There wasn't anything extraordinary about it...
     It was a Thursday night, the ass end of summer, which means there's a layer of condensation on the air with the humidity of the nearby river. Other than that, a random Thursday night. Only the hardcore bacchanals would be in swing tonight -- those that can't wait for Friday, that have to start their partying on Wednesday night and let it spill into Thursday...
     And then there's Valan Montague...
     He was coming out of the Odeon, dressed like someone coming off a runway. A lightweight suede, fawn, with a retro but refashioned (i.e. tailored) striped shirt. The colors are a bit Gay Paris with a bit of Gay Milan tossed in for good measure. It cost more than some of the folks around him made in a week. He's going to go fucking broke, The Clotheshorse that he is...
     He stepped out for a cigarette and a phone call, spilling out with the others leaving the Odeon for other -- and better -- pleasures. Humanity pooled around him, not making way really -- more like making their way toward him.
     Who's the fucking pretty boy, came the cockney crack behind him. Fucking tosser, came the laughter. And Valan turned. There was a little quirk of a smile. He even blew them a kiss.
     And then two young Brujah -- Thom Grift and Edward Mosey, two 20th Century gits -- have it in their mind that they don't really like the cut of his clothing, the look on his face, and especially not the kiss blown at them as Valan Montague turned to head off.
     Fuck you...
     Oh won't you?
     And that's how it began, really, this extraordinary but ordinary Thursday night. What began with a kiss became a unholy row. Valan jumped by two of his Family's Blood, grabbed by one, punched in the gut by the other...
     But you'd have been proud, Meurelle. They only got in one shot.
     As security pooled out of the Odeon, two Brujah lay beat-the-fuck-down in the neighboring alley, mouths full of blood, ribs bruised and pants full of ...
     Well, let's just say not all orgasms are equal...
     He didn't call you. He wasn't sure where you would be. But he does at least have the presence of mind to get somewhere a little less... oh... dramatic. Like 156/157 Dannerly Court...

     "You're a good man and a prince," Edward says into the phone, sitting in a pair of shorts, holding a drink. If he's been out, it's hard to tell, and if he's planning to go, he's not making a rush of it. "I appreciate it, really. We'll be there beginning of the month, if that's fine? Maybe end of November..."
     The whisky disappears and Edward leans forward to set his glass on the coffee table. His call is coming to an end and there's a smile upon his lips. "Of course it'll be stellar. A right light you are for it, mate. Okay, no worries. We'll talk to you then..."

     They each just got one shot in. One fist to the gut. One to the jaw. That was enough really. Now he's got a nasty bruise. He's wiping blood from his chin. A split lip. A lovely sight to be sure. Valan doesn't interrupt. He just strolls...well, not exactly a stroll, more like just slowly moving...and he sits on the sofa.
     Then lies down...
     Who are you talking to, ami? Valan turns his bruised side away. Not wanting you to have a conniption. Dreading the discussion. Gold-green eyes find the ceiling and his tongue finds the wound at his mouth.
     He tastes the copper of his own blood. He still has to learn how to heal...
     Fuck it, there's no avoiding it, Montague. Valan turns his head, looking to you as you finish your conversation. Davydd? William?

     The voice on the phone ends: yes, good then Edward. A click follows, but Edward is silent. He stares next to himself, lips parted.
     Thank goodness Georg had found the conversation satisfactory.
     "What happened to you?" Edward finally says, hitting 'End' on his phone. It was the blood in the air that tipped him off first, and with the call done, he twists on the sofa to stare at your face.

     Valan smirks, then regrets it. How many times do you have to say 'Not the face!' "I was coming out of the Odeon and ... jumped by two assholes." He makes a wave. "I have a headache, but I will be okay... I don't think the shot to the ribs was much. I mean, maybe I am in denial, but it doesn't seem bad."
     But I don't want to move now. I just want to lie here...
     A pink swath of tongue peeks out at the healing lip. "I was... just coming out and... they wanted to pick a fight, so..." A roll of his shoulders. "When they called me a tosser I blew them a kiss. They got in their shots, then I got in mine." Another wave.
     And I am lying here before you...
     "When did it become the fashion to waylay people outside of dance clubs. You'd think people would want to party in peace, ami...." But amazingly enough, he doesn't appear to have frenzied. He is calm. And the wounds are fresh.

     "It's always the fashion," Edward notes, "...when you least expect it."
     Brows arch and Edward exhales. It had to happen sometime. "So, who was it? What happened in the club?" he asks, pushing up to fix himself another drinnk.

     "Nothing happened in the club. In the club was brilliant. I danced. I drank. I did my usual people watching. I ran into some people I met through Shelley. We were going to meet with Juliet duMonteville," another Toreador. "She was having some get together. Party or something. I was going to call you, see if you wanted to go. I had to go out of the club though, to call, the line was busy. So, I thought of stepping over to The Golden Geisha for some sushi. That's when they started in on me. So, who's the pretty boy. Fucking tosser," he mimicks their accents, poorly of course -- it's hard to imagine a Loire-cockney. "So..."
     Valan looks to you, sitting up -- that was not fun, ami! "Is there any wine?" he wonders. "I don't know who they were...are... whatever. I left them lying in the fucking alley. I guess I could have checked for IDs, but I wanted to avoid the Odeon security..."

     "Good one," Edward murmurs, bending to retreive a wine glass. He sets it next to his. "So, you got into a banger 'cause someone called you a tosser, eh?" Edward smiles now. "If I had a quid..."
     "You'll learn," he says softly, twisting and bringing a bottle with his return. A burgundy. "But, you're here. Two, eh?" he asks, the wine burbling as it falls into the glass. "Maybe they liked you," Edward smiles, "...seeing you dancing in the club..."
     The bottle is set on the bar. From beneath the bar, a knife comes out, and in a silver flash, the blade opens and slides across Edward's wrist. "I mean, that's what parents say, huh? They tease you because they want you..."
     His eyes watch you in your state, though Edward poises his wrist above your glass, letting droplets redden his skin and fall into the wine beneath.

     "I didn't stop to ask them," Valan rolls out. "I was too busy trying not to bite my tongue in half and gasping for air I didn't need." And then he laughs. So dramatique! And then he winces. It only hurts me when I laugh, isn't that the old joke?
     "Well, they called me a tosser, I blew them a kiss and turned to walk away. I was not going to pick a fight, but then they jumped me...so... I had to do something. I was not going to fall down like a girl. Fuck them," a little temper flare finally. But not much of one.
     You come bearing gifts and Valan looks to you. There is sudden focus. Blood does that. "I don't think they wanted me," he murmurs. "I think they were waiting already... for me to come out..." he breathes it. He watches your blood disappear into the glass.
     "What are you doing, ami?"
     I am hungry...

     "Two waited for you to come out?" Edward wonders absently. "Why you?"
     It's strange. Wrist at his mouth, Edward moves around the bar, snagging the glass once he drops the knife to the countertop. The wine rises high at the lip, almost splashing. Edward offers it to you as he closes the wound at his wrist.

     "I don't know if they were or not, it just seemed like it," Valan murmurs, his voice an afterthought. His thoughts are focused on the lifting of his hand, the taking of the glass, and the sipping of the wine.
     "I just do not think they wanted anything from me but to give me a hard time. They were very belligerent. Maybe drunk," he shrugs. "Probably drunk. Hooligan types. Bad suits, trying to be cockney coiture." You know the types.
     He curls up with the glass, legs pulling up to the sofa, and the glass becomes everything for the time being. Your blood and burgundy. Valan closes his eyes as he drinks it. Drinks it -- not sips it.
     He lowers the glass a moment, smiling. The bruising at his lip and jaw seems improved. "It was a pathetic little battle. This was no Alhambra," he laughs. "But... both of them came in their pants and will have some explaining to do. When they wake up."

     Edward nods, returning to pour himself a drink. But somewhere between you and the bar, he changes his mind. Instead, Edward comes back with the bottle. He laughs a little and nods, retaking his seat beside you. The sofa wheezes slightly with his weight, and Edward taps your glass with the bottom of the whisky bottle.
     "Congratulations on your first bang-up. You look good for 't..."

     It could have been so much worse...
     He has a gun, it is always loaded...
     He has his mouth, and that's usually always loaded...
     He could have frenzied...
     He could have been shot...
     But none of that happened. Maybe it's just a matter of time. But maybe, just maybe, it won't happen at all. Three years, and only one scuffle. That has to be a record.
     Valan smiles, taking another swallow of the blood-laced-burgundy. You. Wine. Mixed. Heaven. His mouth continues to improve, the cut now healed, the bruise beginning to recede. "Merci, ami," Valan murmurs. "I am, so far, one-and-oh, as they say. Do you think I can make a whole year undefeated?" A little laugh. As if it were a soccer match.
     "So... who was that on the phone?"

     "Oh," Edward says, turning bottle up at his mouth and taking a hard swallow. "Georg," he breathes foully, "...just finalizing the holiday with him directly," Edward explains. "So no worries there. It's all set." Eyebrows waggle. "It'll be brilliant, ami. Snow, us, food, rest, sleep, ski, fire, drinks, sauna..." the list is amazing. "I can't wait," Edward smiles, taking another drink of his whisky.

     Curled up with his glass of Cock au Vin -- ha! -- Valan grins, swollen lip and all. In two more swallows the wine will be gone -- and maybe the bruises will, too. He might actually miss those. The badges of his first battle royale.
     Oh well, it doesn't do to be bruised. On some men it is sexy. On him, he looks like a beaten bride. You? It'd only make you brilliant. He well imagines that you, Davydd and William -- in particular -- wear bruises well.
     "I cannot wait either. We should go now, move in maybe." He laughs. "Who knows -- I may have a need to skip town." Gilt-green eyes sparkle as they widen, sparkle as he winks and downs another swallow of his Cock au Vin.
     "You are not going out tonight," he murmurs, looking at his bloody burgundy, tipping his glass, shooting a glance to you. No, I do not think so. "No late night card game... tonight, tonight I think you should stay here with me." Not that it looks like you were going anywhere.
     Valan finishes his glass, leaning to set it on the coffee table, and he turns to look at you, propped up by the pillows of the sofa. "If I am to be a tosser," he smirks, "...then I think you should give me a toss, ami..."

     The whisky bottle lands at Edward's lap. His eyes glance over to you, looking you up and down in faux-skepticism. "I didn't have plans, lucky you," Edward says, taking another quick swallow. "The...wine...not enough then?" he asks, knowing full well the response.

     The look you get. Please, ami...
     Uncurling from the sofa, albeit more slowly than typical, Valan Montague offers you his hand. The bruise on his jaw is all but gone. The bruise at his lip lingers a bit, but is likewise fading. When he smiles, it seems almost normal. Well, normal for a fanged Frenchie.
     "This pretty boy wants to go to bed... Pretty Boy Montague. Hmm... has a nice ring. Maybe I will have to go into boxing and make that my fighting name..."
     And then he laughs...
     As if...
     (Course, tell that to the two Brujah he laid out. While they won't necessarily give the details to anyone, there may have been Toreador witnesses. It may get out on the street, but not the way that Thom or Edward Mosey would have preferred...)

     Edward's nose upturns, "I don't like it. I...just like ami." Edward says, taking the hand. "My sexy," he leans over, "...funny, brazen ami who rules my bed and...me in it."
     Simple, really.
     "Who's beautiful, and everyone wants -- and only I have."
     Edward exhales and stands; the bottle tinkles as he sets it on the coffee table for the night.

     Brazen is a word for it...
     Valan Montague smiles. He says nothing. He lets your words hover in the air. He pulls you up with him. He kisses you despite the sting at his mouth. For the sting at his mouth.
     He tastes of his blood and your blood and burgundy...

~*~     ~*~

     A hand reaches up, glances against the padded headboard, lingering only for a moment in brief waking. The motion becomes a shift and then a stretch. It is late -- early. The sky outside is warming, turning pink against the prism the chemicals of the air creates...
     Valan Montague is using you for a bed -- as usual -- though the motions stopped about twenty minutes ago. A leg thrown casually over your thighs, an arm thrown widely across your chest, he rests flush against you.
     And then he lifts his head, putting chin to your shoulder. Are you awake? Did I pass out? I don't remember falling asleep. I want a drink. "Hmmm..." Valan breathes, lowering his head back to the mountain of flesh that you are. "I need another drink..."
     Whiskey, wine and you and still he is thirsty. Bloodlust can do that to a man. And you wonder why William's a lush....

     "You sure," Edward wonders. He's awake -- his voice is firm -- and there's a scent of smoke floating about the room. It's a bit late for that information as Edward's opposite arm comes up, slipping the last taste of a cigarette between his lips. "Bloody hell," Edward says softer, "I'm not sure I've got more to give you..."
     With that, Edward twists, you there and all, stamping out the cigarette between his fingers before setting the remnant on the nightstand for later discarding. He opens his mouth to stream of white smoke into the air, then settles against his pillow. A faint sniff follows, with Edward squeezing at his nose once, twice, before exhaling with some finality.
     At the side of the bed, one of Edward's legs dangles. If he's rested, it's not so apparent.

     Valan laughs. It is more in motion than in sound. "Hmm... I am sorry, Eduard," he breathes it out, a brush and a rush of soft sound at your shoulder. "Maybe it is from the fighting," and the healing. His hand comes out for a cigarette -- you know the universal symbol for May I have a drag? when you see it.
     Oh, but you've stamped it out...
     When you come to lie beside him, Valan shifts a little, curling around you, pulling at the sheets, settling in for the night. "Are you always this thirsty after you pummel people outside of clubs?" Valan lifts his head and eyes you.

     There's a pause as Edward considers for a moment. "No. In fact," as he thinks on it, "...I want to fuck." True, if direct. "And as part of that, well, yeah, I get mine." Dinner. Perhaps they are related. "Sometimes, I want a fag." Edward shrugs, realizing that in fact, there isn't a pattern.
     Brown eyes glance down to you. "You burn blood, sometimes, when you fight. Depends on what you do. And, then, yeah, I guess if you're not used to it," and here's the truth of it, "...you are hungry. You've used part of yourself."

     Gold-green eyes narrow in thought. "I reduced them to quivering heaps on the concrete," he whispers. He realizes it as he speaks it. Valan suckles upon his own lower lip for a moment, a moment of consideration. "When they were down, I kicked them to make sure of it... but... Eduard, it was... not needed."
     I blew their brains out through their groins...
     He looks to you, smiling. "Hmmm... I always want to fuck, so who would notice?" Laughter is soft, but thoughtful. I did not have time to wear their souls. But they may have seen God before they passed out. "But that is good to know... about the energy... the blood. I guess this is why I am tired and thirsty... and horny." He chuckles again, rolling over to lie on his back, his hands to the headboard in a stretch.
     "Did I take too much?" Too much blood, Edward? Valan's eyes sparkle as they land their attention on you again.

     "I think I mighta said it wrong," Edward corrects, "I don't want to...fuck," his hands out to make some distinction, "I just want to put my knob somewhere. If that makes sense." Maybe not. "Eh, I'm talking too much," Edward notes. "And no, you didn't take too much. I don't think I could let you..." he grins, nudging you slightly. Any vampire has a sense of self-preservation that's deep in the blood.
     "Well, maybe I could if you were," Edward smirks, "...compelling me to." Using your Gifts to such an extent that he could not resist the draining. "Edward! The gift that keeps on giving!"

     "You know me... I am spoiled and like to have my way," he drolls, as if he's heard that somewhere. "What is the difference between fucking and putting your knob somewhere?" He chuckles. "Gah," he gruffs, sounding like you. "... now I am talking too much. The gift... does like to give," he chuckles. "I have learned that." Valan lifts his head, looking up your body -- from some angles you are simply enormous, not that you are not always big. "That was the lesson of the night. The power that made the orgasms intense, can cause them on touch, any part to any part... and blast people to the street..." He tells you.
     He should tell no one else...
     "I do not understand it... but... that is what happened tonight. I did not know that it could do... that..."

     Edward looks over curiously, developing an extra chin in the process. "You didn't know you could...make a man come like that? With a touch?" Well, yes, you knew that...

     "Not like that, ami," Valan notes, eyes going to the ceiling in thought. "When we were at Grunt, we were having sex, I was being blown...but tonight was different. I used it as a weapon, not just an enticement. I ... didn't know it could knock people unconscious... in pain..."
     That he did not know...
     You learn something new everyday, no?

     Now Edward's expression turns perplexed, "Like hell you didn't," he laughs sarcastically. "You had me in gut-splitting comes for the better part of a year." Or don't you remember. "When I told you how it made me feel inside, how it made me ache...or did you think I was spouting bullshite at you?"

     Gold eyes roll, "Dieu... non, ami..." He sighs, "Maybe there is no difference then. I... just had not used it before without having sex as part of the bargain. I thought the two were ...connected... somehow. I remember what you said and it wasn't bullshite."
     No, he heard you...
     So, when we were fucking for that year... you were in pain. That's awful...
     "Well, at least I control it better, yes? Otherwise, you might not have a knob left. So... that is what happened to them tonight. Their cocks exploded and they collapsed outside the club in a quivering, incoherent mass, unconscious. And then I kicked them, being the little shite I apparently am..."

     "You're not a shite," Edward relents, curling his arm around you to bring you closer. "But yeah, ami, their nut exploded." He can sympathize. "Not to mention the rest of 'em."
     "You do control it better, ami. I appreciate it. But y'know," Edward's always practical, "...they deserve what they got. Fuck 'em. They'll regret what they did."

     Conscience is a tricky thing, isn't it...
     When I was a mortal, I would never have dreamed of attacking anyone. Though, this was self-defense...
     I never carried a gun, certainly. Though, I did use a sword...
     I have never struck someone who didn't deserve it, oui. And I only sip the blood from the congregating and dancing masses. This makes me nothing worse than humanity's fruit fly...
     Conscience is a silly thing, isn't it...
     Valan lands on you as you pull him back, solid against solid, muscle against muscle. You feel his weight, and he feels your strength. And it is soothing. The hunger and the thirst have been forgotten.
     Mind over Matter, as they say...
     "They did deserve it," Valan murmurs. "I tried to walk away. Fuck them. Mortal or immortal..." No, Edward, he didn't know... doesn't know... they could have been anybody...

     "It's alright, ami," Edward smiles and soothes. "It's fine. You're fine and it's all posey." He exhales, the smile remaining. "It's getting late," Edward observes, cradling you. "Still hungry?"

     "It can wait," ah, a voice of strength, restraint, control. "I will tend to that tomorrow." And already he is drifting. His body weighing, heavy in the oncoming slumber. Valan shifts, getting comfortable on and against you. "I love you, ami... I will see you at twilight," he grins. "And tomorrow will be a new night..."
     Starting over each night, not carrying baggage from one to the next. That is the secret to true freedom. But... how does one do that?
     With practice... just like anything else. Tomorrow is a new night. It's own night.

Posted by rowan at October 04, 2003 11:50 AM