined
not to show it to anyone."
"In short, Elijah's having girlfriend problems," Jenn said.
And, for once, Elijah doesn't actually correct her on the term.
Ian
Did
it actually matter what Arionna thought of Kiara? Surely Kiara had
better things to worry about, and was perfectly capable of defending
herself if the need arose. And it wasn't as though any of this surprised
Ian. Kiara had told him herself, once, that she and Arionna did not get
on.
Ideological, Elijah said. Which... did make a sort of sense. It also made Ian roll his eyes a little.
"Everything borrows from what came before it. That's how evolution works."
Elijah's having girlfriend problems.
It
was notable that Elijah didn't correct Jenn when she used that word,
and Ian glanced at him for a moment, his focus shifting. Considering.
"Not everyone feels like they need friends to be happy. Maybe you're just different people."
Elijah
[Considering? Per+empathy? Whatcha thinkin', Ian?]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 6, 7, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 5 )
Ian
[Subterfuge - god damn]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 4, 6, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 5 ) [Doubling Tens]
Ian
[Hah!]
Elijah
"Of course we're different people," he said, "it's just a matter of becoming okay with the fact that you can be different people."
And maybe he wasn't okay with that, inhaled sharp and smiled bright.
"C'mon, you wanna go meet sweater guy? Jenn, I gotta see this guy, I feel like my hipster cred is being threatened."
Ian
[Aw. Empathy?]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 4, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )
Elijah
He wants things to work. He wants his friends to like
her, he wants to be able to go out places and have her actually believe
that he gives a shit about her instead of just thinking that she's one
in a sea of hundreds. He wants a lot of things. Elijah realizes, though,
that wanting something doesn't make it happen. He believes that there
is something fundamentally different about the way that they approach
their relationships, approach people in general. He doesn't know how to
give ground without losing himself. Doesn't want to give too much away
because of the abundance of stupid things he's done in the past (or
people, or person- one with dark hair and a father in technocratic
custody.)
But the fit that they are different is part of the
appeal, the fact that she is introspective. The fact that she isn't
afraid to buckle down and be what she is and make assertions. She makes
him want to take leaps, to double down and own his decisions. He doesn't
want to lose himself in her adamant nature, doesn't want to yield on a
part of his worldview that is fundamental.
It's an issue of
respect with them, at the core of it. A respect the two can't seem to
agree on, at least as Elijah sees it. An issue of expectation and
boundaries. He doesn't know, but he wants things to work. Wants to have
something that he doesn't have to spend all his waking moments defending
to either party. Having anything with Arionna is going to be a lesson
in diplomacy.
Ian
Elijah's feelings were more
conflicted in that moment than he chose to express. Ian didn't miss this
fact, but he allowed Elijah to change the subject. Maybe they would
talk about it some day, maybe they wouldn't. For now, they were here to
enjoy Jenn's work. And that's what they were going to do.
"Alright. Let's go meet sweater guy."
Ian
Hey.
The text came in on Kiara's phone some time around 10pm.
Feel like coming over? I wouldn't mind the company.
The
invitation - both the nature and the wording of it - were somewhat
uncharacteristic of Ian's typical texting habits. He and Kiara had known
each other for months now, but she'd never been inside of his
apartment. Never even so much as learned the address. This was by no
means a circumstance limited to her experience. It would not be accurate
to say that Ian never invited people over - but it was very rare.
He didn't tell her that, though.
After
he sent the texts, Ian leaned back on his couch and looked at the
ceiling. There was a show playing quietly on the flat screen, but he
wasn't paying much attention to it. Instead he drummed his fingers on
his knee and waited until Kiara's response came in. Then he texted her
the address.
His building (Premier Lofts, on Market Street)
wasn't actually all that far from her own, though the neighborhood was
slightly less upscale. The fact that they'd never run into each other
was perhaps a little surprising, but then given the size of the city...
people could miss each other even living right across the street.
While
he waited for Kiara to get there, he hopped up off the couch and paced
through into the kitchen, then the bedroom, as though he expected to
find something out of place. Something that needed to be cleaned or
organized. But of course, there wasn't. Ian kept his apartment as clean
as he kept his car (despite the lack of visitors.) So he finally
wandered back into the living room and dropped down onto the sofa again.
Eventually he even managed to pay a moderate amount of attention to the
not-very-good-show he was ostensibly watching.
Kiara
Sure. I'll be there soon.
Say
it was one of Kiara's better qualities. She didn't ask the obvious
questions. Didn't offer anything by way of explanation of where she was
or what she'd been doing until he texted her, either. It could have been
anything, she could have been out of town for all Ian knew. The Verbena
was contrary in that regard - she wasn't always present but she had an
uncanny way of turning up when the moment called for it.
Tonight, apparently, she decides it does.
Or
at the very least, eventually, she does. The time it takes her to reach
Market Street is longer than traffic would suggest, at least if she was
traveling from her own place. Ian paces, restless and it may occur to
him to wonder if she's forgotten - if the brunette had been sidetracked,
or distracted - before there's a knock at the door; before the sweeping
wash of her presence rolls in and floods the hallway; seeps under the
doorframe like some intangible surge of Spring.
If he was
searching for it; Kiara's presence is difficult to miss, once she's
close. Standing on the threshold with a wine bottle under one arm (or
the distinct impression given by the paper bag twisted at the edges);
with her dark hair loose and wild and her face done up; lashes painted
in bold black lines; mouth shining red; fingernails painted to match.
She's dressed for an event; the leather pants; the monochrome shirt that
gleams with embedded sequins over abstract shapes drawn into the
designer frayed edges.
A black jacket hanging open over both hitting her thighs; the tops of her favored lace up boots.
She'd
been out, then. The swirl of her presence; perfume and make up and the
underlying hint of something wilder; the forest; rain on the air before
the storm; the tang of newly turned earth. Lifts her chin when he opens
the door and the corner of her mouth curves in greeting, dark eyes
roving his face.
"Hey. I stopped for reinforcements." She offers the bottle over; her wrists heavy with bracelets. "I hope you like Merlot."
Ian
The
delay in Kiara's arrival was long enough to give Ian time to settle
into the wait. Long enough, even, for his show to finish and for him to
fix the television screen with a look of bland disappointment. Whether
Ian needed to buzz Kiara inside, or whether she managed to slip in after
another resident (knowing her luck, this was likely,) she'd have a
short elevator ride or a couple flights of stairs before she reached the
third floor. The building was tall brick and metal, the architecture
and decor laid out in clean lines and modern design. In keeping with the
loft vibe, the ceilings were open and unfinished.
When Ian
opened the door, he found Kiara standing there in evening clothes and
makeup, holding a bottle of Merlot. The picture of it was so very her
that Ian couldn't help but smile. As for his own attire, it was...
perhaps what one might expect from someone sitting at home late at
night. Barefoot and casual in jeans and a thin black t-shirt. The jeans
were white and fitted, with a ridged design woven into the fabric on the
thighs.
"I do." He took the bottle from Kiara's hands as he stepped back to let her through the door. "Thanks."
The
first two things that Kiara would notice about Ian's apartment were 1:
That is was on the smaller side (610 square feet, to be exact,) and 2:
That he kept the place absolutely spotless. That may have been
for her benefit (people tended to clean up when they had company) but it
didn't really have the look of a rush job. The entrance led into a
short hallway with two doors that led to the bathroom and a walk-in
closet, respectively. Beyond that lay an open bedroom and a kitchen, and
finally the living room. Two glass doors led out from the living area
onto a balcony. At present, the blinds on the doors were drawn open,
leaving a view of the city at night.
"You can leave your coat
there." Ian indicated a row of hooks on the wall just inside the
entrance. Whenever Kiara was ready, he led her past the bedroom into the
living area, setting the wine down briefly on the bar in the kitchen.
The apartment was sparsely furnished, but what was there was higher
quality than he ought to have been able to afford on a dancer's budget
(much like his clothes, and his car.) Sleek modern furniture in dark
wood and black leather. A glass coffee table. High-end electronics. A
couple of slim bookshelves filled with impeccably organized books and
blu-rays (the latter of which veered distinctly into artsy and foreign
territory.) The walls throughout the apartment boasted a handful of
original artworks: black and white photography, watercolor and silk
paintings - the largest of which hung in the living room. Most of these
things he'd bought when he was still living in New York.
"Did I catch you on a busy night?" He was eying Kiara's outfit with an appraising (appreciative) gaze.
Kiara
He'd
been a frequent enough visitor to Kiara's apartment to know it was
nothing close to impeccably kept. Rather, it always carried with it the
sense of being, well, lived in.
There were tiny
potted plants scattered throughout it; odd pieces of clothing strewn
over furniture in her bedroom and living area; a continual lingering
aroma of recently burned incense and not infrequently, dishes awaiting
attention stacked in her sink. None of which was to say she was
hopelessly inept at house keeping but simply that, like other aspects of
her life - a little clutter and mess didn't seem to particularly bother
Kiara.
Some might have ventured to say that she lived a life of deliberate inclination toward it.
Still
- she can, and does - appreciate what she sees as Ian leads her inside;
the brunette shrugging out of her jacket and leaving it and her bag
hanging on a hook. Without it; the Verbena's arms and shoulders are
mostly bare, the shirt she was wearing designed to sit just shy of her
collarbones; artistically slashed in places to reveal tiny suggestions
of a bare midriff beneath. She slides her fingertips along the edges of a
wall here as she follows him in past the bedroom; barely ghosting the
back of a sofa; guided, as if by instinct, to the glass doors that
spilled out onto a small balcony.
"I like your place. It's very - you."
She
steps near enough to brush the drawn blinds with her shoulder; to take
stock of the view of the city below them. Turns, with a subtle little
smile teasing her corner of her mouth as she catches him admiring her
outfit, to navigate back toward the kitchen; taking slow, sauntering
steps closer. "Mm, define busy I guess. I was at a function for a client
of mine."
She sweeps her hands over the bench when she
reaches it; leaning a hip into the edge of it; bracing herself there
across from him. "She manages a nightclub and they had a guest DJ." She
tilts her head a little, eyes drifting over his attire, the jeans and t
shirt; the bare feet she'd glimpsed at the door when he greeted her. The
consideration lingers there a beat, her expression shifting gears only
so much as the softening of her smile articulates.
The way her voice slips into something vaguely warmer and more intimate than the teasing caliber it had held a moment before.
"Bad day?"
Ian
Almost he said, all cool and teasing: I need to have a bad day to want to see you? It would have been the clever response. The easier response.
Instead
he ran a hand through his hair, rolled his neck a little and glanced
out through the balcony doors. There wasn't any furniture out there.
Usually, when he was alone, he just stood with his arms folded on the
railing and watched the city pass by.
"Bad week, more like."
But
he seemed disinclined to vent about it. He left the wine unopened for
the moment, rounding the bar to reach Kiara's side. When he got there,
he put his hand on her hip and leaned in until his nose brushed the hair
behind her ear. "Why, do I look like shit?" His voice was a low murmur,
teasing now just a little. (He did not, in fact, look like shit.)
"You
smell amazing." He kissed the skin behind the corner of her jaw,
lingering there with a soft exhale. She didn't see the way he closed his
eyes. The way he allowed himself, just for a moment, to find some
comfort in her presence. There were other things he thought but didn't
say. That seemed to be a habit of his, lately. (Had it ever not been?)
He pulled back a little, blinking. "My show is opening next week. Rehearsals have been kind of intense."
Kiara
He
rounded the bench to come closer to her, set a hand on her hip and put
his nose close enough to breathe her in and Kiara made a quiet noise of
mingled pleasure and amusement; slid a hand easily down the curve of his
spine; the bracelets on her wrist offering a subdued melody in tandem
with the motion.
"You never look like shit and you
know it," she throws back without real fire and her fingernails scratch
lightly down the slope of a shoulder. She keeps the motion, the
connection of her fingers on his skin through the thin layer of his
shirt present until he pulls back. Lets him drink in the physicality of
her right there; warm and vital and thrumming with that low burn of
energy Kiara always seemed to have in boundless quantities while she
touched him with simple, sweeping movements of her hands.
The
wedge of her knee against his; the way her fingers slide down his arm in
an absent gesture of appreciation for the affection.
The give
and take of physicality between them has always been the easiest part.
"I can imagine they are. It's probably fortunate that you know someone really good
with her hands." This, offered with the slide of one down to take his;
to let a smile bloom across her mouth and shape it into a supple
invitation. Her eyes bright, playfully narrowing after a beat.
"Maybe
she could consider fitting you into her schedule for a massage." She
caresses the edge of his palm with her fingers; he can feel the cool
gleam of her rings when she turns her knuckles against it.
Ian
Her compliment (chastising though it was)
elicited a small smile from Ian. Less cocky tonight than simply
acknowledging the teasing affection behind the sentiment.
There
were moments when his inherently feline nature (that animal aura that
seemed to hang about him at all times) showed itself in gentler ways.
When he was not all gleaming teeth and coiling muscle and silent-hunter
steps. Like the way he sometimes closed his eyes and tilted into Kiara's
touch. Like the way he could be rendered speechless by it.
She
touched his back; his arm; his hand. And he went quiet, eyes tilted
down to watch the play of her fingers on his palm. His smile lingered
though - soft and almost affectionate. His response to her offer was
slow to materialize. Instead he lifted her hand and held it beneath the
warm gleam of the ceiling light, as though to inspect it. Then he
brought it to his lips and kissed the side of her index finger. "You do
have very nice hands."
After a pause he added, with slightly less assurance, "I suppose I could probably use one. If you're offering."
(He'd forgotten now - about the wine. But it would still be there later.)
Kiara
[Life 1, Coincidental, Diff 4, -1 oh this one she knows.]
Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (4, 6, 6) ( success x 3 )
Kiara
[Life
2, Coincidental, Diff 5, -1 practiced, -1 easy does it, slow it down
and okay WP because the dice are fickle and botching right now would
just be embarrassing.]
Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (4, 10, 10) ( success x 4 ) [WP]
Kiara
[Oh! And since she actually does, you know, do this professionally. A little Intelligence + Medicine can't hurt.]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 6, 6, 8, 10) ( success x 4 )
Kiara
The
first time they'd met she'd made a light hearted offer to near
strangers. To come and allow themselves to be rejuvenated. To let her do
what, by modern standards and every supernatural movie or TV show, was
little more than a lot of posturing and so-called spiritual belief in
the idea you could really help a person by the power of suggestion. By
channeling energy; contorting and manipulating the way it thrummed and
wound throughout the world.
It was easy to dismiss what Kiara
Woolfe claimed she did (and that was precisely what the Technocracy
would have the world believe) except that - belief could be a potent
thing. They both had to be aware enough of that. Believe in a thing
enough, believe that the human body could be altered, bettered, healed -
and it could become an actuality. She walked the line so precisely,
Kiara, between two reflections of the world. He brings her hand up and
kisses her finger and her eyes follow the motion; this slow, satisfied
shifting of her mouth, then.
"I think you're about due for it."
She
curls her fingers around his hand and then slips closer to him; steps
around and behind and her fingers loosen from his hold to slide over his
shoulders; down to the tips of his fingers and back up; one navigating a
path across his ribcage and then down, beneath the hem of his shirt and
- there's a spark, then. That blooming; warming sensation of Working.
Kiara's resonance seeping into the air around them; punctuated by the
slow, steady beat that laced around the signature surge of her magic.
What
did it feel like, that point of contact against his stomach; the way
her fingers skim over his skin with knowledge; with memory of the shape
and surety of their strength; of the awareness of what each muscle and
bone could do, what she'd seen them do and the Verbena is everywhere,
now. Her cheek brushing his shoulder; lips near his ear. "Come on," she
whispers, a hand sliding to find his fingers; to begin to walk backward.
There's magic to that,
too. The low, hushed tone she speaks in. The pagan's dark eyes looking
wide and focused on him; the way she doesn't quite smile but leads the
way to his bed with a sudden determination and indicates he should
settle on it. There's a ritual to it; the way she sheds her rings;
bracelets; leans over and shucks her boots, too. Climbs onto his bed on
her knees and waits for him before she puts her hands on him again - not
all at once, though. She combs the space around him; first. Rakes her
hands through the air; brings her palms together.
Lifts her chin and closes those dark eyes and her brows knit, briefly as she breathes in.
This
then, was ritual. There's something very intimate in the witnessing to
how another Awakened found their center; fed the source of their
capacity to conjure and push at the boundaries of what reality dictated
could and could not be; there was solemnity to Kiara's; to the way she
became so still for a moment as her presence; the potency and pull of
her will sharpened into clearer regard.
There's a reverence to
the way she blinks her eyes open after a beat; to the way her eyes seem
a little brighter; her features a little keener, honed on him. Reaches
out and puts her hands on his shoulders, finally and the heat of them is
startling. Finds her way under his clothing; down the slope of his back
and everywhere she pushes; strokes; sets her hand over feels like a
compress of undiluted healing.
They were both healers, in
their own way and he'd put his hands on her, once. Soothed the tiniest
aches and constrictions. Kiara feeds back into him the spark of life;
the jolt of leaping out of that plane; the thunder of his heart racing
as he danced; it's a massage but - it's also a balm, she applies with
every pass of her hands.
And when she's done, when she pulls them away, it's a little like surfacing, too.
Ian
There
was an uptick in his heartbeat when Kiara's hand slipped over the skin
on his stomach. He stood still while she touched him, turning his head
slightly to catch a vague impression of her in his peripheral vision,
and there was something... dark and soft and complicated in his eyes.
Her resonance pooled around him, opening her senses to the details of
his pattern. The impression was of an almost too-perfect vitality: his
young athlete's form, free of wounds or scars or weaknesses. (He'd had
those once. Scars. But no longer. Belief - and need - could indeed shape
many things.)
But there were things that Kiara would find in
him - in the slope of his spine and the weight of his shoulders. Tension
(more than he let on.) Exhaustion.
Come on.
She
led him to the bed, and he allowed himself to be ushered there. When he
reached the side of the mattress, he sat down, sliding back atop the
bedspread. The Egyptian cotton felt soft and cool beneath his hands as
he rolled over onto his stomach. There was a kind of prolonged
deliberation to the way he did this (turned his back to her -
surrendered.) As though he had to fight his instincts to do so. When
Kiara's hands slid up under his shirt, he grab the hem and slithered out
of it. Then he crossed his arms and let his forehead rest at his
wrists.
The first few sweeps of her hands drew forth a very
soft inhale and a longer exhale. The muscles in his back gave a little
roll - a moment of tension before he started to relax. But the warmth of
her hands and the skill of her touch (of her ritual) did its work.
Muscles unlocked; unwound. His eyes slipped shut. The rejuvenating spark
of her healing essence seeped deep into his core. There were sounds
while she worked: soft, swallowed utterances and deep breaths. And then
slowly, finally, he just... melted.
When she pulled her hands
away, he gave this long, languid stretch and turned over to look at her.
His voice gave a low, soft hum as he reached out to grasp her wrists
and pull her down closer. Closer. As though he meant to kiss her. But
instead he let his lips just graze over her own and nestled his head
against hers.
"Thank you." He whispered it like it was an invocation.
Kiara
There's
a degree of surrender required for true relaxation. The capacity,
especially when that relaxation, the attaining of it, the process of it,
was in the hands of another person. There's a point where Ian has to
trust Kiara - to put her hands on his body, to knead and press and coax
the tension out of it; to find the tiniest points with the sweep of her
fingers where he was holding on it all.
The exhaustion. The coiled unease. The places his body spoke of things he might never vocalize.
The
brunette understands the language written under his skin; feels the way
his pattern shapes and maps him; focuses on the steady rhythm of his
heart where it beats under the cage of his ribs; feels the way it slows;
gentles with every pass of her hands over him. There's no denying that
in terms of practical skill - the Verbena knew what she was doing; her
touch is certain, it doesn't falter or hover at any point with
uncertainty but rather returns with deliberation; her thumbs pushing in;
smoothing across.
The only point Kiara's body touches him
from beginning to end is through her hands. Though he can feel the
movement of her behind him; the way the air shifts when her hair falls
over a shoulder, when she moves it out of her way; can hear the rustle
of her clothing; the shift of leather as she works. When he stretches
and twists to look at her, she's focused on the way the light plays
across his bare skin; the way the musculature of his abdomen betrays the
enduring strength beneath it.
Her pupils are very wide and
dark when he grasps her wrists and pulls her closer and she throws a leg
across to straddle him as he does; cupping the edge of his jaw with a
hand still gripped inside his hold. Thank you, he whispers and she makes
a noise; this sharp; exultant little noise and lets her cheek move
against his in the sort of luxurious; sinuous way she's come to expect
from him in quiet moments. There's a certain revel to it; the way Kiara
reacts to his body beneath hers.
Her face tilts just so and
she kisses him with less absolute authority and more appreciation for
the fact he'd allowed her to help. To place her hands into the depths of
him and expose and root out the points of temporary weakness; the
lashes of long hours; physical weariness. "You're welcome," she murmurs
back between small, fleeting kisses; her hands still warm where she
shapes them around his face and half settles over him like a satisfied
feline.
"Consider yourself rejuvenated."
Ian
He couldn't help but laugh at that - this quick,
quiet rumble of amusement as he smiled beneath the fleeting press of her
lips. He let go of her wrists to slide his hands up into her hair,
drawing her down to keep her close - to keep her kissing him.
"Do
you use that line on all the guys?" He let things slow down when he
pressed up to kiss her, ensnaring her lips in something longer, more
revelatory. When he pulled away (only slightly) his voice dipped into
softer register. "I'm always rejuvenated when I see you."
It
felt a bit like a confession. Soft words uttered against her lips while
she bent over him - while his body radiated this loose and vital calm
that the work of her hands (her craft) had instilled in him.
Kiara
She
settles a little more when he frees her wrists, allowing her arms to
fold across the span of his chest and turns her face into the motion
when he puts his hands in her hair. Her lips grazing the underside of a
wrist as she smiles. "Guys. Girls. I don't discriminate," lets herself
be guided back down and her hands find their way into his hair, then.
Her
fingernails dragging lightly down across the nape of his neck as she
hovers there, her eyes dark and lost beneath the fall of her hair for
the measure of a beat; she reaches back; draws and gathers the heaviness
of it over a shoulder and slides back a little; her fingers drawing the
pathway as she does; sits up and leaves her palms against his bare skin
like points of connection while she looks down at him with this tiny,
ghosting little edge of a smile.
There's a flicker of
something that passes across her face. Not surprise but in it's own way -
perhaps it was there, too. Hesitation. Uncertainty. "I - " Kiara's eyes
dip; her lashes lowering; they're painted tonight to frame her eyes
with long, bold strokes that offer the impression that they're winging
outward; liner applied to embolden the impact. She runs the edge of her
tongue across her lower lip, brows drawing together. " - like being
around you too, you know. It's easier than it is with most people."
Kiara's eyes tick back to his face.
"I'm not used to that."
That
sounds like a confession of her own, the brunette's expression
somewhere shy of resistance; as if she was wresting each word from
herself; there's a quick, sharp breath in and her smile returns; sharp;
bright. Instinctively dismissive, even of herself. Her words. The idea
and sentiment hidden in them, somewhere.
"I don't usually meet people who can keep up with me."
She
keeps her hands there, the pagan, connected to his body as if the
physicality of it makes the words easier (and knowing her, it probably
does). "Or are at least willing to jump out of a plane with me."
A
pause, she slides a hand across his abdomen; feels the subtle rise and
fall as he breathes. Her eyes shifting back to his face, reading the
expression there. "But you did."
Ian
They were
treading over such fragile territory, the two of them. Like walking on
spun glass. How long ago since the last time Kiara had shut someone out?
Wounded them? For Ian, it had not been that long. There was a time when
he could do that without feeling much more than a dull, familiar ache.
It felt sharper now, somehow. Lingered longer. (Rehearsals were not the
only source of his tension these days.)
It was a wonder that two people so imminently capable of doing harm had not yet harmed each other.
Ian
watched the hesitance in Kiara's eyes. Saw it and recognized it for
what it was. He matched it with something that might have been quiet
understanding. And he did not press - did not try to claim her in that
moment. Did not draw attention to the tenuous nature of their shared
honesty.
He wasn't used to it either. The easiness. The way he could lie there on his bed (his
bed, his space - not someone else's) and allow Kiara to put her hands
on him without feeling that gnawing discomfort that so often came with
that kind of vulnerability. He didn't tell her, but maybe she knew
anyway. Maybe he'd known that about her too.
He smiled a little when she shifted tone - said that most people couldn't keep up with her.
"I'm not most people."
The
muscles in his abdomen moved beneath her hand, rising and falling with
each breath. His skin was warm and soft and bare and sun-kissed. If she
was still listening to his pattern, she'd feel the way his pulse jumped a
little.
"Though I'm sure I know at least a few others who would happily jump out of a plane with you." (Or more.)
He
shifted slightly beneath Kiara's weight, bringing one knee up with his
foot pressed into the bed. Slowly he brought his hands back and folded
them beneath his head. Like he was giving her space to decide what she
wanted to do. (Though it was difficult - it was always difficult - not
to reach out and touch her.)
Kiara
There are
other moments like this scattered across Kiara Woolfe's past like so
much ash on the wind. People she's left in her wake. In their beds. In
her own.
People she's made the deliberate choice to walk away
from before she could get too close. There's a doctor in another city
that she broke the heart of too many times to count and yet returned to
wound again because - addiction was an easy bedfellow and he was not a
strong enough man to refuse what she so easily gave - she could.
There
is likely enough vindictiveness threaded somewhere in her dark eyes and
warm, lingering touch to do the same thing, here. To slide off his bed;
to lace her boots up and firmly re-establish her boundaries. There are
probably a hundred versions of this moment where she does just that.
Where she feels the way he reacts to her touching him and pulls her hand
away like he'd burned her. There's a version of tonight where she
didn't come when he texted her, where she was crueler when she did;
where she pushed him up against the door and slid her hands under his
clothes and took what she needed.
There are versions where
Kiara doesn't look at Ian like he's something entirely new and foreign
to her experience of people - to her comprehension of what intimacy was -
but in this version, he doesn't throw her confession back at her; she
doesn't reject the way he watches her for the voicing of it and she does
- look at him, that way. Intently and wholly and -
I'm not most people.
-
the corner of her mouth flexes; a smile flirts with the edge of it and
then she's touching him, again. Not with pure desire (though, that's
there too, the way her eyes trace the shape of him beneath her), not
simply with an appreciation for the tactile sensation (though always,
there was that for her, too) but with a sort of reverence. Here was her
offering and her touch; the way she leans forward and puts her lips
where her hands venture to; is the benediction.
"Not you're
really not." She murmurs and marks a trail along his ribcage, across his
chest and up to his neck; she sets her mouth over the point of his
pulse; feels it beating there; beneath the skin. Plants her hands on
either side of his head and just - hovers there, staring down at him
with her mouth inches from his; eyes flicking from it, to his eyes.
"Do you want me to stay?"
It shouldn't have sounded so much like ask me to stay, but it did. In another version of tonight, maybe she asked that, instead, too.
Ian
His
skin was so reactive just now - every sweep of her touch made him have
to catch his breath, to keep it consciously steady. When her lips
touched his chest, his eyelashes lowered. He inhaled long and soft;
exhaled with a slight shake. His arms flexed beneath his head, muscles
tightening.
When her lips reached the pulse at the base of his
neck, she'd feel it jumping just beneath the skin. This vivid thrum of
life that belied his seemingly calm state. He wanted to put his mouth on
her. Instead he bit down on his lip.
Do you want me to stay?
His
pulse gave a noticeable stutter when she said those words. He opened
his eyes and looked at her, but didn't speak. That silence stretched on
for what seemed like a long time. Too long, maybe. Enough to make it
awkward. His lips parted as though to speak, but words didn't come. (It
wasn't because he didn't know the answer.)
Finally he said, in a voice that sounded somehow less shaky than he felt, "Yes. If you want to."
It
felt a little like something was breaking in his chest. Slowly he
unfolded his arms, reaching up to trace his fingers over the slant of
her cheekbone, up into her hair again briefly (carding strands of it
through his fingers) and down across her jaw, over her lips - mapping
the shape of them.
He didn't say what he was thinking (that he didn't deserve for her to stay.)
Kiara
There was that edge of challenge to it. The way Kiara asked what she did, the fact she did it while physically so close
to him. With her mouth and her hands. In his space, suffocating the
breath he tries to take in with that edge of the wild; the intensity of
her eyes and the way she won't back off; doesn't give him room to do
anything but respond, somehow, or endure it until he couldn't. Push her
off, away.
Ask her to go.
Maybe as much as there is
an unvoiced desire for him to tell her he wants her to stay - there's a
darker, far more primal part of her that expects the rejection; that's
ready to sink its teeth into it. Wasn't that part of nature, too, then?
The aggression, the resistance to what it was denied. An empty house, a
deserted lot; nature would take it back; eventually. There's a thread of
something like that resistance in her; in the woman he finally meets
the eyes of.
Sees the surety of that, there.
Somewhere. That she'll endure regardless of what he says, that the
rejection will somehow feed her desire to push back. He doesn't say
anything, at first and she watches his expression; engages in a sort of
silent battle; her will against his; the unvoiced things flourishing and
then -
Yes. If you want to.
- he reaches
up to touch the edge of her jaw, her mouth and it blooms into a curling
little smile beneath his fingers. She lowers herself and curls into his
side; fits her body there and drapes an arm over his chest.
"Okay."
I want to, she
doesn't say it, but maybe he can hear that, too. Feel it in the easy
way she rests her head on his shoulder and strokes her fingers along the
slope of his arm.
Ian
Serafíne
Whiskey River doesn't actually serve much
whiskey and there's not a single fucking river in the whole of the sweet
little bar tucked away on a sidestreet in East Colfax. The
bartender/owner is (naturally) a guy with a pretty impressive beard and
round coke-bottle glasses and a thing for hard ciders. Not commercial
ciders - too sweet, too girly - but old fashioned ciders where
all the sugars have been fermented out so that the alcohol is rather
closer to champagne than apple juice, or Red's Apple Ale (heresy: that
shit will never be served here.)
It's early. Whiskey River
doesn't have a kitchen, doesn't serve food. It's just a bar, not some
fucking gastropub. Oh there's always a foodtruck nearby, at least when
there's a Thing and often when there's not a Thing but in a city of any
size there's almost always some sort of Thing close by. The point
though: there's no kitchen, no dinner rush, a few regulars for happy
hour maybe but it's not the sort of place that middle managers seek out
after their nine to five so at this hour Whiskey River is uncrowded and
uncluttered. A little extra business downstairs sure thanks to the pot
dispensary upstairs and you can sit out on the back deck beneath the
arbor overhung with vines and smoke a discrete bowl and watch some
friends unload gear from a white conversion van.
Inside
there's this girl seated at the bar. Feels like a rock star and she's
wearing sunglasses inside in daylight and has half-her-head shaved so,
hey. Maybe. Elfin ears bristle with metal, as do her heavy black
combat boots. The bartender has laid out one of those long hand-hewn
wooden troughs full of little tasting glasses and one of the guys
setting up the stage takes a break to come to her and wrap his arms
around her shoulders and drop his mouth to the crown of her dyed blond
head. Murmurs something that makes her lift her head up, all sudden and
ghosting smiles.
(What he says, which you can't hear, is: I thought you weren't drinking tonight. What he thinks, which you also can't hear, is: If you're going to drink, I wish you'd eat something.
What she says, laughing, back is: I changed my mind.
Girl's got a right.)
Ian
Sometimes
people ended up in bars by happenstance - because they were nearby and
wanted a drink and hey, look... there's a sign. Ian had never been
inside of Whiskey River before and had no real idea of the kind of
drinks they served there, but his car was waiting for an oil change and
he had time to kill, so he jogged across the street and slipped in
through the front door.
The place was relatively empty, apart
from the bartender and a scattered handful of regulars. It made Sera's
presence at the bar all the more eye-catching, with her bottle-blond
hair and her pierced ears and her sunglasses and that unmistakably
potent resonance. It didn't take long for Ian to find his way over to
her, dropping down onto the seat next to her own. The sleeveless shirt
he had on (it was an old black band shirt with a picture of Iggy Pop on
the front) showed off the warm tan of his arms when he leaned over and
rested his weight on his elbows.
"Any recommendations?" He nodded toward the bottles lined up on the wall and the taps down at the end of the bar.
Serafíne
"Not yet."
Sera,
with the flash of a smile - white teeth in a painted mouth, quick and
sure - and Ian's own reflection doubled back at him in the surface of
her sunglasses. Her posture is a mirror of his - elbows against the
bar, her forearms hovering, her hands fine, deliberate, inked - above
the tasting glasses. There are stem glasses and brandy-like snifters
and beer glasses, all miniaturizednd lined up in front of her. That
posture of hers half resembles a master playing chess, half a monk at
prayer.
"I'm tasting." So she says, so she smiles,
nudging her wooden tray in Ian's direction. "Ciders. You can start on
that side and meet me in the middle if you want. I've got a card here
somewhere to say what the fuck everything is."
Then her eyes drop from Ian's face to his chest. Back again.
"Tell me that t-shirt belonged to your fucking ex-boyfriend and he left it behind when you kicked his ass out."
Ian
"I
don't do boyfriends. If I did, I wouldn't fucking steal their clothes."
He glanced down at the shirt for a moment, contemplative. The fabric
was thin and faded. A couple of holes showed in the hem at his hip. It
fit the over-all look he had going, with his fashionably distressed
jeans and black harness boots. Maybe that was intentional, or maybe it
was just laundry day. "I got this at a thrift store in New York."
He
eyed the drinks on Sera's tray. When the bartender started to approach,
Ian gave a little wave of his hand to indicate that he was fine. If she
wanted to share, he wasn't going to complain. So he picked up the glass
on the end closest to him, swirling the contents slowly. The cider had
an opaque golden glow where the light hit. When he took a drink, he let
the flavors sit for a moment on his tongue.
"Hmm. Less sweet than I thought it would be." Judging by his tone, that wasn't a complaint.
"You look like a vampire," he teased, reaching over to wiggle the edge of Sera's sunglasses.
Serafíne
PERCEPTION PLUS EMPATHY MAGIC POWERZ? (focused on don't do boyfriends because why the hell not.)
Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 2, 2, 5, 8, 9) ( success x 3 ) [Doubling Tens]
Ian
It
was a matter-of-fact remark. And from what Sera could tell, an honest
one (at least from Ian's perspective.) Whatever the status of his
particular relationships, he seemed to have a knee-jerk resistance to
the word: boyfriend. (Which, knowing him, probably applied equally to girlfriend. Though he had once admitted to having one of those.) Both the title and the implications.
He
didn't have any particularly strong emotions about it though. At least,
not at that moment. What little was there to read was mostly along the
lines of: yeah, no thanks.
Serafíne
"I love thrift stores," Sera tosses back. "Buffalo Exchange is the fucking best. Though I never exactly pictured you inside one. Don't tell me I've judged you all wrong either, Ian. It'll ruin my fucking day."
The
last with a slicing grin that is both half-a-challenge and suggests,
well, that her day will be anything but ruined no matter what he says.
Sera
doesn't really examine the cider. Doesn't lift it to the light to
examine the tone, the clarity, the texture. She takes one of the
glasses at the far end of the tray, lifts it, drinks. And savors,
yeah. Makes a contemplative noise when Ian says that the drink is less
sweet than he assumed; more complex. The effervescence and the noise
and the base and top notes merging on the palette.
"I'm too
fucking tan to be a vampire," she tosses back, lifting her brows as he
wiggles her glasses, leaning into it, inviting physical contact in a
manner than is heedless, thoughtless, reckless. "And I don't have the
teeth.
"You wanna see my new tattoo?"
Ian
Don't tell me I've judged you all wrong.
Ian laughed at that. "I like what I like. But if it makes you feel better, these jeans cost about three hundred dollars."
Likely
Sera had a whole closet full of shoes that cost more than that, but it
was still a fairly large sum to pay for jeans on a dancer's income. That
much, Sera had never been wrong about. Ian's priorities leaned rather
heavily toward vanity.
Sera thought she was too fucking tan to
be a vampire. It wasn't that long ago that vampires had been in their
thoughts in a very real and visceral way, and yet... here the two of
them were, joking about it like they were nothing more than myths of
folklore and Hollywood horror. How odd their lives were, sometimes. Ian
responded to Sera's claim with a broad grin, showing off the white gleam
of his own teeth. His canines had always been just a tiny bit too
sharp. Perhaps it was him who was secretly harboring vampiric
tendencies.
You wanna see my new tattoo?
"Sure."
He tipped back his head and finished off his cider. When he set the empty
glass down, he leaned closer to Sera, eyeing her with a curious slant to
his gaze.
Serafíne
Sera is - in fact - carrying tonight a
skull-studded clutch made by Alexander McQueen that costs upwards of two
thousand dollars but no matter. Ian likes what he likes. Sera likes
what she likes and on some level maintains this absolute bloody pretense
that she is not utterly loaded. Twines bicycle chains with her strains
of golden south seas pearls, wears tin bubble-gum rings on the hand
opposite that deceptively ancient bronze piece she always seems to wear
on her right index finger.
And on, and on, and on.
--
But hmmm. Here they are. She says something about her tan (and it is summer, and she is - brilliantly, beautifully golden) and teeth and Ian flashes his, without remark and she, lovely thing, is looking at him. Looking
at him, in profile, inhaling over the rim of the next sample she is
about to down a certain tick of recognition evident in her countenance
that surfaces and turns over and subsides in the time it takes her to
swallow the next one down. Golden, dry - winesaps, so says the
cheat-sheet on the bar in front of her.
And they're talking about her new tattoo, and it isn't that new really, just new compared to the others and as she sets down her glass she offers Ian her left forearm. Turns it over.
So
much ink on her arms, hands, wrists, fingers. On the palm of her left
hand her absurd tattoo of a pair of scissors, the blades on either
finger, the handle either turning into or being consumed by a shark
whose body continues down her palm and onto her wrist. Other bits here
and there: compressed letters and words, miniscule images, familiar
enough from the flash of her hands. She has a larger piece on her right
forearm (a crow's skull) and another large piece on her upper left arm
(a grinning, skeletal torso) - but the new tattoo she points out to him
(likely with yet another tattoo-framed finger) tumbles down the inside
of her left forearm, three small letters following sinuous twists of one
of the darker veins branching beneath her skin like objects tumbling
down a waterfall.
Three little letters, all akimbo
y
e
s
--
"I
think you should try having a boyfriend someday," Sera tells him,
then. Why the fuck not? She has opinions about everything, it seems.
Ian
[Life 2, coincidental diff 5 +1 (just had a drink) -1 (practiced)]
Dice: 3 d10 TN5 (2, 5, 6) ( success x 3 ) [WP]
Ian
Sera
looked at him, and in the light of the bar his features had a sharp
cast. The slope of his eyes, his nose, his lips; the angles of his
cheeks and jaw... there was primal elegance in his profile. The kind of
beauty that felt at least partly unapproachable - like glossy magazine
prints and skyscraper billboards. Sera was that kind of beautiful too.
The kind that could hurt, sometimes.
But Ian didn't have any tattoos.
Sera turned her arm over, and her skin said: yes.
Ian smiled, just a little, and touched the palm of her hand, guiding a
slow, winding path down her wrist to her forearm, where those three
letters greeted him. He traced over each one with the tip of his finger,
and where he touched the nerves in her skin prickled with warmth and
something like the gentlest electric current. As though in
acknowledgment of the invocation inked into her flesh.
"I'll take that under advisement."
Serafíne
Awareness. 'Cos!
Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 9, 9) ( success x 4 ) [Doubling Tens]
Serafíne
So, Prime 1: Watch the Weaving. Dif 4 -1 (practiced).
Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (5, 6, 10) ( success x 3 )
Serafíne
She
said the tattoo was new, but it has been long enough that her skin has
healed, the ink sealed deep in the layers of her skin. Nothing raw, or
raised, or scabbed over about it, really. Months old and yet: new.
--
He touches her. She, lovely thing, goes still in a way the feels expectant, active, animal,
coruscant. Head tucked as if she wear listening for a secret.
Somewhere between pointing out the new tattoo and Ian reaching for her
hand and wrist, she has picked up the next of her drinks with her free
hand. Her fingers steepled over the mouth of the glass are still now
too.
She has the oddest little smile on her face, no more
than a twist of her darting mouth, a certain curve lifting her cheek and
she does glance at him, then, when she senses his magic, when she both
feels the warmth, the current, and also inhales the texture of as it
hangs in the air - around him, between him. Breathes it in and
breathes it out,
and looks,
and sees,
mesmeric. Mesmerized, right?
She
exhales, a little bit of force from the diaphragm with the shape of a
laugh that has gone unvoiced. Her dark eyes bank from his hand to his
profile as he assures her that he will take that under advisement. The tone makes her laugh again, and laughter becomes her.
She
says, "Will you?" because she wants to needle him, and, a moment later,
quieter, "Don't stop," because she doesn't want him to stop. Not right now. Not precisely yet.
The magic, she means. Doesn't she?
And, yeah, the rest of it.
Ian
[One more roll for good measure]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 6) ( success x 1 )
Ian
Will you?
"No."
His smile broadened when he spoke, the answer a little needle of its
own. He was a stubborn creature. But needling words aside, he didn't
seem terribly interested in resistance just then.
Don't stop.
Ian's
lips parted. His breath exhaled full and slow. Sera's skin was warm and
alive beneath his touch, her body language inviting him in as much as
her words. That slow, tracing contact from his index finger spread into a
series of points as his hand settled onto her arm and slid up the
length of it - to her shoulder and then her neck. Wherever his fingers
touched, her skin came alive underneath them. When he reached her
throat, he slid the pad of his thumb over an artery, feeling the faint
beat of her pulse. With his other hand, he reached over and pulled her
sunglasses from her face, setting them down on the bar. When he could
see her eyes, he looked at her, tilting his head slightly as though in
curiosity. His gaze flickered from her irises to her lips.
When
he kissed her, it was open-mouthed. Slow and almost infuriatingly
gentle, but when his tongue touched hers, it sent a spark of sensation
radiating down through her body.
Serafíne
This
is what denial does both to her and for her, you see. Wears her, or
perhaps she wears it, until her want is as close to the surface as her
pleasures ordinarily would be. This is what she seeks, cultivates,
hones in these days and nights when she denies herself. No hairshirt
purification this vaguely ritualistic fasting of hers, (when she is
starving, when she is wanting, when she is hungry, when she is sober The
Next Step seems so achingly close that she can hardly begin to
understand how or why she doesn't end each fraught, hungry night making
out with her goddamned avatar), but something else entirely. Quite as
deliberate, and also - somehow - (entirely) wanton.
She is just so - hungry.
-
Another
breath, the edge of laughter on its cusp but still withheld as his hand
continues up her forearm, and over her spare biceps to her shoulder, to
her temple. The glasses she allows, and he finds her on the otherside,
the smear of eyeshadow and mascara, her pupils a bit dilated from both
the darkness and perhaps some small bit of something she has ingested
contricting like a predator's as he pries away the glasses. But she's
no predator, not really, she's something else entirely and she is
curving her neck in his directly, lifting her chin, inviting his gaze,
his touch, his mouth with this lambent stillness that haloes her.
And
maybe he starts that kiss slow and infuriatingly gentle - seeking her,
provoking her - but fuck it. There is this moment between where she is
hanging there, tenterhooked, that sensation sparking warm against her
tongue and spreading.
And then she makes this noise.
God that noise.
And she's on her feet and she's kissing him back kissing him back and she wants wants wants
and nevermind that it is 5 p.m. or maybe 6 and Ian is maybe getting his
oil changed and running and errand and her bandmates are setting up the
stage for a quick little runthrough of a gig where they're gonna work
(really work) on those songs they're gonna put on the EP and she's
(mostly) fasting because It Is Time for Things to Happen and this is Ian
and she wants to tell him to go get a boyfriend already, try a relationship,
it's not that hard, because she likes to tweak him and she knows he can
take it and anyway she has Opinions and none of that matters.
She's reaching for him.
Her
hands are in his hair and she's stepping into him and he's kissing her
and she's kissing him back harder, breathing the air from his lungs and
if there were a wall behind him she'd probably have him pressed against
it in two seconds flat, that's the kind of kiss this is.
Serafíne
Time
3 / Mind 2 / Life 2 (Coincidental. Dif: 6. -1 focus. -1 resonance.)
I think she'll need at least 4 successes for minimal effect.
Dice: 3 d10 TN4 (1, 8, 8) ( success x 3 ) [WP]
Serafíne
Extending. :D Dif +1
Dice: 3 d10 TN5 (2, 9, 10) ( success x 3 ) [WP]
Ian
There
were things about Ian that Sera didn't know. Facets of his life and his
emotions that only made a complete picture when viewed as a whole. She
didn't know that he'd once had something like a boyfriend. But he wasn't
thinking about that right now, because Sera was kissing him like she
was ravenous and there wasn't room for anything else in his
head or his body apart from that overwhelming sensation. It caught him a
little off-guard at first, and when she stood up - when she pushed into
him - he answered her sound with a quiet one of his own. This low note
in his throat - pleased and surprised and slightly tinged with his own
hunger.
It was a feeling he knew well. The drive of it. The
aggression. The way it coiled up from his stomach into his his teeth and
his fingers. The pool of it low in his hips. They were in public. It
was barely dinner time and the bar was only sparsely populated, which
made their little demonstration all the more obvious to anyone watching.
Perhaps the bartender shot them a surprised look and wondered if maybe
he ought to say something (suggest they find somewhere else to do
whatever it was they were in the midst of doing.) Perhaps one of the
customers watched them and secretly hoped that maybe they would stay
right where they were. If so, Ian didn't notice, because Sera had his
attention captured completely.
They were both standing now,
and Ian slid his fingers into Sera's hair, grasping at it on the longer
side while his other hand scratched through the soft buzz of the shorn
half. Sera kissed him hard enough that their teeth clicked together, and
Ian's lips spread in response - almost a baring of fangs (if he had
them.) He bit down on her lip hard enough to leave it reddened.
And
then time just... stretched. Like an infinite pool of hunger and breath
and touch and that kiss, when he melted into her again, seemed to go on
forever. Dimly he realized that might be Sera's doing (the same way
those warm little sparks of sensation where his) but if so he wasn't
about to complain.
Except that, really, pulling off someone's
clothes in an open bar was a bit too exhibitionist even for him. Sera
wanted to push him somewhere, but there was only empty air behind them.
And now the bartender was looking at them. And probably so was everybody else.
"Mm, we should go somewhere," Ian murmured against her lips.
Serafíne
Mmm, we should go somewhere.
He has to break
the kiss in order to murmur that, even if it is murmured against her
lips. And, really, she has to breathe sometime, doesn't she? And she:
loves to breathe, relishes this too, this coming up for air, the crest
of the wave of want and fulfillment when she is breathless enough that
her chest is still aching and the first molecules of oxygen are hitting
her lungs.
His first answer is laughter. She has pulled away
now enough to breathe and her brow rests against apex of his cheek, the
bridge of her nose against his jawline, her mouth below, seeking his
neck, but gentler now. The first wave of push him against the
wall is past and she is dimly aware that she succeeded only in
upending a few barstools or something. And that informs the laughter.
Shapes it in her body and in her breath.
Her hands have found
his body, of course - and her arms are loose around his waist now.
Maybe others are watching. Maybe Dan, setting up for the little happy
hour set they were going to play to work through some early ideas for
the EP Sera has promised she will buckle down to produce: soon, soon,
soon.
"Maybe there's a back room," she mutters back, mouth
open, seeking him with her teeth now. Because see, " - we're supposed
to play soon. Or you could stay and watch. Take me home, after."
Serafíne
Hard to tell when she becomes aware of the change-in-him. Hard to establish, precisely, when it clicks home to her that he has withdrawn from the strange click-home concordance that was - seemed to be - lock-and-key because wherever she is, there is no room for idle thought. She's still there, her brow against his cheek, her mouth beneath his jaw, this sense of wholly-animal-seeking about her now more refined, tempered. Almost delicate: an opening not a consumption.
But then he's laughing - to be honest - and she doesn't know what that actually means but he's pulling away and reaching to unhook her hands and she sure as hell knows what that means. He doesn't really get to do that: unhook her hands from around his waist, because when he starts to do that, like he's untying a strange little knot she figures it out and drops the contact and pulls away, pretty much all-at-once. Breathless on an inhale, this sharp kind of withdrawal that has her dark eyes stitching with this neat, darting, quite shallow precision over his face.
Her brows are drawn together, and her hands - and her body - are shaking, just a little bit. Doesn't say anything, and after that brief, shallow glance - she just turns around and walks away.
Ian
She didn't ask if he was alright. It was debatable whether he would have really answered if she had.
Serafíne
She doesn't ask him if he's okay. He doesn't ask her, either. And he's always closed off and right now - right now she's trying very hard to be closed off too and she has not quite the shittiest-walls ever but it's close but if you never think to try to looksee what's on the other side, well. Right now she can't look at him, not really. She has learned to give herself permission to just feel her shit sometimes and not everyone else's, and she's not going to turn around, no sir, except -
It's the apology, the I'm sorry he offers to her back that has her spinning around amidst the disordered jumble of barstools they've upended and shoved about all around them and she spins like whoa.
"Fuck you Ian. I don't accept your generic bullshit apology. What the fuck."
--
Maybe he still leaves. Maybe he doesn't. She's a seer but that doesn't mean she knows which path he's going to take.
Ian
