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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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.

Sunshine's sleep had been interrupted by nightmares again, last night; subsequently, the nap she'd taken this afternoon had gone much longer than she had intended, and she'd woken up with her injured shoulder aching from sleeping so long in the same position. Despite the nap's length, she still feels drowsy as she heads towards the bar for supper.

The stairway is facing the wrong way to see this lush corner, but even as she's making her way slow way down into the bar room, Sunshine can smell the cloying smoke and hear the accompanying music.

What's more, she can recognize the smell of the smoke that hangs heavy in her nose and throat. It is one she hasn't smelled in ten years, and it brings back with it shadowed, half-remembered scenes she would rather have fully forgotten. When she gets to the bottom of the staircase, her ankle already hurting again, she turns to find the source of the smoke.

What she finds is Autor struggling to his feet, from the arms of...

A part of her mind crows in bitter vindication. See? See? She knew Vlad would bounce back quickly from his disappointment. He always does. Always will. All the drama and woe of their last meeting, the hurt and loss and so-very-nearly-human misery, seems to have dissipated like smoke. As though it never existed. Much the opposite; he looks to be in fine form tonight.

Seething, Rae stalks across the room towards them as quickly as her slowly-healing ankle will allow.

Vlad sees her coming, and his eyes go wide. He's got one hand in the small of the boy's back, trying to steady him.

'Rae. Please, it is not what you think. This child...'

He looks at her, his eyes beseeching her to help her with this incredibly awkward situation.

'The smoke, I think? Please. Can you..?'

He's still holding the chess piece in one hand, and will not relinquish it for the world, right now.

"Rae!" the boy says, and falls into her, gracelessly, wrapping his arms around her neck to bury his nose in her hair. "This is Tapesh. Have you met him? He's ridiculous," he says, "and lovely. And he has a suggestive violin. A really suggestive violin. Really, really suggestive. Such a tart."

He glances over his shoulder. "Tepesh, did you know? I am so bad for her blood pressure. Sooo bad."

Then he returns to nuzzling Rae again. "I was just telling him all about Javert," Autor babbles happily. "The man... kind of like a daisy, right? If you cut a flower down, it looks pretty for a few days, and then it dies. And smothering flowers is bad, too."

"God, daisies are sensitive beings," he says, and leans on her shoulder, gently rubbing her back. "Hey, did you know your hair has golden sparklies in it? You look like a milkshake."

Her eyes go wide in surprise as Autor falls into her, thwarting her advance of righteous fury towards Vlad. It's only because Autor's face is buried in her hair that he can't see the pained grimace on her face immediately following him falling into her arms. This is the most weight that has been on her broken collarbone since... well, since it was broken. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and her rage loses some of its footing. Rae has to focus on adjusting her hold on Autor so her shoulder doesn't feel like she's being stabbed.

"...What? What is..." she breathes, the smell of the smoke lingering in her airways. Suggestive violins, daisy-people, and she looks like a milkshake? Sunshine looks accusingly at Vlad from over Autor's shoulder. "What the lurid, multicolor, vampire-populated hells is going on?"

"How much hop have you had, Autor?"

'None. He's had nothing but tea. And the... the...'

He gestures to the pipe, one fist still lightly gripping the chess piece.

'I swear to you, I did nothing to him. He's just -- he has not the head to hold his smoke. I did not inflict it upon him. We were only playing chess. Please.'

"Rae," Autor says, really quite seriously indeed, "I haven't been doing any hopping. Nor have I had any scotch. I am terrible at that game." And all other children's games, by virtue of his knowing the rules for certain, and everyone else is wrong.

The boy pulls back to grin crookedly at her. "But I'm pretty good at chess! You're a lady knight!" Always avoiding bloodshed when she can, citrus tea and nightmares.

He tilts his head, humming as he runs his fingers through her hair. Spices and Lily-of-the-valley shampoo and tears linger in his memory, mingling with the physical presence of the woman he rests on. "Gosh, you're pretty."

Edited 2013-09-14 05:38 (UTC)

"Autor, you are ridiculous," she says, irritated fondness creeping between her gritted teeth. Extremely bad for her blood-pressure, yes. So bad. So difficult to keep the heat of anger wrapped around her when she has an absurdly affectionate Autor in her arms.

"So this has been... what? Just an innocent chess game, with opium and extremely suggestive violin accompaniment?" she asks pointedly, gaze flat on Vlad.

The disbelieving emphasis on innocent is not anyone's imagination.

He spreads his hands (the chess piece caught between his fingers) and gestures lightly to the rat's with their tiny ouds and violins.

'I have no idea what he's talking about. They were simply playing the music of my region. And he -- I do not know, Rae. I had no idea,' he's struggling to hide a grin now, 'that he was so susceptible.'

"I'll susceptible you," Autor says, sticking his tongue out. A black lip curls over a fang in his head, but he's too drowsy to pay much attention. "Hey, speaking of chess, do you remember what piece I was going to play?"

He blinks, twice, and then breaks into a fit of giggling, hiding his face against Rae's shoulder. This is the best joke, ever, and he's so thrilled to tell it -- "Because you should! You're the telepath! Heh heh. Hee."

The boy turns his face back to Rae, and frowns, before cupping his chin in her hands. "Hey, Rae," he says, and turns her head, pulling her gaze away from Vlad. "Rae. Rae. Lookit. Lookit, lookit me, Rae."

Then Autor offers her a soft, delighted smile. "Can I have a fruit smoothie? With fruit in it? Please?"

Sunshine can feel the smoke in her lungs, and remembers well the beginning effects, the lessening of pain, the strange buoyancy it lends to one's limbs.

"You are so full of -" she starts to hiss at Vlad, irritated now more than full of righteous anger, and increasingly wanting to get away from this cloyingly smoky corner. But just what Rae thinks Vlad is full of goes unspoken, as Autor tugs her gaze from the damnably amused vampire to his face, insistent and earnest and stoned out of his mind.

"I..." What? says her confused expression. Rae is at a loss. She can't be angry at the boy - it is, of course, not his fault - and she knows (from first-hand experience) there's no point in trying to get him to act rationally at the moment. "Fruit smoothie? Uh... Yeah. Sure. Maybe in a little while, Autor?"

Edited 2013-09-14 06:33 (UTC)

Vlad covers his mouth with one hand, choking back a laugh and sinking into the cushions. One hand reaches for the pipe, and he tilts his head, watching the boy get more of a handful than he ever managed. He's impressed, actually.

'Put the drink on my ledger, if you please. And Autor? It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope we can continue our game, later?'

Edited 2013-09-14 06:49 (UTC)

Oh, he's tired. It's a good tired, sinking down into his bones and loosening his muscles. He almost remembers not to slip off of his lady knight, though his limbs are too wobbly to snuggle her as he'd like to.

With effort, Autor lifts his nose from Rae's neck. He raises his hand, and crinkles his fingers in a wave. "Goodbye, sweetheart," the boy says, soft and sweet and mellow.

Edited 2013-09-14 07:03 (UTC)

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