...Are you ready to go? Cause I'm ready to go? What you gonna do, baby, baby?...
The music slams through the building like bullets. Bodies pump to the base which ripples in the lungs and people's drinks. Lights pulse, as the live band screams out lyrics.
A moment passes, then passes again. The pit of gyrating bodies repeating themselves, the lyrics hiccuping back half a phrase, mid word. A drink splashes twice, onto the shirt of a cheating boyfriend. None of them notice. Too mundane to sense the changes in the world around them.
...What you got, you got too late, cause everybody's gone...
A wave of emptiness pulses through the stomachs of those not quite of mundane backgrounds. They feel the pull of vertigo. The feeling of a sudden drop. Unremembered memories jostling forward to crowd the mind for a moment. Memories unremembered for the events they recall never occured. Possible pasts.
There is one more in the club, now, than there was a moment before. The vertigo and emptiness shifts to a momentary feeling of claustrophobia, then flees entirely.
He stands briefly on the stage, of the band, only Dei sees him. The dancers continue unawares. Ripples like water slowly emanating through the air, away from him. His eyes bleed dusty light, dying light. His skin too pale, his movements too graceful, he seems inhuman. Standing, his body motionless as his head slowly turns to survey the room.
Giving you things, that you never know... They know who you are... They know who you are...
How can they not see him, as he descends the side-stair to the pit below? He maneouvers through the crowd with practiced ease, walking as if he was the only one on the floor. Each step dims the waves of light in his eyes, the ripples fading with each second. And when they're gone, he is jostled in the crowd like anyone else. He moves with the beat, surging forward, bent on getting where he is going.
Apparently the bar.
At least he has come dressed for the place.
Gone is the band Deus Ex, gone the sweeping Icelandic sound bordering hypnosis and depression. Sieg Vaard, guitarist, drunk, glutton, willing participant in a thousand sins -- this week -- creates the roaring sound. He's beyond seeing. Beyond feeling. Beyond caring, even. It's all instinct, fingers on the strings, body in motion, mouth to the mic, adding an undercurrent of harmony lost on the ears of the crowd twisting to his sound, beneath his feet...
...It all happens in slow motion...
Each moment, from the sinking of the gut like the last coming, not just the second, the sudden drop, the sudden flashing of one's life before one's eyes. The mortal senses are jarred, and within the cocoon, a demon prince shakes his head to free the cobwebs.
For a moment, I was dreaming. Yes, even me. For a moment, I was on my pillows servicing the one Who Is Like God...?
Did that happen...
I remember but...
Well, it must have been memorable. And forgetable.
And then, there's a crushing of flesh, the flesh of his vessel around his immortal soul, no matter how damned. He feels it all. Each atom, each part of an atom, each galaxy of atoms that create each cell, from cells to galaxies of cells, a universe that becomes blood, then tissue, then skin...
Almost as if he were being lifted out of it...
Almost as if he were dying...
And then Andrealphus hears his vessel's voice, a scream of rebirth. Sky eyes open, shifting immediately to the sight. A guy on the stage. A sudden appearance in the universe, jarring. Like someone came by, shook the snowglobe of reality and then... left...
What the...
The guitar in Dei's hand thunders better than any bass. Two guitars and a drummer. That's it. Barebones, punk in sensibility, Wagner's Valhalla in sound. And his eyes follow the path being cut in the crowd....
Drowned blue eyes watch the other club goers, as he moves in upon the bar. They note the styles, and body language. Left hand goes up to his hair, and pulls it black, spiked. A moment ago it was undyed brown. Right touches the bridge of his nose, rams a metal stud through it with a sickening crunch, and then leaves a ring in a nostril as an afterthought. All without missing a step, or a beat.
Then, the bar, and he leans in over it to make his order. "Unadulterated Vodka" a voice like cinnamon whispers above the crash and crescendo of the band. A glance to one side to see the currency that others pass across the bar, and he draws pound notes with delicate, long fingers. Money he likely did not have before.
Turning, he rests himself against the bar to fix his gaze upon the vocalist. Blue eyes shot through with yellow. He looks bored, blase. Unimpressed, maybe, with the music.
One song -- if you can call a wall of sound a song -- seems to transform into another. Three chord thrash punk trading places for a thudding rhythm, sound tight, musicianship that might normally be lacking confirms itself as the guitars overlay the drums. A simple rhythm becomes musically complex. And unrelenting.
Sky eyes on the crowd, on the bar, the platinum-magenta-and-cobalt haired lead singer is at the mic, staring straight ahead, never once looking at his hands as he and the lead guitarist play in unison, both serving as rhythm, the lead harmonizing beneath him again.
And then it races, the steady rhythm doubling, falling back upon itself. Moments of discord replaced swiftly by sweetness, dashed the following second. And again...
And again...
The lyrics are elusive. They lift, seeming familiar, then fall into incomprehension, like the scattering of notes, nearly atonal. Another language. Not English. Icelandic.
At a spot, standing with two gentlemen, is a woman of incredulous beauty. In this light, she is dark, certainly of Mediterranean origin. Her hair is piled high upon her head, giving her height that she actually does not have. Spools of her black locks fall around her ears and to her shoulders in drapes, with plenty remaining. If let to hang, her hair must fall past the small of her back.
She is not so tall, perhaps five-three, but along with her hair, her stiletto black heels make her seem much more. The leather straps are wire-thin, and climb her ankles and calves to strangle below her knees. Silver caps on the soles of the heels are the only glimmer. She's dressed much like a mummy, save more fashionable. Leather wrap coils high at her upper thighs and wend further upward to cover parts of her body in strategic spots. The wrap ends at her breasts.
The two men with her glance here and there furtively. She, for her part, seems to drink something blue in a martini glass. She merits her share of stares, but she appears content to keep in a spot not so far from stage left, in a mix of shadow and light, occasionally speaking to the two guard-like men with her.
The music pounds against the man at the bar, beating against him like a gale. The notes jarring against him, and forcing his unimpressed smirk to occasionally twitch to hint at appreciation. He covers it well. The smirk changing to grudging smile, slowly.
And then the music is in him. It has battered his defenses, set seige to his soul. Others toss themselves in the pit, their bodies coming together in tune to the apocalyptic beat. The man simply lets a finger tap his glass, the chained outward expression of the music that spirals through his mind like flames.
He comes here, came here, with the intent of music. To descend into the hypnotic fray of the crowd, as dissonate notes pull the mind free of its shackles. Shrieking notes that pull upon his bitter soul, and sing him to a place of calm. Music that channels into him, feeding him.
Those dead eyes are open, and unseeing. Lost inward, their gaze moves but rests on nothing. The appearance of watching, without recognition.
The vodka is slammed back, as he remembers that it rests in his hand. The burn brings a moment of focus, letting him see the woman and her guards. She, like him, stands apart from the revelry. Out of place.
Remaining with her companions, the lady -- perhaps Spanish, darker France or even Italy -- simply sways left and right as she drinks. It's not so much due to the music, but instead her attempts to see people and faces as men pass her by. She seems young, this one, a daughter of the oldest money out for the night. She did not bring girlfriends, though.
One of the two men with her, a man of African origin, bends to whisper to her, perhaps making a seating suggestion or something for her comfort.
It calls to everyone. It even calls to God. Can you hear me now?
Can you hear me now?
A wall of sound as relentless as the sea, the pounding rhythm in perfect time, so tight in sound that thrash may be forgotten. It falls away, leaving melody behind. And buried in that wall of sound, like the tiniest pit of a fruit, is a melody. A sound of blinding sweetness. Like the truest taste. The most shuddering moment anyone can recall. A whisper that resounds, like being sent over the edge by the mere thought of a loved one missed.
Just a whisper...
Just something hidden...
Just a melody...
And then the voices call it out. Two male voices pull the note out from the center of the sound, and it lifts to the surface, overlaying the energy, overlaying the pounding of the drums.
A new destination, the glass is left on the bar, and he cuts through the crowd. Hair bleachs white, as he gets closer to the stage. Music pulls his body. Each step has more motion than the last. He can't help but hear it.
People give him space, unconsciously. Allow him space for motion, unhindered by sweaty bodies crushed together. He moves, at first, shy and self-conscious. Slow counterpoint to music.
And the music runs to greet him, whispering along leather clad skin, and gleaming off the dozens of silver buckles. Where others move to the music, this man moves with the music, as much a part of the song as the notes. Perhaps Dei can feel how the notes scream from the stage, to gather around this man. The sound is louder where he is, certainly, for no explicable reason.
But his eyes are open, clear, and paying attention. They watch, even as he seems lost to trance.
There's a negative shake of the woman's head. A no. The man goes upright again, eyes darting around the space once more.
Look, a man dancing. Or something. Weird.
The woman looks up and speaks to the bodyguard with her, pointing, over her glass, a thin finger at the white-haired male.
He never looks at the frets, rarely looks at Sieg Vaard, never looks at Jared. His eyes are on the crowd. He can hear the distortion of sound. The man is an eddy. Charybdis, pulling everyone and everything toward it. And they are helpless...
Magenta-sapphire-and-platinum haired Dei moves away from the mic, pulling the sound back in, like it's a tug-of-war. He looks to Sieg and the pounding stops. A moment of jarring silence, and then it starts again. Laughing he moves back to the mic, a step, a lunge.
"Take me. Take me higher," translating into English, those words of Icelandic no longer clinking discordant amid the melody, "Deep as the bottom of the deep blue sea... warm as the feeling when you're holding me... I'm dreaming that this love is going to set us free...I'm floating on a glimmer of a memory..."
"... Take me..."
"Take me higher..."
"It could be so easy..."
The drums soften...
...slow...
And the guitars begin to fade...
But the rhythm is still there. The voices, beautiful now that the noise has peeled away, leading the trance. Does anyone notice when the drums stop altogether? Does anyone notice when the guitars fade to nothing?
"Won't you take me..."
Deep as the bottom of the deep blue sea...
Warm as the feeling when you're holding me...
I'm dreaming that this love is going to set us free...
I'm floating on a glimmer of a memory...
Take me...
For a moment he loses his footing. His was the music, created by another, but his none the less. Then, like marionnettes strings, the vocalists pulled upon the notes and unravelled his trance. He stumbles, as silence descends for a beat upon the club, and his cloak of noise echoes to the far corners of the room, lost.
He frowns, but his souring mood is stilled as the music begins again. But he has nothing to hold onto. The music is descending, losing its notes, as the musicians silence their voices. Leaving only the vocalist's lyrics to echo in the ears, and move between the clubgoers.
His focus, concentration, pull the will from his free-roaming eyes. Brow furrowed, he tries to grab hold of the slippery music, to once more dance with it.
But his dance partner has gone silent.
As the song seems to wind down, he is left standing in a small pool of space in the middle of the dance floor. He looks pathetic, almost pouting, arms hanging limply at his sides as he looks up at the band.
Waiting for more. Ravenous for sound.
The African moves from his position near the lady, stepping onto the dance floor. He does not breech the space fully with his non-dancing stance, but instead, makes a motion to the white-haired man on the floor, as others too, mill and choose their next steps based on the band's intent.
Can you feel a little love...?
Voices blend, song switching again, no space between, from trance to something recognizable. The lead singer's guitar sounds resonant, like acoustic, but the sound carries. The lead guitarist's fingers move in separate patterns, creating a complimenting sound, but diverging, lifting, pendulous upon pounding. The drum kicks in a moment later.
"Can you feel a little love...
...As you're bony fingers close around me...
Long and spindly, Death becomes me
Heaven can you see what I see
Hey you pale and sickly child
You're death and living reconciled
Been walking home a crooked mile...
Paying debt to karma
You party for a living
What you take won't kill you
But careful what you're giving...
... Can you feel a little love? Dream on ...
Dream on..."
It pounds, desparate, insistent. Can you feel a little love. Dream on. Dream on.
There is a man in his space. The song moves around the intruder like a river passing around stones. But the white haired man can't help but notice. Eyes come to rest on the african, pulling the rest his head and shoulders to turn. A single step, and he is within the African's personal space.
Too close, too soon.
Claustrophic.
Cinnamon breath carries the words "Can I help you?"
He has broken the hold of the music, even as the band returns with force. Now his body barely moves.
Mantis-like, his head twitches to an angle, as he awaits a reply.
"The lady would like to know if you would join her for a drink?"
It's said crisply and efficiently, without emotion. The accent betrays the attendant's Spanish heritage, though his skin suggests points further south.
One set has become the next. Glasses of vodka are left at the edge of the stage for the band. Glass after glass after glass. Clear. Blue. Violet. Like the colors of Dei's hair.
The symbolism isn't lost on him...
The ambient sound doesn't skip a beat as the sound of two guitars is replaced by the sound of only one. The mic is taken, the lead singer heading to rim of the stage, rimmed now by a line of glasses...
"Blame it on your karmic curse
Oh shame upon the universe
It knows its lines, it's well rehearsed
It sucked you in, it dragged you down
To where there is no hallowed ground
Where holiness is never found
Paying debt to karma
You party for a living
What you take won't kill you
But careful what you're giving..."
Dei bends down, takes a glass of vodka, slams it between verses, and another. Rising, smiling, he stands upon the edge of the stage, his legs soon surrounded by arms...
"Can you feel a little love...
Can you feel a little love...?
Dream on...
"...dream on..."
Dream on...
He raises himself on his toes slightly, bringing his eyes level to the Spaniard. They then slide to one side, past the man, to look across the woman with the cascading hair.
Then back.
"She does look lonely." Whispered voice above the music. "And bored."
He drops to one side, sliding forward and past the guard. Personal space invaded further, as he brushes past. One arm goes up behind him, as he moves foward. Hand mimes plucking against strings to leave a moment of resonance upon the music. For a moment, the music itself feels angry, before returning to the musician's will.
"I think I will." Not that his motions had given any doubt as to where he was headed.
The bodyguard simply turns about, glancing left and right, then follows the man towards his charge, deftly avoiding other patrons.
The second bodyguard has been busy. He shuffled to a nearby bar, and soon returned with a fresh blue drink for the lady. She stands unnaturally tall next to him, though still shorter than he. The blonder man takes her almost-empty glass and offers a fresh one at her slender fingers.
The music thrusts against the crowd again...
Drums pounding punk-thrash again...
The singer's voice throaty again, sweetness lost...
The lead singer stands at the precipice, held up by clasping, grasping arms. A descendent of vikings striding into the heart of the sea...
A fallen angel standing at the edge of a new void...
Platinum-magenta-sapphire hair is wet with sweat, colored vibrant.
Both hands holding the mic, his neck and throat strain with the intensity, the power he blasts through the club. Anguish sounds like this.
And freedom...
And at his waist, the oldest guitar -- the first, in fact, to ever play a love song in the history of the universe, hums electric. Beneath that, a far older voice...
To be approached by this man is somewhat disturbing. Freeze-frames, playing at such high speed that he seems to be moving fluidly, but the brain keeps catching on the corners and telling her that something is just wrong with him. His body seems to be more a collection of independent beings, all running together for convenience.
One moment they all act together, as a man would.
Then an arm moves, wanting to return to the music, but not able to escape the shoulder. It can sense the age of the music, the force behind the notes. It craves the experience, but is denied by its anchor.
Then they're all together again.
It all goes mostly unnoticed by the mundane, but even the most banal would feel the wrongness in in him as he advances upon her.
A thumb and forefinger go up to explore the stud that has occupied the bridge of his nose all evening. Curious, exploring its newness.
Then everything is controlled again. Frames fall away, and he moves fluid once more.
He stops paces away, bouyed to this place by the force of the music behind him. Far enough away that he won't intrude. Close enough to execute a bow, by way of greeting.
The messenger takes up his spot again, next to the young woman.
In this light, she seems not much more than her mid-twenties. Thin chain with emeralds grasps at her throat, and along with matching earrings, are the only adornment she has on. Not that she needs it.
"Hello, it is as you say," she says in heavily accented English. A twist and she brings up a second blue drink, offering it in the man's direction. "A drink," she says, her lilt Spanish. The beverage, as promised.
It's a strange set, but it seems at last to be ending. The thrashing turns to a sing-song cadence, a slow, loping rhythm. Ambient. Soft snare on the drum. Dropping, haphazard notes from Sieg's guitar. And Dei walks along the stage, bending to pick up glasses. One. Two. Three. Four held at once.
"He's got three for the price of one...
Nothing's free but guaranteed for a lifetime use...
I've changed the locks, and you can't get away...
What is there for me inside? This love is tired, and I've changed the locks, have I misplaced you?
Have we lost our minds? Will this never end?
You. Me. We used to be on fire. Yet keys are all that stand between, can I throw in the ring, no gasoline. Just fuck me kitten.
You are wild and I'm in your possession. Nothing's free, so fuck me, kitten.
Just fuck me, kitten. You are wild, and I'm in your possession. So fuck me, kitten..."
He rises from his bow, and a hand gently accepts the glass of blue liquid. A step closer, to the dare the guards. His smile takes a little while to warm up, but eventually he seems almost friendly.
He ventures a whiff of the drink, as he considers what to say.
"Thank you." is what he finally decides on. Then "Why choose me, from this crowd?" His cinnamon voice sounds lazy, causing pauses between words that time themselves to the lyrics that pound through the club.
Not even introductions, as he takes a sip of the drink, one eyebrow curious of what he might be drinking.
A powerful sedative would make the night interesting, is the decision he comes to.
"You were..." her hand waves, motioning to the dance floor. She'd say dancing like a demented stick figure, but that's hard in English.
"And you did not have someone with...so I sent Serge." The large man on the right.
The glass is refreshingly potent. A mix of vodka, gin, and blue curacao. All chilled.
"What are you called? I am called Angelique..."
And then it ends. Simply.
Live music is backed by the house music. There's no comparison...
Vodka is passed. Jared, young and preppie looking, in a button-down shirt and trousers. Sieg Vaard in traditional punk leather and dark t-shirt, drenched with some combination of sweat and vodka as he splashes his first glass against his face (close eyed, of course).
Dei steps off stage, stage right, to the band's nook, complete with partially clothed, vinyl clad girls (belonging to Sieg). The guitar is removed, eased into a case, and Jared takes it to the back, disappearing.
A shock of platinum, blue and magenta catches the light as Dei rakes a hand through his hair and then meanders toward the bar, pressing through the flesh to do so.
He passes the table with the Odd Gent and the Well Heeled Woman...
Part of him is disapointed that all he is drinking is a potent drink, and nothing more. Its the thousand little disapointments that drive you down, or so he would claim.
"Most would call me a bastard, but feel free call me Janus." He smiles at his own, bad joke. He isn't sparing her limited English. Why bother? People don't learn if you coddle them.
A glance goes back to the dance floor to follow her gesture. He sees the band packing up, splashing alchohol, and walking away. There is no life in the house music. There is no life left in the club, at all, as far as Janus is concerned.
Was he always wearing indigo lipstick?
Dei passes by, causing Janus to look over with mantid movements. Focusing a moment, considering, before returning attention to the pretty little thing that seems to want his attention. She must be thoroughly daft.
"Janus." A nod. Her eyes catch the following of Dei, and Janus' own movements. "Your type?" she asks, taking a drink of her own glass in the pause. Angelique looks after Dei. "If so..." her hand waves again, as if she'd not stop him from following Dei.
If she's daft, she's not working hard to counter the notion. A smile rises, causing her dark brown eyes to gleam slightly. If you come or go, it seems to matter little. She's content in her universe there; wall-guards to protect her.
Your type...
I'm everyone's type.
I invented type...
Dei takes a second glance, not only at the Odd Gentleman, but also at the Well-Heeled Woman. Both are spectacular in their own fashion. He, in his singularity, his oddity. Her, for the sheer architecture, from style to her security detail.
Dei keeps moving, heading for the bar and for the red-vinyled bartender, red vinyl corset, pulled tightly, and a red-plaid ultra mini. That'd be Betty herself. And her boobs, her now second most famous asset behind the bar that is their namesake, are on display.
Her question gives him pause. He actually has to stop and think about it.
How long has it been since he ever gave anything any real thought?
Drift through life. Let whims carry one motion to the next. Always stuck in the act of stepping through the doorway into the next experience.
His answer surprises him. "No, I don't think so." But his voice has decided.
"I have an allergy to those that seek fame." It gets in the way, it does, when you are like Janus. "All those photographers and screaming fans." His voice just continues on its merry way, as he mentally sits back to listen to it.
"No, he is a passable musician. I enjoyed his set, and was merely considering giving him a compliment."
"I thought better of it though."
A pause, his voice searches for a way to continue the conversation since it has been given leave to do so.
"And you? What do you think of him?
"He is no fame-seeker," Angelique observes gently. "Not that one. He plays...for other things. But he is good, I think," her voice rising and falling according to native rules. "His hair is good," she adds as a secondary note.
"And you, you live...here?" In London, presumably.
No, no fameseeker is right. Furthest from it. He doesn't do it for the attention. In fact, off-stage, he avoids contact altogether. There's only Betty, really, and his bandmates. The rest of humanity is avoided. A cocoon of privacy settles around him, even when he's in the most crowded of bars.
Well, second most crowded...
Dei takes a bottle of Stoli from the bar, compliments of a smiling, happy Betty. He could have more of course. But Dei is happy with the Stoli. He is going to pass the table again on his way back, hands already working the cap of the bottle.
Janus chuckles. "His hair is good has got to be one of the greatest, back-handed insults ever." Another slight chuckle. "If you can't think of anything else nice to say, compliment the hair."
Then her question of where he is from, bringing his answer as Dei passes by again "No, not from here. I only popped over this evening so that I could listen to the music." He hasn't really answered the question, and so he continues. "California." He lies, though with the rest of his odd body language, it is hard to tell. "I'm from the land of the sun."
Not many would notice movement at the door, the entrance of just another participant in the evening's inebriation, with the exception of those at the door. The evening's cover charge is paid, and a young man in striped cords -- olive green, brown and gold -- with t-shirt that matches the garnets at his throat eases between pressed bodies. Golden hair looking finger-tousled as always.
Valan Montague appears at the bar. A lean in, a smile, the readying of a cigarette in his hand, he orders a drink, and Betty is only happy to oblige.
In the corner, the band retreats, disappearing in half-curtained, semi-privacy. The lead guitar player with the two girls mostly in shadows, hands beneath the table.
And god knows where else...
"California," Angelique repeats to the syllable. A mimic, she is. Not a great handler of the language. "American," she reminds herself.
"What is...back-hant?"
Another drink from her glass, and Angelique watches Janus and glances beyond him to the room at large. "You...are alone?" she adds quickly.
Her question causes a smirk. "Only as alone as the room is silent." Why bother explaining, she wouldn't understand anyway. No one understands me. He chuckles at his inner teenager feigns angst.
Then eyes size up Serge and the other guard. "You often come to clubs with guards? Don't they get in the way?"
Janus doesn't bother explaining back-handed. He could just speak to her in Spanish, but that would ruin his fun. Taking advantage of linguistic shortcomings isn't usually his cup of tea, unless it means they won't pick up on insults. Then it is always in the cards.
The drink is called the golden goose. It is a mixture of grey goose vodka, essence of apricot and garnished with gold leaf. Light on the vermouth, only a splash rolled against the glass before it's tossed. Smooth. It suits the temperment of the golden goose that's walking by. A stand out, not because he's famous (he isn't) or infamous (not yet) and not because he is fabulously good-looking (even though he is). He is a stand out because he is not a part of the Normal Crowd. There's not a stitch of leather, he isn't wearing a codpiece or a harness, or punk slogans scrawled in corporate sleekness against his chest.
He's a shock of gold in a dark bar, a shaft of light in a dark world...
Valan Montague moves toward the stage area, meandering in between tables, sipping one of Betty's martinis, gathering stares. Like a tourist entering the amazon by mistake...
"No," Angelique responds. Why would you ask such a thing? She smiles, and adds, "They keep me company. Until I find better company. Another drink?"
"So, you come, and you dance alone. Are all Americans like you? I see them dance in groups sometimes."
"Oh, yes, all us Americans are alike." Just like paper dolls. "We only dance in groups when it is an odd-numbered day."
As he talks he slowly positions himself so he can keep eyes on the golden boy that is causing such a stir. Tourists invading Betty's. This is fantastic! He grins, loving the disruption this newcomer is causing. Janus inwardly hopes for some sort of fight. He always loves it when slack-jawed club-goers fight.
He raises his almost finished drink. "Sure, another drink would be great. Maybe I can even get sloshed and wind up in some random strangers bed."
Of course, his delivery is flawless. His smile is friendly, and his eyes sparkle. Janus could just as well be delivering a thousand compliments.
"And yourself? You haven't danced at all. Do Spaniards dance?"
Maybe it's the way the light is landing on that table. Maybe it is something overheard. Valan passes the table by, the woman and her guards and the white-haired man, and he glances back in passing, taking another look.
Golden eyebrows peak and then lower. Don't I know you...
Do I?
She looks familiar, but...why?
Valan pauses a moment before picking another path. And he wears a golden glow. The light in the bar clings to him, particles of dust drip like planetary dust off his shoulders. And eyes trail where he walks, some energy left behind, falling like the illuminated dust to the black floor.
Words seem to move over Angelique, until spaniards are mentioned. "All Spaniards dance, yes." Why would you ask such a silly thing. "I dance, but, not to this music."
Angelique's attention is diverted an instant. The young man passing by. Attractive thing. Her brows arch ever so faintly.
Words are mumbled in Spanish to the African. I think I am ready to leave. Angelique turns her attention back to Janus, other hand sending the second guard off to find a new drink for Janus. "Another drink then," she smiles, sipping hers once more.
He frowns for a moment. The golden boy has scared off Janus' plaything. Oh well, toys break. At least this toy wants to get him liquored before leaving.
Janus suppresses the shrug, then takes the last sip from his drink. Blue-black lipstick remains on the glass.
"That is good. It would be such a shame to have a country of people who didn't dance."
Then he looks back to the outsider. "Know him? He certainly seems out of place here."
All Spaniards dance...
That voice...
But careful, Valan, for all those around you, there is no way you could have heard that with the music blaring...
So there's a sudden turn, a nod to someone he knows, perhaps, and in that turning he faces the Well-Heeled woman, her guards, and the white-haired man.
Maria?
And he smiles, Valan Montague, a slide of gold against, yes, a beautiful face. An outsider? Intentionally. When going to a BDSM, goth and punk establishment, how does one rebel? By being the antithesis of the sub-culture conformity.
Angelique looks up at the young man, though she is already standing. Rising taller, the young woman sips her drink, and seems to look through him as if to ask Is there a problem?
Now he is being ignored. Janus hates that. Not that he feels like doing anything about it, really. Apathy convinces him to stand, and watch, in the vain hope that something interesting will happen between these two.
He could just check... But no, that ruins the fun. Best not to know before things occur. Janus has decided that he enjoys surprises, tonight. Tomorrow, maybe not, but tonight certainly.
Ah well, at least it is entertaining to watch them pose for each other.
"No, I do not think so," Angelique responds, seeing the young man turning to stop at the two of you. How rude. She's not so uncouth as to ask him her thought. A clearing of her throat, and Angelique takes another drink of her shrinking blue glass.
From behind, the bodyguard has returned with a matching pair of familiar blue glasses. He offers them, then notices the golden young man stopped as well.
"This is a surprise," is what he says, and he takes a step closer, a look to the guards, to the other man. "...I don't mean to interrupt," but he is, "...but how could I see you and not say hello?" Edward would kill me for the slight.
Valan finishes the first golden goose of the night, there may be others, may be not. A twist, a smile, the glass is taken by one waitress, and a red martini is handed to him in return. Compliments of Betty. He looks at the scene, lips slanting a smile. "Have fun..."
The Infanta .... goes out? Clubbing?
Dipping her chin a little, Angelique's lips twist as she watches the young man speak in rapid English. She glances at Janus, then nods at the young man again. "Hel-lo," she murmurs, glancing again at Janus. "Thank you."
No, she did not expect to be recognized...
A hand goes to the latest offering of alchohol. Still a glass of the same potent brew. Nothing interesting to liven the night, and surprise him. Janus isn't surprised.
These pair are odd. His other hand brushes against his hair, wiping none-existent wisps off his forehead, and accidentally leaves it burgundy.
"Don't you just hate it when people think they know you?" Janus says, smiling, to Angelique while keeping his eyes on Valan.
"Mmph," Angelique nods faintly. Nothing too committal. Another glance to Janus sees the color on his forehead, which causes a slight grimace from the young woman.
And a change of her mind.
"He...you..." Angelique coughs a little, "...seem familiar." Yes, that's it.
Okay. Valan Montague actually laughs. Are we really going to play? I do not know that I care that much, Maria. "Maybe I was mistaken," he says and he doesn't push it. You want to be out and to play, who am I to interrupt you? "You look like someone I know..." He smirks. "But she would not be in an S&M wannabe bar dressed as Nefertiti." He glances to Janus. "Sorry about that. It's not every day when you think you see your..." a pause. "... cousin..." aha, so this is how William became Edward's cousin, "... from Spain in the middle of a random, London warehouse club."
Janus smiles in return to Valan, hand creeping back up to clear away the odd new colouring. "Oh, I completely understand. I find myself constantly tripping over my family whenever I go to places they couldn't possibly be."
He extends his other hand to shake. "Name's Janus." Introductions always prolong awkward situations. Makes them more awkward by giving people an excuse to stay longer.
Now she's huffy. Angelique exhales loudly, and she appears to be looking over a non-existent pair of spectacles. "Are you always an arrogant boy?"
Why are they shaking hands?!
Another huff and Angelique picks up her fresh drink, off-handedly shoving her empty glass in Serge's face.
"Valan..." is the return, the hand taken, a quick shake. He looks back to Angelique, smiling brightly. "Always..." the accent, if one were paying attention, is French, though highlly Anglicized. He leaves it at that. "Are you always annoyed by it?"
He laughs, he enjoys it as much as Janus does apparently. Valan lifts the glass for a drink. An amaretto martini concoction? Strange. "You win," Valan says to her, leaning in, his gold-green eyes catching the light. "I will leave you alone." Valan straightens, looking to Janus. "Nice to meet you..." A pause and a grin. "Good luck."
"Luck doesn't exist." Janus' voice is flat for the moment of those three words.
Then he is all smiles again. "Well, it was nice to meet you. Perhaps we'll run into each other again, when tripping over family members." He really doesn't even bother to try to make sense, figuring that people will hear what they want.
Then back to Angelique, as he takes a sip of his drink. "These really are very good." Maybe he is just insane, who knows.
The roll of her eyes in Janus' direction suggests, 'I'm sure you'd say that.' Angelique is now done. With the bend of her wrist, the two men are in motion. "It is time for me to depart." Her evening's ruined. If she had plans to steal you away to bed, Janus, those appear to be vanish'd as well.
"Enjoy your drink and your dancing," Angelique says, turning to see Janus again. "You're a nice boy."
I didn't mean to cramp your style...
The golden goose with the red drink turns from the table and disappears among the dancing throng...
And the band? The band is nowhere to be seen...
A nice boy? For a moment Janus looks like he's been struck. Then he laughs. Laughs hard.
"Oh, that is a good one." Calming himself, and brushing a tear from his eye, he feigns a touch of sadness that Angelique is on her way. "Well, it was a swell evening. Glad I could was given the chance to occupy some airspace around you." More smiles.
"And thanks for the drinks. I never forget anyone that buys me drinks." Sometimes, when Janus is serious, it can be very scary. But, then, these people don't know him.
At least he got to play some part in ruining someone's night. Janus is pleased as punch. Never ever invite Janus to join you for drinks.
And his co-conspirator left without any final words. To Janus, this means he gets all the glory. Of course, only Janus is keeping score.
Posted by rowan at September 19, 2003 08:18 PM
