(no subject)
Date: January 26th.
Time: Afternoon.
Location: A place that is not a Place.
Characters Involved: Ethan Urquhart, and Montague Morsus.
Rating: R, most likely.
It's the scratching noise of a match being lit that breaks the silence. Heavy arms lifted to light the small brown stick that was wedged between a pair of pale thin lips. The harsh scent of burning tobacco slowly mixed with the sweet lingering scent of opium that clung to the air.
Ethan was sitting on the edge of a bed, lighting another cigarette while staring out a large wall of windows at a nameless city. Another butt to add to the pile in the glass ashtray sitting on the bedside table. The snow was falling in an artistic kind of way, that would have been sure to inspire something in Ethan if he hadn't had more important things on his mind. Like absolutely nothing.
The setting was… expensive. Large furniture in a large room with more large rooms branching off from it. Ethan looked, and felt small there, but paid no mind to the sensation. Or to how curiously out of place that his body, pale and tattooed, shirtless and with mussed hair, must have looked, sitting alone on the edge of a neatly made bed in a neatly put together room. He didn't pay mind to much of anything, except for contemplating how the floury taste in his mouth was being replaced with a bitter one.
Somewhere between reaching for his glass of expensive wine he didn't appreciate the value of, and thinking about the taste in his mouth, he leaned back on the bed, one leg bent up with his foot resting on the covers, the other dangling over the edge. The lethargy held strong even as the effects started to fade. A slow fade, a lazy one that clung to the mind the way the smoke stuck in the air.
In the air, on the ceiling he was staring at. The ceiling with the white-white embossing which made little figurines that stared back at him as he stared at them. He thought it ironic how his ceiling was the bottom of someone else's flooring. They could be walking all over him without knowing. He grinned and took a lazy puff of his cigarette slowly burning away in his mouth.
He wondered if he was up there, above the ceiling that was also a floor. Lying on another oversized bed staring up at that ceiling that was also a floor, thinking about himself being above him. Thousands and thousands of the same room, with the same Ethan, with the same ceiling-floors, all piled on top of one another in a nameless hotel in some random city of someone else's picking. Thousands and thousands of little Ethan replicas an oversized room, each one of them acting like a prostitute. Ethan laughed at the word, a laugh which would most likely have evoked a most peculiar look from Montague had be been in the room. Or maybe he was, the only thing Ethan could see was white so he couldn't tell. He was too busy contemplating the Ethan that was lying on the ceiling above him.
And in that room above him, or maybe the one above that, or so on, he could have sworn that Montague was sitting in the overstuffed chair off to the right of the bed. Shirtless - shirtless? and smoking. Or maybe that was wine in his hand. He had wondered how he had gotten all the way up there, unless Montague hadn't moved, and he had. Maybe Ethan 2 was really Ethan 1, and he was the copy below, staring at the ceiling that was their floor.
He wondered if that Ethan had acted like a whore. He had acted like one. Ripping away at his coverings, flaunting himself in the desperation that the other man - Montague that is, not himself - might be interested. He was, of course he was.
Once the invitation had been accepted - Montague was much too attracted to say no - Ethan had been carefully deliberate. Revealing little by little, piece by piece. Anything more would have given him away. Especially in the eyes of an old friend - friend? - even from one who had something the other might have found use for. But that's how it was played. Cool and unintentional. Typical Ethan.
Art. He whored his artwork because he needed the extra money. And he wondered if Montague was really going to buy any of it as he stared up at that ceiling. Which was also a floor.
Time: Afternoon.
Location: A place that is not a Place.
Characters Involved: Ethan Urquhart, and Montague Morsus.
Rating: R, most likely.
It's the scratching noise of a match being lit that breaks the silence. Heavy arms lifted to light the small brown stick that was wedged between a pair of pale thin lips. The harsh scent of burning tobacco slowly mixed with the sweet lingering scent of opium that clung to the air.
Ethan was sitting on the edge of a bed, lighting another cigarette while staring out a large wall of windows at a nameless city. Another butt to add to the pile in the glass ashtray sitting on the bedside table. The snow was falling in an artistic kind of way, that would have been sure to inspire something in Ethan if he hadn't had more important things on his mind. Like absolutely nothing.
The setting was… expensive. Large furniture in a large room with more large rooms branching off from it. Ethan looked, and felt small there, but paid no mind to the sensation. Or to how curiously out of place that his body, pale and tattooed, shirtless and with mussed hair, must have looked, sitting alone on the edge of a neatly made bed in a neatly put together room. He didn't pay mind to much of anything, except for contemplating how the floury taste in his mouth was being replaced with a bitter one.
Somewhere between reaching for his glass of expensive wine he didn't appreciate the value of, and thinking about the taste in his mouth, he leaned back on the bed, one leg bent up with his foot resting on the covers, the other dangling over the edge. The lethargy held strong even as the effects started to fade. A slow fade, a lazy one that clung to the mind the way the smoke stuck in the air.
In the air, on the ceiling he was staring at. The ceiling with the white-white embossing which made little figurines that stared back at him as he stared at them. He thought it ironic how his ceiling was the bottom of someone else's flooring. They could be walking all over him without knowing. He grinned and took a lazy puff of his cigarette slowly burning away in his mouth.
He wondered if he was up there, above the ceiling that was also a floor. Lying on another oversized bed staring up at that ceiling that was also a floor, thinking about himself being above him. Thousands and thousands of the same room, with the same Ethan, with the same ceiling-floors, all piled on top of one another in a nameless hotel in some random city of someone else's picking. Thousands and thousands of little Ethan replicas an oversized room, each one of them acting like a prostitute. Ethan laughed at the word, a laugh which would most likely have evoked a most peculiar look from Montague had be been in the room. Or maybe he was, the only thing Ethan could see was white so he couldn't tell. He was too busy contemplating the Ethan that was lying on the ceiling above him.
And in that room above him, or maybe the one above that, or so on, he could have sworn that Montague was sitting in the overstuffed chair off to the right of the bed. Shirtless - shirtless? and smoking. Or maybe that was wine in his hand. He had wondered how he had gotten all the way up there, unless Montague hadn't moved, and he had. Maybe Ethan 2 was really Ethan 1, and he was the copy below, staring at the ceiling that was their floor.
He wondered if that Ethan had acted like a whore. He had acted like one. Ripping away at his coverings, flaunting himself in the desperation that the other man - Montague that is, not himself - might be interested. He was, of course he was.
Once the invitation had been accepted - Montague was much too attracted to say no - Ethan had been carefully deliberate. Revealing little by little, piece by piece. Anything more would have given him away. Especially in the eyes of an old friend - friend? - even from one who had something the other might have found use for. But that's how it was played. Cool and unintentional. Typical Ethan.
Art. He whored his artwork because he needed the extra money. And he wondered if Montague was really going to buy any of it as he stared up at that ceiling. Which was also a floor.