Wake

[highnoonsun]

Who: Rudolph Atkins, Isaiah Boswell, Antonin Dolohov, Daphne Greengrass, Demetrius Greensmith, Auror Gunn, Draco Malfoy, Edric Nott, Theodore Nott, OPEN
What: Seeing family and saying goodbye
Where: Margo Nott's manor, Waterford, Ireland
When: 2 o'clock, Friday, June 9th, 2000
Status: Incomplete

Comments

[slayscribestiff]

It was not with duty that Demetrius attended the event. Unlike so many years past, and so many funerals long ago, Demetrius was here with a certain knowledge of the victim's life. He had known Margo. Not well. He wouldn't pretend. He felt rather bad about it actually. He had become nearly involved with the Nott's some time ago, through one Antonin Dolohov, but it had fallen through, and the reporter had almost lost his life to a young Voldie. So he did not truly know her, though his reasons for being here were rather above the wake itself, his feelings toward the woman, or his duty to the public. The funeral of convict Edric Nott's mother? Anything could happen.

Heavy and waiting, Rodderick lay under his jacket, the feathers inching out over Demetrius's tie eagerly, awaiting an opportunity to strike. The reporter's quill had always been rather unsettled, wild. Lacking concentration. It was eager to write, despite it's penmanship having never improved over the long years Demetrius had owned him.

Neither had the other man's impression much improved. Since yesterday, one hundred years ago or otherwise. Izzy's fingers were still tousled in his hair, his eyes still wandering aimlessly, his slouch very unbecoming. Demetrius smoothed his tie with a soft hand, steeled his expression, and slipped in alongside his rather conspicuous friend.

"Tuck in your shirt." He growled in an inhuman voice, gripping Isaiah's elbow. He smiled pleasantly as the Atkin's fellow passed, loosening his grip and giving a small nod. He politely declined the auspicious cupcakes and didn't watch as the man ambled away, cheeks rosy. Rodderick waved excitedly at the retreating figure.

[dodropdead]

A far more respectable way to greet a friend, one would think, might be a 'Hello, how are you?' or perhaps a hug or maybe at least a handshake or maybe a smile maybe? Isaiah was prepared to do any and all and some more of these things when Demetrius wandered his way, but was instead was stifled. His eyes darting everywhere at once, hands splayed before him, frozen with all the things they should have and should not have been doing.

When finally his eyes settled themselves for a long stay gazing with a wistful hopefulness towards Demetrius, his hands unlocked to smooth down his front, stilted and unsure, as if he had yet to learn how to perform the charged task. They came away, shirt still untucked, one to twist in Isaiah's hair and the other to cover his mouth as he smiled.

"Do you know who the cat is?" he asked, sure Demetrius would know this sort of thing. He always seemed to know these sorts of things.

[slayscribestiff]

Immediately Demetrius was glancing around before pulling Izzy close by the top of his trousers and pushing his shirt into them crisply, simply mortified by the idea of anyone catching him with his hand down another man's pants, patting his bum. His returning glare was fiery as he viciously tugged the pants up to the right height.

Lip curled, he pulled away, a hand self consciously flattening his suit again, pushing Rodderick back inside with a distracted tut tut. It took a few moments to calm his internal rage, and his rather childish pouting, and crossed arms, and fake mourning smiles to the passing members of the reception. His response was given with a knowing sigh, and eyes turned softly back onto Isaiah as a hand gently smoothed down his ruined hair.

"The cat. Oh here, there. Causing trouble. I should really pretend I see nothing, but if I let that Dolohov character-" his voice was hushed, "-continue to wander about, something exciting is bound to happen. I need a good story." He licked his lips as he said it, and thought with distaste of his last encounter with Dolohov. The man had been a boy then. In fact, it was surely suspicious to those who knew him that he had remained remarkably unsullied by age. Glamours did wonders. But Dolohov was sure to know. He was the type. And now he was back. The world was going to go to hell. If Demetrius's heart still did anything but sit passively in his chest, it would surely be beating excitedly at the prospect of such a development.

[dodropdead]

There was only a sputtering laugh caught in Isaiah's hands as Demetrius took it upon himself to make Isaiah presentable, all of his joints loose to allow for any abuses Demetrius chose to inflict on him, making him wiggly, giggly, and completely unseemly. As soon as Demetrius stopped, so did Isaiah, his whole face hidden in his hands, only peeking through his fingers. Demetrius would probably remove the word 'unseemly' from the dictionary, if he could.

He needed more of it. Isaiah's hands twisted in his jacket, chin on his shoulder to press his nose against his jaw. Unseemly, unseemly, unseemly.

"Dolohov?" he breathed, rolling his chin to dig into Demetrius' shoulder to display his displeasure before straightening to tuck both his hands behind his head (hair: ruined), finding his next words somewhere on the ceiling. "I hope he doesn't have rabies."

[slayscribestiff]

Demetrius spluttered with distaste, feathers ruffled as his eyes darted to spot an elderly woman staring with crinkled eyes. His crinkled his in return as he patted Izzy's back, a knowing nod as he comforted the mourner. The two shared a sad look before she passed, shaking her head, distraught. It was Demetrius's hiss as he gently pushed Izzy off of him that might've given it away. The woman never looked back.

Again Demetrius was silent in futile anger. He pressed the tip of his wand behind Izzy's ear and whispered the familiar spell. The hair softened against Isaiah's head to sit properly where it ought to. The spell had never lasted more than an hour, but it was an hour of relief Demetrius was glade to have.

He did not speak again on Dolohov, but watched with cautious eyes the corners of doorways for the white cat. It might be time they had a little chat. Or if he could even follow- he wouldn't forgive himself if he missed the opportunity.

"How is the boy?" He asked. The smallest pinprick of blood, just hanging sweetly in the air, a barely noticed thread. Surely the boy had met Dolohov's claw? Demetrius wondered how the boy was taking everything. Everything. Maybe he could sneak in an interview after the funeral?

[dodropdead]

With his tongue stuck between his teeth, Isaiah's eyes crossed and rolled up in an attempt to watch his hair settle, then to the side for a fond glance toward his friend.

His hands clasped tightly behind his back, eyes darting back toward the ceiling, jumping around at random, Isaiah said, "He's blind." Not with the enthusiastic, fascinating-new-information way he had discovered it, but with a thoughtful pause and a hum that conducted the tempo of a brief bout of heel rocking. "He doesn't seem too torn up about anything," he continued, then his eyes closed as he said, "And he smells perfectly sweet and bitter, like strawberry-rhubarb pie."

Isaiah's hands were back on Demetrius' jacket, this time clutching his lapels to pull him closer as Isaiah stepped in, whole body pressed against Demetrius with his head tucked under his chin. Quickly, his lips moved against Demetrius' neck, a whisper that occasionally betrayed a needy whine; "Young and sweet but has seen battle and knows luxury, rich and thick and hot, moelleux, Ruby, demi-sec, lost and wandering and waiting--" He cut himself off, cold teeth then the pinprick of his fangs just touching Demetrius' pale skin. Then softness, a kiss to his friend's silent pulse, and another, and up until he could nuzzle into Demetrius' hair with a bubbling giggle.

[slayscribestiff]

The overwhelmed storm of adjectives and the delicate wanton hold they had on his senses threatened to overturn Demetrius's control: and the very fact that Isaiah had the nerve to do this to him in such a setting made him profoundly furious. His anger was deep, silent as he outwardly tried to calm himself. Ignore the pull behind his jaw to taste and the tension streaking between his shoulders with angry flicks.

There was no breath across Izzy's cheek as he pulled away, a stone hand between them, pushing, easing against Izzy's stomach until they were nearly a foot apart. Again more controlled breathing. It was not a necessity: but he missed the days when he had needed to breath. Breathing was calming. And here he calmed himself, eyes dark as they regarded his friend, though he knew it was hopeless to scold him.

We're at a funeral sounded like a joke. Of course they were. Why would either of them care? Izzy had no pretense of propriety. Neither did he much care for Demetrius's image, himself.

"I much prefer blueberry." He stated, hand still between them, but his gaze was wandering away again, catching the boy and staring. Oh- how a taste might've been nice.

"I wonder if Rudolph tastes of sugarcane." It was thought to himself, and the idea was dismissed just as quickly. He did not know the man well enough to guess. He had not tasted his scent quite yet. That Malfoy though looked rare and tender. Not sweet at all. He kept his thoughts to himself.

[dodropdead]

Isaiah's lips twisted to the side, eyes rolling up as his hands came up to twist in his hair, and he clicked his tongue. "You do not," he accused, and his hands dropped and his head dropped and his eyes stayed where they were, settled now on Demetrius' stony regard, and Isaiah's mouth fell easily back into its tight-lipped grin.

At the mention of Rudolph, he craned his neck and eventually was driven to spin around to glance around the room, trying to pick the tall man out. Right, that was the one that had come to see him for the services. He knew that name. Not the boy's father. Scandalous affair it was. His hands clinging to his own collar, as much as Isaiah sought he could not find him, and had to go by memory. Sugarcane? No, too basic, there was much more there. Salted watermelon, with all of his sweetness made all the sweeter against his bitterness. Or, no, tea steeped too long with too much milk and sugar to compensate. Too bitter, too creamy, too sweet. Too, too, too. That sounded better.

Isaiah spun around again, one hand still hanging onto his collar as the other sought out Demetrius' sleeve, tugging hopefully. "What's it to you? You wouldn't dare," he teased, hand from his shirt coming up to cover his teeth as he grinned. Isaiah was happy to do the legwork if Demetrius would give Rudy a try.

[slayscribestiff]

Izzy was right, of course. Demetrius wouldn't dare unless he was halfway around the world, far from the responsibilities and connections he had here. He did not like to admit it, but he missed it. He knew he was well under his usual limit and considered very unhealthy for a vampire. Drained.

"Don't suppose we can get him to go to Spain? I might reconsider." His words were a whisper, as they usually were in public places. It already didn't do too well to be seen consorting with a known vampire. This thought had him hissing, pulling away.

"I'm got stories to find. Trouble to cause. See if you can find Dolohov. Be useful. And keep your shirt tucked in." It had come out again and lay wrinkled across Izzy's stomach. Demetrius viciously tucked it in again, checked the spell on the man's hair again to be sure it was still working (diligently, it was) before making his way slowly away, letting Roderick slip out onto his shoulder. It waved sadly at Izzy, beckoning, eager. All at once.

[dodropdead]

For a moment, Izzy managed to stay still, almost doing what he was told before he realized that he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing. Be useful? That was Demetrius code for Stop embarrassing me. Isaiah had yet to get that one right. He bit his lip and watched Demetrius go, arms stretching up to settle with his fingers lace over this scalp, tugging his shirt up and out again. Isaiah didn't notice. He was watching Roderick, tight grin slowly creeping out again until his hands dropped to press his knuckles under his chin then dive into his pockets. It was like this that he stiffly toddled after his friend, keeping just behind him with his lips pressed shut. Be useful.

If Demetrius would just accept what he was, Isaiah wouldn't have to be told to be useful anymore. Well, he probably would, but he would seem a lot more useful in general. His eyebrows drew together and Isaiah didn't realize it was him that had made the quiet, petulant whine until he was quite done. No one else seemed to have noticed. Maybe Demetrius hadn't noticed, either.

[slayscribestiff]

It was with quick eyes and the catch of a scent that Demetrius pushed past the french doors and into the courtyard, air clearer here and making it both easier and harder to find the cat. No confusing scents of perfumes, the perpetual and unbearable stink of rotting flesh, freesias. But also, here there was more space. A scent was gone with the wind as quickly as it was there. Then there was the long whine, crisp and toned and crystal clear, drawn out and unmissable and decidedly miserable.

At this rate they were going to find themselves making out in the bushes, while one Luna Lovegood snapped the first picture, that ridiculous smile on her confused face. His fingers tightened as he stepped further into the cluster of maze-like foliage, eying the pretty walkway and the handsome, robust flowering tress. He regarded the nearest fountain for only a minute before giving a great needless sigh and falling onto a stone bench, giving in, his fingers gripping the edge as he stared between his feet.

"I'm tired. Exhausted," he muttered, eyes burning slightly. It was quite the uncommon feeling for a vampire. To feel anything but the smooth, reliable cold. Heat and burning meant fuzzy, prickly, sweaty things. He rubbed at them and faced up to stare at Izzy. Izzy who was always there, unfailingly. Just whenever. He had meant to say 'I'm sick'. Or 'I don't feel right', but it didn't matter much if Izzy got it or not. Isaiah had always disapproved of a fair share of Demetrius's addictions. One being his insistence on pretending he wasn't a vampire. Either way he was likely to be lectured. But Izzy's lectures had ever amounted to much of anything but soft touches and worried words, and delicate, wanton kisses.

[dodropdead]

Izzy was squinting slightly, nose wrinkled, and while he didn't quite meet Demetrius' eyes he still offered a sweet smile and a simple, "I know." He stayed where he was a moment, rocking thoughtfully, hands sliding over each other behind his back, because he didn't really know. Well, he knew, he knew like a mother knew before their baby's face even screwed up for the first furious tears. It was harder to understand why.

Abruptly he sat, tight against Demetrius side at first, then sliding away to give him his space. Or perhaps just to give Isaiah the room his hands would need to say what they needed to. They prepared themselves first, gripping the stone as Demetrius did, Isaiah's shoulders up around his ears as he leaned forward with his elbows locked.

"You don't like yourself," he started, eyes rolling up, scolding the sky for not presenting quite the right words. It was his fingers twisting first in the air then just his index finger pressing into his cheek that brought out, "Your body." Still not right, but no matter where he looked, there was no reassurance hidden in the grass or the bushes or the cloudy sky. He shrugged, scratched along the back of his neck, tried again; "You can't make yourself a different person. I can see it."

Still not right. Hands back on the bench, head rolling until his cheek was against his shoulder and he was looking up at Demetrius expectantly.

[slayscribestiff]

He resisted the urge to swat at his useless, unhelpful words, and instead pressed his right hand to smooth over Isaiah's forehead, pressing and sliding over his nose and to his jaw, where his thumb petted thoughtfully. again his eyes darted up, but there was no rustle or voice or smell. Even Dolohov's was gone.

"I like me. I'm a writer, you know? We get to get away with all this fucked up bullshit: being someone else, having personality disorders, not taking care of ourselves, hurting out friends. We're the dramatic type- and we get away with it because our words are profound, and that makes people envy and trust us, as long as we're functioning." Again he grasped at straws, his own words feeling rather useless.

"I'm sick. Take me out for dinner sometime." It was a decidedly exciting prospect. It had been so long after all. He liked breaking the rules once in a while, especially if Isaiah was the one to lead him.

He let his hand drop to hang between his legs, elbow on his knee. A cigarette was produced in no time, and the delicious intoxicating Colt wafted over the flowers peacefully. He was going to say he hated Isiah's... ministrations. His advances. But he appreciated them, because he knew his were the only ones that mattered. He loved Izzy. Loved him lots and lots, and felt silly about showing it.

[dodropdead]

As Demetrius spoke, there was only an agreeable humming, but Isaiah's focus was everywhere else. The speech was silly and made him itchy between his shoulders, making him screw up his face with one eye squeezed closed. He knew both of them saw the weakness in it, and how it made his chest hurt. Getting away with it did not mean it was a good thing at all.

It wasn't that the fucked up bullshit was completely disagreeable; it was these strange dramatic things that contributed to Demetrius being completely Demetrius, and that was all right. But Demetrius tested limits, and some of them just didn't need to be disturbed.

Isaiah's wandering eyes were snapped back into focus with the request and his hands flew to his mouth to cover his teeth until his grin was quieted enough to be modestly tight lipped. They wandered to tug at his hair then before coming away to fall around Demetrius as Isaiah slid against him again, kissing his chin just under where his dimple should be.

"We haven't been on a date in a long time," he purred and giggled, head dropping to Demetrius' shoulder, fingers gripping his shirt at the collar and snaking around his arm to keep Demetrius just where he was.

[slayscribestiff]

Jaw tightened, Demetrius pressed his chin forward and pursed his lips, neck tilted away from the other man ever so slightly. Here he sat, his own strong shape, proud, collected, and his boy toy was encompassing him in his... loveliness and kissy-kissy and hands everywhere and ruining his perfectly ironed clothes and his resolve and his reason and his demands.

"We don't do dates. We go places. Together. Where we mutually enjoy the... offerings." Where was his vocabulary? Izzy was a terrible influence on his senses. Even the simplest words escaped him now.

He stumbled in his brain for a bit before encouraging it to sit still, and be calm.

"We don't go on dates, Isaiah," but one hand was weaving through the fingers crushing his collar to caress them and pinch at them until they were pulled into his hand tightly. His toes pressed to the ground, he nervously swaggered his heel about, one knee shaking anxiously.

[dodropdead]

The hand in Demetrius' went lax, soft, just his thumb glancing over Demetrius' knuckles to encourage the petting Isaiah knew was just waiting to burst out of him. With the caress came another laugh, and fingers scrambling up to dance just along the back of Demetrius' neck, stiff and twitchy, just touching.

Isaiah wanted to tease him about all of his evenings out ending up naked in someone else's bed, but the idea made him giggle again and his fingers dart away from Demetrius' neck, back into his own hair to tug as he pressed his nose against his friend's shoulder. Instead, he said, "Right," and wiggled closer. "Your girlfriends would beat me up."