[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 Sphynx
hazel 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 turn
and 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 step
those 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 chest
it 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 design
once 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 mute
not 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 again
the 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
[atlantic city boardwalk, steel pier]
(harlequin)
*hes down on the sand dragging a short stick through the nearly frozen surface. feet barely able to make a mark. not a sound. straight as he can make it on the level surface revealed by the low tide. finally he stops turning back looking at it frowning ever so slightly. would rather a rope should look at figuring out a way of hanging one in the den. for now though one must keep skills honed and that means practice. standing at the end of the line he removes the long coat that covered him before this and takes a step, body flowing into a cartwheel 2 3 four another step stop balance turn liquid grace and impecable movement. hates practicing down like this but sometimes one does what they must. a few backwards is followed by a hand stand then falls into a nother cartwheel and finally a sequence of backflips and roundoffs. each hand print every footprint falling perfectly upon the line.*
(nakhti)
it is the clarity of weather's chill that had drawn him out, drawn him down, drawn him towards the Boardwalk from his own warm safe haven in the upper reaches of the state, perhaps it is something in the wind, perhaps it was somethign that was brought to startling conscience in the freezing weather, something that each breath of fogged air would wash across in moist caress before suddenly revealing what the stage's curtain had held from captive audience for so long
whatever it is, it has brought him to the Boardwalk, past the casinos, past the fair rides, past the chilled carnies in their stalls, past everything and out onto the steel pier
he had watched the ocean, the murky hazel eyes held silent conversation with the ebb and swell of the waves passing towards shore, as if to disagree and relate on whatever it was that passed through the quiet young man's mind, but now? now he heads back towards the shore, towards the Boardwalk proper, towards the relative humility of house and home
his breath steams thick before him, slender hands drawn into the warmth of wool coat's pockets, the gray scarf hugs affectionately beneath waves of dark, inky hair - but there is something, there is always something that catches the whipfire hungry attention, some menial prey of which the predator chases, pounces, and consumes - and it is this something that now spins and twists upon the frosted sands, it draws the man to a halt just within the barrier of the rail
one gloved hand pulls from the pocket, fingers curled fetally away from the sudden onslaught of chilled air, but they are forced to face the open night once more, his hand extending to lay, quietly, upon the rail as he, quietly, watches the midnight acrobatics performed below
(harl)
*some people loose themselves in meditation in ti chi or yoga, some jog or run walk or swim, some find a comfy couch and a book, others a drink, for harlequin it is his routine.
the thing which for most of his life defined who he was. while he preforms his tricks the falls and tumbles the steps the turns each one upon that line his minds eye lifts him to heights unkown the only solid thing the cable beneath his feet, the line in the sand. his eyes pciking it out easily in the moonlight haze, making it look like a scar of silver, yet something suggests the easy confidence of his movememts lends the feel that he could do this with his eyes closed. and does for part of it. if it wasnt for the extreme movement the heat his body creates fromthe exercise he would probably freeze in a moment hands bare feet in nohing more than a pair of dance slippers. his clothing the thin black silk he favors so much. yet even here under the cold light of the moon and the harsh night air he builds up a sweat and eventually he must come to a stop a line of tricks flowing the entire length of his imaginary highwire. and he stops. turning to gaze up upon seline bowing to her as he would an audience. then bowing deeper to pay his respects. a smile creeping across his face even as he starts to shiver. moving back towards the abandoned backpack and coat laying on the beach not far away. *
(nakhti)
he watches, he recognizes, and a small smile begins to curl the corners of lips, the barest ghost of memory brought forth by the agile yet powerful movements across the sand, the inborn confidence which guides and glides down the imaginary cable, he watches the steam that builds and boils off the body's exertion, he watches the waves as they race foreward on the sand in audience attempts to touch the feet of their idol, so much more, he sees, than the man performing his routine on the sand for the stars and Seline alone
or so he thinks
there is a parallel to their movements, one is hunter, one is prey, and the line between so invisable, so delicate, that so often it is crossed, gloved fingertips trail over the railing that they pass in absent caress, following the acrobat, but not yet drawing near
(harl)
*he is quick to change the light weight shoes for his old beat up docs. the boots laced half way to the knee. stopping for a moment to wiggle toes in the cold leather confines before he bends down to retreive the rest of his goods from the pack. a flash of gold in the pale moon light reveals the chain and ankh before it is paced around his neck dissapearing beneath the black folds of material a knife tucked almost casually into the boottop and finally a pair of fingerless gloves pulled in delicatly. the bag again abandoned to the ground as he slips into the long coat folds of charcoal grey material flowing like a frozen waterfall around his body. rubbing at his arms he trys to return warmth into his body even as he watches it flow away in clouds of misted breath pulled low over his head. trapping misted breath
he dones the hood of the coat last pulling it low over his face trapping whitebreath against the material.
he seems to grow as he does this as if by virtue of the coat he has gained extra hight, his body shimmering ever so slightly in the moonlight as if a wave passsed deep within the confines of the grey coat. a trick of the light is all as shadow passing in front of the moon one could be easily mistaken the distance just making him look smaller than he really was and now burried deep within that coat it is hard to judge his height at all.
grabbing the back head down he begins to make his way up towards the boardwalk. hunter in motion like a prowl, the leap made easy by elongated muscles as he pulls himself over the railing head bent low as he begins to walk away. only to pause once again. tasting the air.*
(nakhti)
there are stairs that connect the boardwalk and the beach, sculpted concrete that have been worn and shaped by the passage of countless feet and countless winds, sandlblasted until pockmarked and round; at the top they bear semblance to the organized structure of the pier, the single angles that stand a proud and clean ninety degrees from each other, a declaration that appeals to the technological grind of Casinos above; and then there are the steps further down, caught bewteen the words, both sharp and smooth, marked and innocent, dusted in the sands that have ventured from the safety of the beath; and below, the rounded steps which soon nestle, forgotten beneath the tiny dunes, whatever secrets they once knew are hidden beneath the cover of a thousand crystaline grains
it is at the top of these stairs that he has stopped, and stands, the weight of his shoulders proud beneath the thick black wool, his chin held firm against the ocean's chilling winds and the flush they raise across dusky cheeks, the tickle and torture of hair that escapes to dance and place about his ears and brow
there is a slow, languid blink against the biting winds
but still he stands, that single, slender hand poised above the railing, touched only by the barest tips to keep the iron's freeze from crawling up his arm, elsewhere he could be a King, elsetime he could be a Pharoah, those marbled eyes staring not over a Jersey beach but instead the rolling dunes that border the raging, murky Nile, the dark lashes about his eyes the coal black lines that mark the exotic royalty above and beyond the common peasent, easily he could have stood in the most respected of courts within the most powerful of empires building the monuments withstanding the tests of Gobi time
but now..... now he stands at the top of the stairs, watching the young man taste the air
(harl)
*a smile spreads across his face as he breathes in yet again dragging scent and smell deep into his lungs savoring for a moment the crisp bite of the frozen air thew tang of salt the distant smell of carnival. but no that which has him smiling is the newest of whispers the smell carried on an erant breeze one that awakens sensory memories and causes flames to rise unbidden through his body.
turnning ever so slowly to face into the wind dark eyes stare out from the shadows burried deep within the hood a lip curls back a whisker twitches ever so slightly. as the not quite man glides towards his newfound prey.
standing there on the edge the world of salt and sand seperated from the world of man by only a single set of stairs he looks like some god or king, one that should be worshiped, one he would happily worship. that smile grows to a grin. as the towering form seems to flow towards the man who stands like a king lording it over his court. his voice a bare whisper as it passes between sharp teeth a blend of purrr and growl a single name stretched out into eternity as if to taste it capture it and enjoy it. a moment of the forever that lasts not long enough* "Nakhti."
(nakhti)
there is a change in his expression, a warmth that battles against the chilling winds, a sound that would, should, make its way from his chest, but it cannot and does not - the man, the boy, the soothsayer and the King merely waits upon his throne of steps, he waits for the not-quite-man to rise these separating steps until standing, now, just before him, just at the threshold of the natural and man-made worlds, just at the treshold of all the wonders each could grant the other
even after the word, that silent, whispered, purring word, the moment of forever that's never enough spans longer into the expectant silence between them
and it is then, only then, that the expression is allowed to linger, allowed to grow, the faintest of smiles beginning it's ghostly journey across wind-flushed lips, sparking the movement in his arm as outstretched hand draws back and lifts, glove reaching into the shadows of the hood, fingers widening the space between them once again as tips brush so lightly the sharp tips of sensitive whiskers (harlequin)
(harl)
*he swoons knees buckling ever so slightly the geasture more powerful than any carress his sensory perception swimming. his body shimmers shrinks ever so slightly the coat moving to adjust his new height the whiskers gone the cheekbones less accentuated his teeth less sharp his eyes less intense. well at least not that stormy grey now just chocolate and black. his smile grows though as he rolls against the hand that now touches his cheek. finally moving that last step arms snaking out to wrap slowly around the others waist*
"hello to you too" *his smile says hes happy to see you so do other things but the smile is all ya can see fortunatly.* "where you watching?"
(nakti)
how intimately hazel eyes say he knows the reaction that is beneath the cloak, and how intimately his smile flexes and spreads to say that is what he intended, the cool fabric of glove warming against the smooth curve of cheek, cupped to soon slide that single arm around Harl's neck, some latent cobra slung across the tops of his shoulders in lazy confidence - his other hand still buried in woolen coat's pocket
those eyes flick towards the sand in the other world, towards the sea that mourns the display has ended, towards the stars that wink a promise of hopeful return, towards that illusionary wire being washed from the sands - and then, just as smoothly, his attention has returned again (yes)
(harl)
*its the warmth, he keeps telling himself as he keeps lessening the distance between the two till it is non existant you just want to warm up. sure pressed up against the others body heat trapped between them he leans down ever so slightly resting his head on the other mans shoulder, the whisper for his ear alone.* was i any good?
(nakhti)
it is for the warmth
it is for the warmth that he allows the other to move close, the sweat-drying chill that must suddenly be clinging to the strong frame and allowing Winter's fingers to slowly find their way across skin, it is for the desert heat that must cling to his own form for which he permits Harlequin to curl so close, gloved hand sliding up the back of his neck to hold the head on his shoulder, to let gloved fingers wander through hair as the hood has fallen away (it's safe now), as if the simple act of breathing alone could instill once more the bodyheat within acrobatic frame
yes, it must be for the warmth
yes, it must be because he was good
(harl)
*ok so maybe it was also for that close skin to skin contact.warm breath on the side of the neck a flickering of tongue as he finds it to hard to resist touch taste. and again he rubs his cheek up against the others scent marking him burrying face deep in the hair behind his ear inhaling the taste and smell of him relishing it. only to sigh as again rests his head agianst his shoulder.* "its cold out tonight."
(nakhti)
jaw tilts upwards, stretching the skin against which Harleqiun rubs, as if the act alone would further spread the oiled scents between them, the glands that lay hidden beneath the armor of soft skin, mixing the essence of their very beings in the warm musk in the chilled night air, he does nothing to move away from the seeking cling, he does nothing to stop the comfort of two bodies so suddenly alone between their worlds, along on the boardwalk; simply because they ignore everything else
soon his face tucks down again, after that languid rub, lips so close but never touching the thin skin between pulse and ear, parting on exhale, bestowing moist and heated gift to combat the night's freeze (yes)
(harl)
*there are moments in which he wishes the other could talk,, yet is reluctant to break the silence with his own voice. it is in the quiet that what they really mean to say is spoken a conversation felt not heard a common language anyone can speak with but a touch, a secret language that can be shared with only one other. he trys not to purrr feeling sad and strange about it while held and holding nakhti.
finally he breaks the silence shattering the silent communication, yet clearing it at the same time
i am glad it was you who was watching, glad it was you who found me" even if you wernt out looking for him specifically still you did find him*
(nakhti)
it is then his head pulls back, it is after the silence of body language is broken that he lifts away from this affectionate curl and strives to find the other's eyes, and it is the tender touch of gloved hand that brings that gaze to his (yes, i found you) poetry in a slow blink, a world shifts in the tilt of shoulders, finger draw a slow line in their trace of jaw (but now what am i doing to do with you) in silent ponderance, as if the Pharoah were contemplating what he saw in the heart of a midnight sapphire
(harl)
*eyes the colour of expensive dark chocolate that almost black study you back with the same intensity. who is predator and who is prey in this little tangle of limbs and heat. his smile grows though as he can think of one or 2 things to do with nakhti.*
(nakhti)
predator, prey, the tangled symboisis of limbs and warmth and things that have gone unsaid, and as that smile grows it is mirrored, the faint expressions that speak a thousand words and of places that will only be touched in the darkes shadows of the night (oh?) there seems to be a question there, an invitation, and perhaps even a challenge in the almost expression, fingers reach to trace that smile, with the tender touch that before tantalized the expressive spread of whiskers hidden beneath hood, there's a cant of jaw that speaks of arrogance and righteous might (what)
(harl)
*there is a glint in his eyes the promise of passion or a challenge. both at once prehaps and a lot of laughter. his smile grows to a grin one of those cat has the canary grins as he again closes the distance between thier bodies again pitches his voice for thier ears alone.*
"perhaps i wish to return the favor of the other night"
*and if there wasnt that arrogance there and righteous might that spark of indipendance that is carried by all those who hunt alone. he probably wouldnt be interested in you in the least its the desire for an equal he feels.*
(nakhti)
an equal, a subjugate, a superior - it is something they have yet to decide, or perhaps it is something that should never be discussed, and as the smug smile grows, his fingers move to catch it, to trace it, to sculpt it on such fine features, and that is when his gaze pulls away, to partake of a voyage that roams beside and above them, to the boardwalk, the beach, the ocean, and back once again to the dark chocolate eyes set so sweetly upon him (we are so far from home) or at least he is, there are so many mysteries of which he wishes to discover in his new friend
(halr)
*he relishes all rolls and conforms to none, to set a name to something is to bind it forever in that roll so he would rather they where left unsaid. silent let that be a discussion they do not need to make rather act upon the feeling of a given situation. find which suits best for the moment rather than make it a position held forever.
home home is a place to dream for harlequin and that he can do quite comfortably in nakhtis arms. always a wanderer he has no concept of being far from home. yet the look from nakhti that longing for somewhere his heart belongs is so sad makes him want to comfort him even as he wishes to explore the mysteries the 2 could share.*
(nakhti)
he is more than a thousand miles from his home, yet now it is only a place of comfort that he seeks, a warmth and security that bows to his territorial nature, there is a lift of a dark brow (can you provide that?) barely noticed in the short span of space between them, hungry eyes searching the rich chocolate that is all but completely within his grasp, and hazel drops, falling down over length of nose, curve of cheeks, to the soft skin of smiling lips - and the distance closes, teeth gripping lush lower lip, hard enough to leave lingering indentions after the breif touch, soon bathed in the warmth of his breath
and that's when he untangles from the snake of arms around his waist and back, a smooth movement that pulls and melts away, the last between them the touch of gloved hand, and once more a brow lifts (coming?) as the young man heads back onto the boardwalk
(harl)
theres a lot harlequin can offer comfort and warmth about the most of it. but he lets the other free from warm embrace lingering touch as he draws away. when he looks ba that follow me arrogance he smiles* my bikes that way *pointing in the oppocite direction of the one the man currently headed in* and unlike my coat i wont leave it behind. *well actually he probably would but is much more reluctant to*
(nakhti)
a glance finds its way back over his shoulder, and a wider, sly, grin finds its way to his lips (oh? well then...) weight shifting to turn, that fluid roll that makes it seem anything but a sudden switch of directions because he was wrong, and as he passes, a hand reaches out, surprising strength in the grip around Harlequin's sleeved wrist, playfully tugging the other with him... in the correct direction
(harl)
*his laughs then he cant help it that soft sound like furrr sliding down ones spine he lets himself be dragged along the boardwalk towards the far end where his bike is chained up. for the most part again enjoying the contact between the 2 although it unerves him a little as well. a bond of flesh the 2 have made a bond of friendship he feels growing. how well will the two solitary creatures bond and how strongly?*
(nakhti)
there is a bond, that has formed, something that seeded the first night they met, simply because they had remained together until the next morning, it was far more than nameless and faceless, even if it bore no commitment, there was something that began to grow, a connection between two independants that needed nothing but found they enjoyed each other, in flesh, in company, in spirit
the touch remains, until they near the bike, for surely his companion will need both hands to unchain it
(harl)
the lock gives way quickly the chain wound with practiced ease and thrown into backpack he still carries over one shoulder a helmet is picked up from the back of the bike held on with no more than a cable tie which quickly breaks under his fingers. he hands that to nakhti. hey he wants to continue to look pretty (vein who me?) and helmet hair never looks pretty. that and he wants the other to remain safe. (not that he cares or anytihng really)*.
(nakhti)
slenderstrong hands wrap around the gift of helmet, a soft question in hazel eyes, he knows he could recover in minutes what would take others days, but why give that away and ruin the what it is they unspokenly share, so the helmet is slipped on and buckled, waiting for Harlequin to get on the bike, then slides, tightly, snugly, warmly, behind him, long arms wrapping about his waist
(harl)
*he knows he can heal he remembers the bite of talons into skin along with all the other little things they enjoyed that night but well irashional thoughts sometimes happen and either way seeing him place the helmet upon his head makes him feel better. feeling him pressed up against his back makes him very happy.* would you like to see my place this time its no where near as nice. but its closer"
(nakhti)
head tilts, to hear the soft words filtered through the helmet's fiberglass and padding, one hand crawls up, over thick coat, along the lines of Harlequin's chest (take me there)
(harl)
*the motor roars to life with the sound that says i am old and dieing but still got some kick left to me. turned quickly out of the carpark and onto the main roads he tstarts to takes them quickly to what for this week he calls home.*
[pause]
[club cymaa]
(nakhti)
there is something that slithers serpentous in the music falling from well-hidden speakers as languid rain, were it to strike the sand surely each droplet would befalls the adder's coils and sink away, deeply, as if burying itself in hopes to seep back to the banks of the very Nile that would thunder in lazy flow through the club itself
he has spawled here, silently, for countless number of songs, curve of cheek and brow tilted upwards to be washed by the raining music, to feel the very treble and bass comb through shadowed locks which frame dusk-flushed skin, shoes have been removed to tuck feet comfortably on the sculpted chase lounge pillows,one arm draped over the long sweep of spine, the other hooked by but an elbow, half-finished drink dangling between slim fingers
perhaps it is the break of sound that gives enough suggestion for the man to move, liquid muscle drawn to bring the glass to lips in this everlasting quest for quench, long draught swallowed before tongue peeks out to draw the leftover liquor tears from upper lip, hazel eyes opening, slowly, some strange dawn lifting night-sky lashes to gaze at the painted ceiling above
(harlequin sinclair)
*some like the grand enterance others to slip in unobserved he well it depends on the day. the coat he had warn to protect him from the cold is lost quickly at the door checked in the small ticket tucked gracefully into the midnight blue sash he wears as a belt. he looks as if he has stepped directly from one of sharizades thousand tales a prince stepped directly from the pages of alladin the only thing to distroy the perfect picture a small golden ankh hangs from his neck.
smooth skin and lithe muscle move in a flow of liquid grace as he glides through the club weaving through the dense croud at the bar to claim first a drink and then a stool. . finally eyes so dark to be black scan the room from between those raven locks, where best to sit or who to dance with. *
(nakhti)
this is where he reclines, this is where the slender man who is barely older than a boy has claimed his place amongst the fashionable crowd, and they seem to pass him by, the small thing forsaken for the greater mysteries hidden in trampled dancefloor sand - but it seems to matter not, that he would rather fade back into the shadows and observe this natural wonder of human bodies and interaction, he would rather be forgotten than noticed
but notice does he
the glint of blue silk captures a strobe from above, the attention quick in its flicker towards the bar, lifting from waist to crawl over chest towards the glinting ankh - but as it is, the boyman says nothing, only looks, only peeks, and his attention strays again
(harlequin)
*he moves with an almost predatory grace unatural liquid and flowing poetry in motion his every geasture seems in time to the music as he sandled feet move lightly over the sand covered floor. his smile almost exstatic as he breathes in the mixture of sent and sound, the touch the feel of the music flowing into him and through him. his partners chosen from both sexes it does not seem to matter and when none can be found he but continues to dance alone. *
(nakhti)
and now the man moves, some sway of desert breeze seeming to displace the recline into attentive sit, legs crossing to place ankles beneath thighs, flowing black pants whispering lost in the heavy belt of bass falling from above, it's the blue that has his attention oncemore, the rapt predator, the glitter of gold as it flashes in serpentine movements falling from a singular body
once more, the glass raises to his lips
as if to battle that continuous thirst
but still, he only watches, he only studies, he only absorbs this sinuous creature that has cast itself in beautiful writhe upon the burning sands
(harlequin)
he had seen him noticed smiled ever so slightly thinking it was but a passing glance. yet again when he is looking that way he finds the youth watching him. his smile grows even wider he leaves the dance floor to return to the bar grabbing a drink he makes his way slowly around the club finally to hang over the back of the couch upon which nakhti sits. wine the colour of fresh blood swirling delicalty within the glass before he places it to his lips sipping the ruby liquid chocolate eyes watch him study him from but a few centimetres away.*
(nakhti)
as he is studied - he studies in return, not at all unnerved by the sudden closeness, not at all dissuaded by the approach and lean, his own body twists, slowly, the supple lengthening of muscle and torso in liquid stretch, murky green/brown swirl of hazel eyes meets the chocolate gaze, and a smile ghosts on softly angular features
left hand, slender, reaches, fingers brushing the dangling gold ankh, silken sleeve falling back to reveal the blackened whorls of ink patterning his skin
(harlequin)
*his eyes flicker ever so slightly over the designs etched into the living canvas before he returns to his study of the youth in general his gaze slides over the body as if to memorise every curve every, every plane and angle. a mental carress that is followed by the softest of purrs as he brings his eyes finally back up to look upon his face.
his cup is raised again to lips to take another sip his smile growing from behind raised glass. its what the cat looked like when he caught the canery *
(nakhti)
the pattern begins at his middle knuckle, and is spreads, flaring in homeland patterns to either side of his wrist, and there is a band that wraps around, inviting further curiosities below the still clinging sleeve - but that is a mystery he will not yet reveal
his chin lifts, dark eyes slitting, stretching into that invisable caress as if fingers combed through deep black pelt, a movement in his throat, a quiver of larynx below skin, but there is nothing in reply, nothing above the sound of the pouring music, just the notion of what could be, his touch has not left the gold that was warmed by contact with chest's skin, letting it dance across fingerpads with each swell of breath in the stranger's chest that lifts him against the chaise's sweeping back
(harlequin)
*he circles slowy never really rising almost like his upper body spins in place never breaking contact that near touch so reminicant of bodies sliding one over the other. yet finally he must draw away ever so slightly as he slides onto the couch next to you such a languid moment he seems to fall much like if one cut the strings that supported him, yet graceful a fall of silk in the lightest of breezes.*
"harlequin sinclair" *his voice spills from barley parted lips filling the silence between songs with that husky tone his is a voice to inspire, an erotic blend of soft sophistication and dark passion. *
(nakhti)
a hand lifts, fingers splaying to let the chain weave itself between long digits and the ankh to slide into his palm, and as the stranger sits the boy leans closer, lips parting, breath drawn, as if to taste this creature and the scents that roll between them, eyes never breaking their contact, and beneath the inky hair, the head slightly tilts, lips moving without sound (harlequin) until ending into a pleased ghostly smile, as if the word itself where inspiring, as if he were imitating the darkly passioned voice
his own glass tilts back, heady liquor drowning silent throat and the empty tumbler set behind him on the couch as a magician's flair possesses right hand, to create a gesture in the air, a combination of letters and fingers, woven in this invisable fabric
(harlequin)
*he smells of cloves and cinnamon with the musk of fur hidden just beneath the skin. his is the taste of youth mixed with wine. the geasture so familiar his head tilting to the side studying the stranger.
. it pleases him the tantalising way he pleases all his senses. eyes follow the movemntes of his hand all but mesmorised by them yet not able to understand. this seems to pain him. guilt with how the silent comunication was shattered with his words and his lack of understanding.*
(nakhti)
there's the scents and tastes of the exotic bazaar that dances along his senses, a pleasure arising from the subtle exploration of the other, and fingers rise up the slender chain, until skimming over the line of jaw, the gentlest of pressures guiding harlequin to look to the side
hazel eyes study the offered profile
then his own body folds, reaching single digit to scribe in the sand
nakhti
amose
(harlequin)
*he allows himelf to be guided face turning ever so slightly. only to look back as his companion writes upon the sand. leaning over his shoulder to watch he whispers* nakhti Amose.*his warm breath spiced with the sent of the red wine a carress on the back of nakhti's neck as he whispers the name slowly, a caress to be shared between lovers as they lay between sheets drawing it out in that rumbling purrrr of a voice tracing the edges of the script with his own fingers before trailing them delicatly through the name removing traces of the delicate hand. one should never leave trace of where there been afterall.*
(nakhti)
beneath the warm breath that showers over skin, gooseflesh rises in rippling quiver, the smile hidden by bite of lower lip,the scripting hand seems to draw up Harlequin's extended arm, as if sculpting the play of muscles beneath skin as the letters are wiped away, and the touch climbs, inching slowly upwards, until finally finding the pulse before long smooth line of jaw, turning companion to face him once again
there is soft smile, hearing the purr (oh yeeesss) and perhaps a question writ sandstone within the hazel depths of eyes (and what is it you wish) held so very close
(harlequin)
*to touch to taste so tempting watching the gooseflesh rise over his skin the way his breath stirs the small hairs at the back of ones neck. to fill oneself with the sent of him of his hair his skin. and then he he relaxes under the carress of nakhti's touch as it raises slowly along his arm to rest upon his quickening pulse. he rolls his neck ever so slightly slidding his chin lightly along the inner curve of his arm marking him as if the scent glands where there. rubbing up against his flesh in a slide like that of a cat. his eyes hold questions of his own and promises of passion. his smile grows wide.*
(nakhti)
fingers splay spider's legs to flex tendon and muscle beneath skin, to coax the mixtures of their scents and oils as display pushes sleeve further up slender arm, then digits wrap to comb through hair, sliding from scalp to feathered tip in proverbial groom ending in slow languid stretch - it brings him closer, slow inhalation rising in his chest, so close that eyes would almost cross, and then the exhale
dripping from between parted lips, washing liquor tainted breath across Harlequin's wide smile
promise accepted, and the boyman unfolds, bare feet sinking into the sand, a tempting, taunting glance cast over his shoulder as he walks towards the door (coming?)
(harlequin)
*he breathes in that hedonistic mix as if he could draw onself in on the exhaled breath. crawling slowly along the couch finally raising to his feet he sets feet silently to the sandy floor. slipping up behind his companion arm snaking lightly around his waist whispering lightly in his ear.* "lead the way"
(nakhti)
as the arm winds about his waist, his own closes over the hand at his flank, fingers soft in their warm touch on skin, twining their grips against his waist, a strange strength in slender hand, and there's only a look, a sly, inviting look
once outside, past the line waiting at the door, the other arm raises, hailing down a cab - coat forgotten, he is heedless of the cold, when the door opens he moves far enough away only to climb inside, twined grip stretching arms until the fold of muscle pulls Harlequin in with him and so. very. close.
paper is unfolded from a pocket of flowering shirt, address written on it handed to the cabbie, but his attention is elsewhere, not on the cabbie, not on the smooth pull of sedan from curb, focused solely on the man next to him, the one that hand draws even closer, drawing up until they were as close as within the club, that barest breath between their lips
(harlequin)
to Nakhti Amose: *it was a reluctant glance he throws back as he passes the coat room yet no desire to give up his prey, or would that be predator and he is the prey?
he lets himself be led out into the cold, his skin quickly cooling as exposed flesh and sweat react to th freezing weather gooseflesh appearing along his arms his chest tightening his muscles drawn in upon themselves as he has a chance to start shivering before being drawn seductivly into the relative warmth of the cab
. again he all but crawls across the seats that predatory grace in flowing motion body stretching out contouring himself to the line of the one next to him not quite touching by less than a hairs breath.
guided by the man who occupies the cab allows himself to be drawn in to feel the heat radiating from the body he is all but pressed up against warm his chiled skin. thier breath mingles the sweet mixture drawn back into his lungs with a passion as finally he leans in to claim a kiss a taste barest brushing of lips up against his.*
(nakhti)
their coats will be there tomorrow, it is that promised dark passion that is the now - smile spreads against the tender touch of lips, the shy young man boldly deepening the tentative touch, the barest brush turned into decisive joining of soft flesh, an invitation of the predator that crawled the seat to be beside him like some leopard stalking him within the trees
there's a tremble, in his touch, the way fingers curl along their cup of jaw, the scrape of short nails against smooth skin as the miles roll past unheeded, and it is not until the cabbie politely coughs that the world comes back into his conscience, to find that they have stopped infront of an old brick building
one hand draws away from luscious skin, sliding torturously flat between them to dig in a pocket, he knows the fare home, for a bill is handed blindly to the front seat - and that is when the soft kiss turns to slow clench of teeth, trapping Harlequin's lower lip between flat enamel, the hand between them reaching to pop the door behind him open, and the seductive boy slinks back into the cold, something burning in it's glitter in hazel eyes
as he was drug from the club, he is drug into the building and up a flight of stairs, and never once does that sly smile leave Nakhti's lips, perhaps it grows as the key slides home into the door, lock thrown, slender hand wrapping in the soft folds of shirt to drag him, still, into the small apartment
[the rest is up to your imagination, heh]
[new jersey historical society]
(mera)
~Her note at Cymaa had been short. Addressed to "N" and signed simply as "M" asking him to email her.
In the email she explained she'd doubted she would return to Cymaa anytime in the nearer future but that perhaps that he could continue his "lessons" (and she hers) before she had to depart last week? She often tutored students at the Historical Society the email had ambigiously stated and if he wished to visit she would be there tonight for some time.
A rather sedate setting after their last meeting to be certain.~
(nahkti)
needless to say the waiting note had been surprising, upon his visit to the club he had been searched, found, the delivery accepted in silence and the young man sank in fluid repasse to another chaise lain in the sand to read the strange intentions, dark brows lifting slowly at the email address, and later in the evening perhaps further surprise graced his features at the message found waiting in-boxed and blinking
the historical society
so then, tonight, he ventured forth, the wool coat wrapped tightly around slender form, the mounds of dark gray scarf heaped around his throat to retain the warmth body fat would normally, Newark streets navigated until he found the proper building, long muscles in his back stretching as chin lifts in survey of the thesad facing the chilled night's winds - and once within, the directions are given to the expected visitor, and boots move across the pristine floors as silent as his breaths
curiously looking at what he passes, but not wasting more time than necessary in this journey to the study lounge
(mera)
~It seems more parlor than lounge but at least she is easily found. Standing as she makes quite farewell to a slender man as fair as Nakhti's is dark. Then taking her seat with a fluidity that is not unlike his own movements. She is a stark contrast to his last vision of her. Clothing though at least in the same midnight hues though this time a form fitting blouse which flows easily into the tailored dark pants. Pretty still but in a very professional way. Long dark hair is pulled up in a thick half-knot half-pony tail as she looks down to her papers once more. It seems the student provided sufficient distraction for Nakhti to sneak up on her.~
(nakhti)
in the arched doorway, he pauses, the tails of the wool coat stilling around his thighs, gloved hands comfortable within pockets, black pants hanging loose and flowing til collapsing over his shoes, conducting a silent study of her, how different than the time before, and now to actually see her face...
but soon enough the desire for knowlege overhwelms the plausibility of observation, and he moves as if suddenly caught in the thermal of warm desert winds, some man-shaped kite that floats and ripples across the tiled floor until the wind changes and it hovers, paused, right next to her table and chair
(mera)
~A smile touches her lips as she looks up with the brilliance of those familiar eyes in emerald hues. Features are formed in the mocha tones of a mixed heritage. Though the desert race is clear in the sharp angles of features and deep midnight black of hair. Slender fingers push forwards the book in which she was studying only to lift and carefully in intricate manner make a graceful greeting to him.~
-Good evening, Nakhti-
A slight smile on her lips as dark lashes fall in a wink over gleaming depths as she turns the book so he can see the spine:
ASL for beginners
(nakhti)
the brilliance of her emerald is reflected somewhere in the depths of mottled hazel eyes, and beyond that, there is pleasure at the book, at the movement of her hands
good evening mera
his body folds and sinks into the chair abandoned by the student, dark waves of inky hair brushed from his brow, then he reaches to tap a finger against the spine of the book and his own hands dances once more
what else have you learned?
(mera)
"Already, you race ahead of me,Nakhti..." A sigh is breathed between lips that seem naturally dark in their fullness. Lithe fingers reach up to unlace his scarf as she shakes his head. "At least I understood your good evening...I've only just begun." Her voice is muted within the quiet confines of the library though still surrounded in essence by the same spicy-musk scent which followed her like honey in the club.
(nakhti)
there is sly countenance in his smile, at her words, at the musky scent which fills him once more, at her unlacing his scarf and shaking his head, he completes the process and removes the scarf completely to set upon the table, gloves soon following, the generous length of sleeves allowing only the faintest hint of ink to be seen along the back of his left hand
a notepad is procured from the depths of a pocket, along with its accompanying pen, words written and the pad slid into her focus, before he signs them for her
i had asked what else you had learned
(mera)
"Ah...mm..." Eyes flicker away from him as if to remember the thoughts takes effort of no distraction.
Fingers lift upwards again though the dark lips speak in precursor. "First...because I had to..."
-You are very pretty.-
~After all wasn't that her first word to him? Then fingers of such a distraction with their tailored dark painted nails.~ "And then because it seemed of a necessity..."
-How are you?-
(nahkti)
pretty seems such a strange word to apply to a male body, a smooth word to blanket what should be a strong, rugged physique and persona to apply to the standards of warriors past - but it seems to not surprise him, only the softest of smiles offered from this slender young man, and once more he repeats something 'said' previously between them
than you
and hs head tilts in contemplation of her next question and a single gesture is signed, then written, but already translated through his expression
curious
(mera)
"About?" ~Of course he could just curious in general. Her head tilts to the side as those long fingers fall lightly against the desk silent now. Eyes of gleaming gemstones watching his face for signs which his fingers cannot yet tell her.~
(nakhti)
there is another silent moment of paused consideration, pulling together the best explanation of his drives and queries - it is true he is always curious and hungry to answer the unspoken questions, but tonight, there is perhaps one more prominent on his mind, myriad eyes lift to the room about them, and seem to encompass the building beyond
why you asked me here
for it seems as if he knows this is more than simply a lounge, and this is more than simply a library, there is an energy here that has begun to hum beneath even his flesh - what importance this place contains that ventures beyond any other place they could have met
(mera)
"Ah. It is where I am often times than not." There is a casual shrug that would bypass any importance to the question. Fingers tap lightly against the desk as if in thought. "Where I teach." Because the class room had not been enough or too much. One on one holding a pleasure and reward far more than those large halls ever would. Perhaps he might question that she looked too young or at least the thought might arise as to her very age. There was a studied calm about her with the man whom was leaving so very likely a student that suggested experience. A comfortability that lent the thought she wasn't new or uncomfortable in her position as teacher.
(nakhti)
a nod accepts her explanation, followed by the writing, followed by the dance of fingers spidering in the air between them, sleeves falling further towards his elbows to reveal more of the archaic design scarred into the back of his left hand
what do you teach?
reaching to tap the book before her (find it in here)
(mera)
Stubborn perhaps or impatient instead she turns the spines of several thicker books towards him.
"Modern Thought on Meta-Physics"
and
"Philosophy and History of the Ancient Theologies."
What she teaches perhaps being either very broad or very specific. Her attention however has already moved on those lithe quick fingers capturing his own. Turning then lightly so that she can view the inky tattoo better as with a flick of curiosity she looks to his face in brief then down to the tattoo once more.~
(nakhti)
he accepts her impatience, and the gestures replaced instead by show, for words of such are not included in introductory sign language, easily giving in to her capture of his hand, his right grasps the sleeve and pulls it away, revealing the dusky skin beneath which is plagued by the black, shining ink
beginning at a point just behind middle knuckle, a pattern swells to envelope the back of his hand, stretching to either side of his wrist in whorls of spiraling tributaries and angled glyphs that spread around to inner forarm in delicate band where the ink continues to flow relentless as the Nile halfway towards his elbow, an egyptian collar formed of five cartoums, the four on the edges filled with intricate glyphs, the longest in the center yet to be filled
and it is during her study of his arm that he studies her, once more, breifly, a slow extension of tickling senses that seems to attempt placement of far more than what she physically presents, thereafter as easily washed away as oil's smear from a glassy surface in the next smile to ghost across fine features
(mera)
"How interesting...I don't recognize- " The word or setence is cut off mid thought as her eyes open wide as he has ever seen them to flicker over his face. "Oh...did you satisfy your curiosity?" ~The voice is low now and her lips close to his ear as she leans in. Because though he had been subtle there is the whispering drift on the air. In the spirits which are never quite far from her but whom are but vague shadows at the edge of his periphery.~
(nakhti)
he is not surprised by the sudden break in her thoughts, perhaps intrigued, perhaps amused, and not at all abashed that she had noticed, nor is he unnerved at what it is peeking vague upon the periphery of his vision and attention - even if he is the stranger here, he seems decidedly comfortable
his lips part upon inhale, as if to taste the air and musked scents that surround her, what was hinted at before suddenly categorized and recognized, his left hand reaches to cup her cheek, the touch as delicate as a blindman reading braille, fingers barely skimming across her skin... and his right reaches to the pad once more, the whispering scratch of ink lain to paper
a symbol is drawn, instead of a word
a stick figure striding
gentle increase of pressure to tilt her jaw towards the pictograph - and never once does his intense attention stray from her features
(mera)
~Laughter falls in a quiet rush between then two. Eyes seem to dance lightly against the dim illumination of the library.~ "Ah but you've already gained one secret. And ,I, have none." ~She could find out herself of course in other ways but there was a certain measure of wariness she had at being anything beyond a pretty young teacher in these confines. It lent an edge of sharper curiosity however for all that she was blind (in this) to his muteness. "What about you, beautiful night?" Fingers brush lightly over his arcing tattoos and there is some sense that after she is long gone that spicy~musk scent will long linger upon his skin.
(nahkti)
his arm lifts, gently, into the gleaning touch of her fingers, as if to spread the oil into his skin and retain the scent in its mix with his until the dawn reaches them in days past, muscle and tendon twisting until his palm faces hers, and fingers curl across sensitive skin
gestures once more are made, slowly, deliberately, to give her time to recognize and remember them (i am your brother in night's shadows) the curving smile can only be demure and sly, the book tapped once more (find it in here) as one eye closes into a wink, gloves and scarf withdrawn from the table
and as quietly as the young man entered her world, he navigates the halls to exit it
[atlantic city boardwalk]
(nakhti)
the air settles a crisp thirty-two about the bundled form, gloved hands in pockets pulled half-embrace keeping thigh-length black wool firmly wrapping slender body, the wind which rides oceanic waves finds its way to shore, tugging at the tails ofhis coat, coaxing inky hair into tangled disarray about the thick coils of dark gray scarf
yet for the cold, the young man stands there, facing the black ocean while cheeks frost pink from the relentless breeze rushing past- he does not seem to mind
or perhaps he has found something else to narrow his attention beyond the confines of the cold, the crackle of waves sorting through the sand below combined with the wood-rattling rumble of the rollercoasters' engines run to generate power to the decorative lights behind him, it seems as it becomes some painted symphony in the night's sky far out above the ocean, someplace where the waves have yet to become frothy cresting tips but remain gentle undulations, someplace where the stars are the only glitter upon the water, or Luna's guiding light... none of the blitzkreig concoctions of Boardwalk neon which burn their way scatter-hazard on the obsidian broke-glass surface
a world untouched by the gauntleted hand of man combined with a world that exists only to please it - only in the inquisitive mind could there be some semblance of symmetry, some faint question asked which brings together the beautiful and the damned, and cares not which is labeled which, because it knows, beyond all else, they are but one and the same
(rosa)
The façade of the Chief Two Moon Meridas Herb Company was covered with vinyl siding, the first floor windows widened long ago, into service windows of Fat Frank's Fabulous Funnel Cakes sometime in the early 1980s, shortly after the advent of legalized gambling brought the dying resort town back to gaudy life. To be sure, Chief Two Moon's storefront was gaudy in its time, three stories fronting the Boardwalk, with wide picture windows lavishly decorated and a grand stone arch with the company's name carved from the sandstone itself. The second story featured four long rectangular stained glass windows set in smooth stone, and above them rose a grandiose third story that - despite its small stature - conspired to look like the sweeping arch of a palace, bordered by two crenellated little pseudo-towers. Fine, colorful tiles had been hand-set into the stone, forming geometric patterns that gave definition to the smooth face and framed - at the top - a trio of images carved into the façade itself, and then painted colorfully - a smiling sun, an unhappy moon and a portrait of Chief Two Moons himself, in full headdress, arms crossed proudly, head in slanted profile.
Now little remains of the façade above the the vinyl siding and the awning stretched to shelter customers from the slanting of summer sun. Most of the tiles have fallen, and the colorful paint has long since worn away. The windows have been broken, most of the panes replaced with clear glass - or simply boarded over. As many times as she has walked the Boardwalk, she never saw the high arch or the elaborated little almost-towers bordering it, hidden from view of the average person by the wide awning installed by Fat Frank years ago.
The recent storm, however, proved too much for the old awning, which sagged beneath the weight of ice and then crashed in an errant wind. Workmen have already removed it from the Boardwalk as a hazard, and Frank has no doubt contacted his contractor to see to its replacement. In the meantime, though, the building behind and above is revealed - naked, timeworn, gaudy but somehow still noble.
From this angle (she is perched on the far railing, studying the façade in the fading light. Her camera hangs from one negligant hand, most of the roll of film has been used up) she can even make out a few words gracing the high arch that rises above the building's first floor: wo Moon Merid.
The wind rises briefly, flinging her scarf around and before her, briefly obscuring her vision until she drops the camera to rest heavy on its strap somewhere in her midsection. From the depths of her heavy winter coat, Rosa pulls a small notepad and writes down those words. With a sigh (another glance toward the naked storefront, the colorful vinyl siding and sliding service windows locked up tight and dark for the off-season) she squares her shoulders and rises, pausing to stamp some life into her cold, sleeping feet. The little gem brief revealed could be gone by the morrow, but she's growing cold and the walk will do her good.
(nakhti)
as she has found beauty in the remnants of the past brought forth by the storm, he is finding some level of understanding in the ever-changing face of the ocean before him, he finds a pleasure in the discovery of the new face birthed with each change of tide, how the land has been sculpted and teased into what they know it now, and how it will, one day, be totally unrecognizable as what they once knew
should they all live that long
it does not seem to draw on his mind, the pleasentries for his eyes exchanged to follow another craving, chin lifting as body turns back to the winds, as if to pluck some scent from the wind as it winds down the boardwalk, to find some vendor still open in the late freezing hours for the bare handful of people this far from the casinos and carnivals half-open for the weather, some little territory staked on the edges of prime land to wait for the needy to come, rejected by or bypassing the luckier vendors on the choicier breeding grounds
it is a slow pace, a slow liquid dance across the weathered boards apparent even beneath the shrouding wool, the brown-green swirls of eyes bounding ahead, as if watching some young puppy at play, but rather it is search, a meandering journey to fill at least one of his hungers tonight
(rosa)
It's a one stop shop, and he's not the only customer, even at this late hour, though they are few enough, pitifully few enough to be sure. Coffee and hot chocolate, bright lights behind the sagging face of the aluminum sided hut, hot dogs, nachos and - oddly enough, though perhaps not, considering the season - chestnuts still steaming from the roaster, hot in little white bags.
Rosa doesn't notice her strange window shopper as she heads for the vendor - head down against the wind, bundled against the weather (heavy down coat, wrapping scarf, warm woolen cap, fingerless gloves with the mitten top now pulled over them for warmth), and likely he does not recognize her.
She does not lift her face to the sting of the wind until she has a cup of hot chocolate in one hand, a bag of chestnuts in the other ( - "Thanks, Lenny. Slow night?" - she murmurs absently, flashes a brief grin toward the vendor - ) and is stepping aside for the next customer, stuffing her bag of chestnuts into the deep left pocket of her winter coat when she notices him.
"Window shopping?" Perhaps he will remember her voice. Perhaps he will have to look close to recognize her. Perhaps he will not remember her at all. Only a square of pinkened skin - chafed by the wind - is visible through all the bundling. There is a faint suggestion of a grin, obscured by shadows and the wreathing steam from her styrofoam cup.
(nahkti)
there is coffee (he seems impatient for it to cool so he may guzzle it) and hot dog (with everything) purchased from the vendor through a game of charades, and he is already halfway through the late-night meal before her voice catches his attention
and hazel eyes turn towards her, perhaps he does not recognize what is shown to him through the warm winter's garb, or perhaps he attributed things to her she does not think show, chin lifts and throat stretches to swallow, even if he could not speak with his mouth empty, a smile growing beneath recognition's glimmer in those eyes (hello again) the smoothest juggle ever seen switches contents of hands to gesture at the ink hidden beneath his sleeves and gloves (I remember you from Rosalie's) then the food slightly raised in signaling answer (oh no, buying tonight)
and brows finally lift, gaze intent with his silent question (and you?)
(rosa)
Rosa's brow - mostly obscured by her woolen hat, which is tucked low over her bare scalp, low on her brow - almost to the faint wings of her eyebrows - and all the way down to the lobes of her ears, wrinkles in puzzlement. She can follow him easily enough, his body language is almost a liquid thing, cursive against the night, but the need for it is curious enough. Their encounter was so brief the night before that she assumed him - shy, perhaps - and tonight he was not looking at her when first she spoke, so could not have been reading lips.
Still, perhaps she can be forgiven if her voice rises five decibels, if she lowers the lip of her styrofoam cup to reveal her mouth, if she takes care to enunciate more clearly, generous mouth nimbly forming the syllables she speaks with more care that usual instead of her usual absent almost-attention.
"My night off," she speaks, too, a tad more slowly than usual. "I'm always here, but I thought I would see what had been revealed by the storm." Gloved left hand descends to the camera, and down whispers quietly as the heavy frame shifts beneath her touch. "Then Lenny's chestnuts - well, I could smell them from a mile away. They're one of the things I love about the season."
(nakhti)
there is a chuckle that can only be described as a smiling sigh, the hand holding the steaming coffee rises to point at his ears before head shakes (I'm not deaf, I can hear you loud and clear even through the faintest whisper) a finger finding it's position vertical before curving lips (I am silent.)
as she speaks, the rest of the hotdog disappears, not a mess is made, not a single sliver of relish spilled, it seems to have been inhaled and absorbed and the wrapper tossed towards the trashcan in less time than it should have taken to thoroughly chew and swallow a single bite - he must be very hungry - but never once has his attention turned away from her, nodding at the end (me, too) and while one hand concentrates on lifting the finally non-scalding coffee to his mouth, the other points to the camera, then sweeps back towards the boardwalk (what did you take pictures of?)
(rosa)
"Oh - " she watches him carefully, his hand as it rises to his ear, the shake of his head, the straight finger held briefly in front of the curve of his mouth. Hazel eyes - made brown, or darker by the shadows - flash downward, and blood rushes to her already chafed-red cheeks, for she has the grace to look abashed at her assumption. "I'm sorry, I hope I didn't offend you. I s'pose that'll teach me to assume things."
An easy smile reasserts itself on her generous mouth a moment later, for she is not shy, just momentarily embarrassed by her lapse of judgment and the intrusive assumption she made. She takes advantage of the brief moment of awkwardness to sip her cooling hot chocolate and bathes her face in the warming steam as she continues, "There's a building two blocks down I've never noticed before - I've been here - what - seven years now? - and never noticed it before," her mouth quirks wry, and the expression - half-chagrin, half-amused pleasure - finds its way into her eyes. "Some old storefront hidden behind siding and so on. Only the first floor's hidden, but you couldn't see the rest from the Boardwalk for the awning. The awning fell or was blown down this weekend, I guess," here she offers an eloquent shrug, mostly swallowed by her voluminous winter coat, "whatever happened, I'm glad. It's always - I don't know - heartening to see traces of the past among the new."
(nakhti)
he waits until her eyes have chosen to rise again, the quirked grin and casual shrug speaking volumes (it's allright, no offense taken) the inability to hear and the inability to speak often go hand in hand, the mistake is common and not an insult
his interest rises as her words continue in his silence - and it is nearly physically visable, this sudden mercury bubbling and slinking up from his toes and through his posture, an alertness that slowly comes into focus, and she can see the intent curiosity in the swirling gaze, this wordless agreement which conveys more than his gestures could at this moment to the generosity of knowledge offered through mere glimpses of the past, and from the singular design inked into his arm, perhaps she could ascertain his interest in the ancients, in ancestors, in history of any kind whether recent or millennia old - a hunger kept at bay as a roiling storm behind the mountains
that is when his eyes dart away, in the direction she did not even mean to give by her body language, then swing back to her and irises slightly widen (show me?)
(rosa)
She is studying him so intently ( - the liquid way he moves, the sudden riot of focused alertness, the twist and cant of his body, with an artist's eye, and more: form and movement and the capture of movement and the play of shadows and light, lovely as they are, are not enough for her. There is something fleeting but essential - she cannot name it, she has no name for it, she touches it only briefly, only peripherally, only rarely - that is far from physical that can nevertheless be captured through the framework of a physical form: building, body, more perhaps - landscapes and sunsets and the wide curves of beaches - but buildings and bodies are her own narrow focus - ) that for a long moment she misses the meaning so appearant in the swepping gesture and widening gaze.
"Oh," she exclaims, startled from her absent reverie of phantom composition (shadows and light, light and shadows, and more, somewhere in the collision between the two.) "...you want to see? I'd be happy to show you. It's only a few blocks this way."
There's an absent nod, the movement contracted and shortened by the confines of winter clothes, but present for all that, before she starts walking in the direction, swiftly to keep away the cold.
(nahkti)
when one ability was never there to begin with, it does not hinder the development of the others, and while she loses herself in the artist's study of his movement and form, he, in turn, studies her, collecting small nuance of nature and information that he could never put into words, but they form a poetic picture for his mind alone, the slightest of sighed chuckle over coffee's steam which hides the grin at her distraction
he knows what he looks like, he knows how he moves, and he knows the reactions of others when they watch him, his kind, and there is a confidence in the silent boy from this security in his form, his balance, his amazing grace in fluid turn which follows her, change in direction whipping long strands of shadowed hair across his features, deftly drawn away by slender hand
while she walks to keep away the cold, he moves as if the very act of traversal were a celebration, a rhythm collision of silent music and vibrant soul, his steps are exact and smooth, not a beat missed by the avoidance of percieved ice or patch of thicker snow, intently focused ahead to this building that rises kraken from the darkness like some forgotten tomb from his desert sand home
(rosa)
There is a clarity to her features - a spare sort of delicacy - that is pretty enough, though easily lost without stark framing, like a desert bloom, or some small flower from the arctic tundra, which seems lovely in its own harsh land but is easily dismissed when viewed against showier blooms from more temperate climes. The clear absent calm is lost when she moves, when expression asserts itself, mobile and easy, she is read as easily as a one's reflection is a clear still pool.
Two blocks - there is more she would add - about Atlantic City (her passion) or the ways in which we remain, it seems, even when we're gone, the way experience layers over experience and the recycled air we breathe makes us the richer for all that - but she holds back, at least until they are still and he can have the luxury of some semblance of reply. Two blocks (and one quarter of the way there, she pauses to slosh half her remaining hot chocolate from the styrofoam cup to spill in a veil of steam over the Boardwalk, to seep between the slats to the beach below, for she is not so easily graceful as he, and the sloshing liquid has been burning her calloused fingertips through the weave of woven wool mitten-gloves.) later she stops before the now half-naked funnel cake stand, and backs up to the railing opposite so their view is not wholly consumed by the tacky advertisements and gaudy siding that encase the high-ceilinged first floor.
"There, see?" her free hand dances up - mittened cap of the fingerless gloves hanging free by a button - indicating the sandstone façade above the stand below, with all its gaudy decorations. wo Moon Merid visible on the carved arch that rises above the ugly storefront. "I'm not sure what it was - I can't even begin to make it out - but maybe I can ferret it out with some research. Wonder what it looked like when they build it - someone must've had some money to spend, on all that stone."
(nakhti)
he joins her, against the railing, his own cup retained for he would never, ever discard food or drink, expectantly silent, swirling eyes lifted to study the storefronts of today and yesterday and years long passed, a contemplation over remaining sips of liquid which finally drain the cup - and only then does he seem ready and see it fit to discard the styrofoam into a nearby trashcan
and as he looks back to her, his head tilts, something of that curiosity leaking into a sly smile, a temptation rests at the corners of the curve, nodding towards the building (let's find out now) as far be it from him to let any hidden secret lay at rest for longer than it should, weight shifting onto one foot in a half-step forward, still waiting for her to ascent and follow
(rosa)
Surprise - widened eyes, an errant smile that seems perhaps too startlingly wide for the occasion, the I'm lying smile of someone who has never lied well - demurral - the sweep of startlingly long lashes curving down over her eyes - and then, before she can she stop it from coming, a reckless shrug of assent.
"I'm game," she replies a moment later, though her body language has already told him everything he needs to know. Down whispers, the heavy camera thuds in rhythmic time to her tread on the dark boards, as she follows. As they gain the side of the building, though, she offers a laugh meant to swallow and cover the sudden frisson of nerves (how long since she did anything this reckless?). "Long as you promise we won't get caught. I'm a respectable business woman, after all."
And beneath her breath, the hummed snatch of a song - luck be a lady tonight - perhaps a nervous habit, a charm of sorts against disaster.
(nakhti)
as they cross the street, his hand lifts to his lips again, sly smile hidden behind the single vertical finger (so don't say anything to get us caught) that almost points to the playful wink beneath semi-tangled locks, he can see her nerves, he can see the electric tension that has evolved into her movements, into her scent, deeply underlying the tones of her voice, and the smile melts enigmatic
this is the excitement of knowledge, the sudden, unexpected excavation as the tomb wall crumbles to reveal the treasures inside that have been locked away for centuries - the sudden emptiness of the surrounding streets and the crumbling resolve of behavior to reveal what it is the Funnelcakes have hidden for decades, his steps are confident and smooth around the back of the building, searching for and finding the fire escape in the alley
for safety, it is covered by a metal sheet bolted to the ladder, the space between it and the wall to thin to allow anyone effective purchase to climb, to keep hooligans from breaking into a second story window, or perhaps jumping off the roof in some rumbling tumbling horseplay - and it is this he uses to his advantage, his momentum does not stop, reaching a slender arm behind to grasp the ladder, a boot wedging against brick to heave upwards... the freehand snapping around the first unsheilded rung, and slight weight is lifted, pulled, and thrown upwards until he crouches like some strange primate
boots settle at the top of the bolted sheild, his hand clasping a rung just two above, the other unfurls back towards the ground, fingers open in invitation, there's an honesty in his smile (trust me, i won't drop you) digits waggling in signal - he saw the weatherbeaten remnants of the three carvings near the roof, and he's intent on getting a closer look to decipher their clues
(rosa)
The distance between his open hand and the ground below is the definition of a leap of faith. The nervous edge of her smile melted into mere amusement - bemusement, perhaps - in the face of his silent joke, but returns now as she considers the slender young man offering her a hand up. She has no momentum, and so she uses the assistance of a convenient cinder block, climbing atop it and reaching, tip-tip-tip-toe, (and the nylon wheeze of her weatherproof down coat seems loud indeed to her ear) to grasp his offered hand.
There's another snatch of melody - luck if you've ever been a lady to begin with - as she grasps his hand, hummed beneath the swell of breath with the same absent sort of attention she gives most things until she sees them in the right (shifting, slanting, lovely) light to give wings to her feet, to tip the odds in her favor, and up she goes, trusting her weight to his strength.
She's lighter than the heavy bundling would suggest. Beneath the wrapped, expansive coat, beneath the oversized sweater and the not-quite-fitted jeans, her figure is boyish and slim, though her hips have begun to assert themselves, to spread at last as early middle age, or perhaps old youth, approaches.
(nakhti)
the forarm and wrist she saw nights ago were slender, and the hand that wraps around her arm to give her leverage against his is just as slight, he is not gaunt, though the difference may mean a few pounds, but there is strength in his form, unfolding to use his legs to lift their combined weights up until she herself is able to gain purchase onto the ladder at the end of the movement as steady as well-oiled gears, he even made sure her camera would not bang against the metal
and his attention seems to focus on her, in this breif, close moment that they cling to a ladder eye to eye, arm to arm, something seeming to ripple through his intrigue and excitement, just the smallest of disturbances in this sudden scrutiny - but it could only be to make sure she is secure - an unfelt touch tickling across her to sense the nature of her being
nala
rahjah
and there is some kind of satisfaction in his eyes as their grip untwines, a smugness in the breif pull of lips that wanes into softened smile (ready?) but already he begins to move up the ladder, and while her downy coat whispers in the darkness, his own movements are as quiet as his voice, slinking soundlessly up the metal bars, disappearing onto the roof above, by the time she reaches the apex, he has already crossed three-quarters of the way to the swelling rise of the carvings against the safety barrier of the roof
by the time her feet have settled onto the tarred and graveled manmade ground, he is crouching behind the facade of the carvings, gloved hands wiping away the gathered leaves, dirt and snow, finding the artist's mark that always accompanies such creations, he waits until she is close enough to see, and he points to it.... then that arm lifts for a hand to wrap around the single spike that rises at the apex, and his body unfolds to lean around the highly arched venue and peer at what is left of the carving on the front of the building
(rosa)
If she thinks about it - and she will, perhaps, for a moment or two in passing as his strong, slender and silent figure rises swiftly in the darkness above her - she will consider the moment of attention no more odd than anything else about this silent young man. Versed as she is in the mysteries of life - the close held breaths, the secrets sunk into skin, the experience shielded and held behind eyes' trapping gaze - she is ignorant of the larger mysteries, the great secrets of her world. And so it is nothing, merely a close attention to her wellbeing that ripples between them, that opens something of her own soul to his brief, close reading.
As he wraps his hand around the spike at the apex of the roof, she settles to peruse the marker's mark on the stone beneath. Deft, light fingers travel over the carving, and a quick grin finds its way to her mouth.
"I know him," she murmurs, pitching her voice just so, to carry to him but hopefully no farther. She continues, clarifying, "The stone mason, I mean. I know him. He did a fair amount of work around here, though most of it was lost. Someone found his logs, though, and donated them to the Atlantic City library, so with the address and year, I can probably find the entries there."
He cannot see the satisfied smile on her face, but he can hear the delight in her voice - her words lilt upward, tumble over each other faster and faster - as she settles back on her haunches and watches him lean over the highest arch of the façade. "I couldn't see the details - I should've come in the morning, the sun from the east might've revealed it - but I had errands, and by the time I was here the front was in shadow.
"What is it?" she asks, as if she had already forgotten that he cannot reply to her, cannot reply to her in words, at least, to describe what he sees. "...oh, nevermind. When you're down, I'll take a look."
(nakhti)
as she speaks, his body finds a comfortable balance on the wide, protective ledge, and his hand rescinds its claim on the spike, gloves removed and suddenly flung back onto the roof as little black landing birds, the black patterns on his left hand circle his wrist and slim to a point at middle finger knuckle, seen in the moon's half-light as it reaches back to search and dive into the coat pocket
a small notepad is withdrawn, and as her words continue, papers flip, and pen begins its trail over pale blue lined white sheets - he does not draw what it is, he draws what he sees at the strange angle, some random congolmeration of faint lines which somehow create a whole, a further part of this discovering game, slowly etching what the carving seems to be, and seeming, himself, completely comfortable in this precarious perch
once finished, the pad and pen clasped between his teeth, hands reaching back to hook over the edge and pull himself back onto the roof, crouch leaving him leaning back against the wall he just lay over, brows furrow, in study of the sketch as the pad is removed and rotated in nimble fingers until up is up and down is down and an image is made of the lines, brows lifting in miniscule victory leap (aha!) and the letters she showed him earlier are written across the now-bottom of the page, several more added after a moment's thought, and he turns the pad to show her the image of the proud indian cheiftan
cheif two moon merid
(rosa)
"Oh," her calloused finger taps on the paper, bare nail sensibly cut as short as it can be without drawing blood, "that's rather good, you know."
The light plays strange across the rooftop, some ambient combination of colored lights from the closest casinos, with the amusement piers in the distance - mostly hidden by the high arch of the building, only the tallest of rollercoasters visible rising high into the black night sky above the black winter's sea - scattered multicolored stars. What strange constellations they make. Her finger trails down from the angled sketch to the words he added at the bottom, and her smile widens into a grin. "I think you've got that right, too. And with all that - we'll definitely be able to figure out what this was. Chief Two Moon - it's hard to imagine native Americans here, it's so thoroughly - well - colonized.
"Maybe it was some kind of wax museum," she continues, speculating quietly now. Some of her attention is withdrawn from the immediate, absorbed in the game of making sense of the gathered clues. "Or a tobaconnist. They always have carved Indian Chiefs outside their stores. No idea why, though. Or maybe it was just his place, he would've been quite successful to have the Abrams brothers doing the carving. They were really quite skilled. They'd probably be remembered for their work if most of it hadn't been torn down in the late 70s to make way for the casinos and everything that came with them."
(nakhti)
there's a smile that flickers across his features at the compliment - when you're only able to communicate through pen and paper with a majority of the population you encounter, drawing skills get honed and developed, more of a neccessity that became a talent, and he offers this soft grin (thank you) in the flickering lights of the multicolored constellations that reach the rooftop and invade the shadows that he seems so comfortably crouched within
the excitement that had been in her voice is reflected in hazel eyes, the challenge of the puzzle, the knowlege rewarded at the end of the maze, he searches what he knows about the city they've come to currently exist in, but nothing comes to mind of what this building could have been, so there are only nods in response to her hypotheses
then his head tilts, in realization, finding that they have wound up on a roof together after a second encounter, there is something important that must be done, and the pad removes itself from beneath her nail, page ripped free and handed over by right hand adorned with two rings the color of brushed brass - around his thumb a singular round band, middle finger wearing a flatter band scarred with heiroglyphs, and then the pen returns to paper before it's shown to her again, head tilting as he looks to her curiosly
what is your name?
(rosa)
Fine brows - plucked into a winged arch that flatters the fine bones of her face - rise, twinned in surprise not at the question, but that she has gone so long and so far with a silent stranger without asking or answering such a question. Her cheeks (and the tip of her nose, incidentally) are so reddened by the cold that it is difficult to see the heat rising in her face, though the wry twist of a grin is telltale enough.
"Rosa," she replies after taking a moment to swallow her amusement. The shallow half-circle of the mitten-top is pushed off her right hand, to flop against the top of her mitten-gloves as she holds out her hand to shake his. It seemed a thing to do when introductions were given, after all. "Rosa Luxembourg Kleineman-Saks. And no - " - before he asks, everyone does - " - my parlor's not named after me. It's just a coincidence. So - " chin lifting with the question, a faint gesture in his general direction, the momentum mostly swallowed by her winter scarf. " - what's yours?"
(nakhti)
the amusement is well reflected in his eyes, in the curve of cheeks above his smile, his hand, slender and wirey, already chilled from the absence of gloves, abandons the pen and reaches to wrap strong around hers in definitive shake, then ink lays across paper once more
nakhti amose
pleasure to "meet" you
then after she has read it, the pad is returned to his pocket, and hands move to point to himself, then away in gesture through the air, fluid dance creating a specific symbol (nakhti) - the breifest of pauses - then the gestures continue, pointing at her as eyes wander in a pattern of thought, soon refocusing as one more word is signed (rose) as the closest approximation to her name without spelling it letter by letter
the grin once more quirks, yet another tidbit of knowledge learned and shared
this is when his body unfolds, boots planting against the gravelly roof and muscles stretching from the crouch, there's the gentlest of tugs on the sleeve of her coat, he can tell by the flush that rises to wind-bitten cheeks (it's cold) nodding towards the ladder at the far end of the roof, once more weight shifts to one leg, waiting for her to join and follow
(rosa)
"I'm sure I won't pronounce it right," she replies after reading his name from the paper, as she releases his hand and tips the hooding crescent of her mitten-gloves back over the bare tips of her fingers to capture and recirculate some of her warmth. "So I'm tempted to call you John." There's laughter in her voice, and a wink to soften the words themselves. "Naaak-tee? Nachti" and so on, cycling through several pronunciations until she finds one of which he approves. "The pleasure's mine. I feel about twelve again, and that's a good thing."
Her generous smile remains as he demonstrates the symbols, as he suffers through her own attempts to recreate them. Deft as her fingers are (and deft they are, quick and light and fine her touch), they are hampered by the close weave of heavy woolen gloves, muffled by the mitten top. The generous smile remains as he rise (and she rises) and he stretches (and she stretches) all the cold stiff kinks from his form.
She's two steps behind him on the roof, and several rungs above him on the fire escape, though between them they only sound like one person climbing down (she has not his gift for silence, the swift sure bodily grace of form. What grace she has is gifted to her hands, and that is, after all, all she needs.). He leaps down soundlessly, but she hums a tune - luck let a gentleman see, how nice a dame you can be - as she braves the last jump (don't let me break a leg) and lands noisily but intact on the alley floor.
"Thank you for the little adventure," she remarks as she rights herself, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. "I'm going to do some research tonight and tomorrow morning. If you'd like, come by sometime and I'll let you know what I find out about Chief Two Moons Merid and his building," - here she reaches out to pat the brick affectionately, wool catching on the rough mortar, two reddish tufts defecting to warm the bulding as she pulls her hand again - "here."
(nakhti)
the amusement is ripe in his eyes, through her attempts at his name, through her attempts at the sign - but he knows knowledge is a process, so there is infinite patience at the gestures and sounds, and an emphatic nod as she gets it right (nahk-tee) and motion barely breaks the stride in the sweep to gather gloves which find their way onto his hands before the chill of descending metal
soundless is his landing, even the sudden gesture to reach out and help maintain her balance seems planned, expected, and infinitely smooth in some mindless, inherant grace - for him it seems there could be no other way, the pull of another smile and a single gesture (you're welcome) fading into a nod at her offer
fingers tap his left forarm and the ink hidden beneath warm wool (Rosalie's) then eight are held for her to see (8 pm tomorrow) brows lifting to ask her permission if the time is right, a nod as she agrees, and the woman and young man each turn to disappear into the shadows offered by the night
[atlantic city boardwalk]
(rosa saks)
11 p.m.
The Boardwalk was deserted tonight. The amusement piers were closed due to the inclement weather (who, after all, wants to be whipped around on a rollercoaster at 50 miles per hour in such frigid conditions), and might well not fully reopen until spring. Thus, the few tourists who slid their way through the early winter storm toward the storm-gray coast remained - almost exclusively - in the snug warm confines of the casinos littering the waterfront. From the front door of her shop, Rosa can see the lights of the Tropicana, where the shoreline bulges out and the Boardwalk follows the line of the coast - like some strange Sodom, some arrogant Gomorrah, the worst of its sins: bad taste.
She smiles faintly, and steps back from the entrance, allowing the door to swing closed behind her. It's been two hours since the last customer darkened her door, and the pale companionship of the radio does little to fill the silent space. Circling the counter, she squats down and switches the sound system from radio to CD player. The recent CD from KD Lang and Tony Bennett is already in there, cued up and waiting, and the harsh, shallow humor of the local disc jocket is replaced by warm sounds of good old-fashioned crooned-tunes. In the shadow of so many casinos, it seems appropriate somehow.
Lights from the front windows spill across the dark wet planks of the boardwalk, gleam in the few patches of ice that remain in front of the small shop. Though many business owners did not even bother to open this weekend, Rosa was out early in the morning, shoveling the scant few inches of snow and sleet off the path and onto the sand beyond and salting down whatever remained after the scrap of her shovel against wooden boards. Warm yellow light, then, from the windows. Gleaming neon red, from the cool neon tubes outlining the windows, from the stylized silhouette of a woman outlined in neon, shifting every five seconds from demure to flirtacious - neon skirt rising as neon arm lowers in homage to delicacy, from the flowing '50s script that announces the name: Rosalie's. Below, in smaller block neon print: Fine Tattoo Art.
Within: the figure of a woman - slender, but swallowed by an oversized sweater, thick cableknit, a myriad of muted colors; bare scalp stark amidst the light, which, indirect and muted though it is, seems painfully bright in contrast to the darkened boardwalk. She's far from idle, leaning over the counter, weight resting against her midsection, elbows planted alongside, calculated the day's take and entering the day's receipts, taxes, expenses and so on in an old-fashioned leather bound ledger that lays open in front of her.
11 p.m. Closing time.
(nakhti)
there is something liquid in the muscle that moves skin and bone, something reflective of the waves in ebb and flow from the sandy shores, its the frigid sea breeze that combs through shadow-dark locks surrounding chilled-pale face, black-gloved hands embrace the snow scattered railing, perhaps to keep the flesh-tingling breeze from blowing slender frame away altogether, tips of the long black coat whipped around his knees kept warm with the rest of long legs by tailored to be fitting pinstripe pants which either clash or comfortably meld with the silky tunic's long collar peeking emperor purple from between fluttering lapels
there is a serenity in hazel gaze, green flecks within melted browns watching the clouds roll across the black velvet sky, throat bared in noble blessed challenge to the oncoming rush of air which recently scoured the ocean's ever undulating surface
though it seems he has gotten his fill
a slow rotation (.... there is something liquid....) on the balls of feet to point the young man towards the boardwalk shops, curiosity's gleaming wonder the sudden magnetic attraction to pull him from the railing and window-shop what this mall has to offer, the vast array of souvenirs and clothing and jewelry - and finally something that catches his eye, something shining far brighter than any gem
steps soft and sure bring him to the tattoo parlor window - Rosalie's - breath fogging the distance between himself and the glass as eyes dance across the flashart lining the walls, the red neon warming his skin in it's flirtatiously demure flashes, perhaps he sees the woman leaning on the counter within, closing up the shop, tallying within the leather ledger..... perhaps he is simply too interested in studying the snippets of art
(rosa)
It's all surprisingly... tasteful, really. If the Queen Mum had a rebellious streak and opened up a tattoo parlor, it might look like this: clean white walls, accented with muted reds and grays and blacks, clean-lined retro-50s chairs lining the walls, just beneath the flashart - in this case, a few framed photographs of this tattoo or that.
Some are older - the quality of the photograph, of the paper, the overexposure, perhaps, too much flash, too much open shutter - anchors and mermaids, ships cresting waves, sailors and soldier's mascots, three strong arms lined up in a row revealing a buzzing bee and the incomprehensible military slang that identifies them as friends and privates and company members off to war in Vietnam. Others are more recent: blackwork, sharp, stylized tribals photographed in black and white, long shadows highlighting embracing the limb like the curtains on a stage, bared skin gone white against the flare of a flash, fleshy details receding as the strong lines of the tattoo are brought out.
The tattoos themselves are no more extraordinary than those done by any reputable parlor in any substantial city, though the lack of the usual patterned grotesqueries (barbed roses twining about a skull, death's figure grinning and flashing a bared reaper) is more remarkable, given the city, given the location, and on and on and so on.
Some moments later (it did not take long. In the winter - the spare season, the bare season, the season of waste and want - it never took long to tally the day's earnings and collect the checks and cash for bank deposit.) Rosa straightens and gathers her things: camera and sketchbook and deposit bag tucked into a slim leather backpack, heavy down coat donned, woolen cap tugged on her bare skull, scarf tossed 'roung her neck, edges trailing down her back like vestigal wings. The parlor's door swings open and she takes to quick steps out, then one sharp step back, abrupt and surprised to find someone just outside. Either it was impossible to see through the glare against the windows, on dark nights, or she had been absorbed in her work and paying no attention.
"I'm sorry," she offers, more figure of speech than apology. "I didn't realize anyone was out here. You weren't wanting to look inside, were you? I've just closed."
(nakhti)
his eyes had wandered over the images and flash like a bedouin roaming the desert's fluxating dunes, to and fro in idle contemplation, searching for that enlightenment which comes from active participation in the study and understanding of what it is that is lain before him
the slide of focus is smooth, and a soft smile ghosts across his features, climbing into the myriad depths of swirled green and brown eyes, shadowed hair sways in the slow shake of his head (it's allright) one hand lifting so gloved fingers point at the corner of right eye then sweep towards the windows in flattened plane (i was only looking)
(rosa)
"Alright then," Rosa responds quietly, the flat intonation of her alright so very reminiscent of her mother's speech that the saying must be true: somewhere along the line, we all turn into our mothers. Her smile is nothing like her mother's smile, though, and neither are her eyes. Her smile is gentle where her mother's smile was sharp, and her eyes are sharp and alert where her mother's eyes were gentle and dulled to distance. "I'll just shut off the lights and lock up."
Shifting to the ball of her backmost foot, she pivots 'round and reaches to flick off the lights. First the buttery interior lights, then the neon tubes around the windows, then the sign, and at last - at last - the animated silhouette, infinitely more endowed than ever she was, than ever she will be. The sudden absence of light, the sudden flood of shadows. She watches them with still, close attention: the familiar lines of the waiting area suddenly bathed in long, reaching shadows that bend and shift and overlap, a thousand shades of darkness, a thousand colors of night.
At last, the door closes with a gentle thud. Bells jangle and keys scrape in the lock. She looks up and catches the stranger's gaze once more, bemused. "I'll trust that you aren't intent on robbery. Winter's my slow season, so you're not like to get much, even if you were. I'm open most nights, though, so if you see something you like, you're always welcome to return."
(nakhti)
he watches the slow shutdown of lights, the slow reclamation of the shop by shadows and thicker, deeper, inkblot darkness, automatically, his pupils dilate, a quick flash of green glitter before yet another shift occurs in the turn back to the woman beside him
and once more his head only shakes
gaze drops to his lifting arm, indicating hers should follow, and right hand wraps around left wrist, dragging the fabric of his coatsleeve upwards, revealing beneath imperial purple the pale skin of inner arm trapped beneath sprawling black ink shining of a well-taken care of piece, a band circles his wrist, etched flesh supporting lines and bands that swirl round from a pattern that sneaks from the back of his hand beneath the glove - cartoums lay beside each other in an Egyptian collar, the shortest on the sides of his arm, and the longest prowling over vein and muscle towards the crook of elbow, and while the sides have been filled with strange symbols, the center one is empty
that is to what he points, before the eyes lift again (it is business, not robbery) with the ghosting smile, wrist tapped as if he wore a watch (what time do you open) in silent question
(rosa)
"Two to six tomorrow," she remarks, absent-voiced as she studies the tattoo. Her eyes are shadowed now, the irises murky and dark, the color impossible to discern. Above them, a winged brow rises: question, silent, vestigal politeness, for she is already reaching for his arm, drawing it forward as she leans back and out of the light, tilting her head to study the work. Her fingers are warm and calloused, the grip light and clinical, somehow impersonal. The schedule ticks off automatically, autonomically. "Closed Monday and Tuesday, noon to eight Wednesday and Thursday, open late Friday and Saturday."
As abruptly as she reached for him, Rosa releases his arm and allows it to fall away. "Nice work." she comments, with a lifting nod in the vague direction of his arm. "Though if you're looking to finish it, it'd be best to have the person who did the rest finish it. I know, ink is ink, but even if I could reproduce it prick by prick, I think it might still look off.
"Of course," she continues, with a flashfire grin. "I'm a perfectionist, so you should take everything I say with a whole shaker of salt."
(nakhti)
there isn't an ounce of resistance to the pull, head tilting to listen, shoulder dropping in one fluid motion that draws resultant wave through dark hair during this consideration of her words, hazel eyes once more falling as if to already see what unfolds for his arm as they tandemly study it
when released, it lifts, elbow tucking to waist, fingers hovering just below his mouth, just below quirked grin, and drops, chin to chest (thank you) slice through air, amusement's glitter in his eyes, the weight of his shoulders reverses to propel slim form through a turn, finding his way further into the night's inviting snow-cast darkness
[cymaa - freeform room]
(nakhti)
there is something that slithers serpentous in the music falling from well-hidden speakers as languid rain, were it to strike the sand surely each droplet would befalls the adder's coils and sink away, deeply, as if burying itself in hopes to seep back to the banks of the very Nile that would thunder in lazy flow through the club itself
he has spawled here, silently, for countless number of songs, curve of cheek and brow tilted upwards to be washed by the raining music, to feel the very treble and bass comb through shadowed locks which frame dusk-flushed skin, shoes have been removed to tuck feet comfortably on the sculpted chase lounge pillows,one arm draped over the long sweep of spine, the other hooked by but an elbow, half-finished drink dangling between slim fingers
perhaps it is the break of sound that gives enough suggestion for the man to move, liquid muscle drawn to bring the glass to lips in this everlasting quest for quench, long draught swallowed before tongue peeks out to draw the leftover liquor tears from upper lip, hazel eyes opening, slowly, some strange dawn lifting night-sky lashes to gaze at the painted ceiling above
(mera diya al din)
~How amusing that this creature of utter leisure lays as Mera so often did in nights past.
Now however she comes as a trespasser. An invader. A encroacher.
There is no doubt in her mind of swirling thought and amusement inherient that the propieter of the establishment is unaware of these midnight wanderings.
Still the stealth is all the more a part of the very Act which is ever in session with creatures such as themselves.
He.you.It.They.
Eyes watching with a flicker as the feminine figure in the shifting near translucent veils of bedouin garb flutter-curl to wrap around her again.
Eyes the only teasing glimpse of "flesh" a brilliant almond shape of purest emerald.
And beneath...beneath the teasing hint of bronzed flesh that can only be guessed at for the dark attire which hides her folding her in its full embrace.
There is a scent which follows the figure moving so slowly through the bodies amassed...spicy,musky and exotic against the wash of those others whom are mere sweat and alcohol.
A hunt again tonight.~
(nakhti)
spice
above the fragrance of the imported liquor, somewhere smoking across and infront of the heady richness that wafts up from the glass between his fingers, there is the musk, the scent of the bazaar drifting in the desert's dry winds, some hinting tease of moisture that stretches and spans the miles wrought between..... what?
the hunter and the hunted, the man and the woman, the patron and the stranger - and it is now, this stranger, this claimant to her territory, it is now this. man. moves. eyes a swirl of sage and nutmeg swing some downward slope from the ceiling, and they follow, they hunt this scent that suddenly has his attention - his curiosity - his hunger
and maybe it is a slow smile that creeps into his features
the flick of fluttering garb to snatch his focus, contrast in the sheer amount of covered form compared to the Ghamorran spread of employee flesh, there is a shift in his legs, the whisper of linen draped casually in baggy excess, the pull and twist of tunic stretched black across his chest before falling loosely once more, a glass that twists between his fingers, half-raised, half-halted, cool form cupped in warm palm
(mera)
~A pause in the dance as she leans to whisper to the dark~skinned man behind the bar.
His head in the negative causing a slight sigh which flutters the veil over bowed lips. Hands in delicate seeming creation stretch slender over the bar as her head tilts as if to meet the eyes which watch her. But there are so many are there not? At least there were but then the mating rituals of the denizens within reclaimed them once more leaving only one pair of eyes to stir the hairs in alertness to their touch. Eyes which gleam gemlike in the darkness even as do her own.
Watching.
Dark forest pools do not shift away shyly as might a desert woman of her garb giving perhaps some crack in the facade. Instead there is a bold unblinking return of his briefly held gaze.~
(nakhti)
eyes that gleam, eyes that glitter, eyes that do not look away but narrow in the disconcerting familiarity brought by no smile, rather a language unspoken, unearthly as it surpasses the superficial mating rituals of the sweating, writhing, dancing bodies that surround and ignore, caught within their own whims and ways
a language far older
a language ancient even in such surroundings
in the brief moment, his body shifts again, twisting over the pillows to draw legs beneath him, long back flexing to straighten in sudden cross-legged perch on the chaise, hands folding to bring the glass into settlement at the cross of calves which tuck ankles beneath thighs, room made on in head tilt's silent invititation
(mera)
~The is a flutter-shift of the veil against her lips. Perhaps it is a smile or perhaps something more feral in intent. Eyes half~lidded as they are framed by dark long lashes still holding the gaze until at last broken shifting to another dais. Similiar. Identical in fact. Yet far across the dance floor from his own shrouded in its own depth and shadow.
Chin lifted slightly now with all eye contact broken so the dance begins again. Sandals crunching against sand as she passes nearly close enough for him to touch were it not for the bodies 'tween them.
The scent a lure whereas all else may not be following in her wake. Settling then as queen of her own nice amongst the pillows of that divan within eyesight of Him but so very far away in the span.
Profile offered then in elusive shadows beneath the dark thin veil as fingers curl around the wrist of a passing waitress. Light tug and a slight smile as the girl recognizes the voice which whispers in her ear (bent) though she had not the woman in desert garb.
The view so only briefly obstructed clear once again but for the caravan of shifting,ponderous pale forms on the dance floor between them.~
(nahkti)
there is a poetry of motion, a fluid movement which aches upon glance and scorches upon study, something both immaculate and sinister in its very intentions - perhaps a tease, perhaps a flaunt, perhaps something more natural than anything anyone else could ever imagine
the waitress moves away, and then returns again, but this time it is his free hand that reaches to clasp her wrist, lips drawn back from teeth in slow smile that melts into words fluid as the voice which sinks to earth in moist fog from the speakers high above, a question asked, an answer received, and it is now that the chase begins
slender hand moves from wrist to glass, the tray granted pardon the slight weight, and his own lifts from the chaise, abandoned just as his shoes beneath, the warm sand hugging bare soles this passage between the comfortable mountains set in this internal desert, fingers splay as he stops before this woman dressed so appropriately, glass held on open palm, so close she has to but pluck it from his fingers, a slow blink of crystaline eyes, a slow dip of chin allowing waves of hair to fall to gravity's call in creation a veil of his own making
(mera)
~Eyebrows are hidden though there is the slight shift as one lifts head tilting to the side as eyes lift to meet boldly assessing. Finally, fingers cool if not cold wrap around his wrist to bring the drink in level with where her mouth would be behind the veil. Eyes however have fallen if far from subservient at least not staring up in the challengingly assessing fashion for the moment.
Free fingers lift the bottom of the veil but teasingly reveal nothing as room is made only for the drink. And he? Given the outline of a mouth to trace by as her intentions head tilted back may become apparent. Fingers bearing down just slightly on his wrist to tilt the drink towards the waiting lips.
The short glass is warm-foamy with a beverage likely based in milk or cream.~
(nakhti)
his smile, however slight, grows, an apparition of features curving the corners of lips, thumb and forefinger curving around the glass in balance for the tilt which brings it to her lips in fluid motion which sends not even a ripple across warm, foamed surface, only the clink of ring's metal on smooth surface, strong tendons flex and stretch beneath the light bear of cool fingers
and so they stand, trapped in the sands of time, the man upright and regal, the woman demure and strong, and within this everlasting moment life's milk passes from his hand to her throat, but of it there is no trace of verbal communication's effort to rise above the throbbing sound, there is only the steady bridge created by their eyes, his that watch hers as she watches the drink, there is only movement, there is only the slow, swallowing exchange as he, this perfect stranger, gives what she had requested of another
(mera)
~That she might be foolish for so readily accepting a drink that might be anything...at the least the news would tell her, at the least foolish. Yet if this creature-woman worries of such things at all then it is not tonight that it occuries. Another place, another time capturing her within its essence if she is not already caught. There is the briefest shift of scent adding to scent as her head tilts back causing long thick hair to tumble against thin linen beneath its coverings. The flowery (..sakura blossum...) scent mild yet potent enough perhaps for his acute senses to attune to the already heady mixture of spice and musk about her. That this giving-taking is all beneath the shroud of propiety is shattered or at least cracked by the greedy tone to which she consumes the mixed drink. Passing heartbeats-breathes gone before fingers fall away returning his arm to himself with glass still held...
now empty.~
(nakhti)
and for her reaction, the smile widens further, the first flaring peek of sun above sand dune colored skin, a glittered reflection finding its way up into hazel eyes before it's sheilded by falling lids, chest expanding beneath the tunic as breath fills his senses (...sakura blossum...) with this strange reward
the spice, the musk
the empty glass brought beneath his nose, lips parting to drawn creamed taste from the air which hovers above it - if only incense could burn so rich, the taste/scent held then mixed with the drain of what's left in his own glass.... and it is then the man-creature falls to crouch, the bar's property set into sand in makeshift cupholder, elbows resting on bent knees for dangling hands to clasp, loosely, ink black hair spilling on hunched curve of shoulder
never once have his eyes left her hidden face
(mera)
~One delicate foot stretches out from beneath the folds. The first sign of flesh other than the eyes themselves. Sandaled but bare beneath despite the cold weather out of doors crunching in rhythmic harmony to his own feet.
Fingers stretche outwards in a soft sweet dance to trace the outline of his features against the air.
Perhaps she is mute or perhaps the communication is already laid without wasted words. One finger curls under his chin to lift it slightly as if to view it more readily. Beneath the translucent veil a soft whisper as eyebrows lift once more curiosity sparkling in deep green gems.~
(nakhti)
his chin lifts (and whiskers flare) in motion that seems to anticipate - but not recoil from - her touch, there is a warmth beneath his skin, the sun that placed sandy tan upon his flesh seems to have instilled some remnant heat as a companion into the darkest night
brows lift in concert to answer the curiosity in her eyes
but there is no answer to the unposed question, save the steady pace of breath in and out of his lungs, there is not movement, save the bob of larynx in slow swallow, he only moves up, but not closer, a rolling lengthen of muscle framing spine, as if bringing his features into her focus though not enough to invade her space
(mera)
~Fingers pull slightly as if to see the other side of his profile only to finally (if slowly so slowly) drop away. Eyes of cast crystalline green intent on his own darker cast. ~
"Pretty."
~It is but one word which flows from hidden lips laced so sweetly with the cream and alcohol. Deep and rich though not so low as to be husky. It is the sound which matches her scent perfectly. Near accentless with the smooth precision of twirl that speaks of someone of linguist talent. It is a soft word nor does she lift her voice against the din of music and cacophony for him to hear but as anything must capture it from her.~
(nakhti)
he gives in to her whims, he submits to her inspection, even if only for his own amusement, though weight shifts forward as if to catch the single word as it spills from her lips - his own growing once more in the soft curve of smile
fingers lift to his lips, elbow tucking against the inward slope of ribs to drawstring pull at the topmost hem of pants, and his hand drops, until wrist is even with elbow, path draw from mouth to waist, then fingers reclasp as they were before
(mera)
"Ah but you take the word well..." It had been a test of sorts perhaps. To raise the ire of the fair faced boy and test the mettle beneath or patience without. Fingers pull away in his gestures to lay loosely against her lap. Voice a curving sweetness in harmony with the slowing music behind them.~
(nakhti)
the grin returns, and a brow lifts, as if to ask a question in expression alone, but then his hands move again in a rhythm of fluid gesture - she understood one, a test if she understands many in return for the test she provided him? - words strung together in a gestured dance
then once more, hands fall, weight shifts upon the balls of bare feet, toes sinking further into the sand
(mera)
~Hands come up to clasp against his stilling them and trapping them within her cool.~ "Do you not speak?" It is a question which seems perhaps cruel to one whose nature is such as he is. But, the intent is not rather simply genuine as eyes focus on his own.
(nahkti)
warm hands still beneath her cooling touch, as if the temperature change drained the very motion from them, the flurry of smooth gesture in sudden hibernation - for which his head shakes in answer, the slightest pull to the side, the subtleness of movement which speaks volumes of prose in the simplest contraction of muscle
(mera)
"Difficult then..." Her hands fall away once more to rest once again against deep blackness of her curving lap. "...but not impossible." That he understood her own words let to further questions that would be difficult in the dark seedling of understanding between they two to grow at all. "Though your language , it seems, I know only pieces of..." Again that slight ripple of veil that hints (hope-sweetly) of a smile beneath. "The owner of this place could almost look akin to a cousin to you, you know...he has long sought after my name though I would not give it." Yet it seems these sweetly coated secrets of the most innocent kind are given to him. "Yet to tell you ..." ...this mute boy whom could not whisper her name to the dead or dread. Yet later perhaps she could boast in amused secrective tones that she had given away freely to one what another had to earn.
(nahkti)
shoulders tremble in silent laugh, whether or not it is a smile she delights him, there is amusement glinting in swirled irises, once more his hands begin their waltz through the air (I would only desire something by which to call you....) and even if her emerald eyes dropped to find some semblance of reason in the rhytmic movements, when they lift again, they will find the young boy's will not have feinted from intense gaze (... if it were the secret mine to keep....) the hungry smile over lips that do not yet part: they both know he could not tell it to a soul, they both know he would not
(mera)
"Ah perhaps you will have teach me this language that might as well be secret..." There is a sigh against the words causing thin material to dance against her lips from soft words and breath. Fingers wrap around his wrist directing to brush over the soft-coarse sand.~ "...for now perhaps though writing in the sand will have to do." Fingers trail over the back of his hand in a cool aftereffect even when they have returned once more to her shadowy enclove.~
(nakhti)
chin dips in minor ascention, the crouch swaying in half step backwards, creating room for this impromptu palette, palm opposite the still chilled flesh flattening to smooth a writing board between them, index finger stretching into pencil
amer. sign lang.
books
written quickly, upside down and backwards, leniency provided that this may not be the first time he has communicated in such a way, eyes lift from the unsculpted tablet, assessing, taking cues to continue when she looks up from reading what it is he speaks, and how it is she can begin to learn it, palm wiping the sand clean once more
secret
kept
(mera)
~Eyes in glittering depths watch his movements that are both mundance in communication and dancelike in movement. Fingers curl outwards to tilt under his chin lifting it once more. Her body arcing forwards so that the veil tickles against his cheek~ "Mera...
and I'd rather learn from -you-." ~The whispering rustle of materal against skin filling his senses as she leans back once more amongst the lush pillows. Nevermind that swirl and aching hearts of the mortals below their feet. She seemed unaware to the petty existances beyond her own deified world at the moment.~
(nakhti)
so easily and supply his chin rises as if a well oiled hinge, twisting in curl so that gaze meets once more, swirls of brown and green locking upon brilliantly clear emerald, a study, an inquisition, and before she leans away, his fingers move in tandem (Mera) for the lesson has now begun, the rest of the world fades away into the shadows of pulsing sound, and it is then that he manipulates the sand that genuflects before her toes
nakhti
(mera)
"Nakhti..." The word falls off her lips in a whisper as eyes follow his fingers. "...did They take your tongue so you could speak nothing but Ma'at in this life?" Eyes follow over his face then lower slightly in the dark brush of lash over colour to watch those fingers in tandem movement as they are.
(nakhti)
palm sweeps, as a smile grows, perhaps as secretive as the ones that hide behind her veil, tongue tip peeking from between lips to coax them back from white teeth
born
(mera)
"Ah this time you were but what sweet mistruths did you speak last time?" It is a question which can easily be left alone should he chose it. Her eyes have drifted over his shoulder past the crowds briefly only to return to him once more. "Soon it's time for me to go...before he comes to try to steal my name." Eyes dancing with the words as she leans closer to him once more bringing with her the sweet scent that had first caught attention before she even did.~
(nakhti)
it is a question he leaves well enough alone, answering only in two fingers tapping sternum, then sweeping through the air and away - perhaps it is not his fault, or perhaps it is of no consequence, now, the meaning deliberately obscure and left to her own designs, once more his touch returns to the sand
go wisely, m
delberation again in his movements, her name unwritten but for the single letter, and that is quickly wiped away, he expects the cameras though he knows not of their power, and the pretty young boy lifts the face which must speak what his tongue cannot, as if to wash his skin with the exotic scent as before he cleansed it with sound
(mera)
~Fingers curl around his wrist as she stands with him. Lashes having fall over those depths as she nodded to his message. There is the briefest of confusing moments as she leans closer to him fingers brushing against her face. Then lips as warm as her fingers were cold press softly to his own in a nearly (nearly as breath to heart) chaste kiss. The face so close as to reveal nothing before the veil has been pulled across once more.~ "Perhaps we will meet again here, pretty one..." ~The scent is left to linger on him even as it is tasted on his mouth. Lashes tickling over his forehead before at last his space is his own once more.~
[fade]