Solomon Djaevelen is the Walord Prince of Dhemlan (blackjeweled) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2011-04-06 21:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | daemon sadi, elizabeth bennet |
Who: Eli and Sol
What: A run in at the bar and bad relationship advice
Where: A bar and a cab
When: Yesterday
Warnings: Mild and insubstantial threats of bodily harm. Icon related: the Sadist demonstrates kissing.
Eli was drunk.
Eli had managed to keep it together throughout his entire conversation with Preston, and he’d managed to keep it together during the subsequent work day that followed. The day was a blur of coffee and teas and Georgie running around his waist, and it hardly registered in his mind. All he could think of was what he’d seen Blake and Preston doing. And now, in the wake of the fighting and the anger and the tears, there was only pain and nothing to numb it.
After leaving Reliquary, Eli made his way to the nearest bar. It was a dark place, shadowed, with people doing questionable things in questionable places. The bar itself, however, was fairly mundane. He ordered whiskey after whiskey, until the pain seeped into the alcohol and the dancers on the floor beyond actually appeared to be good at what they were doing.
He wasn’t sure if he was the Sadist, strolling the streets for prey, or Solomon, walking down the street late one night because he couldn’t sleep. The lights from a nearby bar were a siren call. Solomon wanted to pass it by, but the Sadist wanted to go in, to explore, to see what had crawled into its darker corners.
No one stopped Solomon when he entered. He was used to getting carded when purchasing alcohol; despite his age, he had the unfortunate distinction of looking younger than he was. A few women, once he was inside, smiled in his direction, but he breezed by them. They were inconsequential, their little lights burning bright for seconds before getting snuffed out. They held no interest to him.
Settling at the bar, Solomon asked for a lager from the bartender, and as he waited, he looked around, eyes skimming the faces. When his gaze swung back around, it fell on the face of the man beside him, and he frowned. He recognized this person. “I know you,” he said slowly, uncertainly. “From... a dance. A few months ago.”
Eli didn’t notice when the man settled at the bar beside him. He didn’t notice him at all, not until he talked, and then it was the familiarity in the voice that caused him to turn and look. The whiskey glass between his fingers teetered somewhat, and his blue eyes sharpened, trying to remember through the haze of drink and misery.
“Evie’s party,” Eli finally said, turning to look at the other man. Now he remembered, and he cocked his head to the side and looked him over as he took another sip. “Are your hands still as friendly as they were then?” he asked, the question a pointed one. “Or was it merely a show for the crowd?”
The Sadist reacted before the man, and his lips pulled back in a slow, sensual smile.
Then the bartender dropped the beer onto the bar, and it jerked Solomon back to himself. Taking the bottle in hand, he took a long drink. “That depends on how drunk you are,” he replied, “and how many liberties you take.” He paused, and then added, before he could stop himself, “And how mean I’m feeling.” But he wasn’t feeling all that mean. The rumble of the bar kept his thoughts fairly quiet, which allowed him an easier time of keeping himself in his own head. “Why are you here, drunk out of your mind already?”
“If I tell you,” Eli said in a slur, “I will sound like a pathetic country song, and I’d like to keep what little pride remains me, but thank you for the inquiry.” He looked around the bar, as if seeing it for the first time, then turning the same level of attention to the club behind him. “I hardly think this is your usual establishment,” he said, the comment based on inferences he’d made about Evie’s social standing. It wasn’t a Rainier dive, the club, but it was hardly affluent.
Chuckling, he glanced over his shoulder as Eli did, following his gaze. “You’d be surprised where I can end up on any given night,” he replied honestly. It was true. Sometimes he was in the slums, carving up monsters no one would bother looking for. Other nights, he glided like Death through the more affluent neighborhoods, searching for any signs of danger. When he found trouble, he eliminated it.
“And I like a good country song.” No, he didn’t. He hated country. Could barely stand popular music. Missed Beethoven and Mozart.
“Liar,” Eli said. This man was too ageless to like anything of the sort. It only made him more likable in Eli’s drunken estimation, and he tipped back his drink. “The man I’m involved with - was involved with - cheated on me. I am drowning my sorrows. Mock me if you choose, but I warn you, I am not to be trifled with,” he said, and he was obviously very, very drunk.
Solomon held back a laugh. Laughing at a drunk man was never wise - something he knew from first hand experience with his own half-brother - and laughing at a drunk man who was running from pain was even less wise. He flagged down the waiter, ordering another drink for Eli, before returning his attention to his companion once again.
“I won’t mock you,” he said simply. “Being ruined for love is not something worth mocking.” But he was considering finding this man and ripping his intestines out. “May I ask what happened?”
Eli was surprised by the accepting tone, having expected ridicule for his troubles. He took the fresh drink, and he downed it in one sip, eyes more unfocused still when he looked at the almost-stranger. “My name is Elijah. I don’t remember if we were every formally introduced,” he said. “And I feel quite certain we should be on a first name basis if I am to spill all my troubles at your feet.”
“Solomon,” he replied, his estimation of the man at his side going up. Elijah was a good name, an old name. A trustworthy name. But just in case, he left off his last name. “I’m Evie’s boyfriend.” He stumbled a bit over the words, but thought it would be good to give Elijah a frame of reference.
“I recall,” Eli said, because he did. It didn’t add up, of course, not given the close proximity on the dance floor, but he chalked that up to too much liquor. It made him no less curious, though. “Unconventional relationship?” he asked, a quirk of his brow punctuating the question, and then he motioned for drinks for both of them. “I was waiting for my significant other last evening, only to see him stumble through the door in the arms of his ex after engaging in sex with said ex in a cab.” He sighed, drunk enough to to realize the extend of what he was saying. “How does someone like me compete with Blake Thorne, I ask you? He is wealthy, experienced, suave, a rake.” He grinned crookedly. “Much like you, I suspect.”
Solomon chose not to address the specifics of his relationship with Evangeline since that would require him to explain exactly who he was. And he wasn’t interested in that discussion. “You know they had sex in the cab?” he inquired. There were obvious tells, but he wondered if Elijah had actually noticed them. If he hadn’t, Solomon though he might be able to talk to the other man down.
“Preston informed me,” Eli said, all slur and confessions that were not intended. “And I have eyes. They were on the bed when I interrupted them,” he admitted, looking down into his drink dejectedly. “He is more experienced than I am. There is that,” Eli admitted, the fact clearly bothering him, recrimination in the words. “He was meant to meet me that evening, you see,” he said, continuing on in a drunken babble, “but he forgot.”
Well, there went that. There was little salvaging anything from that explanation. Solomon turned his beer in his hand, looking at the glass as it distorted the lines of the bar. “Sexual experience means nothing,” he finally said, because in the end, it didn’t. “Unless he’s a superficial dick.” And then it meant everything, but the man was worth nothing. “Do you love him?”
Eli scoffed, a humorless sound. “Unfortunately, I do. Though he does not return the favor,” he said, finishing his drink in one swallow. “Your advice is to leave him, of course, which I did. I am merely wallowing in it this evening.”
“You presume quite a bit, considering you don’t know me,” Solomon said, his tone mild and displaying no signs of outward disgust or annoyance. If anything, he was amused, but that, too, was not in evidence. “My suggestion would be to castrate him and his lover, but it’s my understanding people in this era frown on such barbarism.” More the pity, in his view, but that was another story entirely.
Eli actually spit out his drink. Liquid sprayed everywhere, and he sputtered drunkenly after. “I’m sorry. Did you miss the part where I indicated that I loved the man?” he asked.
“Love is as capable of great wickedness as it is of great good,” Solomon replied solemnly. “And sometimes what is love is only lust and greed and desire packaged together in one very painful and upsetting ball of emotion.” He handed Elijah a napkin as the bartender, with a scowl, began wiping up the bar. “But if you truly love him and he hurt you, you’ll fight for him. Confront him, demand an explanation, and if he’s as much of an ass as he’s already acted, punch him in the face and find a better lover.” Solomon gave him a wickedly suggestive grin.
“Oh, is that so? I see. I did confront him. I asked for an explanation. He said he had forgotten me, as I told you, and he indicated that he merely wanted distraction and that Thorne was present.” He asked for a new drink, and he took a long gulp before adding. “And where do you suggest I find this better lover?”
Solomon sighed. Consoling a drunk was almost as impossible as starting a fire with sodden wood. “Somewhere that isn’t here,” he finally said. “You’re hurting. You feel used. Go home, get some sleep, and let yourself grieve. If he doesn’t give enough of a damn to remember you, he probably isn’t worth keeping. Now, let’s go, up.” Solomon slipped from his stool and gestured for Elijah to rise. “I’ll get you home and to bed.”
Eli considered Solomon’s words, and the liquor kept the words from catching up with him as quickly as they normally would. Then the other man moving off the stool, and Eli’s gaze caught the man’s blue eyes. “Are you offering to put me to bed?” he asked, his gaze frank, even in his inebriation, and there was something there that remembered the dance, that remembered this man’s hands. He stood, swaying precariously and catching a hand on Solomon’s hip to steady himself.
The first words to his lips were the worst he could possibly utter. He choked, and then he coughed to cover the choking. Telling Elijah that he was offering to take the other man to bed wasn’t what either of them needed. Another time, when Elijah was sober, he’d make it into a joke. “I’m going to tuck you in and read you a story about why it’s bad for puppies to drink themselves blind,” he replied dryly, gently taking Elijah’s hand from his hip and looping their arms together. “Think you can walk?”
“Of course I can walk,” Eli said, slipping his arm from Solomon’s and then realizing he could, in fact, not walk on his own. To save face, he slid his arm around Solomon’s waist, the action drawing the attentions of other bar patrons. “I believe you can find a more interesting story,” he told Solomon as he walked. “Something that does not involve puppies. I hardly think grown men are meant to tell stories about puppies.”
Pointedly ignoring the other patrons, Solomon started toward the door, moving at a slow pace in case Elijah’s feet got lost somewhere under him. “I could tell you a number of interesting stories,” he said as they walked, “but none of them quite as pointed as the one about the puppy. And men as old as I am can tell stories about whatever the hell they want with impunity.” He flinched slightly, recognizing he likely shouldn’t have mentioned his relative age. Hopefully Elijah was drunk enough that he wouldn’t remember in the morning.
“As old as you are?” Eli asked with interested. He wasn’t that drunk, and he wasn’t that distracted.
Solomon hated his life. “Suffice it to say, I spent a long time living in Musings before coming here.” And he hoped that would be the end of the conversation, though if his luck to date was any indication, it would haunt him for a while. While he had never made any particular efforts to disguise the fact that he was in fact the Sadist, it wasn’t something he advertised. Someone knowing he and the Sadist existed in a similar age bracket wouldn’t do him any favors. “Did you have a car, or do we need a cab?” he inquired, hoping that would divert the conversation well enough in the mean time.
“I did not drive, when I knew I was going to be drinking,” Eli said in a slurred attempt at feigned sobriety. He led the way toward the door in a weaving, unsteady path, but when he got there, he smiled (a tad triumphantly). “How old are you?” he asked, remembering the original question belatedly, in the way of very drunk people.
Flagging down one of the bouncers, Solomon slipped the man a handful of bills in return for a cab. “Old enough,” was his hedged reply to Elijah. It wasn’t always easy to judge how someone would react to I was born during the reign of Constantine and am approximately seventeen hundred years old. He didn’t remember his exact age, and had stopped trying to figure out where his birthday fell on the Gregorian calendar.
The cab showed up a few minutes later, and Solomon opened the door and ushered Elijah in. “Where do you live?” he asked the other man as the driver pulled away from the bar.
“Bathos,” Eli said, looking over at Sol with a gaze that only the very drunk could manner - sober yet not, and very attentive to details that might go otherwise unnoticed. “You don’t want me to continue this line of inquiry,” he said thoughtfully, as if he was trying to figure out why, but couldn’t quite with his brain wrapped in cotton as it was.
Solomon looked back, one brow raised, a look of mild amusement on his face. “No, I don’t, which likely means you will.” He glanced at the cab driver, not wanting to pursue a topic of conversation centering on how old he was with someone to whom dying at eighty was common. “We can talk about it once I get you home,” he added, hoping that would put Elijah off for the time being, if not entirely. If Elijah didn’t remember the line of inquiry at all by the time they reached his apartment, Solomon wouldn’t lose sleep.
Eli was quiet for the duration of the ride, but that didn’t mean he forgot. It only meant he turned it over in his mind like a puzzle that he was having trouble figuring out. It was probably worse, giving him the time to think it through. Talking to him would have distracted him, but as it was, he thought of nothing else. It was a welcome escape, thinking about something outside of himself and his feelings for Preston.
When the cab stopped, Eli climbed out quickly and unevenly, losing his balance as he tripped on the sidewalk and landing on one knee with a groan and a grab of said knee as he tried to right himself. He couldn’t get up himself, in the end, and he looked up at Solomon as he waited for assistance. “The only person I’ve heard of recently that crossed that was terribly old is the Sadist,” he said drunkenly, not measuring the statement in the way he normally would have.
Instead of helping, Solomon simply stood there and watched Elijah. With every heartbeat that passed, he came up with a new, different way to destroy the body on its knees before him and leave no trace. It took a formidable effort to remember that the body was Elijah, and Elijah was Evangeline’s friend. Expressionless, he reached out to help Elijah to his feet.
“I’m sure there are other people as old as that one,” he said mildly. “Some of us just like to keep it more to ourselves.”
Eli took the offered hand, pulling himself to his feet with the aid of the strength in the man’s arm, and he teetered forward, too close, hips pressing against the other man’s. “And if you are him?” he ventured daringly.
The transition was subtle. It was impossible to quantify the exact nature of the change, but it was there. The Sadist tilted his head to one side, a curiously disaffected look in his sleepy eyes. One of his hands curled gently around Elijah’s throat, and his thumb brushed over the other man’s jaw, back and forth, languid and soft. “And if I am? Are you afraid that what you’ve told the Sadist will provoke him and send him after your lover?” he asked, his voice a sensual purr.
Eli was distracted somewhere between the touching and the words. He grasped some threat in them, but the touch was much more of a siren call. For a man who was, as of late, concerned with his prowess and his desirability, with his potential to compete with the illustrious Blake Thorne, the attention was intoxicating, even more so than the drink in his veins. He was having trouble remaining upright, the injured knee failing him as he leaned against the hard, warm body in front of him more heavily. “You are not to touch him,” he said, with the lazy surety of someone who felt they would be heeded, and he tipped back his head, offering his neck and surrender.
“I don’t take orders well,” Solomon murmured, leaning close to trail his lips up Elijah’s neck. “I can’t imagine the Sadist would take orders well, either.” He slid his hand under Elijah’s jacket, his hand settling on the other man’s hip to tug him closer. “What’s his name, your lover?”
A phantom hand drifted up the inside of Elijah’s thigh as another ran down his back, each one forming without much conscious thought. The Sadist was barely aware of what he was doing, far too focused on the prey to bother paying attention to simple things like method.
“Preston,” Eli said, unthinking and with a moan at the touch. He was drunk enough to close his eyes and imagine those hands on him instead of the phantom ones along his thigh, and he was too drunk to realize the number of hands did not match up. “Preston,” he repeated, huskier this time, leaning forward and closing his lips over the other man’s in a blatant, hard kiss.
The hand around Elijah’s neck shifted so the Sadist could pull him closer. He used his thumb to shift the other man’s mouth under his and used the position to make the kiss long and languid. He kissed Elijah like he had no other place to be, as though they weren’t surrounded by the flow of time. The entire world could have burned to the ground around them, and the Sadist would have paid it no mind. But for all the sexuality in the kiss, and the banked sensual heat and savage passion, there was nothing good in that kiss. It was a kiss to seduce and ensnare, but it held so much back that it was just as much a kiss to destroy.
He pulled away from Elijah with a faint, mocking smile. “Kiss him like that next time,” the Sadist instructed, “and he’ll never stray far from your bed.”
The kiss was nothing like the kisses Eli shared with Preston, and it was nothing like the one, heated kiss he’d drunkenly shared with Blake. He leaned forward when Solomon retreated, as if he was pursuing something he wanted, eyes dazed and ears not quite grasping the mocking tone the other man used. He heard only the advice, and he soaked it up like a man desiring education. “What else should I do?” he asked candidly.
“Get your ass inside that building,” Solomon said dryly, lifting both brows and giving Elijah a patronizing look. “And if you manage to get all the way to your apartment without falling over your feet, I might consider explaining the rest of what you do with your dick.” He withdrew his hands, wiggling his fingers as he said, “Ooh, ahh” and then laughed. “Come on.” Slinging an arm around Elijah’s waist, he walked them into the apartment complex.