That's your phone, Edward...
     Yet another interruption to your evening. But at least it's not one of your long lost mates. No call from Poitiers. Nor none from Cardiff either. This one comes with...well, whatever disco tune you've decided to give him. Or was that Lillie Marlene or...some other appropriate ditty...
     The one who takes up your evenings and dashes them to pieces whenever he's able...
     The Interruptor of Card Games...
     The Early End of Evenings you would otherwise spend out...
     He never knows where you are going to be when he calls. Maybe you will be in a gun battle. Maybe you will be in a club with women on your lap...or face down in your lap. Maybe you will be at the gym. On the same side of town, other side of town...
     Montague is leaving the Academy, his fencing gear left in his locker. He is dressed for a night on the town. Golden hair brushed in a Hipster wave, he is in burgundy and brown -- a burgundy blazer, a brown tissue tee-shirt with some silkscreened design made especially for him, paired with pinstriped corduroy, with the stripes a thin, thin gold.
     "Ami," he says even before you answer. "Aaaaamiiii," perhaps you will catch it on the 'Ah', perhaps on the prolonged 'meeee'...

     "Oi!" Edward yells in like noise. After an instant, it becomes clearer, "Aye, and fuck you too, mate!" with the sound of the Spyder screaming in the background. "Fuckin' wanker fuck," he says softer, now giving his attention to the phone.
     "Oh, ami!" Edward says, a slipping suck sounding with it. Cigarette drawn on, "Ami! Bah, you shoulda seen!" But that's a whole 'nother story. "Where are ya," he wonders, zipping along. "Night on, eh? A good one?"

     "I am coming out of the Academy. Who is the ... fuckin' wanker fuck. Tsk, and you get onto me about my language." It is a purr of a sound, not so unlike your Spyder. "Oh yes, a very good night. I taught the foil, it is boring talk, I won't waste the air on it. But, the saber went well for me tonight. Undefeated, your ami tonight."
     He pauses to light his own cigarette. "I think we should go out... I do not want to go home just yet. What are you doing? It cannot be so interesting," Valan Montague teases with a curl to his tone. Not as interesting as me, at any rate.
     Spoken like a proper Frenchman...
     "Come pick me up," he exhales smoke and an audible smile.

     The smile's palpable. "I love it when I get that," Edward beams. "Out though, eh? What do ya fancy?" he asks, wheels squealing. "I'll only be a tic," he notes for the record.

     "I want to watch you move on this world like the king of style you are, ami. Wherever that should take us. Clubs... family business...both..."
     Some times, he just has to watch you move. He needs to see you. He likes your power and when you use it. First, upon the City. And then... on and in him. It is a kind of foreplay, really.
     Valan looks down at himself, holding his cigarette in his right hand, "...I am dressed for anything. As you might expect. But...no assless pants..." His tone purrs again, just shy of laughter.

     "Wot?" Edward blurts, the distaste there. A shrug seems to have followed. "I'm only five away," he notes for the record. "If it was up to me, ami, clothes are a downer. But if goin' out's what you want, then...." he'll follow.

     He laughs. It is Delight. In sound, Pleasure. It is as if he is becoming that which he merely gives off. Perhaps in the end he shall become Ecstasy. "I am kidding, yes?" About the pants. "But I want to eat, I need to eat, and then..."
     Well, we can do what it is that we do best, ami. He does not need to say it.
     "Okay, I will hang up then. The top is down, yeah?" On the Spyder.

     "Ah, yeah," Edward says, voice deadpan as if to say 'it's obvious.' "Eat. Alright," he concedes, another turn made. "Your go," he says, then suddenly chiming, "...hey...I'm almost there. Gonna go, ami."
     Well, the click means now. Not so much a future thought.
     The Spyder's sound does approach at this end of campus. The lights shine across the green, and the car follows the brightness.

     Valan doesn't say anything. There is only dead air, his and yours conjoining. The phone is in the jacket pocket and the cigarette is in his mouth as he moves toward the arriving car.
     He is a son of Bordeaux in those colors. Surely his blood runs with the same palette. As you draw near, he is getting rid of one cigarette (really a cigarillo, something from Espana, brown, like a cigar but sweeter), and he is lighting another.

Posted by rowan at May 03, 2006 06:58 AM