He slaughtered them with smiles tonight. There was not a contest that he did not win with a golden flourish once practices were done. It was all a big dance, really. A soiree of swordplay. A light-hearted affair, bouts broken up by laughter, missed marks and phenomenal aim. Past Olympians and Olympian hopefuls met on the boards like young gods -- no matter how old.
     As midnight rolled into one-thirty, he was rolling into his clothing and drifting outside, bag tossed in his Toscano. Tires rolled him to his new destination. Destinations. He's coming to get you...
     That is, if he can find you...
     Golden hair is mussed in several directions. The shirt is a pale yellow with charcoal polka dots, surprisingly subtle, over grey pinstripe wool crepe trousers. Decidedly Swing -- an American retro fad having crossed The Pond at last. He pauses off the street, Toscano beeping in the lock-down. And in the same motion, there's the turnaround. Smooth, motions folding on motions. Too smooth to be human, y'all.
     There's a new joint in town and he's parked right outside. Betty's Boobs is down the way, the Phantasmagoria isn't that far. The restaurant serving dinner on naked Japanese girls -- it's not new, but it has a new competitor. Some say you can get the full geisha service while you're there. And, yes, Japanese girls serve as tables. And cute British and Japanese boys tend the fishtank bar.
     Valan Montague pauses outside, his smooth turn from activating his alarm turning to a glance at his wrist and the new watch.
     I wonder where you are....

     Not so far away. Down the street, where the light is dimmer, stands someone. Against the wall. He too looks at his watch, then down the street to the to the many options open this evening. And this part of the city is always open.
     He doesn't move much, the figure, head bent down to see the dirty concrete beneath his feet. A man and a woman walk past him, away from all the lights, and they glance over, laughing, as they take stock of the one standing there. The laughter goes on as they stumble off together, rather delighted with their night.
     A cigarette is pulled from the man's mouth and ash tapped to the ground. More mess to go underfoot. No matter. He puts the cigarette between his lips again and lowers his hands, continuing to see the filth beneath his boots.

     Sometimes, he thinks he can feel you. Sometimes it is like a brush of your hand at his arm and he turns. But when there is so much other stimulation, he has a difficult time parsing it out, separating each stimulus, each sensation into distinct bits of information.
     Valan doesn't enter Hi! and he doesn't turn his steps toward Phantasmagoria or Betty's Boobs. Instead, he follows the street, intention to pass the alley and head toward St. Monday's, a cigarette-and-whiskey sort of establishment. A Gentleman's Club -- when those words actually meant something.
     The lines of his shirt, his trousers -- very tailored, altered for him and for the best sort of drape. With a different pinstripe on the three-button jacket, he cuts a couture-culture path under bright lights. American or European? No, only a Frenchman could wear that and get away with it.
     There's something...
     The smell of a cigarette...
     Familiar blend...
     He reaches in the inside pocket of this silk-lined blazer, pulling out a pack of cloves as he half turns, pausing his stride past the alley as the man comes into view...
     "Avez-vous une lumiere pour un ami?"

     "Toujours," the man says, looking up from the desolation of the alley floor. Edward grins and reaches inside his coat jacket, fishing out a silvery lighter. Dressed in a black slacks and a black longcoat with a blue shirt, he goes tieless tonight, looking a bit out of a Western.
     "Nous sommes des amis maintenant? Que signifie t'il ? Pour etre amis?" he asks, leaning in slightly with the light cupped. He whispers softly, "C'a ete' un long temps pour moi."

     The Last Gunfighter. You stand in the street like a post modern John Wayne. The cigarette. The tough guy attitude. You are attitude in spades, oui? The cupping of the flame spills golden light on his golden face and golden hair. His suave Hipster's gear no match for the Cowboy.
     Grinning around the body of the clove, Valan breathes fire and scented smoke. Gold-green eyes turn up to you past the lashes. "Le meilleur des amis," Valan says, grinning as he straightens. "Amis qui aiment, qui ont de grands rapports," he chuckles quietly, slipping an arm in the darkness, slipping around your waist. Out here in the street. In front of god and everyone.
     "So," he says in English suddenly, "... what are you going to be up to tonight? Taking more candy from the mouths of the babies?" He winks, scattering gold and green color and light in the half-illumination of his cigarette. "I think we should have an adventure. I had... a good night of fencing... I am ready for adventure..."

     "Not my thing," Edward smiles, the click of the lighter following his words. He shifts shoulders, pushing the silver back into a pocket. "Babies, that is," he explains. Not the adventure part.
     Somewhere, beneath wandering hands, is a gun. Two. One on either side. Edward's brow lifts when one is found. "As for tonight, I've already been out," he smiles, "...so that's why I'm here." Spotting another. He shrugs, adding, "I may be going to see a man about something later. Not sure yet. What about you? Fencing go well, I see?" His hand slips between as well, sliding inside a hipster's jacket. "You seem happy. Night going nicely."

     "There is something about a man who is ...loaded," golden eyebrows open outward and his mouth slides a smile. "Watch out for attacking crates, ami," he murmurs. He's only partially teasing. He breathes the clove, agile mouth smoking without the need of his hands. His arms are given to your waist. "Do you want a tag along? No card games? Boxing?"
     Valan turns his head, smoke easing out of his nose and the corner of his mouth. "Fencing was brill," he murmurs. "I won it all... a gold medal in my mind, oui?" He winks and then with a tickle of his fingers at your sides, he draws his arms away. "I'm bored. You should take me with you."

     "Take you with?" Edward grins, understanding the boredom. "And you'll go and watch, letting all of my mystery fall away. No, I don't think this is such a good idea. Don't you like it better when I tell you what happened?" he smirks. His arm pulls strongly, hand curling into a fist. "I'd hate for you to find out that what I do, for the most part, is stand there," Edward grins.

     "Are you going to come home at a decent hour to tell me of your adventure standing?" Valan smirks, finally moving the cigarette in between his fingers, bringing it to him, moving it away in an ebb and flow of addictive behavior. "I don't want to roll over at three-am unless we're both naked. So... I guess I will go find some of the gang and drink and smoke and maybe..." He makes a wave of his hand -- you know, do a few lines, "... and you can come pick me up and carry me home. Oui! I like this idea I think." The clove cigarette is launched into the outer space of the London street. "Then you can toss me on the couch and tell me all about it, mais oui..."
     The couch, the floor, the bed, wherever. Valan gives your shirt a tug, pulling you against him and he plants a kiss on your cheek just at the corner of your mouth, teasing a bite. "I do not want to ruin the Meurelle Mystique, no..." he murmurs at your skin. Then he lingers there. "Do you think the alley is ... deserted?" he whispers suddenly.
     Now... whyever would he want to know that?

     Edward laughs, "I don't think," he winces, "...you need to find a gang of anything." He can only imagine. "And no," Edward smirks, "...the alley isn't deserted. It's..." free hand lifts to see his watch, "...not even midnight yet." Of course not.
     "But, if you do find the gang, make sure you get good vid, hm? You can tell me all about it later."
     "Wait," Edward's head tilts, "...you didn't mean that sort of gang," he mock-reconsiders, looking up at the sky.

     "I guess I could go to Grunt," he says it like he means it. The curling of his lips is the only indicator that he's not actually considering doing that. "Do they allow taping?" He chortles a little. "Can you imagine," he murrs.
     "No, actually... I meant the gang as in my friends. I think Shelley had plans," a clearing throat, "...but Janet should be around, probably at Hi's. Have you been there yet? I hear they have a full geisha... treatment. I ...should like to watch you enjoy that sometime," he notes for the record.
     "Alright," he sighs, hand patting your solid (tres!) chest, "I guess I will go amuse myself until you get home..."

     "No, no," Edward relents, lifting his own hand. "You can go with. It's just that," his nose twisting, a look of a five-year old when something distateful's on his lips, "...I mean...look at you." Hand opens to motion at the evidence. "I mean...I take you anywhere where it gets dusty, and, well...they'll want to beat you down, ami."
     "Some, would, um..." Edward grimaces, "...would want to do something else."
     "I just...don't ever think it's a good idea, is all, ami. It's not you," Edward sighs, "...it's them." It's not the most romantic of crowds.
     "You think...it's something out of a movie, ami. It's not. It's business and it's hate. And, well, sometimes, you deal with wankers who do a little of both, eh?"

Posted by rowan at November 10, 2003 01:15 PM