WHO: Silje Halvorsen, Muhammad Benahmou, Léo Villeneuve WHAT: Power tracker tracks two of his favorite targets who happen to be... together. WHEN: Monday night WHERE: Ampitheatre WARNINGS: More sexual (mis)adventures in the life of Muhammad STATUS: Complete
Léo was bored. He had been sitting outside, chewing on a toothpick and wishing he had a cigarette, when he had noticed that Silje was in the arts center. He had contemplated joining her just for the potential entertainment, when he'd noticed that a certain Muhammad was with her. Even more entertaining. It had only taken him a few minutes to cross the campus and arrive in the amphitheatre, where Silje sat at the grand piano. She looked quite flushed, for someone playing the piano.
Léo glanced at the ground. "Salut, Silje. Is there a particular reason Muhammad is under the piano?"
There was, in fact, a very good reason that Muhammad was kneeling on the stage floor with gold-plated Steinway pedals pressing against his backside, and it started with Bartok's birthday and ended with Mo's head between his fellow pianist's legs. So happily involved in his task was Mo that he'd failed to register the uneasy feeling that came whenever he was being hunted down, and now, he reeled at the sound of his nemesis' voice. Panicked, and struggling to get free of the seemingly endless tunnel that was Silje's skirt, his skull banged against the underside of the solid black-lacquered keyboard. Thunk.
He went down like a wet drunk, feet scrambling against the floor as he belly-crawled underneath the frame, clutching his smarting crown.
"Salut Léo," she returned, giving up on playing as Muhammad moved farther and farther away from her, taking the source of her knowledge of Bartok with him, and his tongue. "There was a very good reason." It wasn't difficult to see she was perturbed at the abrupt interruption, close as she'd been to finishing the piece. "Now you've frightened him off it. Muhammad come out from under the piano, let Léo have his fun so we can have ours."
One eyebrow quirked, Léo looked down at Mo crumpled on the floor, then at Silje's expression. To be entirely fair, he hadn't thought that he'd be interrupting this in so public a place, though he supposed that there weren't many people who came by the amphitheater on Monday evenings. He wondered what Silje was (or wasn't) wearing under that skirt. "Muhammad, I think that this may be a new low for us," he said loftily. "But I'd hate to think that I'd interrupted something you won't be able to continue. My apologies."
(Léo was not at all sorry. He was amused. But he had a feeling if he wanted to spend any time with Silje in the future, it would be best not to burst out laughing.)
Muhammad allowed himself the private luxury of scowling at Léo from behind his elbow before very slowly emerging from under the piano, and getting to his feet with agonizing reluctance. (It was almost exactly how he looked when called upon to give class presentations.) He folded his arms against his chest, knowing that he should smile or laugh or anything to stop looking like a sullen teenager caught out in a liquor store, but the pounding in his head made it harder to hide his immense dislike of Léo. He wished the idiot would stop smirking.
"You are not invited to join," he said stiffly, which was just about the meanest, iciest thing he'd ever said to the man.
For a brief moment, Léo just looked at Muhammad, and how small aircraft could probably land on his pouting lower lip. Then, he burst into laughter. Mon Dieu, did Mo really think he wanted to be invited to join in with him? He had not forgotten a certain incident from their beginning days at IVI that was proof they shared a little more than either of them might like.
"Please, do not think me so rude as to be forcing an invitation," he said. "Besides, I think I would prefer to enjoy Silje's company somewhere a little less... Exposed."
Having smirked at Mo's impudence - half in amusement and half in disappointment; why could they not just get along? - Silje's lips pursed even further at Léo's retort. "You like the lake just fine," she asserted with a mischievous glint in her eye, "and that seems more exposed to me." She slouched back against the piano, elbows plunking discordantly on the keys, entertained by the little battle playing out and yet disinterested in the result so long as she wasn't abandoned entirely.
Léo's affable demeanor became a little more sullen at Silje's comment, so they stood, two grown men sulking like children. "We have never had unexpected visitors at the lake," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. Then, with a forced flourish, he looked at his watch. "I have delayed your... indulgence long enough, I think. À bientôt." With that, he walked away from the pair, knowing that he was behaving perhaps a bit stupidly.
Mo stared at Léo's back for a moment as he left, a look of deadpan incredulity on his face. He thought of saying something like "au revoir," in an equally deadpan voice and it might've been satisfyingly cutting — but the idea occurred to him too late; the moment was already gone. He rubbed the sore spot on his head, glancing somewhat bashfully at Silje. "Sorry," he said, because he hadn't a clue of what he should. "I need... I need a contingency plan, for him."
Silje shook her head; no apology was needed. "No harm done," she said, reaching out her hand to pull him down to sit beside her on the bench before turning to slide off it with a grin. "Now, play."