Inexplicable -- or rather, he offered no explanation on why either of you should leave the bedroom, the sofa, the house on Dannerly to come to Phantastic Phantasmagoria, or the Phab Phan or whatever the hell the Brits are calling it these nights. He only smiled and looped his finger at the waistband of your trousers.
     When will you say No to him, Edward...
     But maybe you begin to see why, maybe you begin to get an inkling of it as he sits you in the middle of the club, surrounded by constant attention. Friends of yours, caught in the web of this place long ago, breezed by and the two of you sit like fat spiders, right in the Middle Of It.
     Two rounds of drinks later, Valan is sitting back in the booth, smoking cigarettes received from William in an unmarked bag -- your cousin, the supplier, he's such a giver -- and smiling. He peers between the brown-blueish smoke thick with hashish, clove and cinnamon, a combination of flavors that has numbed his tongue like saffron, his eyes following one particular gentleman walking by (though gentleman is perhaps a misnomer, he is wearing ass-less pants).
     When did it begin...
     I was looking at a man at a bar one night and it was like I slipped beneath his skin. Further, beneath his blood. No, further, into his soul. I wore him like a silk shirt, he laid against my skin. And I saw all that he had done. What he feared and what he fought.
     Valan touches the tip of his tongue to his palatte, smoke easing through his nose. "Hmmm.... he fucked one of the honorable members of Parliament last night... he likes to fuck married men..." he flicks ash and his eyes twinkle. "... and then he steals money from their wallets and buys heroin..."
     The young man in the ass-less pants is swallowed by the crowd and Valan is quiet for a moment, returning to himself, as he disapears into the mob. Valan turns, looking to you. He is wearing brown suede tonight, brown suede and a yellow shirt. A few buttons undone, the green amber stones of his belly chain sparkling.

     "What?" Edward says, only half-paying attention. He wasn't so keen to leave the comforts of Dannerly and the prized delights of being around you. But yes, he couldn't refuse the pull of his waistband, the desire to do something....anything. Your grin became his, and with a sweep of his hand, his jacket and keys were grabbed.
     "Huh?" Edward asks, turning around to see you. He was looking half-behind himself, over at a crowd that is unusually loud. At least they're happy. And attractive. That never hurts. Picking up his double whiskey, Edward downs the last of it as two young women come by.

     "Oh, fuckin' brilliant! Eddie!" one of them yelps, grabbing her friend's hand and rushing over. Dressed in a purple skirt and black shirt, she seems more ready for a fashion party than something at Phantasmagoria. "Eddie! It's been forever! My gorgeous boy...no one's seen you!" With blonde hair piled on her head, she sweeps over and puts a knee into the booth at Edward's side, leaning in and giving him a kiss on his cheek. Her friend smiles pleasantly enough at you both.

     "Christine..." you can almost hear the 'right?' following after. "What a girl? It's been a spell, ya." Edward's hand brushes your arm where he had been prepared to lean and ask what you were talking about. He sits up a little to allow her access to his cheeks, then plops back down in the booth, extending his leg and boot on the open booth seat that's far too easy for Christine and friend to invade.

     His mouth was open, open to explain, open to surround the cigarette. He flicks the butt of it with the tip of his tongue and takes a long inhalation. Valan smiles blandly and gold-green eyes sparkle in the half-lit shadows. Red. Blue. Gold. Violet. The swirling colors of the club lights move around you both.
     Valan flicks away dead ash and leans in. "I don't know that we've met," he says. And he focuses his attention on Christine...
     Christine...
     Brush with gold, like the face of a golden idol in a golden temple. Blue-brown smoke curls in hashish, clove and cinnamon, the incense of the altar. His smile is slight but warm, easy, slipping like a hand along her arm.
     You feel his hand slipping along your thigh, Edward, beneath the shadow and the shelter of the table, curling in, sliding along the inside.
     He's such a devil...

     The round eyes blink at the young man who's suddenly apparent in Edward's space. Christine can't hide her surprise, but she tries to cover it. Realization sets in. "Oh, hi," she smiles cheerily enough, "Christine..." she smiles at Edward, said flush with some sort of meaning. "And this is Grace...a friend of mine. I...knew...know...Eddie," she explains.

     Edward's lip pulls to the right, but not for the coy, sociable reasons the girls would expect. His brows arch and Edward gives a clearing snort. "So, um..." not that he cares, "...it's..good to see you." Edward's face cocks upward and his head tilts to the side, interest feigned. His lips press together and a shrug follows. Free hand, now that drink's done, rubs along his muscular thigh that rests on the faux-leather. A few nods, and Edward lets the silence float...

     Grace looks between you all, she dressed in a black leather skirt and off-shoulder black blouse. Her eyes float over to you, Valan, then to Edward, as the penny drops.

     Petty sins in comparison to half of the others I've seen tonight. Petty. That's who you are. Valan looks from Christine to Grace and he smiles. He smiles widely, warmly. "Grace... C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer," he rolls out, the grins. "A pleasure," he repeats in English. There is a glance for Christine, but there is no other outward show of possession for Edward. He doesn't need to possess him. He has him.
     Valan settles back, arm resting on the back of the booth now, leaving Edward's thigh. "Well, Edward is popular," he chuckles. And he winks at Edward. You wretch. But she is trash, Eduard...
     Gold-green eyes settle on Grace and the smile is pleasant, almost reassuring. Like a touch of his hand to her hand. "Valan," he says in introduction, a glance to Christine, including her if but barely.
     Grace...
     Amazing Grace?
     He looks at her likewise, as keenly as he had Christine before.

     "Yeah," Christine nods, leaning on the booth's back. She's certainly aware that she's not wanted, but doesn't rush off. There's a glare to Grace when she's addressed, and Grace, having mustered a smile to you, Valan, doesn't respond once the glare's given.
     "Well, yeah, you look good, Edward," Christine tries again. "But you always have, huh?" A tsk and nod, "See ya round."

     Popular's a word. Edward grins as he looks down at his lap. He loves your commentary. True, but that's beside the point.
     I have been terribly popular.
     Mention of leaving gets Edward to look up at Christine, nodding. "You look good too," he tosses out. "Right, see ya," he says, non-committally. Hand settles around his empty glass, covering it from the world. Edward nods at Grace, then looks to see Christine pushing off to go.

     "Au revoir!" Valan hails. He settles back with a laugh, delighted, and he takes the cigarette again, looking from you to the girls. He waves to Grace -- maybe she will see it.
     The women move off and golden eyebrows arch upward. "She wanted to fuck you," Valan murmurs, mouth slanting. "Not that she likes you... but what is that have to do with anything." Flick. "She is ruining Grace's life," he says it as if he cares. "Poor Grace, she is like a dandelion seed on the wind. Blown this way, blown that way. Blowing this guy, blowing that girl. All in the name of ...what? Acceptance."
     Valan turns to you, grinning. "Who needs The Star when you have The Montague," he murmurs, vampiric ears can hear it quite well. Valan stamps out his cigarette and reaches to finish his martini.
     "Christine is a user and abuser, as they say. I would stay away from her. She is poison to all she knows..."

     Now Edward looks over, "What are you talking about?" His hand nearest you comes to anchor at the booth's seat. "You're just...-talking-" he insists, not really impressed. "Are y' just makin all that up, ami?" What's this outburst of judging people you don't know?
     "Christ," he mumbles as one of the waitresses comes over to place two identical whiskeys in front of Edward. "Thank y', doll," he replies absently. He's familiar enough to her, as Phantasmagoria isn't the first club or bar she's worked. "What's wrong?" he asks, wondering why you have the tone and demeanor you do.

     "It is something I... notice..." he offers. "I look at people... and I ... can see the thing they would not wish anyone to see... like her..." he leans in to you, voice lowering. He lights a cigarette. "The woman in the PVC... she has an STD... she doesn't tell her partners, and she has a lot of partners, ami... She gives Typhoid Mary a real run for her money. She knows... she doesn't care..."
     Valan leans back, lighting a cigarette. He smiles, he shrugs. He tosses his pack on the table. The Egyptian script dances beneath the light.
     "I cannot explain it, ami... it is like when I touch people... I can feel ... each cell... I can please each one. It is... something I do. I noticed this the other night or so... things simply started...occurring to me. I will not speak about it if it bothers you. I just thought you would be entertained..."

     There's a moment's quiet from Edward as he looks at the two drinks before him. He's not going to lecture or get into philosophy. This isn't the place. Instead, the rising energy of reply seems to dissipate. Edward picks up your hand and puts it to his lips, exhaling when he lowers the joined fingers below the plane of the table.
     But he can't let it go. So, Edward simply says, "You've not told me, Valan, what I didn't already know..."
      Free hand picks up one of the drinks and Edward downs the whiskey in a long swallow.

     "I should not have said anything," he says. You know that tone. The tone that would bring most men to their knees. It is not really an apology, and he doesn't really mean it, but lesser men would find themselves apologizing to him.
     "I need a drink..." He raises his hand, he waves down a waitress. "Greyhound," he says, yet another martini. He flicks the dead ash from the end of his cigarette.
     Valan leans against the table, elbows to the surface of it. He smokes. He watches the crowd...

     "You shouldn't..." oh, here I go, "...treat a gift like a party favor," Edward says softer, his own inclination to provide such apology. He never wants to see you upset. "Or spring it out...like it doesn't have any meanin'..." Devaluing it in such a way. "That's all, ami."
     "How long have you known?" he wonders, moving closer to you as his hand now lands on your thigh.

     His drink appears, heavy on the olives. He would eat the olives straight from the tree. "A few weeks," he says, his thigh moves beneath your hand and Valan sits back, thigh flush to your own. "It started one night. I have been practicing.... well... experiencing it," he stamps out his seventh cigarette and takes up his greyhound. His left hand holds the drink, his right hand lifts the glass spear, olive offered to his lips.
     "It feels like slipping on someone else's soul... like a shirt. I can feel the fibers. I can see all of the holes...mais oui..."

     "Does it bother you, ami?" Edward asks, his hand massaging yours. "I...don't really know...how you can know these things..."

     He turns his head and looks at you. He tilts his head, a small smile appearing at the corner of his lips. "Non... it does not bother me. It could come in handy. It will help me... choose good friends..." Valan eats one ofthe olives, leaving the remaining two to swirl in the glass.
     "I do not know either... but it does not bother me. Is it... normal to discover gifts or... talents? Did you discover the things you can do this way?"

     Edward is quiet for a moment. "Maybe...we should go t' Dannerly," he suddenly offers, picking up his glass and swallowing it easily. A glide down his throat. "If we're gonna talk about this..." eyes lift and scan the club, "...we...should talk about it." Truly.
     In that, the answer to your question is probably no. He's worried, Edward is, but is concerned about what he says as much as how its said. Of that, he makes no secret. For him, the evening's blown.

Posted by rowan at September 16, 2003 08:47 PM