Cowboy Night
WHO: Schuldig (colpevole) ; Axel (fireveins) ; those who show up (full list to come!)
WHAT: Cowboy Night!
WHERE: The Warrior Princess
WHEN: Friday night
WELCOME TO THE WARRIOR PRINCESS.
[ooc: Hey guys! This is an open thread, and the reason I'm putting it up now is so that everyone who wants to participate will have a chance to do so at their leisure, and work ( Read more... )
WHAT: Cowboy Night!
WHERE: The Warrior Princess
WHEN: Friday night
WELCOME TO THE WARRIOR PRINCESS.
[ooc: Hey guys! This is an open thread, and the reason I'm putting it up now is so that everyone who wants to participate will have a chance to do so at their leisure, and work ( Read more... )
Regardless, he needed to make amends. So, mug in hand, he slid down the bar until he was sitting right in front of Schu, not caring about the other man nearby. He reached out a hand and leaned across the bar, catching Schu's chin and bringing him close for a kiss. It was just a peck on the lips, to gauge how Schu was feeling tonight. "That take care of it?" Then, he pressed their lips together again, this time the apology actually evident in the kiss as he tugged at Schu's lower lip.
Pulling back only a little to prop himself up on his elbows, Gojyo smirked happily and tossed enough coins on the table to pay for the beer and five more of them that night. "I brought the kids with me - all twelve of 'em - an' some'r already hookin' up, so you should have lotsa drink orders soon enough. ♥ How's that fer bringin' ya' business, sweetheart?"
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Maybe Schuldig was just a little stubborn. He was going to make money his way, damn it, even if it meant living in a shithole without any bedframes or whatever. Real fucking classy, but at least it was his, and wasn't as bad as some hostels he'd stayed in back in the day, either.
Anyway.
Schuldig kissed back.
It was kind of shy, actually, like kissing was something you did but not for these reasons; and it was kind of coquettish, only without the usual impulse. His cheeks were even hot, and the kiss wasn't quite brief enough, and Schuldig didn't know why. All the motions they were going through were right, but there was something behind them that made them a little extra, and Schuldig could blame it on external factors, nerves maybe, about the bar and the service tonight. Yeah. Sure.
"Hey, thanks," he said, quiet against Gojyo's mouth, and touched the back of his neck for a moment, just an affectionate gesture. Hey, all business was good, right? And where the hell would he be without that help, huh?
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That wasn't what bothered him. What bothered him was the totally unshakable sense that there was something else, something besides business that was making Schuldig put on this much of a show. Because this wasn't simply what he always did: it was fucking amped up. High stakes. And not in a way that had to do with open bar tabs, either.
But whatever, Badou tried to tell himself firmly, his eyes flitting away from the reflection of the guy beside him as soon as he reached out to touch Schuldig's chin. It still wasn't his business, because it wasn't like he and Schuldig were….
…It wasn't like they were sixteen.
Only, shit, why was it that just when you wanted to avoid looking, there had to be goddamn reflections everywhere. Even the polished surface of the bar. And all the glass, the polished metal, and the bottles. And, shit, even if he couldn't actually see them kissing there was still the sound, the energy, the damn imagine of it in his mind. All of it echoing back, like maybe the fucking acoustics in here were just too damn good, because fuck if that wasn't suddenly the only sound in the room.
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For the most part, he just liked to keep his mouth shut. It was easier for people to forget about him that way, and the last thing Crawford wanted was to be memorable in a city like this one.
He'd arrived at the bar early, hoping to avoid a great many of the more drunken idiots by at least a couple of hours. He didn't even know why he went to this bar so often, save for the fact that it was down the street from his apartment, and it was convenient. Then again, he supposed that was a good enough reason to go anywhere. Location, location, location, after all.
Whatever.
He'd taken his usual place at the bar, nearabouts that redhead with the eyepatch who always seemed to be there at the same time he was. He was friends with the bartender, which meant that they had fairly regular service down at their end. Choosing such a place had made strategic sense to Crawford at first, and then he'd never quite managed to move anywhere else.
Normally it wasn't a problem. Normally he and One Eye managed to get along without getting along just fine, only now that bartender was making a scene…some kind of kissing thing, Crawford wasn't exactly paying attention, only his not-friend was toying with the rim of his glass like he was paying attention, and also trying desperately to pretend like he wasn't. He couldn't pick out why he cared, exactly, only he was already turning on the barstool. Opening his mouth to speak.
"Nice hat," he said, commenting on the leopard-print.
Well, damn. That was one way to start a conversation.
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Gojyo must have suddenly, subconsciously become aware of it, because he turned away for just a second or two, scanning the room again. "Not all that packed just yet..." He drank from the mug, making sure to get some of the head on his upper lip so he could lick it off. Just because he could. "You get t'dance fer a bit'r do I gotta wait 'til that last half hour?"
Because, other than bringing Schuldig business, as the other half of Gojyo's apology - for what, he still wasn't entirely sure - he'd planned on making himself available as a dance partner. Namely, one that, y'know, actually knew how to dance.
Because even a wall flower could dance if you pushed 'em hard enough, but that wasn't the same thing. Two people who knew how to dance - and knew how to dance with each other - that was when it got insane and fun and showcased both people's talents. Even if only one of them knew how to dance, then it didn't look hot at all; it looked like that other person was borrowing a partner, borrowing an extra body just for the sake of grinding against it.
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"Mama was a rodeo queen," he said, because it was too good, and then-
Oh man. Gojyo was asking him to dance.
Of course, it was rare when Schuldig got to dance. Rare and nice, not to mention, especially with someone he wasn't entertaining, some big patron he had to spoil rotten, some poor kid he was taking pity on. You know, real dancing, not any of that two-stepping bullshit, and not having to be the fucking leader, either. And before the night got too busy was his only chance, right? "Hell," he said, glancing back towards Axel at the other end of the bar. He could handle it while Schuldig had some fun, right? "I'll have to see what I can do about putting on one of our songs, huh?"
He tapped out the beat of the song playing right now on the counter top. Well, when Patsy was done with her power note. Which reminded him-
"Oh fuck," he said. He could kick himself right now, cowboy boots and all. "Shit. Gojyo. This is Badou." You know, speaking of Patsy. His boys, coming out to give him some support on Cowboy Night. And then, of course, the cocky American who tipped well the first time; and Schuldig, always the mercenary, unable to do anything but grin and eat it.
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Well, shit, he just hadn't been expecting that: hadn't been expecting the guy to talk to him (they never really talked, however often they both sat there with their drinks and Badou's ashtray full of cigarette butts) and, more to the point, hadn't been expecting that having someone talk to him right now would be exactly the distraction that he needed.
He turned his head slowly to look at the American and got the feeling that the timing of the compliment hadn't been an accident. Or maybe that was just what two people did when the guys next to them leaned across the bar to kiss: make small talk. "Heh," he said, pausing to take the cigarette from between his lips, "Thanks-" And really he'd been about to blame Schuldig for all the hat's hideous leopard-print glory, when the conversation to his left demanded his attention again.
Gojyo. Oh. Well, shit. Badou swiveled in his barstool, cigarette firmly between his lips again so he could take a good deep draw. Shit, he should have guessed that, right? Gojyo-Schuldig's friend. Or "friend…"
Badou was never actually too sure which, and it's not like it was the sort of thing he'd ever come right out and asked about.
But he was supposed to be happy to meet this guy. Right? Was that how this went? Shit, he felt like he needed a fucking script to read from, someone to tell him his lines. "Uh, hey," he managed, which was really about as articulate as he felt.
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Anyway, he got the feeling that if he'd wanted another drink at that precise moment he'd have been shit out of luck. The most interesting scene was unfolding next to him.
It was weird. He couldn't have explained why he cared, except that-well, he couldn't explain it. Best to leave it at that.
"Are we doing introductions now?" He interrupted, smoothly changing stools to sit in the unspoken "reserved" seat between Badou and himself. "I'd hate to miss out on the opportunity to make new…friends."
Crawford had a way of letting the proper words linger in the air for a moment, so that they didn't really sound like the proper words at all, but some kind of secret code that he was using.
What the fuck was he doing?
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"So then..." His eyes traveled over towards the dark-haired man. Not Italian; too much accent. Oh fuck, he knew that accent, come on, which one was it... Oh, of course, one of those Americans who could say the key phrases with a flourish and then trip up on conversational phrases. So, a little perturbed, Gojyo jerked his other thumb in the American's direction. "Either'a you know him?"
Come on, introductions were supposed to be done by a third party, someone had t' know 'im, otherwise he was just bein' rude. But then again, since when was that news in a bar fulla' foreigners?
[[OOC: Italia = Italy; Buona sera = Good evening]]
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There was something about Bradley Crawford-like how Schuldig couldn't read him at all, for example-that was unsettling. But he was kind of distracted right now.
Hadn't Gojyo and Badou met before? Of course they hadn't. If they had, Schuldig sure as hell would have been there. Maybe it was just assumptions: Schuldig had known them both for so long that they'd become integral parts of his life; he just figured everybody knew everybody else and that was that, like the cast of some overcomplicated sit-com that he was totally the star of, by the way. But of course that was dumb, and they didn't know each other, and now was so not the time-but it was the time he'd been given, apparently, and they'd all make do. Sure! They'd love each other, or something. They had a lot in common actually, and they were both fucking hilarious, and...
"So this is like the Brady Bunch," he said, voice dry. "Anyway, Gojyo, Badou, Mr. Brad Crawford. Welcome to the Warrior Princess. May I take your order?"
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But there was a moment-right about when Gojyo called him "the guy you came t' Italia with"-when his gaze flicked over to Schuldig, and this little scrap of doubt began to yammer and gnaw, because he didn't know what Gojyo knew about how Schuldig had come to Italy, didn't know what Schuldig would have told him, how he'd spun it. Didn't know whether he'd chosen to talk to Gojyo about all those things that he hadn't talked to Badou about in years, or well…ever.
Anyway, what was he supposed to say to that? 'Oh yeah, you're the guy in all those movies-you know, the ones that he and I don't talk about because what exactly are you supposed to say when you find out that someone who was your… someone like that wasn't actually dead but just exploring a new career in the porn industry?-"Oh, hey I really liked that shot of your ass"?'
But then-shit. Americans. Did someone breed those guys for timing, or what? Because there was the voice from his right, and he could feel the change in proximity, and Badou didn't actually have to figure out what to say, because Gojyo was already asking about his usually-silent drinking associate beside him.
Badou swiveled his head to look at Crawford-he had to lean back a little and look over his shoulder to manage it, because he was on the side of Badou's bad eye-and he quirked a little smile. He didn't know why the man had picked this moment to start talking, but he was really thankful that he had. No matter what the other two thought.
Bradley Crawford, eh? Well it looked like Mr. Crawford had managed to find the release valve that let the pressure out so Badou could breathe right again, could give a snort of laughter at Schuldig's Brady Bunch joke, roll his eyes, and say, "Go fucking dance or something, yeah?"-all of which he did. Probably, he thought, they could all use a little bit of breathing room for a moment anyway.
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"Nice to meet you all," he murmured, smiling at Badou before taking a long swallow of alcohol. Some small part of him-the shit-eating bastard part-was enjoying this quite a lot. Damn. Maybe he would have to get out of the house more often, if it was going to lead to this. So much better than prime time television.
He still didn’t know what he was doing, particularly, throwing himself into situations without calculable outcomes. Was it just the entertainment factor? Had he really gotten that bored in this city? Whatever. Crawford didn't like not having the answers to things, but he also wasn't one to question things endlessly either.
"So that hat," he said, returning to a familiar topic with a familiar face. "What'd you do, bring down a leopard in the Serengeti?"
Great. Apparently tonight he was making jokes. Hilarious, just fucking hilarious. Maybe all the Greatest Hits from the Wild West were making him punchy.
Yeah, that was it.
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Basically, he was pumped.
"Here, hang onta' this for me, boys." Gojyo shouldered out of his massive coat and left it on the stool next to Badou, where his drink was also waiting on the bar.
Now? Now he was ready. Bare-chested, ponytail tied tight, cowboy hat on, and black pants. Hell yeah he was ready to get this party started.
He offered his left hand all gentleman-like and lead Schu out to the dance floor, anywhere in the middle they could find room. Then, he lifted his arm up and let Schu spin underneath of it until his back was against Gojyo's front. One hand on each side of Schu's hips now, he let them just move for a bit, which was okay because the song was streaming into a new track.
Gojyo made sure their feet were staggered so they wouldn't step on each other's feet. This was the part where they found their rhythm - like it'd take more than 5 seconds, right? - and then Gojyo would let Schu turn around so they could really get into it.
It was impossible for Gojyo to not get into the music even as they walked over - every step Gojyo made was a step in time to the music - but now that their feet were stationary, it was their hips that he made sure moved to the beat. Left, right, left left, right. Every once in awhile he'd bring his hands up under Schu's - stretched out away from both of them - and snap his fingers a few times before his hands found their favorite spot again, resting on Schu's hips. No matter where his arms were though, his upper body moved too; sometimes just his shoulders - angling down left, then rolling back to the right, and repeating the motion - sometimes rolling his whole body and transferring the wave-like motion to Schu's body as well.
But for the moment... for the moment, Gojyo just wanted to keep the slow pace going - slow by comparison of where they'd go in a minute - and remind himself to never, ever be so stupid again as to even dream that Schu might... The very idea that he'd almost lost Surefire's friendship...
The left hand reached across Schu's waistline to grip the other hip while his right hand traveled up Schu's chest to rest on the left shoulder. His head fell so he could press his lips to the left side of Schu's neck - Surefire was in his element now, wasn't he? Same as Gojyo, who could slip into Neroli? If he only knew Surefire's real name, he'd have said it right then, right there. He settled for kissing Surefire's left ear and whispering, "Let's burn this place up, you'n me."
After a moment Gojyo let go of his dance partner and ran both hands down the sides of his arms, urging him to turn around and continue the dance.
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But, of course, if he was going to choose someone to dance with to set the standard, then he was sorry, girls and boys: that someone was Gojyo. It was circumstance, partially, but circumstance meant a lot to a person like Schuldig, whose entire life had been predicated on lucky accident. Providence, a religious man would call it.
Simply put, Gojyo and Schuldig had starred for fucking years in porn together. They knew every rhythm of each other's bodies down to the very last drop. There was no move one of them could make that the other couldn't physically anticipate, just enough beforehand to adapt. It had become something of a science, actually; all that time showing up to work and getting naked and trying to make sure they each looked just as good as the other without outshining each other-it'd trained a second instinct into Schuldig, an instinct not just purely about bodies but also about Gojyo. Gojyo's body.
And dancing-well, dancing was what they did now instead of the porn, wasn't it? And even if it wasn't as often as it might've been-it should be more often, Schuldig thought, feeling the sudden rush of just being on the dance floor with Gojyo behind him-there were some grooves a body never un-grooved.
Schuldig was, in some ways, a natural follower; if a leader set the pace, then that was the partner for him. There was an art to following though, which required the intrinsic ability to surrender, and Schuldig could only surrender to a select few. He could've been a fucking rock star on the dance floor with anyone in this building, but with Gojyo it was a different story entirely. A whole. Other. Level. The difference between fucking amazing amateurs and the professionals.
Gojyo was warm, and Schuldig wished, briefly, that he wasn't wearing the heavy cowboy shirt; but whatever, it was part of the charm. He fell into the rhythm even before he was out on that floor, and as soon as he felt the shift in Gojyo-turn around and face me, baby-he was so there.
This way, they could look at each other's faces, look into each other's eyes. Eye contact was fucking important, okay? Even if you looked away, lost momentarily in the music, you always looked back; even if there was hair in your eyes, even if you were getting flushed and a little dizzy, that was the place you always came home to.
It was more intimate than the porn. It was all them, operating under their own directions, at their own pace.
"Fuck," he said. "I fucking love this song."
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For example, the instant that Schu turned around, Gojyo backed off a little. The reason? Because they had to be allowed to let loose some energy for a bit before they could move back towards one another, grinding for a bit, but then moving away again to repeat the motion. No matter how much you wanted to be near that other person, there was only so much dancing you could do pressed up against another body. That was the toning down part. Thus, when you moved away, you had to get all that energy out of your system so that being close was your resting period.
Sure, Gojyo would toss his head, make his ponytail sway, close his eyes, pump his fists, weave around, but he was really just getting into his own world where all that existed was the music, the floor, Surefire, and him.
That was the other thing amateurs just couldn't do - they were always too conscious of everything else, the people watching, the song changing, how much they were drinking or smoking, or even what time what it was. None of that mattered to Gojyo, to Neroli. His whole body was at work - arms up in the air, head swaying this way and that, shoulders rolling in tandem or not, and hips shifting in every direction. Some of the time, his feet just dug into the floor, grounding the rest of his body, but then he'd get the urge to move around some more and he'd step forward or backward, cross and spin, or just bounce on the balls of his feet then the soles, back and forth.
Ah but grinding against Surefire was fun too. It wasn't like it was a challenge to figure out Surefire's rhythm, but it was fun anticipating it and matching the movements as a mirror image. Neroli's left hand kept seeking out Surefire's right hand, moving it to wherever felt right for the beats in the song - Neroli's shoulder, his hip, chest, even jawline - and that left the right hand to stay right at Surefire's hip and feel out the next movement - would it be a pop to the right? A roll forward? Time to separate again?
Even if Neroli shut his eyes, he made sure to catch Surefire's at least every few beats, and always flashing a smile, because hell if this wasn't just as amazing as the other night - in Neroli's mind, anyway.
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Once, Schuldig had teased him-"Shit, man, you like dancing better than sex sometimes, don't you?"-and after that it was never clear to Schuldig whether or not that sometimes was totally off the money or what.
He did, though. He fucking loved it. And it was one of the greatest highs of all, dancing with Sha Gojyo, just getting to be close to all this, and getting to look at his face.
So the question was: did the night before make this better, or what? A hand on Gojyo's chest, palm flat, skin on skin, fingers brushing soft lines, without real purpose. Some abstract pattern he didn't know, just to bridge the occasional distance between them. Fuck, man, you didn't show up not wearing a shirt and then expect not to be touched, but still; there was a certain electric jolt he got from the contact that he craved and was kind of terrified all at once, and it added this other thing to the dancing, vague and uncertain. Schuldig was barely skimming it, but the rest of his thoughts were focused on what his body felt, and anyway...
It was gonna be a long night. This shit was for fun, not thinking too hard. His hair was damp against the back of his neck, and Gojyo was dancing like nothing could catch up to them, and Schuldig was only too glad to be drawn along with each rock and each roll, fitting himself into that rhythm, making his home there. For however long the song lasted.
He didn't really want it to end.
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