The van's back doors are open and the stuff's been loaded. Jared and Erik are already in the van, Sieg and Dot are snogging as they settle in the second row of seats. The seating left for you and Dei? The front seat. Dei'll do the driving. He stands at the door, holding it open for you, smirking at the display of Dot -- that skirt leaves nothing to the imagination. "Can it wait until the apartment? The car is too crowded..." The smirk turns to a smile to you. "After you..."
Drancy's expression is somewhere between the awed and the shocked, with a hint of anger. Not at Dei, but .. the faint recognition which surpasses understanding, it's a fox gnawing at her vitals. With her own ongoing inner struggle against herself, it's just ...
Not something she even has words for, writer or no.
She takes up a position at the back of the club, watching. The crowd, the band... Dot... but mostly, watching Dei, with an intent sort of painful hunger that might be caused by repression but mostly is caused by a wanting to know things, wanting to know the person shaping the music... the love of knowledge, the Jews say, is second only to the love of one's God.
Drancy's hair is standing a little on edge by the end of it, but she acts as regally as any prom queen, grabbing her picnic basket and following after. "Thanks," she half-mutters, a bit prim. "And yes, do wait until we get there. I didn't bring a camera."
It's not everyday, not every night, that the former Angel of Love really... lets go. What you don't know, what he won't tell you, is that he set off a beacon tonight himself. And doubting princes and wondering angels received their answer.
God is Love, and I'm nowhere...
But it's faded now, the hum of music, the hum of intensity. He seems sort of empty. A vessel, it would seem, waiting to be filled. Dei closes the door behind you and piles in. The van takes two attempts before it starts. It's a relic, just like I am. Just like the instrument I carry.
You recognize all the streets. You know exactly where he's going. Not a good part of town, not a bad part of town. Somewhere in the grey of the north. Not that far from Club Central. Not trendy. Not hardcore. But you can get to both from here if you really want.
Dot and Sieg -- well, it's just better if you don't look back. The outfit to knock boots by? As soon as they get to Sieg's place, you can guarantee that. A safe bet. Jared and Erik are sharing a cigarette and patently ignoring it. "We'll unload, D... ja, no problem," Erik says. "Don't worry about it. It's our turn."
The van pulls onto a dark side street -- a glorified alley. The flats stretch up from there. And the van stops. "So, Drancy... you and Dot are welcome to stay," Erik notes, as if Dot would be doing anything else. "We have two, two-bedroom flats. Plenty of space, ja Dei?"
Dei looks to you and nods, "I'll take the sofa or the floor. You can have the bed. You're welcome to it..."
It's a grey sort of place, and a grey sort of night, in some ways, after all of that energy. Drancy, though, rather than being drained, is on edge still, filled with nervous tension that translates to energy. She fiddles with one of the braids in her hair, moving crystal and glass beads of various shapes and designs around as if they were so many counters on an abacus, or beads on a rosary, eyes unfocused in colour and in gaze out the window en route. Patently ignoring noises and whispers from the back seat, refusing to turn to look as if, like Lot's wife, she'll turn to salt-ash while Sodom and Gomorrah devour each other.
Strange days and nights... not so strange for my life, but where does it lead? If this is the crossroads, then I'm the poor beggar at midnight, waiting to see whether devil or Death or ghost or rider will appear...
She stirs as the van comes to a halt, and words come out aimed at her, with her name attached. "Eh? Ta... wouldn't put you out, though." A crooked grin's aimed across at Dei. "I don't feel much like sleeping just yet, and anyway, I'm not exactly Martha Stewart - you needn't fear some sort of odd insult. I can sleep on the floor or couch just fine." She doesn't comment on Dot, figuring Dot if she wished could comment for herself, and besides... Dot's busy....
They all begin to pile out as the van's parked and killed, engine sputtering as it goes. It'll last as far as London, but it's never going to make it overseas. Touring van? Not exactly. It's not like the movies, but I guess that's what it's like when you're playing warehouse clubs in London...
There's a door out for you and Erik and Jared open the back to prepare for unloading. It's all going in, and probably all going on at some point. Expect an acoustic jam if nothing else...and it's not as if the neighbors care. Around here? They're all still out. There's only one case that won't be left behind just now, and that's the blue one with the special guitar.
If only you knew, Drancy...
Dei has it in his hands, and his leftovers too, he heads into the four-story black-red brick building -- red originally, the black from a century's worth of London's grime -- past old wooden doors. Up criss-crossing narrow stairs to the second floor. And a door, at last, at the end.
"Not putting us out. We've got these two apartments. Might as well use them. But I'm not turning in for a while, just saying... not planning on being able to give you and Dot," as if, "...a lift home tonight. Is that alright?" He turns and looks at you, he unlocks the door. He smiles -- for the first time, wicked, like on the naughty side of evil -- and shoulders his way in.
The place looks like four men alternatively live in it. There's minimal furniture -- only what was left behind by the last tenants -- a small, small kitchen and disorder. But it's not as dirty as it could be...
A shrug, casual. "I left plenty of food in the cat's dish, if I feel a particular absolute need to get home, well, that's what cabs're for, innit?" Drancy's not going to worry about it, clearly. Then, too, in her business, she's slept in odder places. She peers at the outside of the building as if staring past it for a moment, then shakes herself, snapping out of it.
Presumably, the bloody cat can fend for himself. Catch a mouse if the food and water in the dish aren't all right. And not like he's going to run up my phone bill in my absence or something...
Following inside to the apartment, eyebrows arching at that smile skeptically, she groans a little at the disorder. Not that she's a clean freak - anything but - but hey, she has standards. "I can tell you blokes don't exactly cook much, either, do you. Maybe I should get you maid service for Boxing Day." She glances over her shoulder, calling out to Jared and Erik, calling over, "You bunch need a hand with the equipment, or wot?"
Oh, believe you me, the Cat will fend for itself. He's doing quite well, actually. Watching a bit of telly. Eating your chips. Rummaging through your pantry and not finding a lot. Going through your room and finding a lot of little interesting tidbits.
He does spend a few moments looking through your drawers. Searching for ...whatever. Wondering how best to get you out without you knowing it...
And then a cat trots across the floor of your apartment and curls up on the pillow. First reconnaissance done.
...not that you're aware of that, mind you...
Erik and Jared shout up a negatory on that. They've got it. And Dot and Sieg haven't answered. You hear her laughter though, can't miss it. It's loud and raucous. Not exactly feminine. When she's finally visible, she's staggering in with a Sieg attachment, holding a bag full of weed. "Oh, sweet mystery of life at last I've found you," she sings out, off key. "...'allo, Drancy doll... look what we have...care to join in for once? C'mon you..." she says to Sieg, who is... you might notice now... cuffed to her again. Dot pulls him over to the sofa and they park it there together. At least for the first toke. They're already eyeing the bedroom door.
Dei smirks and looks to you and then to Dot as he sits in the old and overlarge -- and because of its age, quite cushiony -- chair, guitar in hand again. "Before I put you in charge of rolling, go to the cabinet over there, take Sieg with you, and grab the bottles of vodka and frangelica."
Sieg goes wide-eyed and then laughs. "Oh no... it is going to get ugly. Amadeus, Baron von Alcohol..."
Amadeus. Did you know that was the fullname of the one called Dei? You see the smirk, the roll of his eyes, and then he looks to you, smiling a little.
The acoustic guitar is fantastic looking, smooth and shiny with constant caressing. It sparkles. When plucked, even just in tuning, it brings ...such music...
And you feel the tickle beneath your skin. No doubt everyone feels it -- though Sieg and Dot are feeling it in their pants, for all their wrangling to the cabinets. Hair pricks up on your arms? Goosebumps?
Not that Drancy keeps a diary, for the Cat to find and flip through - if she did, these days it'd be largely profane. But there's mountains of clothes, and there's the computer, and a few videos - the telly, of course, being in the bedroom, where she can watch while sprawled out on the bed. Food though? Food, Drancy buys ready-made or orders out, so's to minimize time spent on it. An insistence on an odd discipline of ascetism, has our Drancy. Her drawers are filled with odds and ends, many of which the purpose of isn't entirely clear... momentos and memorandums, including one picture of herself, age fifteen, stuffed well away and not at all punk in the picture.
But she's all unaware of anything like that, and if even a whisper of a suggestion of it crosses her mind, it's studiously ignored by even her subconscious. "Right, then." She turns away from the doorway, moving in towards the little kitchen, leaning up against the fridge, eyeing Dot and Sieg as they wander in. "No, thanks, I imagine if I join in, there won't be enough for you lot - I know how you do go through it." A brief, hard smirk, then a glance over to Dei with a lift of her eyebrows. What?
Well... I did tell him I'm not much into participating in that sort of thing... vodka, now, I could do with a shot of that.
She says as much. "Vodka, I could go for, though. And Amadeus, eh? Makes the outfit all the more appropriate, I imagine." At least it's more twisty and imaginative than calling him Mozart. She slides down along the refrigerator to sit on the floor, where she has a clear view of the living room, peering somewhat owlishly at that ... instrument, eyebrows then furrowing.
Now... what's that... fuck. I have no clue. Doubt Sieg and Dot'll be here for long, though.
No, as luck would have it... they won't...
As fingers press to the frets, notes squeezed from metal strings, Dei closes his eyes. He's just tuning it... not that it's out of tune, he's just refining it. But it becomes a roiling song, of notes plucked, gentle and rough. Like the searching hands of unfamiliar lovers...
Three bottles of vodka, one bottle of frangelica liqueur. "Found an amaretto, too, Dei..." Sieg murmurs. And with one hand cuffed to Dot, he sits on the couch, he pulls her with him on his lap, and he begins to separate the weed, lay out the papers. He'll roll for the night, then he and Dot'll take two in with them, to the other room.
Sieg's a real pro, you notice. He's able to roll joints while his tongue is down your best friend's throat...
There's a rush of notes, and a rush of tickling warmth beneath your skin. You feel it, don't you magician? The pin pricks that become goosebumps that become a shiver. And then they stop. The music stopping a half-moment before it. Dei grins, "Vodka! Yes, you will drink with me," he says to Drancy. "This I like. The weed is more for Jared and Erik and Sieg," he whispers after. "The frangelica is nice, too..." he adds in an afterthought, and he cradles the guitar. "I play, we sing," he plots out the evening. "And drink. This will make me happy."
One joint rolled, five more to go...
Drancy keeps her eyes more on Dei's fingers on the strings, visibly made slightly uncomfortable by the public all-but-sex between Sieg and Dot. It's not that she's a prude (though it probably comes across that way) as she just ... doesn't want to know. Besides, the power beneath the music is just ... more interesting right now, even if it half-alarms her.
"Vodka's good," she agrees, with an unusual lack of eloquence. "It's clear." Clear in more than colour, though that too.
She shakes her head a little, as if to regain equilibrium, eyes half-narrowed, and she pulls her hood up, as if to disappear into it. "I'm not much of a singer, really." Liar. And she half-knows she's lying, though only half. "If I had any talent d'you think I'd be a reporter instead of like you lot, tramping about being the sex symbol to the masses?" Ah, that's better - a return of her usual attitude, bravado to shove away doubts and nagging almost-memory.
He laughs and he looks to you. It's like Sieg and Dot are already not here. There's you, the guitar and him. The vodka will be the audience. "It's not about talent, Drancy. It's about... passion. Letting go. On key, off key. It doesn't matter." He shakes his head. It doesn't matter. His fingers move again, more expert than most folks that have seen his band would expect. Damn near classical.
A rush of notes. A rush of energy. Warmth. Rippling warmth. Two joints down, and Dot and Sieg are going to leave it at that. She doesn't even say good night. Sieg has nothing to say either. They just leave. And he doesn't even notice.
Erik and Jared can be heard rolling crap down the hall. And the look on Dei's face ...softens. The smile is thoughtful, and his eyes move to watch his own fingers. When he sings, he sings in Icelandic. When he sings now, his voice is soft and there is purity to it. When he plays, you can't hear anything in the other room. When he plays, the energy lifts.
There is a warm rush, like light from a nearby candle. A flush of blood beneath the skin. Are you blushing, virgin? When he sings, he doesn't look at you.
Well, just one glance...
Pour us a drink...
And then the song switches to something more... arabic...something maybe of Gibralter, of Spain. And when brown eyes open and look to you, a platinum brow lifts. He smiles at you.
What do you do now, little virgin?
What do you do, when I look at you?
Oh, for Love and for Lust. Is there no middle ground? What am I to do...
She just shakes her head, listening warily. Too much power - it makes her restless, feeling claustrophobic, almost trapped. "Depends which is going to be in charge, is all," she answers when there's a break in the music. What she's saying it to? Well, actually about passion, but... it could fit the unasked questions too, couldn't it.
Not sure I like where this is going...
Her face is entirely too warm for it to be just the room, or just the hood, even. Drancy pushes herself to her feet, the restlessness translating into movement, and she goes to the kitchen and prosaically enough, starts doing dishes. But not all of them - it's just enough for her to find and wash some glasses. Can't drink vodka straight from the bottle, after all... that'd be ... uncouth.
"Know anything in english?", she asks after a while. "If I'm going to sing, it'd help to know the words... mind, I'm going to have a drink or two, or I'll just be self-conscious and you'll hear me croak like a bloody raven. Eyeballs and all." She tries hard to pretend to be unaffected, not to notice glances, even as she goes for the vodka bottle, cheeks red as her cloak, the hood fallen back and her hair escaping again from where she'd hastily stuffed it in. "Unless you count davening, and a smattering of opera." And, almost in an echo, unconscious though it might be,
I'm in trouble, aren't I. What am I to do...
"A little," he suddenly laughs. "I cannot promise I will always remember when the vodka starts flowing. You will have to nudge me and remind me. An elbow in the belly should do..." He pauses that song. "Hmm...okay...tonight I will do cover songs. Who do you want to hear. I can play almost anything..." comes the boast, from quiet Dei is it unexpected?
He takes a bottle for himself, but ...yes... for the frangelica, a glass would be good. "Eh, I don't mind. We'll both be croaking by the end of the night. If nothing else than to avoid hearing the bedsprings." And that tickles him.
As you are in the kitchen, he watches you. The blood. The blush. And then he looks to his strings. His fingers pressing them. "I am a fan of The Beatles, The Clash, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Bjork...of course... the queen of Icelandic music scene. Name it, I can play it. Maybe... you will dare me to play something... unexpected..."
And so... the control you seek? It is offered up to you...
Drancy grins at that, unconsciously and unself-consciously. It strips years off her, even young as she is. She pours vodka into her own glass, settling the other cleaned one down by your ankle. "I can't do well at anything but ballads and showtunes," she informs you. "I just haven't got the control for angry music. S'why I don't... you see?" Irony of ironies, this little punk queen can't manage the greats.
And, of course, a near-photographic memory for songs I shouldn't even consciously know... Davydd'd be laughing his arse off. Bah. What'm I getting myself into.
"And, well, if they get too loud, there's ways around that." A feral mischief creeps into her expression, overlaid by assumed innocence. "Always good to lay in a tub of ice for tossing on people, for one." That doesn't embarass her, now they're out of the room. "Unexpected, eh?" She can't resist dares... not of that sort... "Well... let's keep it easy, at least to start with. You can start us off." She lifts her glass in easy salute, taking a swallow. "Unless, o'course, you can't think of anything..." When in doubt, pass the ball.
Dei thinks for a moment. He pauses for a time. And then the guitar sings with something eastern-flecked. If it were electric, it would be pounding. Acoustic, it is possessing. Captivating. Plucking, strumming in a swirling rhythm, it calms when his voice begins...
"Over the sky and sea, my love, over the sky and sea...
riding the crest of wind above, bringing her back to me...
Into the starlit sea, my love, into the moonlit sea...
Riding the crest of wind above, I'm begging you to stay with me...
Inanna..."
And when his voice quiets, the guitar takes over. Loud, it fills the apartment. It hushes the squeaking springs. Loud, but sweet. Strumming chords in quick succession, bars of the song building.
Blue eyes lift and settle on you. He doesn't smile now, the song is too much for that...
Too much, too much...
There's a tickle on your blood, magician. A pricking against your skin at your neck... at the base of your spine. It's far from unpleasant. In fact, pleasant is what it is. Pleasure. It is a beautiful song, and maybe he should sing and play acoustic more often...
She crosses to the wall, sinking down with her back against it, changeable eyes half-closing as she listens. She cradles her glass in both hands, knees drawn together and slightly to the side. It's an interesting visual picture, likely - Little Red Riding Hood in a semi-squalid East London apartment, hunkered down with an alcoholic beverage, already looking ready to succumb to something, sleepy eyes and all.
Her tongue passes over her lips for a moment. "Don't think I know that one..." A swallow of vodka, then, to wet throat and lips and swollen tongue.
It's all too much, and it's hard for her to keep from pushing against it, bracing her back against the wall and lashing out to build a wall. She's uncharacteristically silent, just digging her heels in instead.
"Then again, there's a lot I don't know. You're very good at that."
The strumming softens into alternating plucking, the roll of his fingers. Dei cocks his head and peers at you past lavender strands...
"Would you walk ten miles with me, my love
would you walk the skies with me...
Would you walk ten miles with me, my love...
Inanna..."
Inanna, Babylonian goddess. The priestess of my oldest earthly temple. In your grave, you lay beneath sands. Your spirit lies in my citadel, on a bed of saffron silk. Your hands are never empty. Your mouth is never free...
The song ends and Dei pauses. No sound, no voice, no song for a moment. The last one still trembling on the skin, in the air. "Bring the glasses over, ja... that was a song by Tea Party. Good band. I think they were from Canada. It's your turn, Drance..."
And he motions you over to him with the neck of his guitar, with the tilt of his head. A hand reaches over for one of the bottles of vodka, grabbing it, pulling it to him. He opens it. "Thank you. This is my favorite way to play. But...no one wants to pay money for this..."
Drancy chuckles, taking another swallow of vodka before swinging herself up to her feet and then over towards you. "I'll have to look 'em up sometime, never heard of them before. Of course, even I don't know all the bands." Self-mocking her own arrogance, her eyes are never still. She resettles by your feet.
"My turn... mmm. You know any Suzanne Vega? I can do it a capella if need be, of course. But ... I have a choice. Caramel."
A rather interesting choice, to be sure, and most likely not in the least coincidental, but then, what out of all this is? It's all little messages, little notes to see how the balance sways. "No need to thank me. I'm in it for the music, after all... The free liquor's just a side bonus."
He has to dig down, it seems. A pause and a shot of vodka and the platinum eyebrows knit together. He suckles his lower lip, the last drop of vodka taken, and he reaches in for one of the empty glasses you brought. This one for the frangelica. He pours it.
And his voice whispers the tune that goes with these words: It won't do to dream of caramel...
Sky eyes look at you. Am I right?
"...to think of cinnamon and long for you..." Dei pours two glasses with a small amount of frangelica. You should try it -- one left for you. And he brings the small glass to his lips, sipping from it. Sitting back, he cradles the guitar to him, beginning to pluck out the tune. Still looking at you. It's your turn...
And in the next room, there's the sound of voices and the rattling of an old bedframe. Quick, it's time to sing again...
A slight nod, corrobation, almost conspiratorial, and she folds her hands against her knee after putting down the vodka, picking up the frangelico to sniff at it quickly without sipping, first. A brush back of her hair, and she takes a breath, wincing slightly as the bedframe starts.
"It won't do to stir a deep desire,
to fan a hidden flame that can never burn true.
I know your name, I know your skin,
I know the way these things begin,
But I don't know how I would live with myself,
What I'd forgive of myself, if you don't go."
She tips her head back, singing it contralto rather than soprano, the vodka lending a husky note to it, but with sufficient force of will behind it to overpower bedsprings and voices behind the wall. And then, too, it's certainly ringing with a hint of Truth, even if Drancy's not aware of it as her own power creeps upwards tenuously.
"So goodbye, sweet appetite.
No single bite could satisfy...
I know your name, I know your skin,
I know the way these things begin,
But I don't know how I would live with myself,
What I'd forgive of myself, if you don't go.
It won't do to dream of caramel,
To think of cinnamon
And long...
for you..."
It's better when we do it...
It's better when we sing it...
It's better when I play it...
It'll all be better, Drancy...
You sit at his feet and maybe that's a good thing, because the way he looks at you, he might have wanted to kiss you. He sits there silent for a time, with you and your song lingering a moment later in the quiet. And then he smiles a little. "have one you should know. But... scoot over a little... I'm coming down there with you. I feel like I'm your father, with little red riding hood at my knee."
He laughs quietly and finishes the frangelica, the hazelnut liqueur, in a swallow. And then follows it with vodka. "You have a great voice, you should not be embarrassed to use it," Dei murmurs thickly, as he rises with the blue guitar, preparing to settle down there with you. He does so with a little groan, muscles will ache tomorrow, but that's alright.
It'll all be alright...
The tune that he begins is very familiar, even though not half so loud and raucous as the original. It's enough to cover up the sound of Dot's voice. It's enough for that. "London calling to the faraway towns, now that war is declared-and battle come down," an oldie but a goodie, "London calling to the underworld: Come out of the cupboard, all you boys and girls..."
Drancy takes a swallow of her own frangelico, now she's done singing, throat needing the liquid even if not the liquor. She scoots over obligingly, shooting a look that's half-wary and half-laughing in response. "If you were my father, you definitely wouldn't look like that, trust me. Not 'Establishment' enough." Another swallow, and the glass is emptied, and she switches it out for her vodka again.
"Been told that before," she comments. "But ... enh. S'embarassing, hearing myself. I don't end up knowing what to do with my hands."
She's not been as active, mostly in the position of observer, tonight, so she's able to scuttle back with ease, no soreness as she listens, lifting her elbows onto her knees. She grins, slightly feral as she recognizes the Clash's classic. "London calling, now don't look at us, all that phony Beatlemania has bitten the dust..."
And the guitar suddenly doesn't sing so much as it shouts it, "London calling, see we ain't got no swing, 'cept for the ring of that truncheon thing..." But at the chorus it slows again, turning into something more like a blues sound, plodding and maybe even more rebellious that out-and-out noise:
"The ice age is coming, the sun is zooming in,
...engines stop running and the wheat is growing thin.
A nuclear error, but I have no fear
London is drowning-and I live by the river..."
But he doesn't head into the next verse. He doesn't head into a reprise of the chorus. The blues takes over and with a virtuoso turn of fingers he carves out something new. The Clash wouldn't even recognize it.
"I don't want to be your father," Dei says over the music. "Do you mind that?" He turns his head and he chuckles. "Pour me another glass, my hands are occupied..."
And aren't you suddenly relieved...
"If you did want to be my father, I'd be bloody amazed. I'm from a Jewish family, r'member." Well.. hasn't always been Jewish, but her family, her parents, both are. A smirk. "Most men don't like the idea of circumcision, I'm told..."
Which is a touchy topic, suddenly, to be on, and she goes beet-red, covering it by bending to pour the drinks, topping off her own glass as well.
"So how'd you get into guitar, specifically? Someone in your family plays?" It's a good sally, covering the cracks which come to mind about fathers and daughters which would lead the conversation downhill way too fast for Drancy's liking.
He doesn't go red but the platinum brows lift. Circumcision? No, thank ...Whomever...for that. "Lovely religion, too bad about the cutting. Fortunately, I got to skip that." And we won't bring up piercings either. It's just better left the the imagination.
There's a grin for the blush. "It's complicated enough as it is," he whispers, pausing the song for the plucking of seemingly haphazard notes...
But each one is stirring. In its clarity. In its timing. Like fingers against the skin. The air around you both is warm and now kinetic. Dancing. "Oh, it's been in my family for a long time. Maybe even centuries. My mother told me that it was three-hundred years old and originated from Italy. I think it originated from Spain. The box is too broad for Italian boxes of the period. My grandfather played. And then it passed to me. My father was a fisherman, couldn't carry a note. But my mother... she gave me this when my grandfather passed, even though he asked that it be sent afloat with him."
The sounds in the other room have calmed down for now. There's a little bit of laughter. There's some sound now, coming from next door. Rhythmic. Must be the next door neighbors getting in the act. Or Erik and Jared. As you pour drinks, Dei leans in, reaching for one of Sieg's leftover joints.
Drancy groans a little, and murmurs, "Guess we'll have to turn the volume up a little more yet..." She sets one of the glasses down in front of you, bringing the other one to her lips. Buying time.
Time... how deep a hole am I digging, and what am I going to have to do to get out of this one in one piece?
The energy is just distracting, and it's tempting to drink and go on drinking until she can't feel it anymore - numb, down to the core, less building a wall or pushing away than anasthesia of a sort. "I'm surprised."
I remember sitting shivah for my grandmother, plates of food, mainly. I was numb then, too.
"Too valuable in memory and in use to send down the waters? - You did a whatd'youcallit, then, a pyre, for him?" She notices, of course, but doesn't comment. She'll stick with her vodka.
"Oh, nah... they buried him at sea. Off of his whaling vessel. Then they put some of his stuff in a small boat and set that on fire, so it'd be on the other side waiting on him. But my mom saved the guitar, for which I nightly thank her..."
That's not the real story. The real story is far more amazing. Far more tragic. But it will serve as the Truth.
Dei lifts the glass, swallows the vodka, even as he brings back the joint and lighter with him. He lights up on the heels of the swallow, closes his eyes and takes a long exhale. "We'll cover it up in a moment. The walls, we've discovered, are paper thin. I keep expecting them to break through." He chuckles and then gives you a sparkling look.
You know that look. Don't you know the face of Interest?
But he looks away right after, exhaling finally and then inhaling again. The paper and the grass burn quickly. Holding it pressed in his lips, he breathes it in. Escape will follow.
First there's his voice. First, without his guitar...
"Well, your railroad gate, you know I just can't jump it,
Sometimes it gets so hard, you see
I'm just sitting here beating on my trumpet
With all these promises you left for me
But where are you tonight, sweet Marie?"
Slow and sweet, rough and plaintive. In it is the sound of Longing Itself...
So many Truths, little and big, and Drancy's unconscious of so many of them. "Either that, or break through to throttle them," she grumbles. "Used to live in a place like that, where people'd keep me awake til dawn... I remember while I was up at university, there was one couple living under me who'd wake me up with her screaming almost every night at three in the morning. It was like... my nightly wakeup call to go have a piss."
Must've been interesting for them too, sort of. They finish, then hear the thud of my feet hitting the floor, and shortly thereafter, the flush of the commode. Not exactly applause, but what do you expect?
The look just makes her redden again, swallowing at her vodka to cover it. She's just... not prepared for this, doesn't know how to cope.
She's not used to it being mutual, after all.
"I don't know that one," she mentions mutedly, trying for an offhand voice. Uncomfortably, she fidgets a little under the lip of her cloak, unbuttoning it so it rests on her shoulders, thrown back a bit, fanning herself with a handful of papers.
"Bob Dylan," he interrupts himself with a breath of marijuana, and he plucks it from his lips, the song cut off while he sets the burning joint aside. And it's gotten quite warm, only he doesn't even notice. See, where he's from it gets so much hotter. He doesn't pay it any mind. But he drinks. He doesn't notice it until you fan yourself.
"I'll get some ice..."
Lord, that can't be a good idea...
And he sets the guitar aside. It invites you to lift it, as he sets it between you. It sparkles. It warms. It shines. "I like Bob Dylan," Dei murmurs, rising with a groan, a stretch. He peels off one layer of the many he is wearing, t-shirt removed, the thermal is left behind. And a hand is raked through lavender strands.
And the banging next door, hard to miss it...hard to miss what it is. "I had walls so thin once, that a bedframe actually broke through it," he laughs. He gets a glass of ice and moves back toward you. He hands it to you with a smile in his eyes. "I'll open a window, maybe that'll help, ja?"
Drancy accepts the ice gratefully, taking the glass and pulling a chunk out to rub it along her cheeks and forehead and lips, closing her eyes. "Yeah, maybe that'll help."
Maybe if I don't look, I can tune it out better...if I blind myself, I won't tie my hands, and I can think of other things.
She cracks her eyes open to slits, glancing from the guitar, reaching out with the hand not covered in melting icewater and condensation to run a fingertip along the A-string, looking over at you.
If I had any common sense, I'd be making an excuse about it getting late, and calling a cab. But at the same time, I don't want to leave you alone, caught in the middle of these. I'm a sucker, and this is a sucker's bet, innit.
"Having someone crash through my wall would be just what it'd take to get myself spayed, I think." A shake of her head, and she drips more ice along her cheeks, rubbing it into her throat and behind her ears. "Might chop my hair off again, if it gets any hotter."
The guitar sings beneath your fingertip...sliding...
Sighing...
It's nothing like when you touched Davydd, it is more subtle...
More of a tingle....
A tremble. In your gut. No, lower...
You touch it, and you sing with it, beneath your skin, in your blood. Butterflies. It's like butterflies, that feeling...
"I like short hair, it's just... less complicated," there's that word again. "I can help you cut it if you want, or maybe when Dot's finished," he starts to add, sucking Sieg's cock, but well... there's no point in saying it. We all know she's doing it. Or something. And he knows she won't be finished.
As soon as the banging stops next door, the creaking from the next room can be heard again. It's probably going to be like this all night. "Well," he chuckles, stepping away from the now open window, "... looks like we're on our own. I can cut it if you want..." Dei takes up the joint and he finishes it off. "Do you want a little cloth," he says, sitting beside you again. "Do you want to hold it," he wonders, looking from you to the guitar. "I can teach you how to play..."
I can teach you, Drancy...
Drancy jerks her hand away, almost guiltily, as if burned, fingers curling in against her palm before she then wipes her palm along her clothed thigh, as if somehow able to wipe power off like dust.
Shite. I'm in trouble, aren't I...
"That's why I used to have it cut short. It... grew." Not by her choice, either, and if she could just get it to stay short, it'd be less than shoulder length and dyed fuchsia again, no doubt. But that's not something she can explain, even now - alcohol is more paralyzing her than it is loosening her tongue.
Well... the things I do to let Dot have a good time... they bloody well'd better stay together a while, after this.
"Eh. Don't know if cutting it's such a good idea, really," she temporizes. "I mean... unless you've got hair scissors, or a bloody sharp knife, it'll just get split, and be a bitch to take care of. 'Sides, there's advantages to long hair. Even if I can't think of any right now. Cloth? Er, oh, for my face? Sure. Then I can stop dripping all over myself." Play? Err.. that thing's dangerous. He's got to be joking...
"I'm sure you could, but that'd sort of require a long term commitment, really. I try not to pick up things I'm going to just put down again a few minutes later." She manages to get the words out steadily, though she can't maintain an even gaze, tilting her head back to peer at the ceiling, trying to ignore the guitar, and equally, the tension in her stomach. "But I'm sure you're an excellent teacher."
"I don't know, I've never really tried." But he lets it go, taking up the guitar instead. He goes back to tuning it. It is quite sensitive, as you discovered, but not out of tune per se. He merely refines it again. And he begins to play something, anything, as the squeaking becomes loud and fast. "Well, it looks like we'll be in London for a while. But you know...if you want, I'll show you."
He's sitting down now though, right next to you, and it's not likely he's going to get up now that he's finished that joint on top of some vodka and frangelica. In fact, cradling the guitar, he turns about and lies back, head resting on your leg, neck of the guitar brushing against the chair.
And does the feeling in your stomach leap again? Does it spreading over your skin in warmth, the pricking as it spreads? Does the heat in the room rise... dramatically?
Are you only blushing...
"Maybe they'll pass out soon," he offers, hope in his voice. Apparently Jared and Erik have. There's nothing from the next door apartment now.
"..." At first, she just doesn't know what to do or say, speechless at the sudden intimacy. She pushes the cape off her shoulders unconsciously, with a shrug, as if trying to ward off this sudden heat.
"Are there very many things you haven't tried?" It was meant to be unspoken, but it comes out anyway, half-challenge though it is. "I mean..." She trails off lamely, smoothing the skirt of her dress, brushing against your hair and pulling her hand back rapidly.
Between power and sex, it's just getting a bit much for Drancy. Really. "And here I thought Dot's stamina just another urban legend." She'll try, then, to dilute the atmosphere.
Blue eyes look up to you, false illumination from the drug-glazed sheen. They focus on the neck of the guitar and he seems to think on that a while. Long and hard, it seems. "I haven't tried a lot of things. I haven't tried half the drugs that Sieg has tried, for example. I haven't tried to go to college. I haven't tried to be a gourmet cook."
I haven't tried to damn your soul, count yourself lucky...
"I haven't tried a lot of things," he echoes. "Is there anything you want to hear? Any requests? I don't normally take them..."
The squeaking slows again in the next room. Slows, but does not stop. See, maybe you were dead on when you said Sieg and Dot deserved one another...
Her own changeable eyes have gone a murky greyish-green shade. "Heh. Nothing wrong with that... I like the pharmaceuticals kept out of my system except on a required basis. If nothing else, if I'm in enough pain to require 'em, I want to be sure they'll work." No artificial tolerances for her.
Not sure where this is going, not even sure where I want this to go... his eyes are entirely too bright for my own good.
"Hear? Mm... my tastes tend to be either the horridly violent or the horridly sentimental. Only my cat knows how badly so. What about you? What do you want to play?" Drancy tilts her gaze down involuntarily as she counters with her own query, then slants her gaze to the side, clasping her hands awkwardly against her stomach.
Well... at least they know what they want, and know how to get there, even if for them it's a road already well plowed.
"I think I'm out of ideas for now. I figured we wouldn't be left alone immediately. I was kind of thinking the others wouldn't have deserted you to this cruel fate so fast." He chuckles, then sighs. Sitting up, Dei sets the guitar aside, leaning to lower it in its case. So gentle.
"It's easier to sin in a group, peer pressure I guess," he says. "If you want to go, that's alright," a whisper follows. But he lies back down, head on your lap again. Glisten. They are glistening, his eyes. "I'll call you a cab. I won't drive you now. But if you want to stay... that's okay too. I'm easy." A pause.
"Not as easy as Dot," he grins, "but easy..."
Drancy colours again, hating herself for it. It makes her tongue sharper. "No one," she replies dryly, "is that easy. Including, I sometimes think, Dot herself..." A glance around the room, palms pressed together meditatively, if not prayerfully.
"Sin in a group?", she echoes. "I thought that applied more to drinking and drugs, and well, I never needed that to drink. Or did you mean something else?"
It's hard to hold still, under this shallow intimacy, and for a moment, she closes her eyes, brain clicking off. It clicks back on, but blurrily. "I should hope you wouldn't be driving now," it comes out all prim, more proper than would be the usual for her, "after all that. I've no real wish to see either of us dead, you know." If she were a Good Girl, corrupting her would've been easy. It would've been an easier decision, probably, as well...
Indirect. "What do you want?" She meant it to come out in a normal tone of voice, meant about staying or going, but instead, it comes out in a hushed whisper - too much singing, too much to drink, and her head is distinctly unclear, caught between fever and fuzz.
I want to remind myself...
I want to forget it all somehow...
I want to be alone...
I want to be immersed in a crowd...
I want to be myself...
I'll be anyone...
"I want you to stay..."
And you knew it'd come to this, didn't you? When you got the phone call, didn't you? You didn't expect him to lie on your lap though, did you? Could you have expected that he'd sit up then, and try to kiss you?
Is it all a bad dream, or is it everything you wanted? Is it enough to go, or too much not to stay?
If she hadn't been drinking quite so much...
If she hadn't been spending so much energy, trying to wall out power and her own conflicts...
Maybe she'd be able, then, to just get up, walk away, and not wonder later. Maybe. And maybe not.
"Dei..." A breath, and you can feel her tension, her nervousness. After all, it's not like she's done this before, has she - and there's a brief fight-or-flight mechanism threatening to rebel, she's that off guard. She doesn't push, doesn't bite, just... sort of turns to stone for a moment, tensed as if you were trying to hit her instead of trying to kiss her, even if part of her's enjoying it. She doesn't know how to let go, and she holds on the more tightly. Virgin.
If you knew, you'd just die...
Hell of a way for it to happen. Literally. You'd get up and you'd run. You'd know better then, like you don't know now...
"It's alright," he says, "...it'll be alright..." Such words, such famous words. But he doesn't stop, and a hand reaches out, lightly moving against a reddened cheek. And he kisses you anyway.
Now, what's it like to kiss the Prince of Lust, you may well ask. What's it like to be touched by Want Itself? All the danger of the dark-haired man in the too rich car and all the spark of magic finding itself in dark blue marks probably won't compare. But then, you have so little to compare it to. Maybe it's just the first kiss thing. You know, the First of anything.
So easy, it would be so easy to lose yourself in that...
It's like swimming. If you don't drown, you get the hang of it. But at first, all it is, is drowning by stages.
All right? It's not, not really, and she's not so far gone that she doesn't know it. But she's busy drowning in it, and yes, there's inexperience in it, and awkwardness, a sort of ideological thrashing and beating against the waters.
Innocence is...
Drancy's eyes slowly drift closed, fingers curling in so her hands are in tight fists, nails digging into her palms. It's not a surrender, this way, just an armed truce, or she can lie to herself a little and pretend.
It's a picture William wouldn't believe, no doubt. If Drancy saw clearly, neither would she.
I feel it. Your innocence is sweet. Palpable upon the air around you. You radiate your virginity. He feeds from it like a fire from air. Exactly like a flame from air. He knows what your desires are. What your chief desires are. What you want. What you think you want.
The kiss parts, and Dei looks at you. Then at your clenched fists.
Drancy's eyes are still closed, blind like Oedipus, or like Justice, lips slightly parted from the impact of the kiss - if a kiss can be said to have impact, then that most certainly would. Her skin is still feverish, and she's trembling slightly - only slightly, because even in her current state, defending her walls is of tantamount importance to her.
Whether I am weak or whether I am strong, I will give the appearance of strength. Let them think me strong, and bitter in taste, so they won't be tempted to sample my fruit...
Lessons learned in nature - hers, or someone else's. There's a faintly bruised air to her, of waiting, uncertainty, even as blood wells up from the crescents around where her nails are embedded in her palms.
Oh, and wouldn't she hate it if William were there, and she knew his expectations. How she'd hate to prove him right, give him any satisfaction. But for now, she's beyond that, unthinking, brittle but lacking in sharp edges, trying to find spines and prickles with which to cover up softness.
She breathes shallowly, trying still on the inside to deny the female parts of her that whisper of thorough surrender, looking instead for her usual fire. She hates romance novels, but romance novels're popular for a reason, and there's dark reasons as well as light. All she succeeds in doing is slowly, opening her eyes, licking her lips.
"...You're ... not going to tell me you've not tried that one before," she manages, somehow, slowly closing and opening her eyes again. "Are you?"
"I hadn't tried it with you." He is the master of Qualifications, reaching far beyond what Plantagenet could do. Though, Plantagenet has his place in the hall of Lust, and certainly Andrealphus would say so, vampire though he is, there is simply no comparison. William doesn't even know Andrealphus exists. Well, then again...neither do you...
Your mouth still burns and he thinks to set fire to it again, but he stops. It's enough for now. No more, no less. "Sorry," and in the quiet now -- no squeaking springs -- his whisper carries. "I think I'm going to turn in now. Let me get you some... a pillow, something for the couch. It pulls out. I'll ... go in the other room, or next door."
And he stands, giving his head a shake, raking his hand through his purple hair.
What? Her mind's divided into parts, and none of them quite reach her mouth, or anywhere else coherent and cogent. Drancy isn't just out of her league, nor even out of her division - she's in the wrong sport entirely. All she knows is, she's in trouble, and she isn't quite sure how she got here, and not quite sure she wants out of it.
That last is probably the bit bothering her the most...
"Mrf? Uhh." When she remembers this, she's likely going to kick herself in six different directions, but now, you're standing up. Some distant part of her brain notes the silence - they've finally finished, is the dim thought. One hand lifts, then falls back against her knee, faint bloody marks left on the white of the gown, unheeded.
"I'll be all right, really..." I won't, but sometimes lies're the only thing left if I'm going to retain any pride or dignity, no matter how soiled and tattered.
She has no idea... darkness or light, of what you could do. Where you could take her, the places you could put her... no idea at all...
She settles back a little in her seat, staring blankly after you. Perhaps a very faint, very slight idea after all.
"I know you will. If ... I could trust myself to keep my hands to myself, I'd park it on the couch with you, but I will be honest," fancy that, "and tell you that... I don't trust myself." He smiles a little, looks to his task of finding a pillow. All sorts of things crammed in the cupboards, including two spare pillows and some sheets. "So... I'll go sleep with Jared and Erik," he laughs at that. When he's back at the couch, he looks down to you. He sees the blood. "I'll get you something for that, too."
What's the feeling. Well, there's no inkling that he's anything other than a very charismatic, powerful personality. A rockstar in infancy. That's reason enough. Reason enough, and understandable, of the places he could go, he could take you, the kind of life that'd mean. Maybe dark, maybe light. Certainly searing. "You know, I ... just don't want you to think I did it because I was high. I have been wanting to do that for a while," he says, tossing off the sofa cushions. "I hope you believe that."
He smiles a little, blushes and starts to lift the sofa hideaway. "If you want to punch me or kick me in the balls, go ahead..."
A faint smile, but uncertain, slight. Drancy stands up, very carefully, looking at the foldaway couch. "I appreciate your honesty." And that sparks slight guilt, at her own latent dishonesty. Can you feel that? Guilt certainly isn't something she usually engages in.
"As long as they don't care, but I don't want to chase you off either, y'know... I can sleep on the floor if need be. Or in the bathtub. Wouldn't be the first time."
She looks down at her hands, as if only becoming aware now of the indentations she's cut into her own palms. "Ah, fuck me," she mutters. "Yeah, antibios if you've got. If not, soap and water'll do."
The vodka's still in her system, and she's just... overwhelmed, really, not even trying to analyze it too deeply for now. She's not a starfucker, though, and she's never been this drawn to someone, this quickly, let alone enough to ... do anything. The feeling leaves her vulnerable, and she hates that. It's easy for her to be grateful for the opportunity to reclaim a little distance.
Honesty, though prompts honesty from her. "I didn't exactly try beating you off with a broomstick, now, did I... I don't think anything happened which we didn't both want." Even if I'm not sure if I -want- to want it... I did... "You need a hand with that?"
There's a little smile. Well, little. A little shit-eating, in truth. "I know," he says quietly. He chuckles then, expecting to be kicked for that. "Nah, I got it," he unfolds it and brushes off some crumbs. Then, brushing off his hands, he heads toward the bathroom. "I don't know what we have, but I'll look. The place is a wreck..."
"You're not chasing me off," he calls from the bedroom, not caring if he wakes up Dot and Sieg, doubting...truly...that he could. He returns with a couple of bottles and a tin of Band-Aids. "I have some of this, I think it's alcohol... and then this antibio spray...and coverups." He sets them down, one after the other in front of you. Then turns to make the bed. "I realized I wanted to be sober..." Blue eyes are still glassy, but fathoms deep no matter how light their color. And he tugs on the sheets. "We're playing the Helio tomorrow. Doing anything at midnight?"
If she were more certain of herself, there'd be a kick coming, and while Drancy's no warrior or amazon, not born to strife and blood like some who could be named, she's been in and out of mosh pits and the occasional brawl enough to know how to kick. But she's off balance, still, and so you're safe... if you were in any real danger from that, anyway. She scowls a little, though.
"Alcohol? Bloody hell... like I can't use vodka, if it comes to that. You lot buy it by the crate, don't you..." She starts cleaning the marks, doing first one hand, then the other, grabbing some paper napkins to blot the liquids with, alcohol and blood alike.
Then she goes scarlet, pausing for a moment to just not move at all, staring at her hands and at the bandaids as if they're the most fascinating thing anyone's ever seen. "...I'll have to check. I don't think so, but ... I don't know." When poised at the brink of the abyss, she doesn't run and she doesn't jump. She just... hovers...
"Well, if you want, that's where we'll be." And he backs off. "Then we're taking off for a week. Much needed relaxation." And you'll probably get a call then. "Alright," he finishes with the bed, tosses on several of the couch pillows and the spare bed pillow. "...you're all set, milady Red." And then he realizes something.
You see it in his expression. In the sudden grin. "What big eyes you have," he hoarses out. Like the big bad wolf he is. And then he laughs. That's three times in one night...
Drancy lowers her head and shakes it, hard enough for her hair to go flying out and some of the braids free themselves, glass and crystal baubles chiming faintly. She smiles, ferally, and makes a noise deep in the back of her throat. "Grrrrrr..."
She snaps her teeth at you, rising and leaving the cloak behind her. "If you're going to steal my lines," she drolls, "expect me to do likewise. Sleep well, Dei." She makes her way to the newly arranged bed, kicking off her boots to pad barefoot to the bed and curling up on it. "I'll most probably kill you in the morning."
She'll likely be tossing and turning until the alcohol kicks in. But how often does a Demon Prince of Lust have virgins quoting The Princess Bride at them? All in all, there's something to be said for that. She closes her eyes, pretending to sleep.
"As you wish..."
And then the light goes out...
Posted by rowan at May 11, 2003 01:48 PM
