Now this place... suits him. Although he is not... gothic...nor is he a practitioner of voodoo per se...he seems to fit its profile. Tall. Beautiful. Dark. And the electric cobalt of his hair ? it is the crowning touch. Indeed. His long black leather coat spills about him, and he moves with a small smile past valets and the Queen of the Amazons. Past hexagonal blue lenses his eyes gleam almost otherworldly. Otherworldly... this is the word for William. The older he gets the more he becomes so. The air is alive with him. His slightest smile is going to beckon drinks. Or more. You have seen this before. But now? It is not the mad rush of desperation. Or the penance of exorcism. It is pure enjoyment. Pure. And the tangible joy is evident everywhere upon him. Whatever it is... that has transformed him... it is certainly a good thing... yes...

     "Oh, baby," Edward grins, striding into Phantasmagoria upon the thinned carpet. Eyes are upon a girl in the outfit de rigeur, something made of PVC. Very nice. He smirks and then twists to walk backwards, grinning madly at you. "Come on, cos, lighten up," he begins, before a rather attractive girl in a red dress puts herself into Edward's path. As he backs into her, she puts her arms around him, leaning to give him a kiss upon the cheek. Chestnut velveteen hair shimmers as it waves, her lips as red as her fitting dress. "Well, there y' are, Eddie..." she coos, tossing her dark eyes your direction as if to say, Who's your friend?

     Lighten Up says the Brujah to the Ventrue. It should be engraved somewhere. In Rome. The thought makes him grin. Smooth, slow. The pull of it cannot help its sensuality. But for the moment, he is distracted by the sensations. Gladly. Indigo eyes lift over the geometric lenses even as he inclines his head. A sweep of the surroundings. And the grin, smooth as it is, begins to twist. Slanting. And around him, the air is tight. In expectation of the Unknown Delight. An energy that ripples through the room around him. He who touches... without laying a single hand.
     As the Lady in Red stops you, coils arms around you and looks to him, William meets her attention. With the first palpable fixing of a gaze. And there is something playing in those dark eyes. But it is not lust. It is a kind of sensual detachment. He appreciates ? who couldn't or wouldn't? ? but she will not be the flavor of the evening. Edward can see that, but the woman? He smiles and leans in. William is whispered, but he turning after ? eyes giving a scan of the crowd again. Seeking instant alcohol. Or ... something else...

     The girl's hands are covered by Edward's as he smiles askance. "Hello, Veronique," he replies, relishing in having her around him. His eyes look to you as well. Like? Dislike? Does it matter? "You look absolutely delectable," Edward chuckles, liking the sentiment. "And...that's...William, just like he said. He's...my cousin," the silver-tongued devil responds, "...from the continent...though I guess," Edward grins at you, "...he's here now again."
     Swaying a little, he lifts her hand to kiss it as Veronique continues to stare at you. "Veronique deMontrand..." she smiles, accent English, however, "...pleasure..." To be sure. A whisper is murmured at Edward, and her free hand slips into his pocket an instant before she begins to unwrap herself from Edward. "William...?" she wonders, looking for a last name...her eyes following yours. Is she not so interesting?

     In the club, plenty of eyes stare your direction. And why not? Beyond Edward, only one light shines brighter. That's yours. Men and women alike take obvious stock of you, and plenty of whispers rise, only further heating the space.
     There is the pulse of money here. As strong as the beat of music. And the hearts caught in the dance. There is the pulse of Anything Goes here. It blends with the sensations of sweat and sound. It is crowded. It is the heady part of evening. PVC, leather, vinyl, fur, velvet. It is a "fringe" sort of rainbow, isn't it.

     He had turned in time to miss the "hand-off"... he had glanced, just for a moment, to the General Scene. As she introduced herself, however, William's attention had returned. The pull of the smile -- it matches the voice that comes, and the motion. Languor. "Veronique deMontrand," he says through the sound of the constant music beat. His accent? Something French. Maybe. Something Italian? Perhaps. Hard to place, but continental. Right hand takes the hand that... left a prize behind for Edward. William leaves his own... gift behind. A brush of his mouth over fingertips, even as he says, "William Fraser... " But a wink spoils the formality. Indigo eyes flicker toward Edward. "I had no idea you had friends..." A quip. Now, that had something of Scotland in it. William looks to Veronique, letting her hand go with a squeeze of fingers. "I am going to let you pick my poison..." So he says, baritone voice held then at his throat, and in the broad chest.
     He notices the attention... and it is invisibly returned. But returned with that energy he has. Felt and reciprocated. In another scan, he ends his traveling gaze with another look to the Woman in Red. Expecting her to have an answer.

     A woman wearing nothing but a sheath of lace looks to the group. Eyes making a slow trail, not only over Edward Muerelle and his ... tall friend... but of the woman. A blue drink is lifted to her lips even as she passes by. Long, dark hair ? straight ? pours over her shoulders as she turns. To take another look.

     "Absolutely," she smiles, eyes gleaming at you now. Goodness. She smirks and turns to Edward, "I'll be right back." No doubt she's intrigued, but she knows where her bread and butter is. A kiss at Edward's cheek and Veronique heads off towards one of the several bars.

     The music is a constant swirl and tangle. It has no beginning and seemingly no end. It only knows tempo. Faster now than moments before...

     "So," Edward smirks, reaching to grab your arm to pull you deeper into the place and the bodies, "...what do you think?" He turns quickly to be at your side, a companion into the dark recesses. He looks at the eyes and stares, relishing in the adoration. "Granted...Veronique's a dear of mine, but...I'm not opposed to sharing." And as he watches the woman depart, a girl and a guy, both blondes, suddenly come out of nowhere, reaching for him. "Eddie!" they say, even if they both are wide-eyed at you, "Hey! We haven't seen you in a while..."

     The music shifts on this floor, moving to something with a rapid 120 pulse beat. The ground floor begins to swell with people deciding this is their moment.

     At the bar, Veronique can just be seen between the moving throng of people. The dress is worn for a reason, of course. She leans as she waits for something to be prepared, then twists about to keep an eye on where the two of you drift.

     I promised I wouldn't think... yes?" Rapid French flows easily into a chuckle. As if one becomes the other. William moves along with you, leaning in. "You do not have to worry about Veronique," He may toy and look and he may even flirt. But it will end there. The music. The adoration. The swell of humanity. It is a drug all its own. Everything else is superfluous ? well, not entirely, but he could swim in this and this alone and after hours of it be intoxicated. It is in everything. In the slow pull of his smile. In the dark eyes that seem to be alive with their own light. In the languor of his motion. Delight. And the air around him... it feels him as profoundly as it feels the music. Some word is held upon the tongue ? held couched in the grin ? as two blondes ... seemingly appear. Something gold, amid all the dark. And William's attention is piqued at this. Even as they move to greet Edward, William makes his study. Past the edges of hex lenses, dark eyes lift and lower. The smile remains ? the echo of some earlier laughter.

     I'm in paradise now... I'm in paradise now... The whispered voice of the Industrial song issues past the rapid 120 pulse beat...

     The two smirk in their torn leathers and black shirts. "Hallo," the young man says to you, blue eyes bright in the darkness. He blushes faintly, but then looks back at the other blonde with him as she chirps, "Eddie, just one, hmm?" hands reaching for him as she nods at you. "You...look a bit busy though," she acknowledges, glancing at her bookend male companion.

     The young blonde man with the blue eyes ? you are given another look, and a quick smile. Pity, that the 'lighting' hides the blush. William nods in return to the woman and the smile that was begun with the young man ends with her. A wave made with a hand ? as if to nevermind that. Even as he reaches into his long leather coat... and shifts his attention toward the bar. And the poison he's expecting...

     "Yeah, mate, you did," Edward smirk, patting you on the arm as he's accosted. Oh, no, not these two. It's not a disappointed look...just unexpected. "Hallo, cutebirds," he gleams at them, allowing them both to kiss him on the cheeks. "I didn't expect to see y' both so soon..." he narrows his eyes, "...I thought...you were going back t' Surrey?" Edward's face turns your direction almost apologetically, then looks back to the two.
     They're rather keen, this pair and eyes dart between you both. With the girl seeming to be the lead, Edward focuses on her more as she nods, "We did, but we didna like it...borin' you know? So we came back t' London." At you, the young man, not needing to speak apparently, extends a hand, "James," he bobs his head, eyes fascinated.

     The train's come to a halt. Lucky for Veronique. A sashay brings her around the edge of the crowd, near an art deco railing. Catching your look, she motions you in her direction as she sets drinks and herself down at a seating arrangement.

     Hand taken, the shake brief but.. strong. A slow grin punctuates it. "William... evening..." Introduction and greeting rolled into one. The accent again is hard to place. French is there. Italy perhaps. A little lilt of something islander. Continental, most surely. "Ah, there's Lady Borgia with my first... and perhaps last... drink of the evening..." the baritone lifts in volume slightly. He looks back to James, leaning in a bit. "A pleasure, James..." A nod and the smile it brings along with it is given also to the blonde woman, even as William looks to you, trying to catch your attention. "Edward..." and he gestures to the seating arrangement nearby. I'll be over here. Come along now...
     William turns with a bit of a wave to your other... friends... and heads over toward Veronique.

     Boring, eh? Edward smirks at the girl's story, glancing occasionally at the two men beside him. But he goes on to explain, "Well, I can't dance right now," he motions at William in motion, "...mebbe later, okay?" The girl watches you leave as well, nodding absently at Edward. "That's cool, Eddie...we just wanted to say hi, mostly."
     And the young man's eyes stay upon you as you go. There is a shade of disappointment, he having managed to speak and offer a shake. It wasn't enough.
     "Hey, let's go, Jimmy," the girl says, punching him in the arm to get his attention, "I wanna say hi to Anders." The young man rubs his shoulder and quietly nods, saying, "See ya, Eddie," as he wanders slowly off behind the faster-moving girl. He looks back to see you headed to Veronique ? a pretty woman to be sure ? and accepts that he's not quite up to that cool level yet.

     Seeing you turn brings a luscious smile to Veronique's lips. She crosses silken legs, the couple of inches of hem flare bounding upwards in a flip. There are three drinks upon the table, brightly colored martini glasses, slightly oversized. Thin glass though, rather elegant...each with a glass shard toothpick sticking out, and a line of olives speared for their last go round. One red, one blue, one green.

     Not boring. Just nice. They seem nice. The young man was cute, but... not exactly what William is after. Goddamned picky Ventrue. Veronique, you must admit ? as shall he ? is far more compelling. Even if he's not going to see her out of that red PVC. A glance was given to you ? just to mark that you are on your way. As he slips within the seating area and begins to settle. A hand removes the pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and William shifts his attention to Veronique. And the drinks.
     "So ... what delight have you for me here...hmm?" A martini, quite obviously. Oooh. Olives. Raven brows lift ? an expression of pleasure that. William settles back, a cigarette and the lighter. Smooth the smile that winds across his lips. Interest seems to play in his eyes. Around him, that casual but electric air. "Or are all three mine? You shouldn't have..." The languid voice carries with it the clip of something occasionally ...northern.

     The rapid 120 beat continues. To hear the spoken words... one must... lean in close... yes?

     Near the seating area, a congregation of young dancers. Men. Women. Do they seem drawn here? The table becomes the eddy of a swirl, and the dances move, tidal, all around. Coming. Going. It brings a smile to William. Lingering. Constant. Sensuous mouth claimed by it... and soon, by the cigarette. And no... it's not... tobacco...exactly...

     At the notion of come along, Edward does follow. The kids have been sent off. He gives a wave at a few as he strides behind you, slower as he's sometimes paused in his walk to the side seating. Muerelle missed whatever transpired between you and the young man, and at the moment, he strives to navigate through popularly perilous waters to catch up with the two of you.

     She smiles, Veronique does, red patent leather shoe bouncing as she chuckles. "No, I think...maybe you should just have...one. To start anyway." Her lips press in some knowing fashion, offering you the choice. "Red, green or blue," she teases, leaning in towards your direction, "...choose wisely and drink your hue." Rhyme, in this context, must be deadly. A ritual, certainly. Her eyes gleam with malice of forethought. "A taste of olive, a little death..." she sing songs, running tongue across her lip. A song unfinished as her head cocks and chestnut hair screens half of her face from you, obscuring.

     "Moderation... interesting," William remarks as Veronique suggests... drinking but one. The idea amuses him, as does the concept of death apparently. Or.. rather... 'little death'. "Little death," comes the echo of your own phrase, carried upon the curl of smoke from his lips. Cinnamon. Hashish. At the very least. The cigarette is balanced between his lips, and his hand reaches for the blue. The mouth holds a smile as well as the smoke. "Might as well keep the motif intact..." he says after, hand lifting to the cigarette. Plucking it to let it burn in the obsidian tray. The sprawl... lordly... commanding space.
     And fingers once occupied with the cigarette now toy a moment with the olive. A swirl within the liquid before the glass is lifted. He will let the olive soak the alcohol ? it will be tasted last. At the rim of the glass, the spread of a grin. And indigo eyes show themselves beyond the blue lenses. A shock of violet in just the right lighting. "Merci, Veronique..." Definitely Continental. The beautiful countenance ? it holds a placid appraising expression after the first sip. Eyebrows lift, and the smile remains. And now the drink and the cigarette are tasted in tandem. Smoke rises, scented, from his mouth. Eyes then search for Edward. And again... give the ... surroundings a survey....

     "You're welcome," Veronique smiles wickedly, red lips the picture of sultry. She spies the cigarette a moment, then chooses hers as well. Red. Fingernails tap against the smoky glass as she lifts it to her lips. Unlike you, eyes do not wander the room. Right now, they're for you alone. "So, you're cousins?" she opens the conversation ? not a long time she'll have you alone. Edward will get here soon enough. "You don't look alike," she smiles, making sure she stays close and in your glow, "...are you alike?" A daughter of Borgia to be sure. Hand toys with the shard toothpick, twirling it in her glass. Knees are now at yours as she bobs the olives. "I guess I'm just surprised that I haven't met you before is all. I hope you like...the drink." Something in the way she says that...

     A few tables down, near the railing Edward stands. He is leaning towards the two of you, but a trio of women and a man seems to momentarily have him cornered.

     As you speak, his attention returns to you. And there ... it shall stay. As you speak, William leans in toward you. He can hear you ...quite clearly where he is... and yet... he cannot seem to have such... excellent hearing, yes? And why not lean in toward you. Were he into women, dear one, your fate would be assured. But he shall... enjoy you nonetheless. "We are... of a fashion. Not so closely related as all that." Cinnamon and hashish swirl around him. Like incense from the mouth of an angel.
     "And... I have been in France... this is my... first visit to London ? in a while," he adds. A grin chasing the sentiment. The ... cigarette is crushed before it has lived full half its life, but this... so he can tend more to that...drink. Another sip and he inclines his head. Cobalt color in his hair blending with the natural black. The grin spread and the sensuous mouth is claimed by that. And the olive is taken. Toyed with. Occupying him, even as his gaze has fixed upon you. And several of your ...attributes. "Do you really want to talk about Edward... better, I think, you... I know Edward already..." A chuckle is held in his throat, held likewise in his chest.
     Beneath the leather of his coat... and nearer him... you might note the sweater of fine wool. Thin wool at that ? it lies against and accentuates the build beneath it. The leather pants... well, they are a distraction of a different sort...

     "Yeah, I know Edward already," Veronique smiles, lips glinting. "I like Edward," she confesses, "...should I like you then?" Eyes drop to see within the jacket. She takes another sip of her drink, looking at you over it.

     Finally, he's saved. Edward says goodbyes, and manages to get to you both safely. Blue eyes glance at the drinks at hand and he smirks. "Veronique, you shouldn't have," he laughs, pulling at his pants before he sidles up next to her free side. "Ah...these...are wonderful. A fuckin' bullet to the brain. Thank ye, girlie," Edward smirks, Veronique coming more upright in her posture and hand reaching to rest upon Edward's knee.

     "Good oh," Veronique chirps, leaning to give Edward a quick kiss upon the cheek. "I was keepin' your...cousin...occupied." Another sip enjoyed.

     Hmm. Strange. There's a lightness rising from the blood you know so well, as if...ether might be mixed with. Something not felt in a long time, this feeling.
     The drink is finished ? poison downed. Mouth plucks the olive ? and it is slain. To your mention of Edward ? know him? He is sure you do... he can well imagine. Now that's going to keep him up all night. And to whether you should like him? There is no answer, Veronique. Just the smooth smile. Something knowing in the eyes. And a chuckle held in his throat. Any comment is interrupted by Edward's arrival. Ah, good. Saved.
     "You know... how I must be... occupied, Edward... yes?" French tugging on the syllables of every word. William settles back within the hold of the seating area, leaning over slightly to look to Edward. How the grin slants. She is not the one who will occupy him. She will occupy you. As she has before, no doubt. Energy... lifts ? even as the blood courses with ...something new. Something not at all like the touch of a martini. And that... electric surge around him only increases. He can't help but take the opportunity your arrival affords ? to look at some of the others dancing nearby. Motion. Music.

     There are men... young men dancing in a crowd. Of black and blonde. Leather and PVC. Silk and something more metallic... The music has slowed for a moment. To a kind of grind...

     A bit away from the seating area, the beautiful crowd dances. This is not like the crowd downstairs, to be sure. Dressed in dark colors, the textiles belie the seeming goth element. Silks, rubber, PVC, latexes...not torn t-shirts and cheaper vinyls. All sorts commingle, keeping time. But despite their partners, eyes wander often to the trio in Prime Viewing Area.

     He leans over, moving closer to Veronique. Edward grins, nodding, "I know..." he says, truth revealed...he's reaching behind for his pocket. A cigarette. "And if I'd be occupied, I'd just as soon have it be Veronique...and she can make a damned fine drink." He chuckles as he sits back, giving her a peck that she's glad to accept. Her drink is almost finished, and she relaxes for the now. You...maybe she will get more free time later. "I like the hue," he says lower, mostly for her, "...it'll be a long-ass fuckin' night," the Brujah shaking his head as he filches for his lighter.

     "The little death," Veronique grins at Edward, then looks at you, "...icicle meth." Her lips coil at the revelation, cheekbones high and angled. Her thinned brows arch and one flickers at you. So now you know. How do you like it? "Drink up," she whispers, almost challengingly, threateningly. "And then...I'll get you another. If you want..."

     From your side of the seating area, a figure in black begins to approach. Around him, there is an air not unlike your own. Less powerful to be sure. Dressed in a black corset, the straps are thin that move over his shoulder. But this is no ordinary corset. It is not for a waifish goth. The brunette is rather strapping, dressed in black leather pants, black boots, and a calf-length black patent leather coat.
     "And here," his accent Italian, "...I thought you were still in Paris, Blois." His skin is not the ruddy Italian one would expect..it is more pale. And with light brown hair capping blue eyes, he is more the picture of French-Americain. Who knows. Eyes wander to Veronique, a smile for the party girl, then to you. For that look, something more intrigued. "Good evening," he finally says, breeding upon his stature.

     William on icicle meth. It has been... thirty years?... since he has last had such. In the evenings, when acid dreams faded into methanphetamine blurs. Blood and power crackle, and in his eyes ? if you were to look beyond the hexagonal lenses that half conceal them -- shards of violet would be seen. Pupils... dilating with the coming onslaught. A Plantagenet on speed. You better hold onto your ass...
     A silver lighter slides across the table, reflecting the colors of the club's lighting. The blood and power crackles. He will have to move. Soon. But for now... for the sound of Italian... William's gaze moves. Flickering. Corners of his mouth upturning. Do the lenses hide the measuring look? Do they conceal the appraisal given? The study? Ah... this is much more to his liking. No offense, Veronique. The archaic smile transforms to a grin. "Evening..." French-laden. Southern at that. The lordly sprawl, though it seems spread in monarchic relaxation, is becoming tightly coiled.

     The music picks up in tempo. Grinding... exploding... swirling. Returning to the rapid 120 beat...

     "Holy shit," Edward murmurs, giving up on his own lighter. He looks up at the man, who may be in his late twenties. "What in the hell are you doing here?" A surprise. He reaches ahead and grabs the silver lighter, flicking it almost immediately. "Cesare..." Edward motions at the two beside him as he closes lighter, "...my cousin, William...and...Veronique. Thanks, cos," he says, taking a puff and standing to greet the man now. The fix was urgent. Meth does it to him. The lighter is slid back across the table, which allows Edward to extend his hand to the well-appointed arrival for a shake.

     Hand is met by a twin, up from which grows a muscular arm wrapped in the sleeve of the leather coat. About six feet, Cesare's smile grows, but it is reserved. A simple 'long time no see' to a comrade, if you will. As the shake breaks, Cesare's hand is given to you, "Cousin, huh?' he nods, the gentle smile still there, "I'm sorry." His grip...definitely from outdoors.

     Reaching down, Edward picks up his green glass and takes a long drink while greetings are done. He fishes an olive for himself, chewing on it as his eyes dart between the three near him. "I'm gonna need another, I see," he mumbles, deciding to simply just finish the rest of his glass in the pause, tossing it back.

     Veronique eyes the newcomer brightly. This is her lucky night. But as Edward speaks, she looks to him and the disappearing beverage. Christ. Alright. It's like that then, is it...

     A silver gleam. The lighter finds its master's hand. So seamless. So fast. Measured in immediacy, in half-moments. Urgency. That is a word for it. Immediate. Urgent. Needing. But all that culminates only in a handshake. Strong shake meets its match. Even then hint of calluses there. Outdoors? You could say that. Past the rims of glasses, William gazes at this...Cesare. "Some things can't be avoided. You know him..." a nod to Edward, coupled with a slant of a grin. "I share your pain..." Laughter, a quiet ease of sound that the music can't quite seem to drown out. Indigo flickers toward Edward. Just kidding, cos. Look, we pick on you and yet, you will leave with someone... or more... so, all's well that ends well.
     His hand retracting, William looks after to Veronique. And then to his own empty glass. Should he... should he not. This won't mark the last time of the evening that the devil and angel shall sit on opposing shoulders and hash it out in a silent war.

     "I'm gonna get us a drink, hmm, gents?" Veronique's chestnut hair flares as she rises, pushing herself from the hand that rested upon Edward's thigh. The leather sticks to her, sewn on, and the edged hem at her thigh flares a half-inch of crinkled leather. "I'll be back," she says softly at Edward, seeing that William looks a little...pre-occupied. A kiss is blown at the Brujah, hints of red tossed in his direction as she sweeps around and heads towards the bar once more.

     Cesare watches her depart, face impassive at her non-response to him. Women. Veronique's sort...he's used to them. Eyes return to William and he nods, "It looks," he squints at Edward then, "...like we have something in common, William." Name said with the grace that haunts the syllables. Cesare's arms come to rest within his leather coat, sliding up and folding at his back ? elbows in each hand. "Anyway, it's...good to see you, Blois, I shouldn't keep you from your evening." Polite young man, yes? "I just saw you and wanted to say something. Are you gonna be in town long?"

     Edward watches Veronique depart for the bar as well. "Huh, what's with her? Chicks." He just mumbled about a drink. A shrug and he looks at Cesare as he speaks again, Edward still standing. "You two can now stop tryin' to get over on me...I know y' both love me t' death." And in that, his hand turns up, flipping you both off. "So, yeah, I'll be here a bit, I guess," Edward glancing at William, "...an' gotta show th' cos around, you know?" As if you don't know your way around already. "It's good to see you too?" he goes on, extending his hand to Cesare, "...sure you don't wanna stay for a toss or two?" A drink here, a little drink there...

     It was only momentary. A wash of thought across beautiful features. As fleeting as the light that moves across the same... only moments after. But at the motion, indigo eyes are quick to turn. Fingers capture the glass that once held The Blue Hue. "Veronique," he calls out ? Norman voice showing itself there, "I'm feeling ... blue-ish...another of those..." Icicle Meth. "But this time," comes the languid baritone, "... two olives..." Two fingers are lifted. They make the sign. And shall she deny him? With that look? That look that fastens on her for that moment. Indigo brilliant ? where seen past the blue hexagonal lenses.
     William looks to Cesare, and yet leaned in... he smiles. Quick, the grin. The gaze meets him ? and holds there. "Misery loves company?" A raven brow cocks up, and the grin smoothens somewhat. Just in time for Edward's proclamation of their so-much-love of him. "Show me around?" He laughs at that. Full and rich. A leg comes up, leathered thigh, strength there evident. Foot now upon the edge of the table. Showing the signs of ... the blue's effects? A smirk claims him and William looks from Edward to Cesare. "Feel free to join in. Apparently, I'm being... shown around. You might as well join the tour..." The accent coils ? from French to something else. A lilt of the south there. Provencal. And something else. Harder to place.

     The red image stops and turns, smiling that William's called. Had you forgotten her? "Aye, of course," she says softly, cheek flickering under a wink. "A veritable rainbow," she offers, spinning on red heels and striding a little lighter into the crowd and towards the bar.

     Cesare's lips parted to reply to Edward's invitation. A curling beginning of No. But as you speak, invitation doubled, his blue eyes slide over your direction, his brown hair cut sharply as to point just above the bridge of his nose. "I'll pass on the tour," his mottled Italian accent burbles, "...but...maybe just a drink." For you? There's a nod and he twists to pull up a chair not so far from William. Curved black metal, the chair is, with stainless steel seat. More for look than comfort, of course.
     He sighs, Cesare does, as hands come to push at the lapels of his coat, sliding it easily off over his shoulders and arms. A revelation, it is, not unlike silk slipping off with ease. Beneath, he is in leather and a vested corset, and his ample arms are bound in leather straps that wind tightly into his flesh. They cause his muscles to be even more defined, and the skin beneath almost peek-a-boo. Silver locks hold the corset closed, as well as bright silver locks across the insteps of his boots.

     "So, I'm gonna ask," Edward says, sitting back in his seat, letting his leather jacket fall open, "...what are you doin' here? London's not one of your stomping grounds now...is it?" That gets a quirk of Edward's dark brow. But blue eyes sparkle, unnaturally so, and he pushes your arm, "Cesare...travels a lot." I.E. He's a mercenary and contracts. A cheesy smile comes with it, slanted by the held cigarette. "If yer lucky, mebbe he'll tell us a tale or...twenty?" and he chuckles faintly as he picks up his empty green glass and peers into it.

     "That's a good girl," comes the quip in French. A slant of a look tossed to Edward at the mumble ? for it was more meant for his own and Edward's amusement than anything. Coupled with a grin. Goddamned Norman. And just as easily as she has moved from the table, Veronique is set aside. Forgotten ? seemingly. And so she shall remain until she returns.
     Indigo eyes slide back to the Mercenary ? brilliance, past the glass lenses blue-hued. His eyes outshine them. Like gems... cast to flames. Electric morning glories. The first drink... having its affect. There is something about him. A swirl of energy that is tightening. Moving... as rapidly as it is coursing through him. But for all of this, his smile is slow. Languid. Sensuality of the mouth and the countenance... only heightened by the paradox. He holds dominion over his half of the seating area. His leg lowers, and the settling sprawl is half-lordly at least. Something coiling ? he will have to move soon. But... after the second drink...
     "Really..." mulls his voice, throat-held. Syllables lingering. He knows what Edward means. And in part the languor of his voice... that Thought turned to Sound.. was due to the hidden meaning. But... truly... the better part of it was for the departure of the jacket. A brow lifts. "Most would say London is barely big enough for the both of us," William chuckles, a glance to Edward then. Lest he be thought to stare. "Yet... somehow it manages, cos..." Dark eyes cut back to Cesare. Intrigued. Travel stories or no... Cesare finds himself the center of study. Intense... brilliant... study.

     The straps wend down Cesare's arm to his wrists. They slink as he arranges his coat, he looking up as he moves around to take his seat. "I'm sure we all travel, Blois," Cesare says evenly, lips slanting, "...I guess some are just professionals. And these days, I get here more often." Blue eyes and brown hair turn to focus on you a moment and your...languid seating. "You spend a lot of time in London?" asks Cesare, a pointed query to you now. Hands clasp at his bent knee, sending muscles and straps into a lengthen. His hands are bare as fingers twine and dance, tapping occasionally to the music. You are being considered, this is true, but for what? "I'm surprised," his voice drawing more Italianate, "...we...haven't crossed before." Tell me.

     "On and off," William replies, mouth yet holding a portion of the previous grin. It more lives in his gaze. And the gaze is as alive as he. With colors, with a gem-like sheen. "Depends on the season. I've just returned from a bit of a ...hmmm... " how to summarize his time in America? "...prolonged layover in America." That about sums it up. His gaze wavers only occasionally. To include Edward. To search for the woman supposedly bringing him a drink. "Do you think you ought to send out a search party, Edward?" A chuckle ? no sign of drink or Veronique in sight. The hint of a smile first transforms into a smirk. She needs a leash ? and something tells him we could find one here. But back to the matter and man at hand. "But even when on the island... it can be a ...tidal thing, London et moi..." To him, his voice has a bit of a tinny echo. Like the music thudding against his senses. Surging within him, entwining with the rushing blood and power.
     His hands are interlaced against the thinly veiled stomach. His own ...definition ? while not as much on display as Cesare's ? is plain to the view. What the dark of his clothing conceals... it also indicates... in its close grasp against him. William inclines his head slightly. "Surprising... considering we both know him," a nod in indication of Edward. "But... it is easy to be... swallowed up in London. Yes?" A raven brow lifts, a punctuation. His accent, Provence? France? Colored with something islander, elongates the English he is speaking at the moment. Out of habit. A habit he would like to lose. "What is it you... do while in London." A pause, a grin. "Other than this..." And his eyes fasten their attention upon you. Palpable. Dark. Studying.

     "Mostly visit associates," Cesare says frankly, his look something from a hyped graphic novel. Little to say about himself. "Even if Blois says I tell tales." An attempt at humor. As he turns to see the crowd a moment, the day's stubble shows upon his chin and cheek. "And you're right," he looks back at you, blue eyes steely, "...it's easy to get lost in the arms of London. It's a great city. Sometimes I think," and this is for Edward, "I'm just not here often enough."

     Oh wonderful. Edward simply sits back and watches this conversation. All he needs is someone like Cesare roaming the streets here. Lips purse, but he tries to force humor into it...dispelling the thoughts of annoyance. "Sure you are, laddie," Edward chirps, clacking tongue against the roof of his mouth, "...I just never figured London was much your style. The action's kinda slow, isn't it?" No, no, you don't wanna make this your stomping ground, Cesare. Don't think about it. But Edward's face lights up when he reaches to poke at you again, "I'm sure Cesare would like the rough-and-tumble of America, eh cos?" Legs extend stiffly as Edward stretches, letting ankles remain crossed. He glances at the bar as his arms drop and he relaxes, "Oh, she'll be back," he notes, "...in time."

     The color's seen before her presence is felt. Wending through a few patrons with a tray in her hand is the lady in red, twisting and angling to keep the rainbow on her tray steady. Chestnut hair drapes at her face, look taken from the late fifties. She's a steady walker, despite all the distractions, deftly moving upon red heels.

     Muscles... hardened and coiled beneath the leather and the wool. The form of the Norman warrior beneath it. On edge. But not for any emotion's sake. It is merely the bracing against the storm of blood. "You have to love a city that shuts down for snacking..." comes the warm ease of his own voice, slow in its humor. Coiling, even as his smile slants across his mouth. No nudge is returned for Edward's constant poking. It will all come at once.. in one great punch. To be sure. But for now, William bears it well.
     He chuckles at mention of America, and his hand reaches for his pack of cigarettes ? the packaging from Cairo ? and the silver lighter, both of which were left on the table in previous moments. If he's not going to have a drink delivered, he's bloody well going to smoke. Oral fixation you know. The brown body of the cigarette is held between his lips, lightly but securely. And his features go incandescent with the quick flicker of the flame. After, herbal and spice-scented smoke curls upward from his lips.
     "America is alright... if you like car chases and ready access to firearms..." A pause. "And 'augmented women' and constant news coverage..." He grins. "A bit bland... but..." Dark-clothed and leathered shoulders roll slightly. "Depends on what you're after. Excitement. Drugs. Women. Money. Not a problem." What else is there? Well... that, too, is relative, is it not? William grins quickly, suddenly. Something like the cat-with-a-mouthful-of-canaries. Almost blithe, were it not so smart-assed and dark. The smile fades in the next moment, for a pull upon the ... cigarette and an exhale of smoke. Cinnamon and hashish hover around him...

     The music picks up in rhythm. And the writhe of humanity... the spiral dancing of the dedicated clubgoers eddies all around. For the truly attentive, one might notice that this table... seems to be the eye of the storm. The center of it all...

     "Belabored beauty," comes Cesare's voice, having taken in your words and countenance. Something about you and the way you speak pleases him. It is held in his eyes. Expressed not upon his face. A first inkling of...more. But now, the lady approaches and no one will ever call him rude. Well, not in social settings. He peers at the rainbow of four glasses, a yellow glass added to the blue, red, and green. If he doesn't know what it is, Cesare does not ask. He sits up, hand on each knee as he surveys the colors.

     "Ah, chicky, there you are!" comes Edward's voice. He sits up as well, both feet to the floor. "Will was talkin' sendin' a search an' rescue team," eyes rolling at the notion with humor. A tilt of Edward's neck left and right brings two loud pops, ritual begun once more. Cigarette almost done, he begins to lean and fish for another one. "They cause y' any trouble up there?" Asking for specials sometimes does that.

     "No, actually, Eddie, it was alright," she sighs. Bending to set the tray down causes her hair to shift, revealing a mark of some sort upon her delicate neck.

     "I'll guess the hell not," Edward quickly retorts, hand reaching up to pull at the chestnut locks, investigating. "This is why..." Edward inhales, letting Veronique's hair go and pulling cigarette from his lips, "...I'll ne'er be in America. Insane, they are." A nod and a half-wink with it, suggesting that you all believe his sage words. Attention turns to the drinks now, as he sets his fag into a nearby ashtray. "It's good y' back, Will," he says, distracted now.

     Good thing his hand was lowering. Veronique's hand comes up as Edward moved her hair, as if swiping a fly. And before he can say anything on it, she moves past him to retake her seat between you and Edward, saying, "Just leave it be, Edward."

     The burning end of the cigarette brands the air with a mark toward Cesare. Exactly. The... cigarette is returned to the embrace of his mouth. There upon pulled. The fire glows with the intake of a breath. Breathing fire. It is something His Kind like to do. It is their way of... jousting windmills perhaps. Ah well. For him, it is merely something to keep his mouth and hands occupied.
     In the passing moments of the conversation, his body has been in motion. Subtle. To the music. The bouncing of a leathered thigh. A readjustment. Motion. Having to move. Needing to move. Wanting to move. Wanting. More. But... as Veronique returns... William's attention is diverted. A mark seen, but not well. Not in this lighting. Not with all that hair. Not with Edward in the way. But any questions onto what it is... this is halted by Edward's ...return to congenial conversation. "Fuck... coming from you, Edward... that is something..." William laughs, music drowning out most of it. But it lights his expression. It causes indigo to erupt. Light and fire to dance within. The distraction is not missed. A look given to him. "It's good to be back..." His attention skirts to all those around him. Courteously, he readjusts his sprawl for the lady's return. But not overly so. "This place could use a bit of livening up... God help you all..." Slow, the smile grows to a grin. Wicked. And yet genuine. It is spoken as a jest... but there is more than a little truth held in it.
     Dark but electric eyes lift ... gazing past the geometric lenses to the resettling Veronique, even as his hand ? independent of his attention ? shifts. Thumb flicking against the butt of the hashish-and-cinnamon blend he is smoking... to knock the dead ash into the waiting tray. "Leave what be?" He's not Edward. Different set of rules, you know. William takes one last inhale of the cigarette and extinguishes it. The drink is here. He will have another blue hue while she tells her story.

     Her turn to William is sharp, the expected draw of a cat and her claws. But words are halted. She swallows, "It was nothing," she shrugs, "...here, drink up all." She bends and reaches for the red martini glass, olives weighing down the glass toothpicks. "Saw some chaps I knew near the bar," she states, swinging hair around to a more covering state, "...so it took me a little bit longer, was all.? She inhales before taking a drink, hand coming up to scratch beneath her nose.

     Cesare is quiet now, observing. His eyes are still lit; easy to see as he faces you more than the other two. He chooses the nearby yellow martini, free hand rubbing his thigh. "Thank you," he offers the lady, nothing committal in it. If something is transpiring...it's not his problem. For the moment, he chooses to concentrate on the martini.

     "You can go back over there," Edward says blithely. He had not planned on remarking, but since she got so snippy, his own attitude changes. Sitting back, he draws drink close, setting it upon his leg. "No one's keepin' y' here, y'know." Not me, not now.

     A brow lifts slightly ? a look given to Edward. But then he drops it. Really. Why should he give a damn? If it becomes important, he will deal with it then. William does not shrug, roll his eyes or make any other move. Other than to take his martini. Hands pluck it up like a thief lifting an item. The woman is Edward's... well, more so than his at any rate... and so as she resettles, he returns his attention to Cesare. Something held there. Humor? Some glimmer of an expression. Here one moment. Gone... the next. One hand holds the glass cradled. The other gives the glass spear a swirl. Olives. A swallow of the martini is taken...
     Eyes close a moment with the sensation. The taste. The coolness of the drink. And his tongue coils around the olive he has taken. That, too, is swallowed after a moment. When eyes open, it comes with a flicker. A flash of color. Like the first lighting of flame. The music is swirling. Constant. Neither beginning, nor ending. Thudding. Surging. Calling. And the energy around him tightens again. A thud of its own. Tangible. Like the hum of energy. And the crowd nearby reacts to some... ripple made by one...then another, then another... until the entire group bends with it. Or...was it simply some call of the current song? William lifts the glass again, and the rest of the martini is swallowed. Downed. Lord. A long ass-fucking night indeed, non Edward? At least the last olive seems as if it will be savored. It is left in his glass a moment. Even as it looks as if he shall rise... Some ...motion beginning...

     The crowd is thickening. Sweat. Music. Heartbeats. Motion. All with the blurred edge of intoxication. All colors more brilliant. All sensations heightened by the various substances flowing through most of those within. From alcohol to... other concoctions. And near the table... a group of young men and women are congregating. Overflow from the dancefloor?

     "Maybe I just will," Veronique says to Edward, less awed by him than yourself. "Fuck, I don't need this," she spits, beginning to rise. Ah, the first signs of the Meth taking control. "It wasn't anything, and I get fuckin' questioned like I'm some fuckin' child." She holds her drink firmly, swallowing a long swash of it before sweeping over Edward and making a grand haughty exit. "Whatever, Edward, you always know how to fuck things up, y'know?" Bending, she grabs her purse as Edward just chuckles and leans dramatically left and right to let her move as she pleases. Women.
     Cigarette slips left and right as his lip, but never falls. "Lookie that," he comes back, "...you're more of a bitch than usual. Congrats, bitchy-chicky!" He chuckles more as she sweeps away, stomping off in the direction of the bar, and the more noticeable trio standing near there, but watching in the direction of the table.
     "Christ, what the fuck is her damage?" comes Edward, not really looking her direction as he pulls something from his pocket. A piece of plastic. With drink in one hand and plastic between fingers, he adroitly begins to take something out. He looks up at the crowd moving a bit towards the table, then at you...and Cesare.

     The crowd was already noticed. And Cesare stands, drawn to it himself. Eyes look at you as the glass is set down, and he smiles at Edward, "Later." Almost said optimistically. But coat is left, and his blue gaze looks at William. There is a second conversation here and that is where Cesare responds. Come with me...

     "Huh?" Edward squints, watching Cesare...leave? He shakes his head, confused and getting cloudier. Edward's gaze moves quickly to you, wondering if you understand what is going on...or are you involved in whatever's happening around him...

     "She wants to get fucked...but she's not sure by whom... frustrated with the lack of response..." Smile appears behind a veil of smoke. Smart-ass. But, is he wrong? "...and feeling the ...loss of control with the Meth... she heads for easier, if not greener, pastures..." And now, William shrugs. Both eyebrows lifting slightly. "Just a stab in the dark, cos... " He hardly knows her. But he doesn't seem overly upset either way. The last olive it taken, and popped into his waiting mouth.
     He was on his way to standing. Rising, to expel some energy. Feeling the call of the dancefloor. To be drowned in a thousand heartbeats, washed over with sweat. Eyes look to the plastic, but no recognition glimmers there. Grasped by the drug moving through him, his eyes do not light on much long. A thousand-and-one things glanced at. Few things truly noticed. At least while it is kicking in. But this he does see ? Cesare rising, bidding farewell, and saying: Come with me.
     William shoots a glance to the bar, to the dancefloor, and lastly to Edward. He grins. "I have to fucking move or I'm going to explode... I will be back in a moment... " He shrugs a little. He has no idea about the rest of it. The world is moving past him in a whirl. Or is it... him? Is he the only one seeming to move through the world so fast? He finally lands a nudge on Edward's shoulder. I'll be right back ? says the indigo. And then he half-turns toward Cesare. Long leather coat falling around him. The mantle of the Almost King. He is already in motion...

     Is that it? Edward looks between you and then to the woman going to the bar. His blue eyes blink, but they are not registering much. Whatever's in the plastic is set under his tongue as he shrugs at you. "She coulda gotten what she wanted ?" but you're already on your way. Where to? "Where did..." Cesare go? Edward shakes his head and returns to his drink, swallowing down a mix of chemicals. Just in time too...now that things are clearing in the seats, a set of four tumble Edward's direction, already shouting greetings at him as he attempts to regain control of his smoke...

     Words in French, flowing... a southern dialect. Practiced ears will hear Loire on it. This, for Blois. "Just need to blow off some energy, brother... I'll be back in a minute ..." A nod directed to the dancefloor. "Ah... here... guard this..." You know how to do that, yes. Guarding that is. William tosses his long leather coat to you. Thankfully, the heavy garment lands mostly on the seat beside you, rather than spilling everything on the table. Skill, that.

     The crowds part for him. Moving toward him, moving away. Like water parting, and then enfolding the bow of a ship. And he moves into it. Headlong....

     Within, you'll find him. Cesare stands in the midst of things, surrounded by the moving horde. But he waits upon you, facing your direction. And when you merge into the deep with him, his arms rise above his head and he begins to move his hips...

     The crowd moves in... pressing. Like water closing the wake made by a ship. Healing some invisible tear, until the path you moved by dissolves in flesh. And the song is swirling, not merely pounding. The pound, the heart. The swirl, the energy that presses at the air after you. Unleashed. Unchecked. An aphrodisiac to the senses for the unknowing lovers that flank him on all sides. Drawn in, pressed out by it. The mortals feed from the energy that spills over them... past them ... as William moves through. Dancing lights. Heartbeats run over his skin like hands.
     And he is not as he was before...

I am a wicked man ... I am a wretched man... When Jesus was upon the cross I never was this alone ...

     The affable and the placid. The quiet and the polite. Where are these things now? For in the unmasked eyes there is fire. Electric morning glory eyes... full of explosions blue-violet. The size and definition hidden by his half recline and the long leather coat - these are now full force to the eyes. Tall and broad. He brings power as much as grace with every motion. Seduction as much as Beauty. Intensity. The countenance is set - beautiful. Weep for it... the eyes might say. Ask for it... the smile might speak, in the slow pull as he joins you. In the enfolding crowd. Your arms go up, your hips move. And he is before you.
     And lifted hands are joined, fingers laced, locked and curling. Your arms are drawn down. And in the swirl of it, he holds you. As much with the gaze as with the touch. Something about him. What is it?
     Lust.

     He doesn't know what it is about you that draws him to you. Cesare appears somehow astonished himself, eyes glazing as you touch him. This he would not have shown before the others. Whatever rises from him, Cesare works to contain. His body moves easily, fingers tightening around your own, and at his arms, the leather straps that wend in crossing patterns to his wrist are pinching and taut. His jaw clenches, he intent upon moving while his blue eyes look into yours.
     The music drives him, causing feet and legs to keep in motion, hips and chest not so far behind. A fast pace, the gyrations from shoulder to knee keep Cesare at you, but where many would flinch at your gaze, the beauty fierce, he does not. Eyes fixate upon indigo brilliance, unafraid to follow wherever it leads. Show me, he dares, take me there...

     The swirling song becomes Another. Come on... Come on... and the tempo increases. Deepens. As if the DJ and the music feels the need and becomes Need Itself. Come on... till it breaks my spine...
     And the writhing of the dancers press close. And sweat and salt tickle against the senses. And something of cinnamon. And something of patchouli. And something of leather. Was it a hand? Was it an arm? Fingers trailing? All the forms begin to transform to One Form. Were you one such as he you would see the swirling colors. You would see the explosions held within his eyes. The flickering of stars there in the otherwise darkness blue-violet. The music drives him. The Little Death drives him. Icicle Meth...
     Fingers tighten around your own. A squeeze. A stroke. And the dance is close between you. Dare? There is a grin in his eyes to this. Show you... take you there... Yes. His eyes half-close, but ...so brilliant. Glassy with what courses through him. William leans in, and the tight spiral of your own motions conjoining with his narrows even more so. It is a dance against. Upon. Moreso than with. William's motions are in perfect concert with rhythm and beat of the music... at times, to the rhythm beneath the rhythm. For he can hear the song within the song? Can you? But more than this, to your own motions. And what can be known of him. The leather is undiplomatic in its unfolding story. And joined hands are led to the thin wool that covers his torso. Even as his mouth parts at your own. A tug by teeth given to the full of lower lip. You are tall. He is taller. So much did that booth hide from you...
     William uncurls his fingers from yours. Do you dare? Will you follow?

     A groan would signify his response, if it could be heard. The sound mingles helplessly with the din of the other noise, but the wave of breath that followed it can be felt. Warm and living. Like Cesare's hands, like the rest of him. He must be mortal this one, for his heart beats strongly, pulsing over the others that might be nearby. Racing when his lip is pulled and his hands set at your chest. The booth did hide your height, but the strength he suspected is true.
     Cesare cannot hear what you hear, a surface essence to his swaying. Hands move slowly across your chest, exploratory touches that curl and press simultaneously. It is speech, his caresses, telling a story of promises. Yes, I will do this for you later...if you let me. Brown hair hides blue eyes when his face turns downward, following the line lower and lower, a descending trail as he twists against you. He's running with you, this one, keeping pace with your leading strides.

     The music is fading. Not to all those here. Not to you. To him. Replaced by the percussion of your heart - and his. Yours that pounds by Life. His that beats by magic. By the coursing of his blood. By the coursing of his blood in his ears. Calling in its running for your own. The dance does not break. It deepens. It moves upon the various layers of sound. Something more primal in this dance, than in the others that surround you. If you looked up and away from him, could you see how his motions seem to make a ripple in the crowd? Or would you think yourself dreaming. Or imagining. As the dance continues, there is the scent of salt. Sweat. Just beading at his skin. And his hands cover yours again. Not holding. Guiding.
     In the flurry-frenzy of motion. In the quickening of the song. In the thudding constant of a now 120-beat. The thin wool of the sweater is lifted up. Off. Lost. A souvenir for someone. Lost out there. Tossed away. Crumpled underfoot. And with the new sense of freedom, everything about him intensifies. With something Him. With energy. With the coursing of the drugs through his system. The dance and the kiss that joins with it is fierce. And the dancefloor seems to erupt with it...

     At the seating area... what of there? His thoughts wander to his cousin. What of Edward? A woman "dressed" in leather straps like Leeloo but with black hair has stopped by the booth...

     Eyes close with the kiss, Cesare's falling head instead rising now, to tip backwards. A pull of a smile crawls upon his lips, his hands grasping yours to wrap around him in his bend. He'll take you with him in this kiss, open-mouthed and unafraid of staring eyes. Taut arms strain against the leather that wrap around them, his hands clasping and joining yours at his own rear. Eyes open to see the ceiling, the front of him royally exposed. And his throat, muscled and warm...
     Behind Cesare, there comes another. The one with you does not see the man in jeans and shirt that steps up behind him to slip arms around his waist. He...seems to be partially unaware. Perhaps something else he...enjoyed...has taken affect. But the blonde man that steps up smiles at you, something secret shared. A suggestion? The blonde man, about your height, is not particularly attractive, but looks at you and then to Cesare against him...and then you once more. We could share him, the both of us. Something dark creeps in his expression as he continues to size you up...but wrap fingers around Cesare's waist even further.

     Edward? He does not look up when the woman arrives. Legs parted, he bears weight upon his boots to keep himself stable. Hands fumble with something as he peers, head bent, into whatever is occupying him. He sways a little, left and right, Edward does, the boots not providing much stability, it seems.

     Elsewhere, a woman in red strides towards the exit. With her...three men in tow. She flashes smiles to the usual crowd of associates that mill around Phantasmagoria, but passing into the outer foyer, she laughs as she heads off into the night...

     Everything is echoing. Everything is racing. The world is a blur. Of music. Of sweat. Of hands touching. From directions... all directions. Real or imagined? Indigo eyes half-closed with the kiss, and you were not seen at all. The inner eye is blinded with thoughts of gold. He kisses you. He kisses Another. Ferocity of intoxication, dancing and magic. Ferocity of longing for one much missed. Pulling by teeth is soothed by the suckling of his mouth. Long is the last tug as eyes open to see the one looking at him. The one other than Cesare.
     Colored lights move in a brilliant wash against beautiful features. Placid. Is it as slow as it seems? This appraisal? Time has broken apart. Seconds seem like hours. And hours have passed by unnoticed. Haven't they? The blond man is studied a moment. You... nothing like the sun. Nothing. He can see the sun - the image of his lover held against his blood. Coursing, even as he does. The blue-violet eyes fasten there. Some secret shared... but not Cesare. Not yet. Energy flows from him. No. Held in the gaze it is repeated in the slight shake of his head. All the while... the dance continues. And freed from the joining, William's mouth pulls in a languid slant. Non. And Lust is joined by Greed...

     The Leeloo impersonator leans in, "Hey... Eddie... is Viola..." Her voice is oddly Doolittle. It doesn't really match the outfit, but hey. The body is one that won't quit. "You alright, mate? I've got the perfect outfit for body shots... don't let it go to waste..." Speaking of wasted...

     "Huh?" comes Edward's voice, eyes left, then right. Wait. Ahead. Up. The process of control is a slow thing. He sniffs and looks to the direction of the voice. "Oh, hallo, Viola-birdie," he chuckles to himself, fingers failing at rolling the cigarette. His blue eyes narrow to try and see what she is talking about. "Nice," he mumbles, just getting out something. Dammit, he needs this cigarette. "Here, come help a lad...get a smoke, will ya?"

     Ahead of you, someone is not getting the message. The blonde continues to smile, pressing his own burgeoning loins at your and Cesare's hands...and at Cesare's rear. Beyond suggestion. Demonstration. Come on, it would be fun. The smile grows and he too leans as if to kiss the lolling man in leather straps. Yet, eyes remain upon you.

     Being invited to do anything by Edward Muerelle is a treat. And one the wanna-be actress won't be turning down. The smile is an ecstatic beam. Ecstasy being the operative word. Her voice is tinny and light. A kind of odd warble, that. Bird actually suits her. She slides into the seating area with you and leans in, longer and slender fingers taking up the paper and what-nots. "You know... being this trendy is difficult, Edward. Rolling your own cigarettes..." Joints. Whatever. She looks up at you. Her eyes would be green were they not so dilated.

     Racing blood. The mind cannot concentrate. Much. Or if at all only for moments at a time. A wavering there, like a candle flame. And in that flickering. Lust. Annoyance. And like that, the smile disappears. There is a ...hardening -- very different from the previous hardening taking place. This, in his features. His gaze. A visual Fuck Off. The dance loses its beat and energy turns. Swirling. A hum left on the air as the dance is ended...
     And the dancers that had crowded him begin to subconsciously move away. Drifting, it would seem... quite naturally with the music. And if it gets them out of the way, so be it...

     In your arms, Cesare flutters, coming back to the here and now. Hands leave yours behind him, and instead, come to rest heavily on your chest. His forehead rests at your temple. "What?" he whispers, wondering what has stopped the swirl of pleasure that you had wrapped around him. Even for him, he had not known anything like it before.

     The blonde's encouraging smile falls as well. Apparently you are not into having...a shared moment of aggression. Blue eyes look nervously left and right, wondering if any has seen. A swallow and his hands subtly fall away as he nods. Alright, that's alright then. Be that way. A word is mumbled at you, low and semi-hidden...he could not speak it forcefully or really threaten you. But a thought is conveyed. Asshole.

     Trendy? Right now, Edward Muerelle couldn't spell trendy. "Just...do this," he says, shoving the paper and whatever at Viola's hand. With his free, Edward wipes at his nose, eyes wide as he stares at her fingers. "C'mon..." he jitters, blinking a few times in succession.

     He missed it. Good thing, too. It would not take much either way to send him off. A kiss, and he might end up pummeling a dance partner against a table. A misdirected word, and he might end up beating someone else senseless. Meth is like this. Unpredictable. And with so much power... so much energy... such old blood...
     "Nothing," comes the Italian from his mouth, spoken at your ear. So you can hear him. "Someone was trying to...cut in..." And he laughs. Full and rich, that sound. Smooth. Throaty. A resonance to it - were he to sing it would rival such a sound. He begins moving again. A dance that moves you and he toward the periphery. Slowly. "Come with me to check on Edward," Italian rolls off his tongue, from his tongue around your ear, and with a tug falls in breath against your neck. There, too, his mouth begins to wander. William turns his head, his mouth brushing against your other ear. "Do you have anywhere else you need to be..." Other than with me. And if you did, would you say so? Shall you go with me? Go with me.
     The light plays against the unmasked definition of his form. A fighter's physique. Sculpted. Defined. Muscular. Strong the hands that once more splay over your lower back and then your rear. William inclines his head. Indigo eyes hold you. Do you?

     At the seating area, Viola's nimble fingers slowly work the paper and 'whatever'. "Shh! I can't work under pressure... " Slowly, surely, her fingers roll. Tucking as she goes. Her green eyes lift - well they're mostly black at this point but they would be green - and her smile, lovely, curls across her lips. Like a cat stretching in warm sunlight. "Can I share it with ya... ?"

     "Fine, fine, just do it," Edward spurts, watching intently. It is the last cigarette on earth. And if Viola doesn't hurry, someone will take it...

     At your ear comes a smile and strong push of his nose. Some would call it a nuzzle, if it was anyone but Cesare. A friendly push. Does he have any place he needs to be? That brings a smirk. "In bed, with you," he manages to slur out, the smile not departing. He hasn't had this sort of night for ages. Perhaps that explains why he's in London. Feet tangle as he tries to move with you, his formidable weight given to you to hold. One of Cesare's hands comes to rest on yours as you touch him, he trying to focus to go...wherever it is you're going. What exactly did you say?

     Lust is the only thing that keeps Patience at hand. A paradox, for certain. But the distraction and noise, the constant crowd of heartbeats, the intermittent interlopers. These things are forgotten as he moves with you back toward the seating area. Again, humanity parts for the passing. And the wake that you and William make dissolves in flesh after. Repairing...
     I didn't think so. A smooth pull of a grin is the answer for the smirk and the reply. Could you read his look you would see in translation there - would the car do? A dark corner? The table? Every muscle is on-edge. Tightened, the body is poised. Coiled like a spring, expectant. It only heightens the definition of his form. No, unmasked as it is with the loss of the shirt. Fingers curl against you as William directs you to the booth. "Over there," he whispers. Mouth toys at your own. Tugging. Teasing. The roughness of the press of teeth soothed in succession by surrounding lips. But then, as the dancefloor is left behind, all of this ends in the slant of a smile. A brush of a touch and then it begins to recede somewhat by the time the table is reached...

     "I would love to do it... promises, promises Edward..." Viola lifts the rolled cigarette gently. Careful! Her eyes spark with it. Her hands trembling with her own level of intoxication. And she draws her tongue along the cigarette in a line. Just as she would do to the length of you, Edward. Given the chance...

     Moments. How many? Who can keep up with the revolution of time? Spinning, coursing - driven as much by the wild and insistent beat of the club's dj'd heart. Scattered, the moments sailed by. Lost, like so many grains of sand through the hand. "I've got to ...go..." William announces. A hand makes a wave at the crowd, at the club, at the universe. "Before I explode... you... know?" His eyes, brilliant, catch passing light. It is hard to keep still. It's hard to talk. It's hard. Hard. A good word for it. And that only increases the surge. The need to Get Out and get somewhere else. Horizontal? Maybe, but he's not picky at the moment. His sweater long lost, William now is clothed only in the long leather coat -- taken in moments before -- and the leather pants. The goth undressed. Like an Emperor heading off to certain debauchery.
     His smile is lazy, languid. His gaze and the energy around him, intense. He reaches over and nudges Edward's shoulder. "C'mon, cos... " A glance to Cesare. A glance to Leeloo Junior. And he starts digging in his jacket for Edward's keys. "Dieu... should we go to... you have a place close?" His English is shattering. Turning to French. He's not leaving without Edward being seen to. Cesare or no Cesare.
     "Shall I call Benny...?"

     Edward's eyes are glazed when he looks up, thoughts already of another cigarette floating in his addled blood. "Benny?" Edward asks, as if saying 'who the fuck is that?' Oh, wait. Right. "Um...why leave?" he wonders, blue eyes falling level and scanning. "This place is fuckin' hoppin, cos." He chuckles and nudges Viola, chuckling as he pulls the half-smoked cigarette from his lips. "But..." Edward coughs, clearing his throat, "...don't lemme stop ya," gaze and slanted grin hoisted at Cesare. Well.
     Behind and beside you, Cesare stands. A gladiator in his leather and corset, straps wending marks down his long arms. He's tried not to touch you while you were conversing with your...cousin...is it? However, that was hard. Voices told him that he needed to. A finger at your back soon became three, drawing at the dip of the lumbar. No, don't do that. And his hand falls. Somehow, he remembered his own leather duster, and managed to pick it up from beneath the chair where it'd fallen. Hand wipes at his eyes as he tries to maintain his countenance, but easy it is to see where the two of you might be headed.

     The grin is a flash. Beauty. Darkness. Promise of something you're never going to want to know. "Oui... well.... " A pause for... thought? Eyes close a moment. Ah, distraction. And then the keys are shown. Dangling, silver. "Don't kill yourself..." And he tosses them to Edward. "I'll... call a car..." he explains. And you know what he means. A nice car. Heading back up the palace, most like. Indigo eyes lastly flicker to Leeloo, and a raven brow lifts. Grin slanting, he wags his finger at her. "Make sure he gets home in one piece..." More than a suggestion. "If I have to leave my bed to bail him out," eyes lift to Edward then, "I'm going to be pissed...Aye? Good?" William makes a last check of his coat. Cigarettes... good. Lighter... good. Phone... good. And now he turns to Cesare.
     Edward's grin was missed, really. Seen but not absorbed. Dark eyes settle on Cesare. A moment's studying. And then the smile slowly spreads. Smooth and languid. And he turns to go... and you?

     Viola tips back her head in laughter, more than drunken. Something... Other. To the nudge, she looks to Edward. Dazzling smile. Dazed eyes. Her straps of leather - you cannot call it clothing - barely hiding her. She readjusts to make for his lap. "Can I choose what to hop on?" She laughs again. Smoke. Meth. X. All combining. She trembles, for those who can see...

     He's missing her point. Edward's thoughts have turned to Benjamin as he notes what is passing between you and Cesare. Keys are caught, but with less flair than if he was sober. "Fuck ya, Will," he tosses off casually, snickering in Viola's direction, but for a wholly different reason. There's still something of the scoundrel in him, for Edward looks to Cesare and with slanted smile says, "You have a good night too, aye, Cesare," you rascal you left to hang in the air.

     Coolness is all Edward gets, save the furrow of a brow. He's in no mood to have his business pointed out to the world, and moreso to himself. You don't know anything, is the look, but another wipe at his face is what comes out. And a slight teeter. Whatever, Meurelle. He half-turns on a boot, leaving Edward's gaze, and anticipating yours. Yes. Now.

     "And you," comes the Plantagenet Quip, coupled with the grin. Smooth. Knowing. And his turn is complete. About him, the long leather coat moves like the mantle of a king. And like for a king, the crowds part. His head turns. In the darkness. Seeking you. Knowing he will find you there. Behind him, for the moment. "My place," he says in your Italian. Gaze straying momentarily to your mouth. And the smile spreads there, tilting. Eyes turn toward the two of you. Unable to turn away. Not until the wake of him passes. The room will miss him. William looks to you. Again. The look as tangible as a touch. A stroke. Yes. Now.
     Once past the door and to the club, breath hits the evening air with a cloud of mist. His phone finds his hand. He can't help wanting to take care of Edward. He's like the little brother he never had. But... you know.. Edward can fight his way out of most anything. A glance to the sky. As if to measure the night and how much is left of it. Hours yet. William narrows his eyes at the small glowing numbers and struggles to dial.

     Once out of the club, things are different. As you dial, hands come around your waist once more. It was too long a separation. Quickly Cesare's lips are at your ear, his breath quite warm and filled with the scents of gin and vodka. "Hurry," he says, laughing softly after it. He'll not argue with your command on this - whatever place you have, it more than likely is sufficient and safe. A few of the night's latecomers pass you and stare, but most wait until they are safely behind you both to get a good look.

     "Hoi, lads, can I get you a cab?" one of the bouncers outside says, dressed in trendy black. They have to do it often enough. He looks around and lifts a hand to the left, expecting something from the darkness.

     Fingers poised to dial, halt. Cab - he grins. His eyes ... even in this darkness... hold a sparkle to them. Ah, the Little Death. Glassy, like gems. Some sapphire and amethyst combined. "Yeah, cab would be good..." Fuck waiting on the car to get here. His voice lifts, slightly rough. The deep resonance of it carrying. William slips his phone back into his jacket, and in one fluid motion of arms in concert with the stride, he heads that way. You with. Coming with.
     William turns his head slightly, eyes fastening on you aslant. His words are soft. Can any but you hear them? In Italian, his words are stroked by his tongue. Even as you shall be, non? So the words promise. "Nothing about this night...will be quick..."

     And what of Edward? What shall his night become? Shall it be Leeloo? Benny? Or both? The music in the club pulses. Constant. Living. Long. It is eternity, daring, in song.

     "No?" Cesare replies, already unable to unwind himself from you. He smirks, his own blue eyes resplendent in the reflective colors of yours. Precious stones. Everything about you is remarkable. Physical, sexual ... something...compelling. Eyes wend to your nose, your lips...then Cesare realizes that he is staring. He chuckles a little and sighs at himself, finishing his query with, "I have time..." words said firmly. All the time you want. The smile vanishes as things become more serious, and he glances to the approaching vehicle.

     Indeed, lights turn on from the darkness a bit down the street. The bouncer ignores you both...well, you as best he can...and walks to meet the taxi in the road. "Aye, here's it," he says, opening the door and nodding at the driver at the front...

     The smile speaks it in volumes. No. Yes. William chuckles, the sound holding in his chest. Igniting something in his eyes. The smile twists, curving. Knowing. Seeing it already in his mind. And another there. You shall be possessed - twice. Physically, by him. Spiritually, by Another. The air tightens around him, even as his leather does. Twisting slightly, William gives your mouth a tug. Teeth plucking the bottom lip. Like fruit captured for a moment. I am about to explode.
     But he turns at the sudden illumination. Heading toward the opened door. Form tightened - can you feel it? - with Expectation. With Anticipation. With need. Electric, something about him. Like a hum against the skin. Pulling, the smile. Pulling, the sound from his throat. Half a laugh, half a groan. William turns toward the cab. Striding, languid but coiled. He is moving somewhat faster than it may seem. At the opened door, he pauses. A hand on the door's edge. Holding it out, and waiting. For you to go ahead.

     The cabby turns about as you both slide in. "Where you lads off to?"

     Gathering the folds of his leather coat, William leans forward, expression placid. Casual. In command. "Kensington Palace."

     He was with you, Cesare was, enjoying the exchange of heat. It only strives to inflame him more. He bent strategically to enter the taxi, plopping down on the seat at an awkward angle, his coat beneath him. You will need to fold in and upon him somehow. But humor dissipates upon calling a destination. Kensington What? Hands are flat upon the seat behind Cesare, the length of his body exposed to you. "What...are we going to do there?" he wonders, the first real sentence put together in hours. Tour? It's closed. Eyes glance to the cabby and then to you again, curiously. Explain...lover...

     The look to the cabby. You heard me. He does not linger on directions - none are needed. The door closed solidly behind him, and now the close confines of the London cab - black and styled as a car from the 1940s, as they all are - become all the more so as William settles. Turning. His mouth finding your ear. Amid the coil of his tongue, capturing the lobe of it, words are breathed against you, "Fuck on every royal surface." It is swallowed in the following chuckle. In the groan. In the claiming of your ear. What he says, he ...seems to mean. Arms coil around you. Surrounding, pulling. The heat that was promised in the stride, in the grasp, in the dance... burns unrestrained.

     The cabby doesn't really care. As long as he gets his fare and a tip. Course, you know... it's a bit of an odd eyeful... when he glances back in the rearview. But he doesn't argue. He goes on, you know? The cab pulls out and heads toward the very opposite of East London...

     "Do wh -?" Cesare begins, the words lost in groans erupting from the curling at his ear. His head falls back, brown hair given glint by the London lights. You couldn't have said Kensington. No matter now, however. Cesare's hand seeks yours to relieve some of the tension captured in his leather. "Right here," he breathes lustily, moving upwards as if to make the point. The cabby certainly has a birdseye view. In this instance, he'd perhaps prefer not. Knees part encouragingly, as Cesare gives himself over now...instead of later. Why wait? But really, something nags. Kensington? He must have misunderstood.
     As his hips grind upwards, the city passes. That Cesare can ignore. But you...you fill his senses. "You only like that I am Italian, hmm?" tossed words to break the sounds of heavy petting. Blue eyes slant at the driver at the front, but look back to you as Cesare parts his lips and captures yours again. The answer can come later...that's perfectly alright.

     The cabby turns on his radio. To drown out the ... other sound effects. He'll be tipped handsomely enough - it'll make up for some of the... unexpected excitement. But if either passenger was paying attention, truly, they would see the heart of London passing them by. Rougher streets transforming. The swell of money. It is as palpable on the surroundings, as William's energy is within the back seat of the cab...
     Mouths tangle, and words are lost. Even as Self is lost. Your body or his? Where does he stop and you begin. Leather... shared. Strength shared. Torment held encased in leather. There is a guttural sound - a groaned chuckle. As you part your legs. As his fingers find, expert, explore against your own leather. And what lies beneath it. "There ... is more ... than one reason..." The Italian comes, laced with French. But he is fluent. It comes with a warm ease of sound. Languid, with some Aquitaine Insistence.
     But he did say Kensington... Those who recognize the approach... would see it streaming past the windows...

     That is the approach...Trafalgar and Pall Mall left behind. So familiar are the sights that it's easy to dispense with them all. Transparent monuments and markers. Great reminders of the prestige and enormity of a people's destiny...and utterly invisible. Perhaps the clearer mind manages to note the direction of the cab, but now, Cesare can see little further than the path you and he share. His kisses are more and more fervent, encouraged by the sweet lilt of your voice and the expert tingles of your tongue. It all reminds him of home. But why are you so under his skin? No other has grabbed and shaken his interest as you do. To make him stare. To want to touch you. To want to know what you are like and how you feel. Such need rises within him, and some part of him, the stolid mercenary is unnerved. Curious and unsure of where this...you...come from and lead. An enigma from the darkness of his own dreams are you, someone to make him Want...
     "Inside," he whispers, stomach falling flatter so the leather might be circumnavigated. Please. The kiss is parted long enough only for Cesare to see your reaction. Would you? His blue eyes glance ahead again, but he cares not. Right now, he only cares for you and relieving some of whatever it is you inspire within him. Passion brilliant. Glance slips outside an instant, a flash wonder as to whether you are close to your destination.

     There is almost a grin at the directives. It starts - corners of that sensuous mouth upturned. You could not know the source of his amusement. Only one other than you could. That One. With his radiant hair. Golden. How he can command me - he thinks. And in that, there is a grin. Something almost...home about it.
     Smooth, the upturn of lips turns to a smile. Parted at your skin, as he lowers. Indigo flickers - dark eyes brilliant. The rich color - you see it in a half-light, under the illumination of passing streetlights, car lights. With the effects of intoxicants. With the effects of lighting. It has an Otherworldly quality to it. Something reminiscent, perhaps, of strobe lighting. And you become He, the One you do not know. One hand braces against the seat, and the press of him is firm between your legs, leather to leather. Then skin to leather. And then you feel the wet warmth of his mouth moving downward to your throat. The sound of your heart... the quick and strong pulse of it. It calls him more than the music ever could. And now is his intoxication tripled. A hand, invading, slipping between the folds of leather. Fingers coil. Strong. Grasping. Surrounding you.
     The groan is loud, and his mouth lifts to claim your own. Wide, heated. Fierce, the kiss renews itself, tangling. Even as his hands explore, grasp. Stroke. The palace is nearing. The destination nearly at hand. The cab is slowing. The approach to a gate...

     Thighs harden as he's touched. Cesare presses backwards and against you, bolstering himself against the shock that radiates through him. Never, never in a million years would Cesare diDanova imagine he'd be so lost, wrapped in another man's arms, another man's embrace. In this way, that is...prepared to give himself over. But for what? To...what? There! That's it. To what? You cannot be all you appear. Too late, as his father would have said, it is...much too late. For there you are...there I am...lain bare upon a pleasure bed from whence you cannot rise. How close is a bed like an altar. And something, deep within, chimes the alarms. Methyl haze clouds the sounds, but still they ring. It is Cesare who chooses to ignore the tones, rather, choosing you deliberately.
     It is the way of the vampire, yes? To take even the suspecting of the world and to turn them inside out. Capitulating to oft-ignored Desire. They are strong, the heart and essence of him, made like steel by years of...whatever it is he does. Cesare's aquiline jaw tapers to a throat which tells firstly of the muscle that follows. Shoulders to arms, to torso, it is evident he is someone who takes care of himself as perhaps he has no choice.
     Words slither in Italian as his thighs widen. "Si..." murmured repeatedly upon demand for a kiss, and another. Your Love is unknown to him, your Understanding of the word he speaks. Kiss him, if you will, he shall not mind, William. As long as you ease the fire that burns in his loins, he shall not conspire against you. If you will give him yourself, he will not deny you the same. Cesare's eyes open to the preternatural brilliance of vampire orbs, and the mortal in him...challenges it not. Humanity knows when it is caught.

     There is, perhaps, a moment of clarity that races through a mouse-mind when in the jaws of a cat. Just before that final bite. Just before the claws curl inward. That... Aha Moment. When one realizes one is caught, and it is either too late to do anything about it... or one wishes merely to see how far it will go. Maybe that is what it is. Cat and Mouse. In this case, the cat is a lion. Not unlike that which Kensington might contain...
     It is the way of the vampire, to exist upon the other side of the mirror. To hold it up to the living and say This is Life and Living. Such as can only be known in Death and Dying. This is the paradox of the Afterlife...
     Come with me. He does not voice it but it is uttered in every pull and tug of his mouth. In the conquest and the claiming. In the grasping and the pulling. Come with me. As the car stops at the gates, William lifts his head. His mouth freeing yours with one last pull. "We are here," he whispers. At your lips and then pulling back, the grin shows itself again. Half-mast eyes are fixed upon you. What would you conspire, Cesare? What shall you even remember? There is nothing wicked in the smile. Sensuous. Promising. Passion held there, the echo languid against his lips. Fingers coil around you, and then... slowly... recede.

Posted by rowan at February 06, 2000 04:10 PM