milliways_bar | (no subject)

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[ After this. ]

He enters from the back door, and takes but a moment to survey the room. It is not ideal, but that can be fixed.

An imperious gesture beckons a wait rat, and he mutters something to them. The rat dashes off, gathering some of its comrades to help with clearing out one of the darker corners of the bar. Filigreed brass lamps are hung and lit. The banquet is draped with rugs and pillows. A hookah is placed in the center of the low table, right next to a huge chess set.

He removes his coat and rolls up his sleeves as he watches the preparations being made. When they are finally to his satisfaction, he takes his place at the center of them. One of the rats brings him a small table and a tray with several accoutrements.

Another quiet murmur of suggestion, and the rat nods. A few minutes later, there is a tiny group of rat musicians sitting to one side, playing an oud and some strange stringed instruments, one on a tiny but strangely deep drum. Their first strains make him smile, and nod.

He takes up the pipe while one of the rats lights the lamp. In two puffs, he starts to feel his body relax. He lays back into the cushions, his long legs stretched out on the table, one arm draped across the pillows.

Yes, this will do nicely.

[Warnings for: Sexual innuendo, casual vampiric feeding, not so casual drug use, and general debauchery. Also, pup is potentially violent, so please PM me if you intend to come at him with both barrels. Many thanks to Fi for helping me research the opium smoking.]

[ETA: And we're in slowtime. Thank you all! Closed to new tags. ]

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"The violin," Autor points out. "You were moving your fingers."

Which, he reflects, doesn't sound much like evidence. Um.

The boy peers at the man, automatically logging away the usual little things: Relaxed, obviously. Seriously indulgent. Polite. Wealthy. Likely highly educated. Earth, 19th century? Probably a long-term patron.

Then, bending to suggestion, he starts logging away the things he normally doesn't: Thin. Strong cheekbones. Graceful. Sensual. Waiting.

The teen stares. And swallows. And glances away, flushed.

The corner of the man's mouth lifts, and he quirks an eyebrow at the young man.

'It was the music. It takes hold of me, and together, we journey. Please, join me if you'd like. I would have pleasant company to share the evening with.'

He gestures expansively to indicate the cushions.

'Do you play chess?'

"And you included the rest of us?" Autor says, shaking his head in return. His gaze roams over the seats, and he fidgets in place; the suggestions lend themselves to movement, and his has always been ungainly.

"Yes, I do," he murmurs, with a sharp spike of interest, already designating each piece with a scent, a sound, a name. "Though you will beat me."

As he sits, he doesn't register that the fragrance of the smoke isn't as bad as it used to be, just its presence.

'A good musician can command thousands with his instrument,' Vlad murmurs, sitting forward to arrange the board to be oriented to the young man.

He eyes the youth up and down. Not a lot of meat on him. Still, there's something about him that's enticing.

'That does not mean we should not play, does it?'

"Fair points," Autor murmurs. He drops his eyes to the board--squirming under the man's perusal--and opens with Lohengrin, the Knight, and the lingering scent of coffee.

The boy hums along with the lilting violin in an effort to distract himself, and laces his fingers together under his chin. If it gets any warmer in this corner of the bar, he may have to loosen his cravat.

Vlad watches him, still. And chuckles under his breath.

'What is your name? How may I call you?'

Damn, the boy thinks, amused. He actually asked!

"Autor," he says confidently, straightening his shoulders. If he's going to give his name, he may as well do it right. "And yourself?"

'Tepesh.'

It's easier than the truth. And why shouldn't he ask?

'Forgive me if I don't get up, Autor. Would like something to drink? To eat, perhaps?'

Autor looks over the room carefully, and then declines with a small shake of his head. He doesn't eat in the bar proper, to avoid Hannibal's stare, though tea is acceptable. "The rats know what I approve of, thank you."

And they do, hastening to him with a rather specific tea blend of Darjeeling and Assam, milk, two sugars.

"I believe it's your turn, Tepesh," the boy says, still amused at how quickly the man thwarted the name game.

He levers himself up to one elbow, and moves a piece, and melts back down again.

'Tea?'

One eyebrow quirks upwards, his lips in a crooked grin. The poor lad rambles like -- no, that thought gets shoved away.

'My hospitality is wounded, sir.'

The leering forces his back against the rather soft wall. "Why, if it's what I prefer?"

Autor brings a pawn forward in preparation for Mia, his bishop on fire who leaves ice crystals in her wake--and to whom he owes far too many favors. "While I'm grateful to have benefited from your hospitality," he says, raising his teacup, "I am amazed at its lack of constitution, and do hope the wounds aren't fatal."

Edited 2013-09-12 03:24 (UTC)

Vlad chuckles at the sentiment, eyeing the board and the youth's thoughts at the same time.

'Oh it is a fragile thing, my hospitality. Those who neglect to show it proper care are often keen to find a remedy for their, carelessness.'

He takes a long, sensuous pull on the pipe before leaning down and urging a knight forward onto the field of battle.

Tepesh first receives for his troubles a mental eye-roll at the pronouncement, and then a silent reassessment the level of threat presented. Confident boasting with relaxed position; intimidation not directed at me, for now. Wealth and education, naturally. Grace lending itself to weapons? Used to authority. Magic?

Ehh, probably, the boy thinks, frustration expressed with blue glitter and a snapped bone. No one gets to Milliways without being special in some way.

"I'll have to keep that in mind," the boy murmurs, and sneezes at the smoke. He counters that knight with the bishop which was once Rabastan, an otter-man. Now he directs Javert, a man of justice who has found himself climbing up the Tower of Babel, screamed at in German when all he knows is French.

The vampire goes still at the thought, and his eyes flit to the board, and then back to the youth sitting opposite him.

His focus is immediately more intent. The sneeze is greeted with an amused sneer.

'It would serve you well to do so.'

The boy's move is easily countered. Ten moves ahead, fifteen, twenty. It doesn't matter.

'You are acquainted with the Frenchman, then?'

"What?" Autor blurts. He blinks up at the formerly very threatening--elevating his level to extremely threating and now annoyed--man. The boy sneezes again, light-headed, and sluggish.

"Javert?"--strawberries and carpets and 'Puissiez-vous être moins anxieux bientôt' and demon children and I apologize, I was wrong--"Stars and garters, who isn't acquainted with the man?"

Then he frowns, waving a hand to clear his face from the smoke. "You really are in my head, aren't you? Will I ever find a chess game that doesn't involve a telepath in this place, I wonder."

The fumes are beginning to have the desired effect, though the poor boy seems to be almost overwhelmed. He waves his hand, dispelling the smoke from around his head.

'I apologize. The thoughts on the very surface of your mind, they are as apparent to me as the expressions on your face.'

He beckons with a hand, silently suggesting that perhaps if he leaned against the man, he would be more comfortable.

'So he is your instrument of justice? This Javert?'

'But peeking into my head is the same as stripping me bare.' Autor shivers suddenly, as though abruptly dunked in an icy bath--accompanied by the perversely triumphant chorale of Beethoven's 9th--whereas a moment before he'd been overheated.

Cool anger struggles to manifest through the pleasing fumes, so when Tepesh beckons, the boy blinks at him, stymied. "Oh, um," he says, and the corner of his lip lifts. "Thank you for the apology. I guess."

The boy stares at the proffered hand, dizzy and swaying. He doesn't quite lean on him, but scoots closer, for the warmth.

"Javert believes I am a demon child, or a 'hellbeast disguised as a fool'," Autor says, breaking into a bright, boyish smile. "He is absolutely correct."

He shakes his head at the question, trying to rid the taste of the rejected berries on his tongue. "My instrument? Not at all; were I to play him, I'd snap his strings," he says. "Why? Is he yours?"

Edited (music fail) 2013-09-13 14:22 (UTC)

The smile, so easily given, is mirrored back, though the vampire's is muted by a sadness just beneath the surface.

'His strings are taut, and when drawn, make a strange kind of music.' However briefly. 'No, he is not mine. No matter how much I might wish it to be true, he is his own and no one else's.'

Perhaps it is the fog of the opium that draws the truth from him. Perhaps it is that this boy smiled at him, and the warmth touched something hidden deep inside.

'A demon child, then? Do tell me more.'

The lonely, nostalgic clarinet solo of the fourth movement of Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique wends its way through Autor's head--the final thoughts of an artist who’d poisoned himself with opium over a hopeless, unrequited love.

"Aww," the boy murmurs, resting his shoulder against the man's. "It's okay to be sad. Did you know you can tell whether or not a pineapple is fresh by smelling to see if it's sweet?"

And indeed, mingling with the opium is the scent of sugared fruits, and sunlight, and a little girl's tears. A poignant memory of comfort, and--though painful--one he treasures most, and wants to share.

"Javert is scared of flying carpets and strawberries,"--'You are only a child. You should not bother adults with unasked-for fruit. It is rude.'--"and I should have seen that," Autor says softly, waving his hand to simulate flight. "I was a stray dog, you know, and even with that I didn't see how frightened he was. There are so many strawberries forced on him in this bar, even if he were used to eating them, he'd be sick within the hour."

Edited 2013-09-13 19:45 (UTC)

This boy is an endless source of amusement for him, with his mad ramblings and his memories of music and the sweeter things in life. Whatever dark intentions he might have come with, they are quickly evaporating.

There is a part of him that craves life, more than blood.

'Javert is afraid of many things, and there are many things he does not understand. Such as the offering of such a rare and wonderful gift.'

He shares the memory of a young child, no more than eight, proffering a bowl full of black berries, so ripe and lush, their scent alone makes the mouth water.

'How are you a stray dog? I do not understand.'

"Yes," Autor mumbles gently, smiling again, "but if it's only rare and wonderful to the giver, then what sort of gift is that? You can't feed a vegetarian filet mignon. They get sick and then your blazer gets wet because they cry on you."

The boy closes his eyes at welcome intrusion of the berries, running his tongue over his lower lip. "Oh. I haven't had those in ages," he breathes, with a nostalgia bordering on an ache, spanning far past his apparent seventeen years.

He rouses again at the question, though his eyes are somewhat unfocused. "Mm? Oh, that. It's just like I told that... that man shaped from clay and pride, Javert. When Bar first pulled me in, she Bound-ed me, too. I almost starved to death."

Then he shrugs, bonelessly, head lolling. "Y-You have to understand, before that, I hadn't spoken to a... single new person in... in at least nine... maybe ten years? And no one ever touched me, either," he says. "So the people who did shout, 'let me help you!' hurt my ears. Like trying to feed a stray dog, and like a stray dog, I bit them, because I didn't understand what the hell they wanted from me--and some of it was just insulting."

'I understand your need to try.' And he's floating, not unlike the feeling he has now, in pain then but held aloft by sunlight. 'And it's not a bad thing. But I am awake and aware and I have a right to sit there, injured.'

"Hey, have you ever had a fruit smoothie?" he asks abruptly, tonguing his dry palate as he nuzzles Tepesh's arm. "Those’re sooo good. To die for. Maybe. But they make living really nice."

Edited 2013-09-13 20:48 (UTC)

Vlad's hand cups the boy's head, the gesture entirely borne of a desire to shield him from such a horrible memory. And the metaphor does not escape him, not in the slightest. He had never even once stopped to consider that Javert had not a single point of reference for what he was being offered. What was thrust upon him. It makes his own throat go dry, his own chest ache. He was such a fool sometimes, especially when he wanted something, or someone.

'Would you like one? My hospitality would insist, but you've already dealt it a crippling blow.' The words have a faint tease to them.

He beckons a rat and orders the boy some fresh berries as well. At least one of them should enjoy it.

"Really?" Autor asks, leaning into the touch and snickering at the teasing. "Aww. Thank you. And you know what? The best ones have frozen bananas and strawberries and oranges and more strawberries, and--and some mint, I think--and then it's all just... blended up with Greek yogurt." The boy drops into a whisper, imparting a secret along with his smile. "Tepesh. There's fruit in a fruit smoothie. It's pretty cool."

Sleepily, the boy glances at the chess board, seeking his champion of cool drinks and cinnamon rolls: the bloodied lady knight, protecting people no matter how she has to move to achieve that.

The boy's thoughts drift sluggishly around his pieces, eventually meeting up with the rook in his pocket. Laughter. Pleasurable hate. Competition. An unfolding of what could have been, hinged on Autor's choice. Longing, still.

So he reaches out and scoops up a piece. "Here," he says gently--almost childlike--as he presses the bishop Javert into the vampire’s pale palm. "This is for you."

Edited 2013-09-14 03:57 (UTC)

Vlad takes the piece, looking at it for a long moment. And then he looks back into Autor's face, his expression strangely open. His fingers fold around the piece like it is a piece of pure gold.

'Thank you, sir. I will treasure it.'

He smiles, and touches the boy on the head again, his hand coming around to cup his cheek.

'I believe you have had a little too much of this rich smoke, my dear Autor. So perhaps, a smoothie for you and a bit of fresh air?'

Giggling softly, he melts into a languid pile of boy. "Smoke isn't rich, silly," he slurs. "It can't even own property."

He rubs his cheek against Tepesh's palm, pops a berry in his mouth, and then attempts to get to his wobbly, heavy feet.