December 30, 2002.12.30.02. - knowledge [harlequin sinclair][north jersey historical society]
(nakhti)
in the quiet halls, his steps are even quieter, the mute that finds journey among the memories of the past saved and coveted for the present, his coat has been left in some small enclave, draped across a chair beside a desk stacked with columned books, gray cashmere scarf pooled in the seat as if to keep it warm for his flesh, gloves perched as miniature guardian Sphynxhazel eyes have dropped, skimming across the pages that lay open across his palm, the pages crackling softly their acidic discontent against the air which sucks the moisture from fiber's weave, fingers of his left hand splay and trace over the printed text, the crisp edges of type flagrant opposition to the smooth lines of black ink which conform to his skin
steps fall echoing shadows, nothing more than the telltale breath of pants skimming over legs with each stride
(harlequin)
*the lean figure is dressed most inapropriatly for the weather, then again he is dressed most inapropriatly for almost everything, the black wife beater not so much covering skin as clinging to it like a second layer jeans riding low on hips accentuate and reveal almost as much as they hide. a smooth expanse of olive skin gapes as he reaches to the shelf above him a flash of gold at his navel and was that blue and green on hip? sliding the diary back into place amoung the shelves. before fingers again begin their dance along the spines of the rows of books.. a small satchel like those some bike couriers carry hangs from bare shoulder right name wrong author still one can only hope with so many john does that the diary he chooses will be the right one.he had stumbled across the reference totally by accident reading for curiousity sake the story of a town founder when he had come across a reference to a man living in the pines a strange man a crazy man a man who it was wise not to cross. it was said he delt in cures, in potions and curses, it is this mans diary harlequin hopes to find. taking another book from the shelf he lowers himself to the ground such a graceful movement like the fall of silk pooling at ones feet crosslegged in the isle he opens the book
(nakhti)
a shortcut is found back to his personal bibliophile sanctuary, one aisle among aisles chosen for the sake of economy's motion, balance not forsaken for his turn, but rather it seems as if he always planned it, the shift of weight across the ball of a foot that brings the turnand then brings the stop
if he were not silent before, he surely is now, shadows of hair falling against his cheek as curiosity tilts his head, watching the silken spill of man towards the floor, watching as the man opens the chosen book to allow knowledge the wash across his features - so fondly familiar - a curiosity rising as to what he's chosen, but the silent one does not yet move
(harl)
*raven hair falls in front of face has he leans over the book fingers carress its pages as one would a lover most intimate of touches running across the page as he drinks in the words that are in front of him the images the play of symbols on paper no this is not what he wants either. but rather the boring account of a store owner numbers and figures with the occasional worry about the next stock delivery and orderform. he skims the pages just to be certain make sure that what he seeks isnt hidden further back not that he beleives what he wants will be in plain sight. yet would a recluse bother to hide it in such a manner he doubts it.it is like watching a waterfall run in reverse long limbs unfold as he half turns half rolls to his feet body raising in an almost spiral again stretching to replace the diary. dark eyes so dark they appear black looking at the books wanting to growl at the books. nuckles decend to kneed muscles in his back. arching bending almost an impossible angle and then he sees you freezing as hair the colour of ravens wings still slides from his features surcumbing to gravity even as he appears frozen. the ghost of a smile playing across his lips
(nakhti)
the ghosting smile creeps the distance between them, to find a way to dusky lips, there is a language here, of bodies and gestures, something that speaks unfathomable prose in the mere lift of fine boned chin, the motion drawing up through his features to bring a brow closer to his hairline - and that is when the slender youth takes a step forward, followed by another silent stepthose eyes drag across the arched form (I've seen -this- before) as the ghosted curve of lips slants towards smug, his gaze does not invade, but rather follows the most personal of tracks as the book seems to shut itself within his hands, a strikingly audible snap! that seals away the painstakingly recorded words until another time and place
the hand sculpted with black ink reaches out, long fingers finding their way across the sudden chasm created between fabrics, the way the stretch pulls wifebeater with it, the way gravity holds pants in place, this widening sea of flesh that now exposes itself to the light, that is what's traced in featherlight touch, what could only be the fondest of tickles, before that hand sweeps upwards, fingers wide as they brush across spines, as if by the remnant heat of Harlequin's touch alone he could find the mis-chosen tome... and he does, the hook of a single digit drawing it a worm from a hole, gaze flicking away to read the title
(harl)
he purrrrs as nakhtis fingers drag across his skin the feathery touch bringing gooseflesh in its wake. back arching more until shoulders almost touch the ground hands going down to support him, (its a butterfly on his hip thats new) like a cat arching his back only upside down. his legs follow him then in a slow arc a roundoff in slow motion to bring him once again to his feet facing nakhti as hands travel up the spine of the books (wishing it was ones own spine to receive the carress)his eyes travel over the figure in an all to familiar way, i have seen you i know what the flesh looks like beneath those clothes. a touch that is almost physical as he comes to stand so close maybe personal space is a concept he does not understand or maybe he just wants to be able to drink you all in or maybe he too is looking to discover what the other reads
(nak)
the push of finger to slide the book back into place is slow, deliberate, drawn out to time itself with the swing of eyes that follow the other's movements, the way muscle stretches and contracts beneath flesh to manipulate supple skeleton through the walkover, then there is a drop of one shoulder when the other stands near - where they closer it would have placed it beneath Harlequin's chin, but that there is still that infinitely miniscule space between them all it does is allow the draw of jaw closer, to look across his own shoulder at the man that stands beside and behind him, to give him, in return, the ability to gaze across that shoulder to the book held before chestit is a sleight of hand that turns the tome across it, revealing the cover's pentagram surounded by a scattering of other occult symbols that have been uncovered by a careful sweep of fingers through years old dust
and that's when he, himself, turns, inked hand reaching, nails scraping softly over slouching denim until hovering over where the hint of ink would make him guess at something new, above the steady gaze a brow lifts in question (I don't remember this)
(harl)
that is all the invitation he needs really as he watches flesh move bones shift arms circling the waist ever so lightly as head comes to rest on his shoulder the purrrr silent now but felt as his chest presses up against nakhtis back.an eyebrow raises ever so slightly at the book studying the symbols the pentagram he knows of course and some of the more basic occult symbols are not lost on him, he wonders if it is a rare find in the library or something nakhti himself has brought in a reference on which to compare. and then the symbiosis of forms melding together is stoped as he turns drifting appart his grin growing as hands and nails trace the barely hidden design beneath denim confines a look the look (i know something you dont know) and the hint of laughter in his eyes " its new i got it a few days ago"
(nak)
those that cannot speak with their voices speak with their bodies, and speak with their hands, and it is his hand, now, that continues the conversation it started with denim, eyes that watched the darkened orbs of Harls now drop, as a finger dips beneath the waistband and pulls it out and down, further, peering into the almost shadows to see what he can of the designonce more, there is the slow lift of brow (well...), and then the ghost of a smile
knuckles graze over abs as the fingers withdraw, allowing the denim to take it's rightful place - for now - against skin, the hand lifting into what anyone else would consider an absent gesture (very pretty) in it's route to fall onto the book, holding it sandwiched between palms, tilted to face his companion with the cover yet again, fingers streaking through latent dust to reveal the symbols yet again, the question in that gaze more impassive study (this interests you) than overt query
(harl)
the look changes as his waistband is pulled out slightly (oooh look no underwear) to reveal the blue and green butterfly inked into his skin it almost looks real as if at any second it would take flight and then darkenss again decends as denim falls back into place a roll of the hips to make the waistband sit more comfortably"i was bored "
prehaps in part the truth but not all of it. yet the bond with butterfly is one he does not wish to share. does not need to share.
eyes follow his hand movements watching studying wondering. no he can finger spell now and is begining to learn the basics but he still has a lot to grasp when it comes to the language of the silent.
the hand that talks moves to the cover of the book the book that holds his interest curiousity burried not so deep(what is it you are reading lovely). does the inside match the cover and in whos hand is it written (will you share the secrets contained within its pages, will it share its own secrets) drifting forwards again to once more hold the man barest of contact arms distance eyes watching the book.* "and what is contained between your covers" his voice is as sinful and decadent as ever promises of passion and lust in the simplest of sentences
(nak)
the tilt of observation brings shadow tendrils of hair against his cheek, inquisitive to the searching within Harlequiin's gaze, and when the book, given in their closeness, is lifted from his hands, those fingers begin to slowly spell (i. s-a-i-d. v-e-r-y. p-r-e-t-t-y.) as he knows the quest for knowledge has already begun, but perhaps the full language of the deaf will be interesting to learn alongside one that is only mutenot at all pulling from the one-armed grasp of his waist, perhaps he, too, believes it matters not the issue of personal claim in the air that drifts between around them, or perhaps, then, he only wishes the intimacy - an intimacy that plays itself out across his features, small movement of muscle that begets a hidden smile
if only he could murmur the respons to that sinfully slurred whisper, freed hands move once again (i. t-h-i-n-k. y-o-u. k-n-o-w.) and then the smile warms sleek (w-h-a-t. m-o-r-e. y-o-u. d-a-r-e.) as the distance between them closes by but a notch
(harl)
eyes watch study lips move in silent prayer and then his smile grows "thanyou" is he really that shallow? probably not but it could seem so then again the other has already seen some of the hidden depths of harlequins soul prehaps he knows that the ditzy attitude is but a cover. he wants to be closer even as he wants to open the book. and persue its knowledge conflicting desires. fingers run over the symbols i the cover as he leans ever so slightly against the other man hands watching flickering imatating the letters words mouthing to string together the sentences hes learning but it is a process one must go through it he understands the schimatics now even as he works at them . "prehaps, and for you i would dare much"(nak)
it is why he moves slowly, some tender waltz of fingers against palm which spell out his phrases, rather than the gestures that encompass intentions in impressionistic entirety (oh?) as if a sighed breath between them, his hands have stopped moving in their gestural rhythm, but instead hands flatten against muscular chest, sliding across the wifebeater until fingers find the low waistband once againthe silent youth takes a step back
arms extending as they maintain their hold on demin, tugging gently, back towards the enclave hidden amongst stacks of books (let's see how much you dare) before fingers slip away, and the figure turns (coming?)
(harl)
the tug on lowered denim threatens to reveal more than would ever be seemly in public which of course just wakes a grin upon harlequins features.making sure his satchel is secure throwing it over back he glides with that silent predatory grace between the rows of books a bigcat stalking the paper and metal shrubbery of the concrete jungle.
how often have they played this game now of enticng looks and dares to follow? he quickly catches up to walk more alongside again so close. that to slide a peice of paper between them without touching would be a challenge. not impossible but a challenge all the same
Posted by nakhti at December 30, 2002 12:00 AM
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