The short days bring the gift of long nights. The normally short sleeps Edward enjoys are even shorter these days. All of 9 hours or so. Blessed are the Scandinavians, to be sure. Five hours of daylight must be splendid.
     The clothing arrived not so long ago. Sent out and cleaned. Edward ferries them into his bedroom, closing the door behind with his foot. Standard practice. The fire is low, as the day has gone on, but with the drawing shadows, someone shall enter to stoke it.
     Your clothing is set at the foot of the bed, taken out of the packages. He lingers there for a while, watching you sleep, and instinctively, the black robe begins to slip away. He steps from the slippers. All that remains are the black boxers that cling to his skin -- and he wants so much to remove them as well. But he shall not force himself upon you. Newness may bring enthusiasm, but not insensitivity. Edward's fingers slip inside his waistband, drawing around in a modicum of release, but he thinks better of it. Hands lower, and he moves to the side of the bed, crawling gently upon the velvet to lie beside you, hand at your hip.

     The rise and fall of the sun. The rise and fall of his stomach as he breathes. Both, as natural as the other. Mortals...they are at their most human when they are sleeping. He has long lashes, golden. His sandy-golden hair is straight naturally, but not so fine that it is unruly. There is, in actuality, a natural wave to it. Were he to let it grow long, it would be more predominant. His athletic form is both muscled and lean. Hewn by machines, rather than working hay and land and horse. But a fencer's physique to be sure. Noticeable in the trim sides and strong legs. In the strong shoulders and arms. Tangled in the sheets -- he must have gotten too warm at some point, a leg it out of the covers -- he is at least half out of them as he is in them.
     As the bed shifts with weight, he shifts with wakefulness. Dawning. A murmur of something French, mostly incoherent. A murmur of your name after. Querying, quietly. From his side, he twists, half upon his back and now against you. Muscle. Ah. Edward. It is you. The smile comes slowly, drowsily, and eyes dare to open. A crack...no more. Hazel is slightly darker upon first waking. Browns and greens. The gold will come with consciousness.

     "You remember," Edward grins. "Mmm," he follows, curling around so that he might embrace you. "Good evening." How nice to say that to someone! A chuckle and evening salutations are accompanied by a flurry of kisses at your head, cheek, neck, and then tickling fingers. "Wake up, sunshine," words coming in English. Easy enough for you to learn.
     Dieu. You feel wonderful. He wants to say it, but it's a bit much for a first evening. Everything about you is wonderful. My bed, you, your breathing, the covers, someone here that I smile to see. Different from most evenings when the first thing he wants is for people to go away. "There is water for you, a bath, and your clothes are all cleaned..."

     How could I forget? When you taste Truth, you always know what to call it...
     "Mmm...oui... evening already..." It is not a question. And he is not concerned. What care the French for the keeping of Time? When anything but the pursuit of Love and Wine should be left to accountants and priests to worry about. Words of sunshine. He laughs quietly and wakefulness sparks in his eyes. A stretch against you and within strong arms. Eyes open more fully. Focus. You can see them focus by the first showing of gold. "Evening," he murmurs. I need a bath, but first...
     A kiss. Forgive me if I taste of stale wine. I also taste of you. "Merci," he murmurs at your mouth. "I will take the water... " The grin is smooth and slow. Devastating in its way. Cocky, that. "I would thank you for your hospitality, but I should rather... show my gratitude than tell of it..." There is a pause... and upon him a look of something serious. "I... don't want to ...presume your evening... but I ...would really like to..." Stay. Another night.
     And another.
     "...be a part of it..."

     "You're not presuming," Edward smiles, "...I did not want to...make you stay, if you had things to tend to. If not..." and he simply shrugs, muscular shoulders and biceps rolling fluidly. The kiss is returned, and a wince follows...a bath is a good idea. He laughs and begins to draw his hand up your arm. A scritch if there was one. "The bath is the first door behind you on your side...everything should be in there. Your clothes," he motions at the foot of the bed, "...are there." He can appreciate cleaning as a private act. "Then a bit of dinner?" For both of us. "The kitchens were happy to know that they had to make meals..." he smirks, "I eat out a lot."
     So many disposable nights. You have one, you have a thousand of them. You pitch them over your shoulder and you head out into another. They may as well be pages you are tearing out of the book of your life and letting them slip from your fingers. Why do I feel as though I have torn my last page?

     Valan sits up slowly, with a groan. The lips that hold smiles and laughter so readily -- and are talented at other tasks, as you have discovered to your pleasure -- hold a grin. A flash for that. You hear his stomach growling? "I could do with a little something..." A hand rakes through his hair, it does nothing to tame the short and now wild locks. A note of his clothing. A stretch. Ah... and another. Limber, he bends, doubling over, hands locking at the bottom of his feet. He turns his head. You've had yours -- pity. "Very well... I shall try to get presentable... mind if we pick up my car at L'Empereur after dinner? Other than this... I have...nothing I need to do ... but you..." Laughter -- ah, good one, Montague.
     Straightening, Valan throws off the covers and stands. Male beauty. Indeed. And... in that condition of mortal men when they wake. Ah, what dreaming does. But it is not regarded or noticed. Nor is their any shyness or shame on his part in the slightest. You get the distinct feeling he could walk in downtown Paris naked and be comfortable. This one... he knows his skin... and he enjoys it.

     "Sure," Edward replies, deciding to recline to watch you. Elbow sinks deeply into the velvet, his hand disappearing into his hair. Lips pull as he watches, knowing and hoping the demonstration was for him. "I'll have someone bring up the meal while you are in the bath. Take your time," he smiles. Edward's leg rises, foot planting into the coverlet. Until you disappear, he shall keep his eyes upon you. "So," he begins, "...did you sleep well? I don't normally have many...visitors."

     "Like a stone," comes his lifted voice. "Comment le sommeil pourrait-il etre moins etonnant que cela qui l'a inspire?" Indeed. How could the sleep be any less amazing than that which inspired it? In the pause of his voice, and the echoes as it stills that you, vampire, surely must hear, you also hear water running. It is water. But you also hear a soft groan. His bladder will thank him for that later. "Edward..." he calls, "...you will tell me, oui? If my praise of you becomes annoying? I cannot help it. Il ne peut pas etre evite..." Laughter, warm. Flowing... alive...
     And the next groan is for the warm water of the bath. Muscles are sore, Edward. But this night will find them in use again. Oh.. god... worth the burn. Every moment of it. The running of water turns to trickles, and you can hear him in it. Relaxing with an exhalation. Dieu.

     "You may stop now," Edward calls loudly so that you might hear him. Ah, the sounds of a male rising. He smirks to himself, rolling onto his back for the meantime. There is silence, then a bit of a murmur. A call made downstairs.
     After a few minutes, there is indeed another person in the outer room. A presence felt as much as heard. Edward stirs, more than likely leaving the bed you now share. Taps and clinks chime, and a meal table is orchestrated in the bedroom. Moments pass, and then there is silence again, save the call, "Dinner is here, Valan," a sing-song quality to it.

     I find it so easy to laugh. I hear that those who are 'mad' laugh quite easily, and with just the slightest provocation. Perhaps it is because they have tasted what I have tasted. Perhaps it is because they know...what I now know. C'est joie simple...
     "Merci!" comes the call in return. "Your non-flattering ami is starving. I had you for dinner... or... you had me," quite literally, though he does not recall that. "Coming!" He can't help this. The laughter is smooth. The roughness of morning shaken off. But it retains its summer warmth. Something of sunlight in him always. It is more than just a matter of the gold in his eyes and hair. It is something that some have born upon their blood.
     Your William has this quality...
     It is a progression of moments. Several in a pack. A herd of minutes that pass by. You can hear the water draining. You can hear him in motion. Drying off. Ah, or should he have given you the pleasure? Hair is cut short overall but is long in portions -- he will let it dry naturally. And toiletries are borrowed. Surely you will not mind. And after all of this... mortal production... he emerges. Wearing only a towel around his waist. Tucked there. He smells of soap and water and the warmth of it all yet clings to him. Do you study his stride? It is confident and graceful. A quality there...that can only be given by use of a sword. It is balance and strength. It is self-knowing. It is the stride that approached you only last night. And with it, the smile. Valan smiles, "More presentable, oui? Certainly less... hmmm... aromatic?" Laughter rolls from him and he approaches the bed. Ah, and food. You see it light in him. Hunger.
     He is not so different from you...

     "Aromatic's a word," Edward says, a small table for two set up. Linens and flowers are there, plus a small candle in water. But Edward has other plans. He lies almost as you left him, now upon a made bed. Still in black silk boxers. A plate rests upon the undulating mattress, a fork in his hand. "Come here," he motions with his fork, already chewing something. Beef tenderloin medallions, it appears to be, a series of new potatoes and asparagus, plus a bit of sweet polenta with a sprig of rosemary. The salad and soup are left at the table nearby. "Beef," he notes, swallowing a bite and lifting a nibble your direction. The table also keeps glasses and a bottle of opened red, but apparently such formality interests him now. "I think it has some sort of reduction on it, but hey, what do I know about food, hmm?"

     Softening light. Like the last gasp of twilight. This, upon his features as he steps into the light the candle provides. And to the bed. No, to you. The bed itself is inconsequential, though quite comfortable. It could be a couch. Or a floor strewn with cushions for all the difference it makes. A knee is pressed to the surface of it, and he leans in. Quiet features focus on you as he leans in. Mouth to the fork. His lips, two thieves. The beef is taken, and the eyes close as his mouth withdraws.
     There are three essential pleasures to a Frenchman. Sex, Wine and Food. Sensual creatures they are. And Valan...? A sensualist among sensualists. He wears it upon his skin. The delight of that food is physical and transcendental both. "Dieu," he murmurs after swallowing. "Very nice..." And hazel eyes slip along you. Very nice.
     Ah, Valan. Pay attention to me! I am your stomach and I am dying for attention! His mouth pulls in a slight smile -- slight, but quite warm. He begins to straighten, leaning back from the fork you offered. Ah, but not to leave you. No, indeed. But rather to settle on the bed without disrupting the plate of tenderloin. "A light touch of wine... a hint of Loire berry..." He murmurs.

     "We can share," Edward blushes, lips curling in as he notices the look you give. He shakes his head and looks down to the plate, fishing for a bit of potato. All for the image, non? His foot readjusts, flat of it buried in a pile of black velvet.
     "Would you mind, if I asked you a question?" he pipes softly as you pour. Brown eyes look up to the foot of the bed, above his head. He would eat upside down. "Are...you not worried about...running into...someone dangerous?" Someone who would hurt you? Picking up men in bars is not necesssarily safe. But he will not belabor by explaining his meaning. He thinks you know what he meant. Brows lift towards you, expecting an answer. "You...well...what you have seen of me..." he shrugs, "...you take risks, ami..."

     You sit with a plate and a world and existences between you. It is a wonder that you can share the same space and that the universe can take the disparity. But... for every disparity... there is commonality. And yes... you shall drink from one glass. The Loire red is poured. And it is brought to you. And then does Valan Montague settle beside you.
     Golden brows lift, a slight arch, and upon his expression there is ...understanding. At least he believes he understands. "It is... not something I usually do, non..." he murmurs. "And yes... it is a risk. But ... so is walking down the street, ami...it is... " He holds out the glass of wine in offering first to you. "...Life." A pause, and the corners of his mouth uplift a little. "Particularly on the streets of Paris. It is not safe walking... with so many who drive as they do...But..." the smile softens to something sincere. Serious. "I know what you are saying, Edward..." But I'm not running from you. I want another piece of beef...

     Succulent beef means easy to slice. He does so, listening to you speak. But there is still worry. He cannot imagine you ever picking up another man again. Not so much because of his attachment, but because he would worry. Next time, it could be so different. Edward remains quiet a moment, picking up the beef and spearing a potato. "Walking down the street...is not...leaving a place with someone you do not know, not in your own auto, Valan." Just so you know. He disagrees. Brown eyes are kept downcast -- he does not want to appear superior in any regard. But he was the one with all the advantages last night. "I could have...been anyone. Done anything to you..." he whispers, keeping the conversation between the space your breaths cover, "...and there would have been little you could have done to stop me," his voice barely audible. Nothing, in truth. "I...just don't want to imagine..." you on another night . He shrugs, not knowing what else to say. The fork is lifted to your lips and offered sweetly.

     You are right. It is amazing. To have not thought of it at all . That catches him. Amazing isn't it. What those who do not have so long upon this earth are willing to do with the little that they have. It is the quality in mortals that makes them incredible -- and the part of them that makes them incredulous. His own eyes lower to the food. The plate. Your hands. Hard to argue with that, Meurelle. "You won't have to imagine..." Valan whispers. "You won't have to worry." He says it so easily. Perhaps it is because he means it. Because it will be unnecessary.
     Eyes close with the next slight lean for the taste. Beef stolen by that mouth again. Tender flesh chewed and swallowed. Golden, the lashes that part for the look. And in shades of green and gold and brown, warmed and bright in this serious conversation, you see something ...unwavering.
     I will pass through this life knowing one thing, Edward Meurelle. That I want you. And no face in any bar shall hold allure. I will work. I will create. And I will know that this is Something. It is sudden, and it is love. Unexpected. Because love has become as much of a myth as God Himself. Unreal and surreal like television programs, which show life as it seems to be but never truly is... or ever was or will be. "You are right, Edward. But... for this one... foolish act..?" An eyebrow lifts and he smiles. "There will be no regrets from me..."

     Brown eyes still down, the pull of a grin forms. Yes, it did work out well this time. And with your reassurances, he looks up, between falling locks of his own. Styling evaporated with last night's bath.
     "Want some asparagus?" he whispers, clipping the sprout with his fork. "How is the wine?"

     "Plais," comes the whispered French. Please. "And the wine... is very good. Very light for a red of this region. In perfect concert with the beef..." Valan grins, "... my professional opinion is..." The tilt of his head causes the blood-red garnets to sparkle at his throat. "...admiration... with a splash of vintage jealousy..." Wretch. He chuckles quietly and offers the glass to you again. A sip? "I will trade you... red for green..." His favorite colors, remember? You can feel the mortal ripple when your eyes lift, even though he is himself unconscious of it. You can catch the subtle flickers of hazel as his eyes take quick and stealthy glimpses of you...
     Maybe I should spill the wine...

     Edward snorts, piling together another bite for you. In turn, he leans towards you, tipping his chin so he might have a drink. Not bad. "Do I sound jealous?" Edward murmurs, his eyes soft. Already? No, that is not it. But he does not answer his own question, leaving feelings to the ether still. For him, it is still too early to pluck and give a name to his emotions. That much he knows.
     "Jealousy must be boring," he laments softly, offering the fork. "It is a sure sign of too much attachment, oui? And...for those who frequent L'Empereur, well, we cannot simply have that." A smirk. "I am sure your associate Astrid could tell much on her feelings concerning those who become too attached."

     Oh, you misunderstood me. "Non... the jealousy is mine. That the wine is not from Montague vineyards," he softly explains. "It is nice and light. Our Bordeaux reds have a tendency to stick to the tongue. It is the soil... the upper Loire is ..." He stops himself with a flush of crimson that puts the wine to shame. Thankfully it is brief. As if you cared for the professional opinion. "I think... jealousy in a larger sense...has its place. French women have learned to master the art of it...oui? Over the centuries. French men... well... we do not use jealousy. We have... insatiability," Valan grins smoothly, quietly. Pausing for a bite. Eyes half close in appreciation. Echoed by a sound held in throat and in the depths of his chest. "...and ...hmm... aloof passion. We pretend it does not bother us. We are gods in miniature ...as for Astrid?" He shrugs. "It is a life, I suppose, to fuck without feeling, to ...toy with flesh like a car. She will be old and wrinkled one day, her pert breasts will sag, her figure will fail her. And she will only have memories of beauty to sustain her." The grin leaps to his mouth and eyes. "Ah, my French fatalism is showing. Pardon me, ami..." He chuckles, warm lifting sound. Summer. "As a rule, I only find accountants boring..."
     In the moments of leaning forward and back, the towel has come untucked and has fallen around his hips. He doesn't care. Shameless. Content.

     Edward chuckles, agreeing with your sentiment. "Beauty does fade. Unless..." he grins oddly, "...you are Dorian Grey. That is the book, yes?" Bobbing his head, for he believes himself correct, Edward fishes up more of the sliced tenderloin. "Will we sag and our figures fail?" he teases, looking at yours. "What will we do then? Ah...that is the failure of the French man, hmm? He never goes out of style. Much to the chagrin of the whole world...." motion made with his hand.

     "Ah... well... we have years before we have to worry about it. And even then... yes... as Frenchmen we are blessed or cursed with style. And when we are too old to rock a bed, we will drink and eat with even more abandon. Life is beautiful, ami..." Rich, the sound of his quiet laughter, and he takes one last bite of the tenderloin. His next bite will be meat of a different sort, if it is up to his choosing.
     A tip of the glass and wine is swallowed. A swipe of his tongue along the edge of the glass, to steal the last drop of it. You can see him coming, Edward. You catch the glint darker than rubies... the light playing upon the string of garnets your young man wears. And you feel his mouth upon your own.
     Wine and Summer...

     L'Empereur...
     For all that it was on Friday night... there was little perhaps that could have prepared you for how Saturday would transform it. Not only is it the Land of The Beautiful of this region -- some of them Eternally Beautiful perhaps, even if only by the miracles of cosmetic surgery -- but live music can be heard from within. It is a soundtrack midway between Swing and Jazz, quick tempoed accompaniment to the constant stream of humanity in and out of the three-story structure.
     Ah, sweet Saturday night. Jazz night. One can relive the hey-day of Grand Paris in the 20s, when American musical refugees crowded cabarets. We adopted them, we French. Ah, how we do love refugees. I stopped you in the car with a kiss. I could not stand it. One more, before we must head indoors and act with that casual cool of Men Who Look At Other Men while in the presence of those ... not in The Know. It is scandalous. I could lie beneath you, pile on top of you and straddle you all night, and every night, and not tire of it. The kiss I leave you in the dark of your ultra-modern car is searing. And says as much. "Shall we go in for a drink?" Valan grins, unbuckling himself, turning his head against the back of the car seat. Grinning. Glorious.

     "Sure," Edward smiles, reeling from the kiss. You are so unlike other mortals. Tongue runs across his tender lip, then a hand touches it. He smiles, his dark navy pants seeming black in the car. Even his lighter blue shirt does as well. He chuckles and swings from his car, standing up and out of the way that the door might close automatically. Shifting a bit, he touches the small of his back, then walks around the car to your side.
     "You look great," he says softly, hand extending to reach for your waist. A small touch before entering. Edward's black coat seems like a duster on him, he cutting a figure of a man drawn from the American West. "Did you...have to meet people here tonight or anything?" What should I expect?

     "Ah non... non... I usually come here only to ... people watch. It is more entertaining than the Paris Zoo..." The smile is wide and warm as he unfolds himself from your car. Standing back, as you, for it to automatically close. Golden brows lift a little to that -- amazing machine, really. And that smile remains upon his mouth as you arrive. He checks his own jacket for his keys, ah yes...there. "And what of you... your friends from last night... will they be..." his voice quiets at the touch. "...looking for you, Edward? Ah... and if you see that dark one... with the cigarettes... we must talk to him... I want to try those again. I did not know that you could still smoke wrapped cinnamon..."
     People stream in and out. Their heartbeats pulsing between the shifting tempo of the song. And I could wrap myself around you here and now and not care for their bright eyes. You should be in cinema with the look you have. Oh, am I staring...? Again...?
     Valan chuckles softly, hazel eyes tending downward, a glance at himself. "Ah, merci... merci... in last night's clothing...and all the more cocky for the noticeable wear..." His wearing of you, to be precise. "And you..." he murmurs. Gaze lingers. And you . He gestures with a hand, shall we? And he matches your stride with his stroll. Beauty, Grace, Strength -- you both meander with power and distinction. "Do you like jazz, Edward?"

     "I haven't listened to it much," Edward murmurs, falling into English patterns with French tongue. He watches the people streaming in and out, keeping close to you. "And no, my friends...they have gone home. They do not live here...that much." A slight correction. He smirks and guides you forward, not ashamed to be seen touching another man. Really. And who would say anything to him anyway...
     "We can get you the cigarettes, if you like...my friend has a few...friends," Edward smiles, expecting to pay a cover charge. He stops and fishes for a few bills in his pockets.

     L'Empereur and its three distinct and yet intertwined sections may be accessed in a variety of portals. The main doorway is a double doorway, with sweeping staircases to left and to the right, leading to the cafe and bar above. The restaurant, filled now and smoky, is straight ahead, in a more imperial Russian fashion. The music and the majority of the crowds come from above. Where cafe and bar commingle. There are also exterior staircases and other entries secreted within. There are even rumored to be secret passages for the... elite. It is at the main entrance where a man and a woman stand, taking Euro for entrance. A ...healthy cover charge at that... but... well worth the price, would you not say?

     "You take the gate, I shall provide you... all you wish once within..." Valan whispers, leaning in, mouth near your ear. In other words, you get the cover... and I'll cover the drinks . For his part, your Valan seems to be a man... utterly at peace with who he is. No shame. No pretense. No apologies. No regrets. He leans in to the touch. That you are comfortable with it? See how his smile smoothens. "Bon soir, Ute..." he says to the young woman, even as she -- full crimson lips, strawberry hair in something of a ...modified corseted tux over cabaret shorts -- looking part Dominatrix... part Liza Minelli -- smiles to you. And yes, reaches for Euros.

     "I only take it... because the boys are playing well tonight. Other wise... shitty musique American and you get in for free with a face like that," she murmurs, her accent decidedly non-French. German? Ah, Russian. Valan is careful not to touch the small of your back, but you do feel a hand creeping. Even as his smile slowly pulls into a grin. "You are so good to me... Ute... Edward... Edward... Ute Napoleon..." A hand gestures in introduction.

     "I, like love, conquer all!" Ute says, voice raised and grin wide.

     He guesses so. Edward only smiles at the notion of shitty American music, fishing out enough to cover the entrance. He's glad that you'll see to the rest. Giving to the woman, he bobs his head in thanks, adding, "Bon soir," a bit reservedly. Germans do little for him. "Who.." his head motioning within, "...is playing?"
     Instinctively, Edward's hand does alight above the waistband of your slacks. Perhaps from some nerves of his own, in truth. But he is comfortable, and at this point, would rather have you close.

     "Infants of Prague," she says, taking the money and slipping it into her corset. She waves the two of you through. "Mostly American refugees... the singer, though, is French by way of Moscow. Love her! She is beautiful...the voice of an angel... " And the crimson lips pull wide. Why do all Russian women smile like cats dining on canaries?

     Valan's arm circles around you. You want him close? You shall struggle up the stairway. To the right as you enter... the winding staircase. Where you saw William 'macking' on the blonde that he... released. Where Valan and you piled down last fateful night. "A corner table would be nice... yes?" he whispers.
     Yes...
     The music is upbeat, up tempo. Jazzy horns, clarinets, drums, an upright bass. And over it all the voice of a woman... her voice created for jazz. It sounds like an oboe, clear and soothing. The stairway itself is crowded. And you receive not a few looks as you pass by. Not for what you hold... but ... more like hungry mortal appraisal. Men and women alike. Beautiful people... and some only averagely attractive. Both the cafe and the club are busy, but you do notice, Edward... that a corner table is now empty. It seems you have timed it in the flux between early evening trendsetters and the true, latenight revelers...

     His arm circles you closer, and Edward looks up the stairs, expecting the music. It is not so bad. He nods at the notion of a corner table, and despite the stares at him, he deftly guides you both. Vultures they may be, but he'll not sacrifice either of you to them tonight. Oddly, he does not recall noticing being looked at before. You cause him to think...of himself. And you.
     "How did you get a good table?" Edward teases, hating to release you long enough to separate, remove coats, and organize to sit down. His hand reaches one of the chairs to pull it for you, his eyes turning to look where the performers are. In a moment, he shall push it in and then see to himself.
     "What do you want to drink, ami?" Edward asks intimately, if not softly. He has to be heard over the music....

     "It is just a little magic trick, like making a coin disappear -- only, mine works with people who are in spots I would rather be..." he winks as his eyes lift to you. His short hair was simply brushed straight tonight, rather than the artistically mussed look he had the night before. He looks more like he should be in a magazine. His shirt, liquid and bronze, is unbuttoned at the throat -- showing just the smooth beginning of his chest, and the garnets around his neck -- and again near the stomach. For just a peek of smooth skin there. All for you. "I think cognac tonight, ami... here..." Valan slips a hand into pants pockets... wallet removed... and from it several Euros. They are pressed into your hand and he leans in with a smile. "My contribution to the cause," intimacy without silence. And even though the light is dim within -- and where it shines, it shines in tones of amber and red -- his expression is openly warm. Intimacy there... in volumes.

     From here, you shall have a good view of the band. All men but for the singer. She is pixie cute, blonde hair and colored red just at the ends. The band is an assortment of American and French. All shapes and sizes. Hipsters. Refugees of the modern culture. The bar is crowded, but not crammed to the gills. Women, men -- and beneath the tempo of the jazz is a constant throb of human sexuality. For many here, this is foreplay.

     As you take a seat, Edward pushes the bills into his pocket, then sets his own chair next to yours. A hand lifts to get someone's attention, but it is a momentary lapse of diversion from you. "You look great," he whispers, pulling his chair beside yours, so that shoulders and flanks might touch, and his hand may slip into yours. "Just...wonderful." One arm leans on the table, but his face is towards yours, and near arm slides beneath the table to your thigh. "I hope," Edward looks around, "...your friends won't cause you too much trouble tonight?" If they should say something to and about you concerning your recent disappearance.
     "Non...if I see them... I will introduce them... but then tell them to go away..." Laughter is delight. How mortals do it so... naturally, effortlessly. It is this and their vulnerability that makes them beautiful. Even those with hard faces and exteriors -- when they smile or laugh, it is easy to see divinity in Man. Valan leans into you -- ah yes, so it must be if we are to speak, how convenient to my desire! "Do not worry, ami..." You feel his hand beneath the table. Warm. You feel his pulse there. His other arm rests upon the table's surface. Casual ease. Languorous enjoyment. "I will tell them I was busy and will see them on Monday..." His French is at your ear, he does not shout. Rather, proximity is used... more than volume. "And ...thank you... I am glad you like what you see. I have packaged it for your...viewing pleasure..."
     The band finally lands upon a slow song in their set. The smoky voice of the pixie singer is accompanied only by one horn, a soft-tapped drum and a slow, thudding bass line. Everyone around you is in some form of engagement. Conversation. Staring. Laughter. Drinking. The communion of modern souls. Searching. Each one searching. Even as your Valan was last night. But... there is the smile. The knowing. The calm ease to watch the world sail by. He will wave to it, your young Frenchman...
     Valan half-turns his head toward you, smile lingering upon his mouth. The smooth curve of one who has Found what he was searching for. He can watch the world go by in between the curling trails of cigarette smoke. And laugh softly to himself. That is the look he wears. "I shall not worry about anyone's friends. Yours or mine..." Hand curls at your thigh beneath the table, then hands run slowly. Wandering. "Nor shall I worry tonight about how long you shall be in France ... tonight... I shall drink cognac, ami... and talk to you about the things... you like. How... do you like to fill your time? Do you read... do you drink... do you dance?" Valan grins at the last part. He should... like to dance with you sometime.

     His eyes wander too, but more out of curiosity. How did I miss all of this. What if I had missed you? It has been a blur of living, charging by so fast as to not look at it clearly, see it well enough. Hoping not to see and not to be drawn into some deadly or aching escapade. Mortals are dangerous like that. Is it not precisely your beauty, your living, your effervesce that causes something dead to take a lying second chance on life? To embrace those who are not ready? To embrace those who do not know...and thrust them into a failing, dead world of violence and constant molestation? He should not have thought himself a philosopher, but if anything, you cause him to Love. To Think. And therein lies his own personal danger. It stands at his shoulder now, threatening where it had never before.
     Edward smiles at all of the questions, face to yours. His nose is so close to your cheek as to kiss it. He wants to. "Dance?" Edward begins with a brightening grin as someone finally approaches for a drink, "I...dance, yes. But...normally to different musics," he calls, bleating through the din. Fingers curl suggestively, strongly. He needs you near. Edward chuckles and looks back to the band and people milling about, head swaying gently to the music.

     "Bon soir...what would you gentlemen like?" the woman smiles, peering down at the doting pair.

     If only Alfonso were here. The aged Philosopher King. He would clean his spectacles with a soft white cloth. Methodically. And murmur: The windows to the soul, Meurelle, these must be cleaned constantly. Your eyes... must be open. Not merely alert for the constant threat of attack... no... even moreso, constantly aware of the Possibilities Life will place in front of you. This... must be chosen with care. Any fool can choose what gun to use on a given night. Very few know how to choose on what to place their Love...

     "We will have to... find a club... that plays your kind of music... which is...?" Valan asks, smile broad and face close to you. He smells of his shower, your soap -- and you. Fingers clasp. As the mouth wishes to do. Fingers slide. As arms wish to do. Eyes green and gold and brown turn to glance briefly toward where you grin. Ah...good! "Cognac please... Cognac Normandie..." Valan says, head inclining to the woman. Grin slanting slim. Golden cognac. And he looks to you. "What do you want... some of Normandie or something else, ami?" Loud enough for the woman to hear. He does not care. He will kiss you right now, and care not for any look. You feel his hand give yours a squeeze, and then your thigh.

     He almost blushes, but then recalls that she cannot see the hands. "I'll have a pint, thanks," Edward says, then realizes where he is. Well, you know what I meant. His brows arch and he laughs, leaning in to share the humor with you. He is so Anglicized, when he thinks upon it.

     "Absolutement," the waitress answers, "I shall return with those." She smiles and turns off to weave through the crowd and to the bar once more.

     "Um, what is my kind of music?" Edward restates, thinking about it. Ah, but if Alfonso was here. He is not so sure he'd tell his little secret. But true to form, the King would see. "I...like...a lot of...well, you wouldn't like it," Edward smiles self-aware suddenly. "I spend time," not that he enjoys the sound, he thinks now, "...in lots of...metal clubs, industrial, house, they call it," he murmurs. "If you...visit London...maybe we'd go to Phantasmagoria ...that's my local, as it were...." Fingers move with you, and the smile fades a little as he stares at your eyes. Your face. Yes, these are the things I want to do with you. His hand firms and curls, and Edward shakes it off, realizing he might be too forward. "It...it is an alright place, Phantasmagoria."

     Sliding, his hand splays against your thigh, and he leans into you -- you into the shadow. Ah, the comforts of the corner table. The distraction that the band provides. In all the noise, with all the crowd -- you have all the privacy in the world. And he... he is not shy. Or reserved. You feel the brush of his mouth to your ear. You smell the cologne -- expensive, and for that... light to the senses. An impression, rather than a slug to the gut. " If I visit London? Oh there is no if , Edward... I shall come..." Valan smiles warmly, widely. "... if you will have me there." And he laughs suddenly at the double meaning.
     And then there follows the staring. You look. I look. We cannot seem to help it. This first flush and mad surge of this... Something. Love. Dieu. It is love, isn't it. "Industrial... house ...oh, like discotech... but... louder..." he says, trying out his English with the word Louder. Valan wrinkles his nose. I need practice, do I not. "I would like to go," he says seriously. There, and anywhere else you should like to take me. I want to know you.
     I want to see what you see when you are there...
     "I like the Chemical Brothers...." comes the flow of his French again. "Does this count?" Golden eyebrows open upward and the smile spreads.

     "Yes," Edward grins, coming out of his reverie, "...they count," he chuckles, patting your hand now. He glances down and then notes, "If we keep going with this..." his fingers curl, "I will want to leave here...and we've barely started." To enjoy the music. Edward's hand moves anyway, and he leans in to lift your locks with his nose and places a lingering kiss at your ear. A whisper, many might think, but instead, it is a warm taste that begins at the crown of your ear and slowly simmers around and downward.

     Weaving through the crowd with glasses is the familiar woman. She raises a brow, then smiles faintly, realizing what's going on. Men being semi-discreet. It's almost sexy. "Here you are," she murmurs, bending to set the two drinks down on the table, placing dainty napkins beneath them.

     "Ah, thanks," Edward whispers, retreating with an almost catlike stretch. He looks up at her, quickly placing Euros on the table.

     "You are welcome," she smiles sweetly. No place for her to make commentary or expressions on seeing the two of you. Turning on a heel, she wanders to the next patrons.

     Even in this dim lighting, you can see how blood rushed to fair skin. Beckoned subconsciously by his lover's mouth. The vampire's mouth. His head tipped, his eyes closed. His mouth held a parting smile. You heard the intake of the breath. You felt his body fill with it. And even through the music, you heard the soft, guttural sound. A sigh. And a groan. Beneath the table, hands cloistered in darkness wander. Yours upon him, his upon you. "We can order their CD over the Internet..." Valan murmurs, smile slanting.
     The chemistry. You touch him and there are a thousand small explosions in the blood. The mind can barely compute. Form words. Ah, he can only do this in his native tongue. And it rolls from him slowly, as if even French requires translation and thought...
     Valan twitches, a shudder like a current running through him as the waitress' voice registers. "Ah...merci... " Valan says, smiling to her. And he reaches for his cognac. Settling back... what the shadows hide... he settles back flush against you. Knee against your own in the shadows. Grateful for the cloistering dim lighting -- for it hides the wild blush. "Where else should you like to go tonight, mon ami..." he says, turning his head back to you. Leaning in. Certainly, so that he might be heard. But as much that he might ...return the favor. It is a cognac kiss. A coil of his tongue around and against your earlobe. The torture shall be shared, for certes...

     He watches her depart, then Edward coils himself around you again. Arms, legs, presence. You are his and his alone. "Well...I should like a ride in your auto," he whispers, grinning at the heat that your kisses bring. He quivers as well, a chill running up his spine. Metaphorically, of course. "We could...drive and overlook the river...and...enjoy the view with a bottle of something? What pleases you...Valan?" The name is seldom uttered when vertical, a simply note of male friendship, ami, denoted. But that, in and of itself, may tell as much.
     Free hand reaches for the cognac, glad to take a first taste as he waits for your response. Edward's eyes widen as he looks to the stage, taking a moment to note the musicians and their particular attributes. Still bouncing to the beat, he decides, "CD is a good idea..." he smiles, glad to find something else you both can enjoy.

Posted by rowan at February 03, 2001 04:55 PM