Warning: PG-13 - some moderate language
Edvard let his head tilt to the side in a silent 'no'. He wouldn't know what to say, with Rosa speaking of her son that way, so he kept quiet thinking it was the best. Then, as the conversation shifted away from the curly-haired immortal, his instructions given, money in hand, he slipped from the doorway, slinking along the wall towards the front door. He didn't need to excuse himself, he though aimlessly, fingers clutching the doorknob before turning it and exiting into the quiet, lush hallway. Only the gentle, lulling buzz of the air conditioner/heater sounded in the wake of walls and green, golden-vined carpet. He looked down, the door shutting behind him, hands falling as weighted pendulums to his sides. He studied the hotel-like carpet job, eyes wandered after the leaves and swirls of the yellow ringlets that stood out brightly against the darkened green. It was interesting, he thought to himself, hands clutching at his shirt-tail, still untucked and crumpled. And, much to his own surprise, his fingers did not automatically lift to press them out and straighten his dishevelled hair that caught in his collar and rumpled in knots. He merely moved, robotic and unfeeling. He found sometime after his decent from the carpet laden floors that he had descended onto the steps, carrying him down, down, down.
... and then he was in the lobby. It was as though he had just skipped all the floors and stepped from Tyn's hallway into the downstairs room filled with tiles and panelling and dying plants. Shocked, he looked up and around, hands fumbling to push the hair from his eyes and off of his open mouth. He felt... odd. It was that feeling he remembered when he woke up from being sick; the groggy, half-awake, pained feeling that stabbed at every part of him to crawl up in a dark corner and pray for sleep. Instead, he shook off the nagging feeling nipping his heels and pulling at his eyelids and let his arms wrap over each other, fingers clinging to the fabric of the borrowed shirt on his elbows and plowed through the front door to the cooling outside.
The pressure surround him flew off into the darkness, making Edvard quickly gasp, eyes dilating and darting around to each fizzled street light, tongue running over his lips. He knew where he was going, the thing was, was he sure he knew why? Then, with a moment of paralysed thought, he turned to his right, heading in the direction that he vaguely remembered.
The darkness was palpable. The stone wall he laid back against was cold, unimaginably cold. It was damp, too. Blood and sweat and the chilled, condensed air clung to it's surface, coating the coarse concrete with a slick layer of wet. The form hunkered against the wall had its knees locked, heels digging into the equally cool floor, leaning the flat of his shoulders deep as he could against the wall. The heavily muscled arms were spread-eagle fashion, the face flushed and lolling to the side on the smooth, perfect neck. Shoulders were bruised and cut, blood running down the expanse of white-marble skin on his arms, soaking into the unbuttoned shirt, and the oozing down his chest. Chains hooked with the manacles around the accused's wrists were crackling and hissing now and again, making the flesh below them blackened and blistered. The man looked more dead than any mauled corpse, honey-coloured eyes discoloured and cased with milky-white, drool gathering at the corner of pale, cracked lips. But then, at the oddest of times, the lungs would shiver to life and pull in a long, hungry gasp of air like a man surfacing from a frozen lake, his whole body shuddering in response, the whole scene lost in the dank darkness.
Kris took the offered cigarette package, pulling out one long, yellow tipped stick for himself and sticking it at the corner of his lips before gathering up another and handing it over to Lysander. "Ten minutes? Dear gods, you're going to have me wait for ten minutes?" he looked aghast, taking the offered lighter and flicking his cigarette to life before leaning over and wrapping one arm around the other's waist, pushing the crinkle wrapped package back into the hip pocket. "Well, I guess if it's just /necessary/ that I can do it. But you know me, so ready to inconvenience you... I don't know." With a silly little smile and a stare towards the darkened street, he let his other hand curl around Zan's front, the nearest lamp buzzing weakly as it tried to turn itself on.
"Spanish omelettes? I think I have, actually, but you wouldn't believe how long it's been... But if you fix it, I am quite sure that I will eat it... Anyways, what can I help you with? I mean, what can I do?" he slid off his perch and made to move forwards to assist her, one arm holding his other at the elbow in a most uncertain way. "Oh, and I wouldn't worry about Edvard," the were-dog could see it in her eyes. "Just.. let's... hmm. Why don't you tell me about your sire? I might know him.."
“Oh, everyone knows my sire, Miroslav. Any mortal with a classical… with any sort of general knowledge.” She smiled, looking at him and then gesturing behind him to the draws built into the cupboards under the worksurface. “If you could find me a slice, a knife and spoon, or a fork… yes, that’s it. Thank you dear.” She took the implements from him, setting them down on the side by the hob, taking a glass bowl and cracking the eggs into it, before whisking them. “Now… if you could slice some potatoes up for me… I don’t think Edvard got to… unpacking them that. Or throwing them around the kitchen, whichever you prefer to call it. And a little onion, too, I believe.” Rosa turned back, clearly enjoying herself immensely. She had once had people to do this for her, still did, if she had desired that. But there was something satisfying about cooking; almost as satisfying of taking the wind out of some overly egotistical idiot’s sails. This was her element.
“Now… would you like anything with your omelette, master Miroslav? Name it, you shall have it!” She chirped happily, adding seasoning to the egg mixture before adding oil to the pan, and then turning it around until the grease covered the metal. “How are those potatoes coming along?”
Tyn groaned, turning uneasily, as if he was embarking on a nightmare, form twisting itself into more troublesome knots within the bedclothes, feet kicking out at nothing and arms curling against his chest, trying to protect himself from an unseen, imaginary evil. It was probably the fever. It was bound to do things to his mind, to supply him with hallucinations and terrible daydreams, turning what should have been a time of recovery and respite into hours and hours of distress. It would be soon that he would wake, jump up and rush into his surprised mother and their guest, demand to know where Edvard was, and then rush after him. But that only happened in badly written films; and Tyn’s dream held nothing of prophecy or prediction, nor to do with the lack of a warm, comforting, protective body holding him. If there were any witnesses watching the young man sleep so uneasily (although one must ask oneself why there might be people who would willingly watch the boy sleep), they would have no idea about the images that flashed through his mind. Nor would they understand the sounds and smells and feelings that ran through his body as he shivered and moaned softly into the empty room.
The smoke from their cigarettes dissipated in the air above their heads, fading as it journeyed up towards the stars like some lost soul finding it’s way to heaven. It was a chill night, getting cooler slowly, and as Lysander had thought before, it would be much colder later, once their evening ‘out on the tiles’ was over, both would be glad of a hot drink and warm covers to crawl beneath. Tomorrow night looked to be the first real night of autumn, promising frost, if the weather reports were right, and from the faint tint of cold, fresh, sharp air that was carried forwards on the wind, that was certainly going to be true. Although Lysander was not actively thinking this, his attention fixed on the cigarette in his hand and the way Kris had curled into him. So… Zan wasn’t sure if the word he was looking for was dependent, or needy, but it was something along those lines that made his stomach contract and then relax. He was wanted, necessary to someone. Someone special and beautiful in everyway. The feeling inside him was wonderful, bordering on ecstasy, it made constant shivers fun through him. Such a feeling! It couldn’t be wrong, there was no way. and yet… Zan had found this man purely by chance, because he was lonely and bored and looking for something to keep himself entertained. As soon as one man stepped out of his life, (although really, Tyn had never been anything more then landlord, a friend) another stepped in; better, the right man. The One. It made him consider the possibility of some sort of higher being. How else could this little miracle have happened? He couldn’t explain in, but then again, so much in life shouldn’t be explained.
“I know, I feel so bad for delaying you like this… I’m sure I can make it up to you in one way, or another.” He muttered, tagging on that suggestive hint at the end of his sentence, taking the cigarette from between his lips, other hand sinking to slid into the waistband of Kris’ trousers, hooking there, a gentle reassuring presence, before bringing the fag back to his lips, speaking as he exhaled. “Ten minutes is a lot to ask, I know. But ten minutes, for the sake of style? Arriving at one of the posh-est places in town in a taxi just isn’t something I could see you doing… so… I took the liberty of ordering a snazzy black number. I believe it’s a Jag’, but don’t take my word on it. And I didn’t take note of the chauffeur’s name. I’m sure it’ll be worth the wait, though.”
The were-dog couldn't help but smile and shake his head a fraction or two to each side. If he didn't know better, he would think that she was degrading his intelligence. But she was too much of a fine-bred lady for that, wasn't she? Plus, she couldn't be all that complex and hard to pick apart, for goodness sakes, who was? Surely not he; his mind was probably fitted like the cheap lock on a little girl's journal that could be picked upon with a pencil lead. Curiously, he stared at her back, sitting down and out of the way to cut up potatoes. He made it short work, slicing thin and quick with sure hands and a hurried need to finish his task. "No, this is fine," he replied, shifting the potatoes to one side of the cutting board with the heel of his palm and looking to the woman as he waited for another set of directions. "And, I do not mean to sound foolish, but I am not quite following you about your sire. I think that the most famous 'vampire' of the blissfully ignorant reality that surrounds us would be Vlad, or rather, Dracula." he forced a small laugh. He had read the book from the pen of the prude Irishman, thinking it quite silly. His Master had told him about the /real/ first vampire, or at least how Dante had heard it to begin with.
Pulling a leg up and folding it beneath him on the stool, tightening the ribbon in his hair. "Surely, that isn't what you're saying, is it?" Miroslav couldn't help but grin now, feeling how strange the muscles pulled in his jaw and cheeks when he did so. They felt as though they were contorting into a most unnatural position and he let his hand lift to feel his own face, making sure it was not shattering or moulding into some hideous pose.
His head snapped around, shifting hard into Lysander's chest and arm. His emerald eyes were widened, lips slack and barely catching the cig still smouldering there. "You mean a Jaguar?" he drew out the name of the automobile in the most awe-inspired way he knew how, fingers curling closer into the other man's clothes, still looking surprised. "An honest-to-God black Jaguar? You mean, the fancy-swanky ones? The /expensive/ ones?" Kris took a deep breath of the slate-coloured toxins, feeling them flit around in his lungs before he exhaled from his mouth, turning his head to keep the smoke from assaulting the brunette’s face. "Are you really serious?"
Deciding almost breathlessly that the other was definitely /not/ kidding, he laughed, eyebrows hunching together before roving back upwards on his forehead into the surprised gawk. "Ohmigawsh, Lysander. Who drives a /Jaguar/?" the name was once more spoken in soft tones, afraid that if he spoke it too loud he would leave a scratch on the nearest finery's paint job. "Only guys named stuff like... Phillipe andandand.... Roberto and stuff like that drive /Jaguars/." Another heavy drag on his cigarette. "Wow... You know, I've never even /sat/ in one of those things?"
Apparently, the young man was impressed.
Edvard turned the corner, beginning to become nervously aware of how murky the atmosphere was, like dirty dishwater. His arms had completely encircled his waist, fingers catching at his rib-bones and holding tight to his shirt. There was no doubt about it-he was horrified of where his feet were carrying him. But... it was something that had to be done. He would need to face his demons and get its imprint off his chest, his mind, his soul. The immortal could no longer carry the tag-along parasite of guilt and self-pity he felt so regularly. Not now, not now that he had someone to look after, to love... It wouldn't be right nor fitting to keep Tyn away like that. To keep the young man from filling the spaces he had built up with his own pain and sadness. No, these deep crevices of dark emotions needed their walls torn down and the sunlight shining in so he could clear out the cobwebs and renovate.
There was only one way to knock down these walls and only one way to refill them. The bad things had to take place first, and then the rest of his un-life would be filled with the redoing... He trekked onwards, going deeper into the harshly deserted, barely lighted streets, knowing that no far ahead was his fateful doom pent up inside the walls of a madman's funhouse...
Then, abruptly, almost past the threshold, he stopped, staring on down the sidewalk, not wanting to look at the front of the building beside him, hands still clutching at his sides, lower lip in-between his teeth. He knew what lay on the other side of the high-polished door. That time-warped sort of interior with its spooky, endless corridors that he would not dare to enter and the beast held within the bowels of the place. He was mortified. But, it was another one of those out-of-body experiences as he felt himself, watched himself, move up the steps to the door and let his hand rest on the doorknob, fangs chattering.
"Never? Really?" Lysander replied with one eyebrow raised, and a smile playing on his lips. It was hard not to be amused, happy, even, when there was such a wide, childishly innocent grin plastered on Kris' face. It was undeniable. "You know, I've never sat in one either. How about we have our first ride together?" He asked, fingers tapping the curve of his cigarette and letting the ash fall to the dirty pavement, eyes shifting to gave down the street, the fingers of his other hand moving to stroke Kris' hip. "It might be a female chauffeur, love. Or he might be called Les. Just don't get your hopes up… but yes. It's a Jaguar. I'm not sure about the smoky windows. But it will be black. They promised that much. Excited?” And with that, he turned away with an air of cool nonchalance, as if hiring expensive cars for nights out was something he did regularly, and it was no big thing.
There was very little point, boarding on non, to his last question, Kris’ thrill at the idea was plain enough, but that gave Zan a thrill of his own. He couldn’t really explain why, but doing this, making the smaller man grin foolishly and talk so animatedly about it seemed to get his adrenaline pumping. True, Lysander did suffer the occasion bout of ‘oh my look at that…’ when the latest Lexis rolled by, wheels apparently turning backwards (although that was just an optical illusion) but he was not fanatical about cars. He had been lucky enough to always live within walking distance of anything he might want or need (apart from large amounts of ready cash) and although he held a driving licence, and who didn’t?, had no need for his own car. But he had to admit, it would be nice to own some flashy number, having it out on the tarmac behind the apartment block next to the rust-buckets owned by the other tenants.
And he couldn’t deny his heart gave a little leap as the long, midnight-hued car pulled around the corner. It was one of those old, curved Jaguars, like something from a Hollywood film, with tinted windows and the silver piping over the sides. It was what a God would have bought once They’d sold their chariot to a second-hand dealership. A car like this, worth well over what Lysander would earn in five years, five good years, in this neighbourhood. They’d seen it all. “I think I’m in love…” the tall, bearded man muttered, fingers loosing their hold on Kris’ waist, finishing the cigarette and dropping it to the floor as the exquisite thing pulled up, the purr of the engine softening, before being cut completely. The driver’s door opened, and the man in a grey, gold-trimmed uniform stepped out, shoes polished like black mirrors, before tipping his hat to them both. “Mr. Thornycroft et al? Good evening. I’m Jeremy, I’ll be your driver this evening.” He opened the rear passenger door, holding it open, which was the cue for Lysander to take Kris’ arm and prompt him forwards, muttering a soft, ‘you first, love’ as if any words louder would break the car’s perfect ebony surface.
The smile became a little wider, and she shook her head. Well, a bit of fun was another thing this boy, rather man; from the look of him you wouldn’t think his out of his 20’s, if that, deserved, and Rosalind did not intent to let him leave until he was at least in better spirits. “Now, non of those little mind-tricks you’re capable of, Miroslav dear. That’s cheating.” She said, passing him a half-onion and half of a pepper to chop and keep himself occupied with as she tipped the potatoes into the pan, and began to shift them about the hot surface with the slice.
“Dracula was a name used to scare gullible audiences, Miroslav. I’m sure you’re smart enough to know that. If your are going to call him anything, call him Vlad Ţepeş. It’s only manners. Besides, if you’ve been told all about him, you should know he wasn’t the first vampire, by a long way. Besides, he was laid to rest so long ago… he fell in love with a mortal woman and, well, people do silly things, don’t they, when they fall in love?” She smiled again, taking the other chopped vegetables and adding them to the pot, frying them a little before adding them all to the add mixture, whisking that again before adding everything back into the pan. “Vampires are as old as humans, Miroslav, if you read history at all. The Greeks had them, the Romans certainly had their fair share, and the Egyptian pharaohs used to have Royal Guard made up of them. My sire… is infamous for another reason entirely. But I’m sure he had his reasons for what he did… after all, it was probably for the best.” If her speech was an enigma, it was probably because she had spilled back into a softer voice, a more admiring tone, a slightly more girly, giggly lilt to her words. “After all, what would the world be like if we didn’t do what we thought was right? What we were born to do? There would be chaos.”
She seemed to snap out of the reverie, bringing to work the slice under the gently cooking omelette, softly chastising herself for ‘’being so silly’’ and giving an embarrassed, slightly flushed glance at the were-dog. “You’ll have to forgive me, dear. Mind wandering. Do you want a drink? I’m sure they’ll be something in the cupboards, other then tea and coffee, if you fancy a change. And you’re sure you don’t want anything else with this?”
He couldn't surpress a laugh, chuckling at her slipping lady-likeness, the girly sound of admiration of a man, a creator, a protector slipping through her voice with such emotion, conviction. It was amusing. Whole-heartedly he had agreed about love doing funny, unexplainable things, knowing all too well of that. Fingers lining up the onion and pepper he had been given, Miroslav chopped it with a lithe twist of his wrist and a shift of his other hand. "Vlad... Hm. I would have liked to have met him, I know... Dante would have..." even now, with the mention of such a damned lover, he couldn't kill his contagious smile that cut deeper into the lines of his cheeks, pushing them into small folds and flexing out the unused muscle beneath. "Well, it sounds like a lot to admire, this Vlad you speak of... Perhaps... oh, here you are..." he slid the cutting board over the counter towards her, onion piled neatly in one stack, the peppers in the other. "I wish you could have met my Dante. He was a fine, fine man. The most artistic creature you have ever met. And smart! Goodness me, wasn't he smart... I think that you would have liked him. Maybe. I do not know, you might have not. I never was good at judging the minds of people, you see. I can spread them out like a sheet, but I could never really understand all I saw..." he gave another shrug and a smile, leaning into the countertop with his bony elbows and watching the skillet lick out grease and pop the tiny bubbles moulding around the less transparent edges of the egg.
The boy's eyes widened even more, pushing the brink of anatomical reality. He looked flabbergasted, his mouth closed like a clamp around his cigarette, staring almost stupidly at Jeremy. His eyes wandered from the funny little cap on his head and his bleach-blonde hair poking from beneath it to the grey suit and lining all over. He resisted the insane urge to lean close to the driver and sniff at him like a puppy, seeing if he was encased in that new car smell. He probably was. That or he would smell like finely polished, glossy leather that would line the seats. Carefully, eloquently as he could, tossed away the smouldering butt, eyes quickly, anxiously flickering from Jeremy to Lysander before he leaned over and sat down inside.
It was like a whole other world. The deep, richly blood red of the leather all around him was like a casing, slipping up and around him and keeping him captive in the plush interior. As his door shut, he could vaguely make out seeing the other pair walk around to the otherside, probably conversing for a moment before the other door opened. Apparently, Kris had seemed too much in shock to actually scoot over for Zan to get in also, so they'd given up on him. He was, literally, awe struck. He'd never sat in anything so expensive or so... well, /shocking/ as a Jaguar before. Sure, he'd seen them, lusted after them for their real statement-wealth, power, class, and freedom to have whatever the heck you wanted. And now, now he was sitting in one, mouth agape, fingers digging at the corduroy on his knees to keep from letting his fingers smudge over every inch of exposed leather. It was almost too perfect to touch. Then he felt the weight shift a little on the seat and the familiar scent of Old Spice waft to him. The other door shut with a snap and Kris looked over, grinning from ear to ear. "Isn't it gorgeous?"
He turned it, heart hitting his Adam's apple and making the pulse seem to reverberate down his spine. It jammed, the door was locked. Edvard almost swallowed his tongue with the sudden strain. Of /course/ it was locked. He was an idiot. With a deep breath, he replaced his hand onto the knob, eyes flickering shut a moment and he twisted it again, a tad more violently than the first time. And it gave. Surprised by just how certain he had been that it would unlock, he stumbled inwards, staring at the darkness consuming him. Then he was five again. The darkness was an unbound creature that would lick up over his legs and his torso, pulling him down into the pits of nothingness where he would be tortured by the most gruesome monsters of all.... but then the candles flickered to life up and down the hall and the door, now released from his grip, gave way beneath his fingers and shut with a faint click. The immortal jumped forwards, watching the miniature flames dancing slowly onto the wicks, growing gently like flamed fire-flies caught on a thread.
The house knew he was here. It knew he was here and it knew he was unfamiliar with the hallways. What a thoughtful house, he mused sickly, clutching his sides, how thoughtful to light up the way to hell.
He took a step forwards, following the know illuminated hallway, looking this way and that at many closed doorways that looked as though they had been unopened for some time. It didn't take his nervous stride long to pull him into the rounded room where the staircase loomed and the main hallways lurked. He remembered now, sitting over there, by the door on the left, waiting as he bled for Tyn to come back from the kitchen with a rag and water to clean him. How kind his lover was, considerate even when he had just lost his eye. Yes, that was the doorway he would need to enter, that was the passage he would need to go down. And then the lights on either side of the closed door shone brighter than the rest and the lock that was there unhinged, making an audible gasp rise from the slab of wood as it too leaned back to allow entrance.
“I think perhaps I would, if you held such a high opinion of him.” The woman said, gently turning the omelette over so the top could cook, pressing the flat edge of the slice into the light, almost fluffy mixture of egg and vegetables. This was nice, just standing around, talking for no real reason but for the pleasantness of it, having something to occupy her hands and the higher reaches of her brain while everything else chugged happily away underneath that more educated level.
Her brain was making connections, putting things together without any effort on her part, and so where her brain linked Miro’s word to the past tense, and thus from that her inability to ever meet the man he was talking about, well, she said nothing more on the matter.
Although the way the were-dog spoke of this… Dante… something rang a bell, the tone, perhaps, or the way he phrased his praises… well, it wasn’t important, over and done with. Back to her main concern, feeding the poor thing up. She glanced back over her shoulder, pulling a clean plate from the stack, and transferring the cooked eggy mixture onto that cold surface, and then with one hand moving the cutting board and knife from in front of Miro, refilling the space with the boy’s supper, before fetching him cutlery. “Eat your fill of that, my dear. If you do want anything else, you must tell me, and we’ll get it for you. Now… I’m going to help myself to a little bit to drink, would you like some? Not too much, but I hear they’re saying a glass a day is good for you…” She said, turning and taking a bottle of wine from it’s standing point on the work surface, scanning the label. “Seven Sisters. Not a bad vineyard. The French know how to do one thing right, at least.” Her words were spoken to the backdrop of the deep red liquid pouring into a glass, setting it down by the side of the hob, and then setting a second empty glass down, waiting for Miro’s answer. “It might help you sleep. Speaking of which, I better get that sofa changed…” Rosa sighed, pushing her long hair from her eyes, and glanced around the kitchen. “You know, Miroslav, I should have dropped by before. If I had known what a slob Tyn had become…” She shook her head, voice trailing off, as if she had just realised what she was saying wasn’t wise, but had already spoken most of it anyway.
Lysander laughed, stretching out and yawning softly after he had examined the interior for himself. There was a thin glass panel separating the cab and passenger seats, and that at least gave them a little privacy, so he let his arm curl about Kris’ shoulder, the fingers of his other hand playing on the seat fabric. “Not a bad little car, is it? And it’s ours for the entire evening. Maybe after dinner, Jeremy could take us on a drive around town?” He smiled, pressing a kiss to the sharp angle of Kris’ jaw, fully enjoying the childish display his lover was giving. Everyone, surely, like surprises and gifts and the occasional treat, did they not? Well, this was all three rolled into one, for both of them. Sure, it was also taking a big chunk out of Zan’s wallet, but really, really, did that matter?
A tiny voice in the back of his had shouted yes, but it was ignored.
With his arm still loosely about Kris’ shoulders, Zan leant forwards and pushed open the sliding window within the glass panel. “Out of interest, Jeremy, how many miles to the gallon does it manage?” The chauffeur smiled, it was visible in the rear-view mirror, which reflected the quick glance the blonde paid his passengers. “Almost 27 sir.”
Lysander lent back, pondering that idea, before shutting the little hatch again. “Kris, if I ever make it big, or you do, for that matter, although these things are beautiful, don’t buy one. You’d be paying at least $25 in fuel a day.” He moved his arm from around the boy’s back, catching his hand and curling their fingers together, his line of sight fixed on Kris’ digits, as his own stroked each knuckle.
“You’ll be mine, won’t you? Mine and only mine?” From the low, almost distant tone of Lysander’s voice it was clear the words were not really meant to be heard, or maybe even spoken out loud, just… thought, prayed, in this warm, beautiful moment that surrounded them like a bubble. Alright, so it was a Jaguar shaped bubble, but that was better then any regular soap-and-water ensemble.
Mind still in low gear, the young man stared down at the considerably larger hand stroking his own, blocked fingertips caressing the gentle bumps over the back of his hands. A smile played along his lips; this was a different sort of smile than the others, however. This was a secretive, possessive smile. He was wanted. So wanted that the other wouldn't have shared him for anything. God, it left a pang, a deep scooping motion in his gut, his hand tingling from where his lover touched it. How could the singer possibly say no to such a genuinely beautiful thing? His Adam's apple bobbed visibly again and he leaned forwards, his hand still clutched in Lysander's as his lips pressed as softly as they could to the skin there. When he leaned back into the leather, his body had scooched closer to the other man's and his eyelashes were hiding the whites of his eyes in the most protective way, almost afraid to let all those emotions be seen. "How can you ask that and not expect the answer you want?" Kris murmered, leaning his cheek against Lysander's, lips spread with a oh-so-happy smile.
Life was so damn delightful when you found your way, when you found your path and your travelling partner.
And suddenly where they were was unimportant. Kris wrapped his other arm around Lysander and gave him a long, strong-armed hug, half-clinging and almost reluctant to let go. The Jaguar was nothing to him at that moment, Jeremy was gone, and they were just alone, together... God he hoped it could be like this forever.
He picked up the silverware with the most grace he could muster and began to dig into the omelette like locusts on crops. Miroslav was unaware that he had been so hungry; yet, ever since Rosalind had pushed the fluffy yellow-y egg onto his plate he had been salivating from the scent of it, mind wandering hither and thither, stomach finally regaining its lust for long forgotten food. Nourishment had never tasted so good, the man supposed, shovelling it as dainty into his mouth as he could and nodding about wine. He would take wine anytime. He didn't care where it came from, what it was... but wine had always held his taste in captivity, drawing his senses back to him when they were placidly scattered like dandelion seeds on the lawn after the breeze. That's how his mind was now, it was trying its best to concentrate on the omelette, but then again it was worrying, calculating, wondering... He thought of Tyn, of Dante, of Edvard. He wondered where the latter was and how his love was doing all chained up in a basement. That sent a pang of guilt and pain through him that he quickly washed back with a long draft of wine.
He could pay no attention to the clock ticking on the wall, because time had long become meaningless to him. Besides, who wanted to think of the time when your brain felt like uncooked scrambled eggs in a mixing bowl? Not he.
Edvard trembled once, head to toe and his tongue tried to wet his lips without success. It was crazy, how he kept stepping in and out of his mind, his body like he did, but he saw himself move across the floor and kill the space between himself and the path to the belly of the house. It was now, or never... And he took the steps two at a time, brain crashing as he took for leaps of two and hearing the door slam behind him. It was eerie, horrible and the darkness was to deep, even for him. Though he knew the way and continued his travels downwards, aware of the dankness of the place and the rocketing drop in temperature every few pairs of steps.
Then, out of nowhere, his feet hit the bottom step and he froze, eyes glazed in the darkness, staring down the hall. There it was; the room on the end, on the right. Var could see the faintest rays of a lamp feebly trying to escape the doorway, but they could not, just glowed like a phantom damned to a closet... Here was his rush of courage; he took off the last step and threw back his shoulders, lifted his chin, let his hands drop to his side, and walked as purposefully to the end of the hallway. At least Dante would think that he meant business; that was, at least, Edvard's thoughts, not knowing what he would see and not seeing what he would expect when he turned the corner and looked inside.
Tyn groaned, body uncurling and shoving off the sheets in his sleep, too hot with them and too cold without, but at the moment, he seemed to prefer freezing to burning alive. If alive was the right word to use. As if the bed had a physical barrier that cut it into straight halves, the blue-haired youth was pressed right against the barrier, as close as he could be to anything, or any one, who might had occupied the other half. But in his fevered sleep, Tyn could not feel Edvard there, but in the same instance, it did not feel like the other was missing. The poor lost little thing was tossing and turning, uncomfortable and ill-at-ease within the sickness that controlled him. Anyone who could have seen would have woken him up, just to end the boy's relentless squirming, to put him out of his misery.
She set the bottle down again, sipping at her own glass as she watched the lycan wolf down his food, like some starved animal. Which, really, he was. Rosa's heart went out to him, and as she hooked the other stool and pulled it forwards, settling on it at Miro's side, one hand still holding her glass, the other toying with the long strands of his hair. "You have very beautiful hair, you know. It suits you perfectly..." She smiled softly, combing through it with expertly manicured nails. "Tyn used to have beautiful hair. Blonde as you like, he used to wear it tied back... I suppose because I wouldn't let him cut it... then again, he's grown up enough to do what he likes with it now..." She sighed, moving to prop her elbows on the work surface, swilling the wine around in the glass and then draining another mouthful, her brown eyes still fixed on the ravenous were-dog. "My my... Are you sure that's enough? There's lots more in the cupboards, Miroslav, if you're still hungry. Although I would suggest you eat more slowly, you'll make yourself ill..." Her hand left his hair, straightening out his collar before moving to join the other around the stem of her glass. "And you'll stay the night, of course. And eat with us when you wake up. I couldn't let you just slip away. Tyn would be upset."
And then she stood, moving to go check on her son, humming that same archaic tune under her breath, footsteps as light and as airy as if she were dancing in some European ball, one hand moving to hold at her skirts, lifting them from brushing the laminate floor, twirling before carrying on towards the bedroom door, side-stepping and turning as the soft tune progressed. Happy that Tyn was, although fevered, still alive, and relatively well, moved back towards the kitchen in the same way, although the beat was faster, her movements faster and, somehow, made her seem younger. True, her present form was reasonably young, although still healthy into mid-age; but these memories of her past, all ball-gowns and chamber-music, made her seem fresh- as if she had just stepped out of a time machine. "Miroslav, dear... I was thinking..." She said, almost breathlessly, half-giggling as she slipped back onto her stool like some drunken maid, "that you'd be better off, more comfortable, in a bed, and it would be easier on me if I didn't have to fight that sofa... would you mind? If you do, of course I'll sort out a bed for you in the living room, but I think... I think Tyn might appreciate having someone was there, you know? He does seem horribly lonely..."
Lysander laughed, turning his head back to kiss Kris' cheek, turning the young man's head so he could rest his own there, fingers stilling to just hold the soft palm. "I don't know... maybe you're getting cold feet?" He asked, voice quiet and gentle, "Are you? He laughed again, softly, and nuzzled his face into the singer's cheek. Apparently his no-cares-in-the-world attitude was contagious.
Zan was teasing, it was clear from his tone, the way his words slid off his damp lips, brushing over Kris’ skin and into his ear, the very texture of each syllable promising that if they really were alone, without the politely averted eyes of their driver and his closed ears, Kris would be laying on his back and being smothered in attention, rather then still sitting up. Promises, promises… they couldn’t be forfilled yet, but soon. Surely, if the Jag was theirs for the whole evening, they could possibly persuade Jeremy, (if that was his real name, and not a posh pseudonym used for business) to take a short break from driving, so they could enjoy some private time with the car. Of course, Lysander smiled to himself, Jeremy would be paid for the inconvenience.
“We are almost there sir… would you care for me to drive around once more?”
Ah yes, Jeremy would certainly have to be sent away for a little while, Zan agreed with himself, straightening his back after stealing another quick kiss, before considering the question, and the time. And the hand beneath his own was another little factor he had to bear in mind. “… I think twice more, f you wouldn’t mind. I’d hate to arrive early and force someone out before they’re ready…”
“Very good sir.”
And with that, Jeremy’s eyes left the rear-view mirror, awarding them another few minutes of privacy.