High Roller is blaring over the speakers and bouncing off the walls. It's a theme night at Lillian's, one of the middling-sized clubs in London's fashionable West End district. It's been struggling to find a niche for itself, and while not jam-packed, there's a respectable-sized crowd enjoying the flashing neon on the walls and the three story movie screen, currently playing a Bond flick in lurid, hellish Technicolor.
     Not everyone is all that impressed. While some of the dollybirds are going so far as to mimic the go-go boots and miniskirts of the '60s (really, that skirt's high enough to qualify as a belt), some people want more of a challenge. Gwilym Gwyn Garu is certainly one such, and he mock-sighs, shaking his head to the bartendress, nursing a drink which is a color never found in nature. "The minute you've got theme nights," he tells one of them, "you know the whole works are going down the drain." He chuckles, smirking as he gives her a professional once-over. She smiles at him, flirting the stud in her tongue at him before turning to mix drinks for a pair of J-pop girls who wear matching collars and leashes, holding the ends of each other's leashes with coy fluttering eyelashes.
     He is a one to stand out in any crowd - when he feels like it. Right now, he has not yet decided to particularly stick out, but there is no denying that he cuts a beautiful profile, in snug leather jeans and Doc Martens, with a white silk shirt that's thin enough to reveal some tattoo or other dimly at the small of his back. Red-gold hair falls in uneven waves, threatening his vision; it's long in front and short in back, and the emerald eyes are matched in intensity only by the emerald stud in one ear. He settles himself against the bar to people-watch again, giving the J-pop duet only a cursory glance.
     It's like having a leopard nearby who hasn't quite decided on its mood. The spots are still there, all the same, but it just might not be hungry. Might.

     There's not much in the way of 'theme' to what Loki has chosen to wear to the club tonight, unless there's a special night for people wandering through the J Crew catalog and only selecting items that come in dark gray. It makes his face all the paler, holding colored splotches of light bouncing off of the movie screen. He walks as if distracted, searching through the crowd for something he's not finding, on his way to the bar--and it can't just be that he's looking for a drink, because when he reaches the bartender, he doesn't look as if he's found it, either.

     The bartender is busy cooing over the adorableness of the J-pop twins, who are eating it up like candy. Gwilym rolls his eyes a little, though less in a you suck and more of a why, o god, why? sort of way. He takes a swallow of violently-pink and blue liquor, somehow separated from one another by some mixologist's miracle, then peels himself away from the side of the bar to sidle into Loki's path.
     "Whatever you do, don't order the Absolut." His grin is cheerful with just an edge of cockiness, his hair dangling over his left eye as he bends a little to speak near Loki's ear, at his right side. "They water the shite down to the point where it may as well be milk, only less nourishin'. If you're looking for the gents', it's in back..."
     Up close, he's six foot if he's an inch, and built like a footy player (soccer to you Yanks) or a dancer. He radiates a sort of absolute self-confidence, smile and voice as smooth as a thief's. "Of course," Gwilym offers, "if you're looking for someone specific, there I can't help you. First time I've been here in three months, can't say but as the place's gone downhill."

     "Downhill implies it used to be better," Loki says, with a short look at the movie screen that conveys something between those colors are going to make me hurl and what, they couldn't get the rights to one of the good movies? He's not the type to flinch away at having his personal space invaded; he wouldn't still be in the club if he were. A thin smile twists across his face. "Which maybe isn't any high mark to have hit. Any further downhill and I'd say the only way they'd still be in business would be as a money laundering front. What's worth ordering?"

     That gets a laugh, full-bodied. Riot! Gwilym's eyes sparkle as he gestures to the bar. "Any of the high-end will do - Grey Goose, if I'm not betraying my countrymen by recommending a French vodka. 'Course, they charge through the bloody nose." There's a musicality to his voice, English flavored with just a hint of Welsh; the Welsh can't help singing, even when they're talking. He retakes his position up against the bar, looking Loki up and down. "Here, I'll buy first round, what say you? - Lindsey, dove of doves," he carols, smiling now at the bartendress where before he'd rejected her out of hand. "Over here, would you, my lass?"

     Loki slides onto a seat near the nice man offering him a drink for unknown reasons, oblivious to or ignoring the scrutiny. There's a kind of huddling to him, as if his coat's a half-size too large or he's too cold even in the midst of all these bodies. "What's this place like when it's not doing theme nights?" he asks, accent marking him as American even if he looks like he sees the sun seldom enough to qualify as a London native. It's a slipping accent, American but blurred towards the local dialect the way someone who's been around long enough to start osmosising gets.

     "They're going through a bit of an identity crisis," Gwilym answers easily, leaning forward and offering a shiny plastic card to Lindsey, who wiggles her hips and gives Loki a flirtatious wink. She's done it up in something a little closer to Bettie Page than Bond girl, but close enough, right? "My tab, Lindsey-baban," he calls to her. "Grey Goose for the gentleman, another -"
     "And you're no gentleman," Lindsey chirrups back at Gwilym with a saucy smile. "When're you going to try me, Will? It's only been a year." She takes the card, tucking it into her cleavage as she begins mixing another set of drinks.. "He's terrible," she confides in Loki. "Comes in and flirts, but he's all talk, no action - at least when it comes to me." She turns a deadly pout at Gwilym, then sets down a glass and the bottle of Grey Goose in front of Loki, and another technicolored wonder in front of Gwilym. "Since it's on your tab," she tells Gwilym cheerfully.
     Gwilym just laughs, entirely unfazed. He reaches over to capture her hand, drawing it to his lips. "Lindsey, love," he croons, "some flowers are all the better admired from a distance." He walks the fingers of his other hand up along her arm lazily, a glitter in his emerald eyes. "Besides, as much as I'd enjoy admiring that top o' yours at the foot of my bed, I like to play with my food, darlin'. You've been watching me long enough to know that, oes?" His fingers shift, his thumb against the veins in her wrist as he holds her hand lightly, his other hand 'walking' those fingers to the valley of her breasts. Deftly, they dip in; she quivers, and he laughs, his hand stealing back out with his card between his fingers. "Bruce is down at the other end, trying to get your attention, love. Go on."
     Lindsey squeals, face flushed as she scurries down to the other end of the bar where a beefy-looking man is indeed trying to get her notice. Gwilym grins at Loki with a flash of white teeth. "Lovely girl, really, but no challenge in it. As I was saying, the place had promise - back in the beginning. These days, it's turned into a bit of a meat market. Rather easy on the eyes, though." The card's vanished, and he offers a hand. "Gwilym Davies."

     Loki takes the offered hand for a quick clasp. "Loki," he says, and then more grudgingly, because it sounds like it's expected at that point, "Worthington-Smythe," in a half-mumbled rush. He watches the retreat of Lindsey in a way that takes in the view without looking all that interested in it. "Thought I'd try some place without live music for a change of pace. It doesn't seem to be much of an improvement. With that playing, it's not even easier on the ears."

     "Oh, well, if it's music you're after," Gwilym drolls, seeming entirely at ease despite the frenzy all around, "I suppose it depends on the kind you like. But no, this isn't where I'd really recommend. Duw!" He laughs, taking a sip at his fresh drink, watching a pair of bond girls wandering drunkenly by with a would-be Bond in the middle. "It's worth it for a laugh, though, innit? Life's rich pageantry. And the drinks are still not too bad. All right as far as it goes."
     He nods to you, giving you a casual once-over, sprawling bonelessly back against the bar. "D'you care about genre, or is it just important that the music be good? I can make a few recommendations, 'course. But all in all," Gwilym drawls his words out lazily, "this is just a place where people go to get drunk, look around, and discard their dreams in favor of 'you'll do for a night'. Then morning comes with all its rubbish-heap of self recriminations, hand in hand with the hangover of harlotry, leading inevitably to the big downhill slide into an afternoon of regret and refusal to take responsibility. It all ends up back here or someplace not unlike here, though these places do have their moments." His smile is wicked. "In short, it's only horrible if you make the mistake of taking it seriously. Been to the Black Jack's, by any chance?"

     "No," Loki says, "but you're the second to recommend it. And if the recommendations of two utter strangers doesn't mean something in this world, what does?" He tries his own drink, and holds it with his fingers spread loosely across the top between sips. "Quality matters more than genre. Can't say I'd be too impressed by even a very good nose-flute orchestra, but I can't remember the last time I saw one of those in a bar, so I'm probably safe there."

     His eyes sparkle as he laughs again. Riot! "No nose-flute orchestras," Gwilym agrees, "though there's at one time or another been damned near everything else. Mostly it tends to be one or another kind of folk music, but that's a pretty broad category. Leans towards acoustic, although not solely, and I've heard everything from Suzanne Vega to Sinead O'Connor, with three dashes of the Corries and the Pogues thrown in. I've even heard free-form gaelic rap..."
     He takes an easy sort of swallow of his drink; it doesn't seem to bother him any, and his gaze wanders everywhere freely and without apparent offense given or taken. "You'll have fewer people trying to get your clothes off at Davy's. 'Course, some would call that a downcheck..."

     Loki's shoulders twitch up and down beneath his coat, some not quite irritable reaction that makes him look a few years younger for a moment. "I can live with that." He knocks back more of his drink, less gracefully than the man next to him is managing the skill. "Gaelic rap and fewer attempts to pull my clothes off alike. Can't take that very seriously in here."

     Gwilym chuckles, looking Loki up and down again, gaze skimming over him. "Shouldn't take it too seriously any time, unless you feel like it," he answers with that same easy roll. "You ask me, you look uncomfortable in your skin. Why's that, I wonder?" His gaze rests on Loki and stays there, calm but with an underlying glint of lazy energy.

     The answer's a quick sip from his drink. "Nothing like that," Loki says, not defensive but not exactly convincingly sincere either. "Not comfortable here, maybe. There has to be something in this city worth taking seriously. Otherwise, what's the point?"

     "I take plenty of things seriously, in their time," Gwilym answers easily, "but generally not when I'm surrounded by gyratin' and gymballin' goons in clothes they sweated for weeks to buy only so they could look right berks for a few hours." He shrugs, nonchalant about it, finishing off his drink. He doesn't yet signal Lindsey for another, though. "If you're looking for things to have Purpose and Meaning, why look for them in a place which charges ten euros for watered-down swill? I could go fortune cookie at you, if you like."
     The grin returns, wide and wild with a sweetness to it that seems almost out of place, especially when paired with a wicked laughing wink of one eye. "Tell you what," Gwilym suggests, "let's go to the Abbey. Good drinks, good coffee, and easier to talk than here."

     For an instant, Loki has that whole surly adolescent air around him, the kind that makes him look more a teenager than anyone belonging in a club. Then it breaks as he shrugs and says, "You're right. This is an idiot place to look for anything but idiots in odd costumes. Promise me the Abbey's no creepy conversion factory, and I'm all for a more caffeinated change of pace."

     Conversion factory? It's a reference which visibly goes over his head, and Gwilym nods readily enough. "Absolutely no convertin' going on there, and the drinks are first-rate. My da'd have fits if he knew I hung out there, but that's separate." He grins, wickedly, rising to his feet. "I'll even leave it to you if we call a taxi, or take my bike."

     "My father would kill me if he knew I were taking rides from strange men I met in clubs," Loki says, either oblivious to any potential innuendo in what he said or prepared to pretend he is. "Let's take your bike, save the cash for the good drinks."

     Gwilym laughs, that wicked delight sparkling in his eyes. "Right, then. Follow me." He leads the way out of the club after a wave to Lindsey - who pouts, glaring daggers at Loki, then blows Gwilym a kiss with as winsome a look as she can manage in between pouring jiggers of rum and grenadine. It isn't hard getting out, though by now there's a line snaking halfway around the block for being let in.
     Outside, the air is cool, and infinitely fresher; Gwilym leads the way over to a gleamingly pristine Ducati in fire engine red with black and silver trim. There's two helmets clipped to the back; miraculously, nobody's ripped them off. He grins that devil's smile as he unclips them, offering one to Loki. "Here y'go. I've never been partial to bugs in my teeth."

     Loki looks very slightly impressed that this random stranger he's agreed to wander off with is not, in fact, utterly careless on all matters of basic traffic safety. It's a distinct look from the admiring glance at the bike itself. "Bug consumption has never been FDA approved, anyway." He knows how to put on a helmet without any fumbling, for what that's worth.

     Gwilym chuckles, sliding onto the seat and pulling on his own helmet, the key tucked into the ignition. He doesn't bother with jacket or riding leathers, so perhaps he's not altogether careful; he waits until Loki's on, turning his head slightly. "Set?" he asks loudly. "Hold on, then." He turns the key in the ignition, revving the engine lightly; it purrs, and once he's sure Loki's hanging on, he disengages kickstands and brakes, pulling off the sidewalk smoothly.
     It's a Ducati. Ducatis are known for going really really fast, really really well. However, perhaps out of consideration for his passenger, Gwilym keeps the close calls to an absolute minimum. He does seem to regard speed limits more as 'speed suggestions', however. In due course, they pull up in front of what appears, on the outside, to be a church. With a fine disregard for parking spaces and the hunt thereof, he pulls the bike up onto the sidewalk to one side of the entrance.

     Aside from one brief twitch-and-clutch at the obligatory single close call, Loki's proven himself a model passenger: that is, he holds on tight, doesn't shift his weight around too much, and keeps his mouth shut during the ride instead of trying to shout around through wind, traffic, and two helmets. He pulls his helmet off and runs a hand through his hair once the bike's come to a stop, looking over to the church. "I'll bet you spend more on tickets than petrol," he says, not as any kind of criticism, and slides off the bike himself, offering the helmet back.

     Gwilym chuckles, taking the helmets and clipping them back in place. He strokes the bike's back affectionately, then bows flourishingly, gesturing towards the steps leading into the Abbey. "You'd be surprised at what you can get away with if you know how," he quips. "It's a gift. Let's go get some coffee, oes?"
     He leads the way inside, waving to Julie, the barista; her name-tag is discreet, as are her tattoos, but like her tattoos it is still visible. "Hullo, m'love, give me an Irish coffee, and whatever my friend's having." A briskly colored fifty euro note slides over the bar.

     Loki pauses just inside the door to take a deep breath of the air with a certain level of reverence for the fickle yet ever worthy of worship god of Caffeine, and coffee which is its prophet. He turns a quick look at the menu, but only says to Julie-the-barista, "The same." He adds more quietly to Gwilym as he follows, "What could your father have against this place that he wouldn't against the last? They big into midnight orgies that only regulars know about?"

     "He's ... friends with one of the regulars. Enemies. They've known each other a long time." Gwilym waves a hand. "Thinks I'm better of steering clear. You know how it is. still," he shrugs equably, "What da doesn't know won't hurt him, oes? Pick where you'd like to sit," he invites. "The booths offer the most privacy, though."
     Meanwhile, Julie efficiently makes Irish coffees; the Irish is taken from under the bar with a liberal wink at licensing laws, and the fifty is tucked not into the register but into her pocket. Gwilym just grins his pride and pleasure.

     There's one of those little twitching shrugs again as Loki considers seating choices. Maybe some old caution about wandering about with strangers has finally caught up with him. Nonetheless, it's a booth that he chooses, dubious privacy and all, and he slides into place with something in spitting distance of relaxed comfort and caffeine-related anticipation.
     "The best place to keep fathers," he says, falling into an American drawl, "is in a state of content ignorance about what their children are really up to. Everyone's happier that way."

     Gwilym carries both coffees with a casual gallantry, sliding it into the booth and then following suit with himself. He nudges the door of the booth shut, seated opposite Loki with the table in the way. "Oes, well, da's happiest not knowing what any of us get up to, especially if it involves bedroom antics. Mind, we're the same way." He shudders, expression pantomiming his horror at the thought of either knowing what his parents get up to or his parents knowing what he gets up to.
     A fine-fingered hand lands on the mug of his coffee, and he brings it up to his lips for a contented swallow; the mug's set down, and he settles forward, emerald gaze fixing onto Loki's face. "So," he grins wickedly, "you say you're looking for meaning. Somehow, I hate t' tell you this, but I'm not entirely buying it. Oh, I don't say you're lying, but I think there's more to it than that."

     Loki picks up the offered cup, stalling with a slurp of hot coffee. "Meaning's not what I--mean. Meaning of life and greater purposes I leave to other people. It's more that some things aren't worth bothering with unless you're going to take them seriously, and I don't get people who don't take anything seriously at all." Another twitchy shrug, and another slurp of spiked coffee. This, he's taking more gracefully than the drink in the club. "Nothing complicated that I'm saying, here. Why, what do you think I'm after?"

     "Fate."
     Gwilym grins, but there's for a moment something else lurking in his gaze. "Mind, I could be wrong, but it seems to me that you're dissatisfied with life, and in ways that can't be answered just by wandering. You strike me as a wanderer, right now - that's not a bad thing. As that bloody bumper sticker says, not all those who wander are lost, and all that tosh. But you're wandering with only a thin bit of direction, oes? And you don't much like it."
     He takes a swallow of his coffee, appreciatively rolling it around in his mouth as he settles back against the leather-cushioned back of the booth. "I can go on - and if I feel like it, I might, but I figure I'll give you the chance to take your druthers as to whether I say more or no," Gwilym adds after swallowing, smile roguish and wicked. "Because anything I say is either going to be truth or lie - and it'll be you to say which it is. If I'm lying, you'll not like it, but if I'm true you'll like it even less. Either way, remember, it won't be skin off my nose or my back, but if I say more... well, fate or coincidence, it all comes down to two sides of a single coin."

     Loki mimes a coin toss, sinking a little lower where he sits. There's that same protective curl around his coffee as he gave to his drink before, or maybe more so. "I'm not sure how bold a claim it is to say that whatever you say, I'll dislike. I'm game to be offended, since you've already bought drinks."
     Another gulp of coffee, not lingered on, but with the same level of satisfaction he gave that first look at the Ducati. "So you can go on if you like, except now I'm wondering what makes you want to fortune cookie at someone you've just met." Half to himself, "Figure it's more likely one of the universal sports than the other."

     Gwilym gives a look of mock incredulity. "Don't flatter yourself," he chuckles. "I do it whenever the spirit moves me." The curve of his mouth suggests that 'it' can be a lot of things.
     He lifts his mug to his lips, then looks Loki up and down with that glimmer to his gaze again, the smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, not quite turning into a shit-eating smirk. "You're more easily offended than you like to let on. I've already got you on the defensive, even though I haven't started yet. Ah, well," he sighs, "that's what I get for going and giving warning, oes? But it's true. Duw!"
     He chuckles again, then leans forward, smiling with a sort of dark knowledge to his gaze. "You've mostly convinced yourself it isn't worth doing things if they don't mean much because you've had most of the 'play' stamped out of you. If I had to make a guess, I'd say you're a bit of a prude," Gwilym says forthrightly, "not because the idea of things turns you off, but because nobody's ever made you cum half a dozen times in a night to the point where you didn't think you could, and did anyway." The wickedness lingers, and he chuckles, almost to himself, though his gaze never leaves Loki's face. He settles in comfortably.
     "Which isn't your fault, o' course. There's lousy lovers on every continent. Only part of it's your fault is giving up. But," Gwilym tips his mug up again, "if you were a girl, you'd try to slap me about now; I'd kiss you, and probably worse, because I'm a rascal and a rogue. As it is, you're going to go very stiff and possibly icy, and wish you were a girl so you could feel free to slap me, but the Irish coffee's a little too good to waste by hurling in my face. Oes?"

     There's a brief flush at the more explicit language, gone by the time Loki's got a chance to talk as well. "You're right," he says, too bland to be icy. "The coffee's much too good to waste by throwing at anyone." He has another long slurp just to cover that point. "I don't much care what anyone else gets up to in bed, or out of it, and maybe that makes me a prude if I'm not interested in all the gory details. So tell me something I don't know."
     He tilts his head back to look Gwilym in the eyes. "Besides, I'm not so full of myself as to think you want in my pants. More likely you're going for the other universal sport. Schadenfreude. Nothing quite so satisfying as watching someone else get uncomfortable, is there? It's like a little taste of power and superiority. Nearly as good as caffeine. I find coffee more reliable, myself, when I want a buzz."

     He chuckles at that, and there's a subtle shift as he slides back, a booted foot landing on the seat opposite. It isn't close enough to Loki to be an attempt to fondle; it's suddenly there, though, slowing any sudden retreat. The glitter in his eyes is a wild thing, with a life of his own.
     "Actually, I get enough schadenfreude watching my family go about their daily lives," Gwilym answers easily, the words rolling off his tongue without any sense of unfamiliarity at all. "You're in the habit of selling yourself short, aren't you? Easier if you beat the other person to the punch. 'Course, then you don't quite know what to do if the other person denies it, except to cut them down because they couldn't be serious - reject them before they can reject you. To answer your question, I wouldn't be averse to getting you into my lap. But I'm in no hurry, and I don't think you're ready for it."

     "Not before the third date," Loki drawls out, though it might be more convincing as a casual response if he weren't pale enough that slightest flush shows up over his cheekbones. He can't entirely ignore the foot on the seat beside him, even if he's making a pointed effort to do so. "Besides, you've near as said before you're only interested in what's a challenge. Hard to call it much of a personal compliment when what you're looking for is a lack of interest returned."

     "If I wanted a challenge, I'd break into a convent." He'd do it, too; there's that devil's own smile, carefree and roguish, again, matching the darkness in his gaze completely. "There isn't a lock I can't pick, a door I can't unbar, a window that I can't crack open and slide through, quick as a fox." He winks, the slyness transforming his features into something vulpine for as long as it lasts.
     Gwilym allows his foot to slip down off the seat; the side of his boot instead presses, just barely, against the side of Loki's foot. And he smiles beautifully. "What interests me isn't the getting there. It's what you'd turn into when you are finally bound and set free again. It moves in you, doesn't it?" He watches, head canted at just a slight angle. "The edge of a knowledge you want to taste," he whispers. "And it frightens you, oes? Because whatever else it means - it means Change."
     As suddenly as it began, his foot slides away again, and he picks up his coffee, taking a long swallow. When he speaks again, it's as easily and as naturally as if nothing out of the ordinary's been said or done. "But," Gwilym allows cheerfully, "I don't think you're ready yet. Which is fine, oes? Every green apple needs time to ripen."

     Loki stares, then shakes in a little twitch like a dog throwing off water, breaking past that instant of being caught and speechless. "You may well be the strangest person I've met all week. But could we skip the fruit metaphors? Gives me awful flashbacks to one of my high school teachers." He's come near to draining his cup, even relaxing a little from his protective huddle over it just as the caffeine's picking up over the alcohol in some comfortable wave of energy.

     "Oes, if you like," Gwilym answers easily. "Though apples are one of my favorite fruits." He winks again, with a flash of teeth, and he downs the rest of his drink in a gulp. "I may be the strangest person you've met, but I'd wager also one of the ones you'll think about the most." There is that wicked knowledge in the back of his eyes again. "Where are you staying, Loki, father of Hell?"

     "I may never forgive my father for naming me that," Loki says, eyeing Gwilym as if the other man's a dog that might yet bite. Or maybe more like something he wants and can't quite afford. "And it's his flat I'm staying in. Very adolescent, I know, to still be living at home. I think I can call myself a cab there easily enough."

     "As you like," Gwilym answers easily. "As I said - not quite ripened yet." He leans slightly, planting a palm against the smooth wood, and slides the door to the booth open. Immediately, the clinking of the barista's service floats in, and dimly, the sound of London's traffic without, restoring something of normality to the world.
     He rises, sliding out from the booth with a wink. "Age is all in the mind. When you're ready, you'll find all paths lead to the Center of All Things, oes? If not, maybe someone will find you and bring you there. Fate - or coincidence, oes?" He chuckles, low and in the back of his throat. "Good luck, Fireborn. But I wish you no ill." He turns, strolling towards the door and whistling jauntily and entirely in tune. It's Pachelbel's Canon in D Major.

     Loki watches the man go, eyes narrowed. And then with another quick head shake that's aimed at himself, he gets back to the business of finishing his coffee. It's enough to keep him occupied until Gwilym's out the door, and that's the point.

Posted by rowan at February 15, 2009 07:58 PM