”We’re in the way.”
“We are.” Red Death agreed with grave solemnity. Still on the dance floor, the two became something of a pair of voyeurs, becalmed in a sea of fantastical masks, swirling skirts, and fine, properly dressed gentlemen. Roen’s eyes watched them move to the rhythm, his fingers idly tapping metronome into the small of Irene’s back. It was beautiful, really. The roll of bodies, the stateliness of it all, the ceremony. It was harmonic, pleasing, and not a little distracting for him, as music sometimes could be. Fortunately though, Irene was present to anchor him before sentiment stole him complete.
He set music aside and turned his head at the mention of his name, the sickly pallor of his Death’s Mask running quite counter to the small, almost absent smile that tugged at the edge of his sensual mouth. A smile he would have stopped showing, had he known he was wearing it. Ignorant of the question she seemed on the cusp of asking, he drew her quietly away from the throng of warm, swaying bodies that deftly avoided their stationary observation, and together they wandered off, his eyes turning from her deepening frown and the way she crossed her arms over her chest, clearly disquieted if not dissatisfied by something he had said, or perhaps done.
Her suspicion was an ugly thing, but not entirely unwarranted. Though he loved young Christine without reservation, that did not make the Outsider’s affections pure, nor easily endured. His was an exacting ardor, and she paid for it whenever their paths intertwined, be it in blood, spirit, or peace of mind. Tonight, she paid for it with her freedom, and it was easy to see why tension moved through her when he suggested she might have a say in how the evening progressed. To soothe her, his hand traveled up and down the delicate curve of her spine, touching her with all the familiarity of a well-known lover. She was right, though. She was right to doubt, and right to be suspicious. Christine did not have a say when she stood alongside Red Death. He asked for her desires, yes, but ultimately, the decision was his.
This did not make him desire to be anything less than charming, however. As they walked, he felt the way the tension leaked out of her, how her hands fell back to protecting her exposed midriff, the chains at her wrists rattling and clinking with every step. She was flushing beside him, something he had never quite noticed before, at least not often. He had warmed her blood many times over the years, but rarely, rarely did she ever show the grace to blush so prettily for his pleasure. He liked her rosy, the devil. He liked her small, secretive little smirks. Oh, he had seen it on her lips, however briefly it played there. It had been absolutely lovely, especially up close.
“A drink?” He asked, nearly as dumbly as she, and perhaps nearly as subdued. Resisting the urge to state the obvious - that she couldn’t very well ask for someone to open and vein - Roen considered the alternative, that she wanted champagne, or some other novel beverage being served in the Crimson Hawk, and briefly entertained the possibility that she could, in fact, imbibe drinks. More, that she could potentially become inebriated. He didn’t know her very well, Roen, outside of what was surface and what he had drawn out, but he was sure, very sure she couldn’t imbibe, and frowned. Did she mean blood? It was not a topic they discussed, not ever. To think of it, he had only ever seen her feed once, and that was on wild game, years and years ago. His beloved’s dietary habits were irrelevant to his furious, wild love. Her mind, her body, her very soul, these things were his concerns, not her needs.
Considering it, he did not know the last time she had fed. Days, weeks, he couldn’t hazard even a guess. Frowning even deeper, he felt a momentary pang of guilt that he had no clue. When could she? he thought, somewhat taken aback. He dominated most, if not all her waking thoughts. More solicitous of her now than before, his manner became softer, more sincere, in how he guided his slender girl away from eyes that took no note of their passing to some secluded, far corner where they became a pair of vibrant wall flowers. Behind a support column, near a table and a quadroon of chairs, he drew near to her and reached up, fingering the edges of his mask. Without pausing to consider the faux pas of a reveal, Roen lifted the Death’s charade and breathed out a sigh. Sunkissed, darkly handsome, his ruby eyes glittered beneath the bridge of his brow, turning to lay their heavy weight of need across Irene.
Laying the mask aside on the table with a dull clatter, he reached out with his hand and went for her face again, cupping her rosy cheek and tip-turning her pretty face, tilting her attention up, for him. He leaned in while she backed away, unbidden or otherwise, until her back touched the support column and she stood trapped between it and the devil, each as unavoidable and impassable as the other. Still, he leaned, pinning her to the column, his eyes briefly, carefully darting, as if to ensure they were alone, unwatched. His other hand came up between them both, warm leather brushing the tops of Gabriela’s legs, her thighs.. It might have turned ever more vulgar, had he not stopped to grab the chain that hung loosely from her wrists. Catching it, twisting it, he kept her arms down low, lest the temptation to fend him off grow too strong.
“I’ll get you a drink..,” he told her, soft and quiet, a whisper between them. When I’m ready, was the quiet implication. Human, yes, he was all that she thought of him, and more. He was human, as human as a human could be, and even more so. Something of unfathomable sentiment, of emotionalism, and he was her’s. An obsessive mind, a wanton, it was clear what he wanted, what he needed. Roen leaned in, smothering her with warmth, with the scent of peat and spice, and caught her lips with a kiss, soft and quick, almost a sort of test, then caught them again, longer, more intimate. It might have been said he was testing the fit of their mouths, but they knew very well how well they came together, how easily came the match. Roen dropped all pretense to the contrary this time around, however. Now, when he took her mouth, it was simply because he wanted it, and there was no greater reason than that.
Long, considerate, even generous with affection, he kept her there, wilting against the column. The masquerade was nice, and music was nicer still, but he had seen the guests and had indulged his curiosity, and that was enough for the time being. His companion, however, had more mystery than fanciful masks and hallowed halls. He didn’t know the secret turnings of her heart, had no semblance of intimacy with her thoughts, but he intended to unlock those hidden clasps, those private yearnings. And if he could do it with sweet kisses and sordid displays, well,..
He would get drinks and explain how he was going to win the tournament, when he was done.
