It is all a chain...
     Invisible links that wind around arms and hips, legs and bellies, breasts and groins. And even though I know that the bodies are moving to 120-beat electronica, the dancers move in slow motion. I could move around them, and they wouldn't even see me.
     But they feel me...
     Orgasmic...
     This is the only place I can let myself go... really... go...
     There are eddies in the dancing throng of The Odeon, noticeable only to those who can feel as well as they can see. The charge on the air is tight, electric, openly sexual. And at the center of it is a golden Caligula.
     Valan Montague dances in his burgundy and gold. The shirt a combination of velvet and silk, the haute couture expression of Bohemian extravagance and flare. The golden spectacle continues against his skin, with the flash of metal. The trousers are burgundy and crimson, in truth, alternating tones of red on ribbed corduroy. His golden hair is swept across his forehead, the long Hipster forelocks moving as he dances.
     The Odeon has rarely seen this hot a frenzy. DJ feeds from the crowd -- the crowd feeds from Valan's energy, a spiraling, gut-twisting energy that leaves them gasping against their partners, fumbling in the darkness, coming without touching, dancing without stopping.

     It is an unfamiliar place. An unfamiliar setting; unfamiliar people, culture, an unfamiliar ... time ...
     Why I am here, I know. Where I am, I know, but there is so little else that I know. I am caught up in something greater than myself, something which I only am beginning to see the shape of - it lures me in, vast and terrible and magnificent. It may be my death that I see - or it may be my life. I do not know.
     I do not care.
     I live - exist. So let me live...
     He has been in London perhaps a week, if that. He has seen very little of London in that time; the grey fog and the dark-clad streets have remained a mystery to him. The nights are long, still, in early spring, but they have been spent in understanding of a more intimate sort. Tete a tete. Pas de deux.
     But man must eat; and in mimicry of man, a vampire must feed. Crimson to lips, blood to throat. If it were not for that need, who knows if Hansl would now be present? Pale gold hair is cropped short, only falling a little forward onto his forehead; the blue eyes, though wary, have thawed somewhat from their eternal winter.
     Spring is here...
     He is not dressed for spring, yet, however. His clothing is simple; stylish, fashionable, but simple. A high-collared white dress shirt, black trousers. He stands out simply because of his lack of colour, lacking even a jacket tonight. And he stands aloof - erect - a German no longer in Paris, but German, ja? He carries his nation within himself, and he looks upon the dancefloor as he enters as a lieutenant might a parade ground.
     Not in fear...
     But in observation...
     Do we not all return to the places we have known the best, loved the best? I do not love this, this harsh side of myself. But it has had its uses, and shall again. And until I become familiar, I suppose I will eternally hold this stance, when facing the - unfamiliar, the unknown. Now ... Vas is dad?
     Golden eyebrows quirk. It is quite the party. Enough that it should be easy to find dinner, at least - in theory.

     Party, orgy...
     What's the difference?
     The dancefloor is packed, it moves like stirred ants on an ant mount -- writing parts all part of a singular mind. A singular purpose. The Human Mass moves in response to a force greater than It.
     Him...
     It begins to radiate outward as, in moving from the center of the floor, he brushes against one, another, another. Each one falters in his dance, looking dazed, startled. The moving Mass twitches as one after another person touched experiences a wave of Ecstasy that moves through each one.
     Orgasms trip like falling dominos...
     Valan explodes from the center of the dancefloor, the energy issuing around him before it begins to dissipate. For a moment, he looks like Ravished Cupid, coughed up from Aphrodite's featherbed. He surfaces from the dancefloor not far from you, Hansl. A familiar face, perhaps?

     I stand, I observe, and I say, yea, verily - what the fuck?
     Waves of colour; waves of intensity, and an immense energy which touches like a chain reaction, one to another, leaving each cell depleted and exhausted in its passage. Atomic fission, reproduced in humanity; in sexuality. I do not comprehend it. This - is very strange, my lord. Would that you were here to pass judgment. But mine is the eye of the Artist (or Artiste, if you prefer). I do not judge, yet. Only observe.
     The black and white figure upon the edge of the golden glow, then - Hansl watches the nucleus approaching, hands tucked behind his back, chin, gaze so aloof, so remote, so withdrawn, reserved. He is puzzled; uncertainty the undercoat beneath that pastiche of Germanic indifference. And the gaze follows you where you move; tracks you, even as a miniscule part of his attention follows his surroundings with that inability not to. He speaks, and when he speaks, it is in his faultless border French.
     "Bon soir, monsieur. I believe our paths have crossed before, ja? In part, though not, perhaps in full. If I misremember," or you choose for your own reasons, not to acknowledge me - as is your right, ja, "then I apologize for the inconvenience."
     Formalities ...
     At a time like this ...
     But then, it wouldn't be Hansl otherwise, would it?

     Bonsoir...
     The sound of French. His head turns to hear the words spoken for a vampire -- normal voice despite the presence of loud club music. Valan's eyes seem simply gold beneath the lights, the green lost in the other colors that move over you both (and everyone else for that matter).
     His smile pours over his mouth, runs smoothly. His hand lands upon your arm and Valan Montague leans in. Tall, lean, golden thing. And when his hand lands, you will join the rest of humanity, but only with the residue of the power that shook them.
     It slips along your blood, issuing beneath your skin in Pleasure, Pleasure that runs to your gut, your groin. Squeezing like a hand...
     "Paris... yes?" He speaks English, though colored with heavy French. Valan's hand slides from you but he remains standing by. "I'm Valan... and... I am sorry, I do not remember your name... I know we met at the museum...you were there to see Villon...as was I..."
     His hand touches you again. Again, that feeling. But it is less strong now, fading. But... it feels like a hand is down your pants, with fingers lightly running. "I will buy you a drink..." he offers it but he states it as an assumption easily understood. Of course he is going to buy you a drink. Of course you will join him. He is Valan Montague...

     Some would recognise the stance which Hansl so abruptly takes. Full attention; his knees locked, gaze suddenly and unswervingly straight ahead, a breath taken which ordinarily - he does not need. And there is the instinct : blood racing in two directions at once, to his face on the one hand, and quite south on the other. Really, you could not have galvanized his attention more if you had snuck up behind him and yelled, 'Achtung!'
     Except, of course, that this is out of reaction, rather than ingrained training...
     All of this contact would have him uncomfortable on its own. With the addition of knees that suddenly wish to turn to water -
     - sunlight along the river, soldiers hold their girls among the rushes, but I, no, I -
     - knees that wish to turn to water and trousers which have gone uncomfortably tight, and the German slides his hands from behind his back to discreetly cup in front of himself instead; more uncomfortable than that the flashes of memory, unbidden, swimming in his blood like silver fishes of recollection -
     - his hand in my hair, my knees upon the floor as I worship him, and the dizzying, maddening rush of blood in my ears as he -
     - recollection which threatens his muchly prized equilibrium.
     Awkwardly, Hansl speaks, changing to English as you do, standing very still; a stillness which is for him, the equivalent of taking a step backwards, as if to remove himself from your reach. A step, however, untaken. "Ja," in German, then back to English, as habit dictates, "I was in Paris, for a time. Now, I am not. I am Hansl Arnaul. How do you do."
     Really, if this is the result, I'm not so sure I want to know.
     But policy dictates politeness, ja? Ja. "A drink would be," Hansl hesitates, bowing very slightly forward with a stoop of his shoulders, "perhaps pleasant." Perhaps a necessity. Perhaps Johann was right about this. "Though I would not wish," he tacks on, "to impose. You are, I am certain, in demand."

     Oh right, the German. Clearly. Valan laughs suddenly, his face brightening in it. Perhaps pleasant? He glances around. This is a nightclub isn't it? "Come on," Montague chuckles. "Over there," he nods to a booth that is kept strangely free of glomming mortals. A woman waves and gestures to the booth as she's leaving for the dancefloor. All yours.
     He is gesturing to the waitress as he comes to the booth. Golden bellychain sparkles at his cream-colored skin, the gold of his shirt lifting, buttoned above and below but with gaps that allow the material to flutter. He curls into one side of the booth, allowing you to take the opposite side.
     He will soon be surrounded. Maybe you will be too. But in the meantime...
     Cigarettes come out and a golden lighter too. He offers them to you, his golden eyebrows arching in the unspoken offer, a corner of his splendid mouth quirking. "What brings you to London from Paris? I have a friend who just did the opposite, yes? He went from here to there."

     He tries not to too loudly signal his discomfort, though he is perhaps less uncomfortable than he would have been a year ago - six months ago - a month ago. Hansl holds himself stiffly, even as he follows, as he slides cautiously into the booth. What trap is this?
     He did not think that he would be cursing the departure of winter...
     A hand is lifted, declining politely the offered cigarette. He is of a sudden not in the mood for such vice, taking up position with hands on his knees, spine at as close to a precise ninety degree slant as he can arrange. "A portrait was commissioned," Hansl says simply, "by one who lives here. I made his acquaintance in Paris. Und zo," and so, "I am here, ja?" It is not the whole story. It is not even the half of it. But it is true, as far as it goes. "I have not been in London prior to this. I hope to remain long enough to become well acquainted."
     Words, words, words. They make him suddenly irritable with himself, within himself, though he signals this not by so much of an eyelash flicker; one hand lifts to rub at the nape of his neck, then settles on the edge of the table. "At present, I am hosted by my commissioner. Lord Greydon Trevelyan. You know him, perhaps?"
     If it is gossip, it will spread. But then, if it is not gossip, it will still spread. And - it is no secret...

     "I met him not long ago. I am a fencing instructor. He was at the college this week. But I don't know him past that. I haven't been in London that long myself. Six years?" He smiles as he lights a cigarette, slightly rolling his shoulders. Something like that.
     Valan looks to you with gilt-green eyes, the eyes of a cat. They sparkle at you past the smoke of roadhouse cigarettes, something stolen from his lover's pockets. Nothing exotic but they burn smoothly. "I had my portrait done once. Three portraits. I did not commission them. But, I've come to like them. If you would like, I would be happy to introduce you to my friends. I know it can be overwhelming to be in a city this size, different language. When I came here... I did not know much English at all. Everything I learned after I moved here with Edward."
     One name. No explanation. None needed, is the easy assumption.
     He looks at you through the smoke as the drinks arrive. "I ordered you vodka, straight. Thank you, Marnie," he smiles to the waitress, turning his attention to her as she drops off his martini. He smiles as she leaves and he turns the wattage of that smile upon Hansl as his hand curls around the martini glass, lifting it for a sip. "Have you had a chance to explore the city much?"

     There is nothing which overwhelms him more right now than the easy flow of questions and answers - the energy behind them. It leaves him not quite gaping, not quite shell-shocked - but blinking, mute. Hansl lifts a long-fingered hand, absently rubbing at the scar that so permanently mars one cheek so otherwise flawless; so otherwise permanently nineteen.
     He takes them in turn as best he can. Portraits : no question, and thus, no answer need be given, other than a brief, polite smile of acknowledgment and hinted bewilderment. "You honour me with your kindness," so seriously said, even if without the usual lurking terror, "and I would not wish to impose, though I have no objection to such introduction, nein." A blink. Information assimilated. Answer given : answer complete? Not quite. "Of course," qualifier, "it would depend upon when, hein? But I am certain that it remains, at least, a possibility."
     There. Each base is covered. He thinks. Next? "I am fortunate in that ... mein vater ... wished me to know English, and insisted that I learn some years ago," Hansl continues, awkward within his skin. His hand falls to the edge of the table. Edward? It is a name. If I could connect these names, connect the dots, I would know something of tantamount importance. It is here, somewhere, I am sure of it, there is something of urgency which I am missing... "For now, I remain with Lord Trevelyan, at his estate. He has been a very gracious host."
     Inasmuch as any host in the habit of destroying your clothes and refusing to let you get out of bed to find your luggage is. But then, right now, that's a perk - like the American hotel's continental breakfast. Even thinking about it makes the colour return, just a trifle, that pale visage yet appearing as if alive. He ducks his chin downwards in that Germanic stiffness and awkwardness, lips quirked, then looks back up.
     "I - danke?" Ah, you've managed to bewilder him again, and make him paranoid, all in one fell swoop. "It is, I confess, my usual drink. You have a good eye." Or inside information. "Nein. I have not yet explored much." So clipped, though his expression is only mildly wary. Vas is das? "You ... are a regular here, I take it. But nein. I have been here for perhaps a week. I have been sluggish."

     Valan smiles easily through the smoke he releases. He seems amused. Perhaps at what you intimate. Perhaps at your discomfort. And who says these must be mutually exclusive? He sees you blush. He leans in to tap away the ash.
     "It's up to you," Valan does not beat you over the head with the offer. "Ask for Valan Montague." And then his mouth spreads. "I'm not hard to find." Ash gone, he settles back, curling against the body of the booth. "I'm sure honor has nothing to do with it," he grins, shrugging. "What do I know of honor?"
     The martini is sipped at as an afterthought. Half the time he forgets he has a drink. The cigarette is enough a distraction. Valan Montague smiles still. It is a half smile, truly -- one backed with consideration and the easiness of one who hasn't a care in the world.
     "Do you dance, Hansl?"

     Ah, sweet, blessed vodka. You hold all the comfort which this world otherwise denies me. Perhaps I have Russian blood in me after all - though I doubt it.
     His hand curls around the glass, and it is lifted to his lips - tasted, set back down. "I - do not know? Honour is to each individual a different thing." So serious, he is. So sincere. "However, I shall endeavor to communicate once I know more."
     Another sip of the drink. He shall not be forgetting it; it shall not be forgotten. It gives Hansl something to do with his hands; there is a streak of colour, one streak alone, which had been so easily overlooked from a distance. A thin line of cobalt blue, beginning under the edge of his thumbnail and trailing back over his knuckle, down the side of the pale skin towards his palm. He has not noticed it yet - the singular flaw in the otherwise impeccable presentation.
     "Dance?" Vas is das? His expression is again startled, and Hansl takes refuge in remote blankness. "I - have done, though not well. I - why do you ask, anyway?" A sudden flash of utter confusion to the surface, breaking through that blank shell, eyebrows drawn together.
     You are very strange to me...

     "I don't think your benefactor will mind," comes the leading tone. "You are in a club... it's... sort of what you do here." Dance, that is. Valan smiles at you, extinguishing his cigarette. "So... you can join me out there...or... I will be back in a few minutes."
     Either way.
     Valan Montague uncurls himself from the booth, the golden chain at his waist gleaming again. He pauses only long enough to finish his martini -- this gives you time enough to make up your mind, he supposes.

     He has to bite back immediate reactions - further confusion, a slight frown. Mind? Why would he - of course he would not mind. "If you wish," Hansl answers stiffly. He draws himself up a bit, then downs the remainder of his glass at a go. Were he mortal, only living flesh, it would make his eyes water. As it is, the long, low exhale that is prompted by habit would be combustible to open flame.
     It isn't as if he has never been on a dance floor before. His usual - dining habits being what they are.
     He just - doesn't, usually...
     Fear of the glamour, the mesmerization...
     But another shrug, and Hansl is sliding from the booth, without waiting to see if you are ready, if you are following. There is a cool, challenging glint to those spring-touched eyes as he steps out, looking to you, one eyebrow lifted. "You are coming, ja?"
     And then, Hansl turns, long-legged stride carrying him towards the floor.

     The energy is at your back...
     Pushing, pushing...
     And maybe you thought he would dance with you. Maybe you thought he'd put his hands on you. Or maybe you are relieved when that's not the case at all...
     He's there a moment, a thing of gold, but then in the surrounding bodies he seems to disappear. But you can feel him, feel him there. The air is tinged with sweat and the anticipation of sex. The dancing throng doesn't sway or writhe or grind...
     They pop with the tension of tortured hips hoping for release...
     Between the bodies, his body is there. Among the faces, his face is there, bathed in light unnatural. Valan Montague laughs and turns, his body hidden by layers of humanity.
     And the beat goes on...
     It is all a chain...
     Invisible links that wind around arms and hips, legs and bellies, breasts and groins. And even though you know that the bodies are moving to 120-beat electronica, the dancers move in slow motion. You could move around them at will, and they wouldn't even see you...

Posted by rowan at March 02, 2006 09:16 PM