Back Home?-No Event-BYOA

[grimholdkeeper]

After a quiet night in his room, Balthazar wakes in a labyrinth of clutter and dust, sprawled across a threadbare red velvet divan. The smell of the place, and the feel, is so utterly familiar he sits bolt upright. Home? Home! Delight and relief are immediately replaced by a vague sense of regret. He can't quite remember where he thought he

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[grimholdkeeper]

Already on edge, Balthazar gives a slight start at the appearance of the other man, one hand held up defensively despite being empty of any weapon. "I am a sorcerer," he says warily, studying Lucifer intently. "And the one that belongs to this particular building, ostensibly."

Ostensibly, because the feedback he should be getting from the wards layered around the shop isn't quite there. There's something, but it's like hearing a voice echo across a distance of several miles. Balthazar's hand drops slowly, defensive power settling (And that, too, doesn't feel quite right to him--for one thing, he normally has more to call to hand. Maybe he's been sick and forgotten it?), but as he straightens, he still looks uncertain. He can feel the light around Lucifer, even if it's not visible on a physical level, and while he's inclined to dismiss the sound of feathers as his imagination, the beauty of his visitor is hard to deny.

"The door," he says after a moment, glancing over his shoulder. "Yes. It won't open for me. Maybe you have more of a knack with it?" It's not quite an accusation, although he's never been a believer in coincidence. If a stranger appears at the same time his magic goes haywire, it's not paranoid to make a connection between the two.

((That's okay! It happens, and you're welcome to tag whenever you like. If it's all the same to you, they can recognize one another as time wears on, but maybe we'll take that progression slowly?))

[phosphoriel]

He looks the man over, studying first a face that seems weathered by ages, by long suffering, for all that it's relatively young. The man has a sense of longevity about him, something that tells Lucifer he is older than he appears, perhaps far older than any mortal has a right to be. He could find out how and why, perhaps, if he looked deeper. Still, there's some appeal in letting these mysteries reveal themselves.

He smiles in response to that hint, too subtle to truly be called an accusation. The man's wariness is understandable. He is, after all, lurking in his apartment, in his realm, and if he had not been distracted by the puzzle of how he'd come to be here he might have tried to uncover the place's secrets; the sense of old magic is very strong. Some of it feels like the same power that flared briefly from the man when he saw him. Some of it feels like something alien, something that doesn't belong.

"Doors open when I ask them," he answers, simply enough. It's the truth, and he doesn't mind that it might discomfort this man. He doesn't need to give him his name, he senses, for the man to know he is not quite human--the same way Lucifer knows he is not quite mortal. "It seems I was waiting for you." He holds open the door to Balthazar's apartment and stands aside to permit entry, as though it's his, as though he is the host in the sorcerer's home.

[ooc: Yay! That's fine with me.]

[grimholdkeeper]

"Do they?" He's trying to get the measure of this beautiful stranger, and, yes, he's already certain he's not human. What he is, he can't yet determine, even whether he's friend or foe. The calm confidence suggests that whoever or whatever he is, he feels he has nothing to fear from a sorcerer of Balthazar's caliber.

That's a little scary.

He's willing to accept the invitation into his own living space, though, slipping cautiously past the visitor. "Did you come to ask me something, as well?"

Glancing around the apartment, he finds things more or less as they should be. There's little decoration around the place; a few photo albums, an empty birdcage, a stack of books all over the coffee table. "I have tea, I think. Possibly something edible, depending on how long I've been unconscious."

Inside, he shrugs off his coat and hangs it on a rack by the wall. Beneath, his dress is shabby and patched.

[phosphoriel]

He follows Balthazar into his apartment. It's neither particularly neat nor particularly dirty, cluttered yet well-kept enough to appear to be a warm and homey space. He's certain that it would be comfortable indeed, if it were really his home; this place they stand in has the feeling of an illusion, though unlike Balthazar, he isn't concerned about it. There's no form of darkness that can stand before him, none that he can't master.

His wings rustle with an audible sound, though they're still hidden from sight. He flexes them outward and folds them in again while unbuttoning his coat, following Balthazar's example and draping it over the rack. Beneath he wears a dress shirt, snowy white, and gray trousers. In contrast to the sorcerer's clothes, his are immaculate.

"Tea would be welcome." His voice is mildly apologetic. "You must forgive my intrusion. The truth is that I've found myself here without willing it." 

[grimholdkeeper]

Balthazar hasn't yet come to the conclusion that this is illusion. It's so perfect, so like the Arcana Cabana. Except for the darkness. He pauses by the couch, studying the window at the far end of the room, and he's slow to return his gaze to the visitor. It's the rustling that catches his attention, and this time he's suddenly very aware it's not his mind playing tricks on him.

When he turns, the mental image of the wings he hears is so strong, he's already extending one hand as if to reach out and touch them. It's a subconscious desire, but no less powerful for that, and it takes him a second to realize there are no wings visible. His hand drops, and he looks bewildered.

Gradually, the words filter through the haze, and he pieces together the fragments of information he has. "I see. Were you summoned?"

He means summoned by magic, except even that assumption doesn't fully answer the questions forming in his brain. He knows of no Morganian, or any other sorcerer, who would be powerful enough to both encase his dwelling so inescapably and summon a supernatural being, either divine or demonic, to visit him there.

[phosphoriel]

He catches the gesture out of the corner of his eye, the man reaching a hand toward him as though to touch those wings he's hidden away from view. His head turns and lifts slightly; he regards Balthazar with curious blue eyes. Strange that this man he's never spoken with before should gesture with such familiarity, make as if he knows the wings are there. He flicks them carefully out of reach, even though his hand has already dropped.

"Possibly," he answers after a moment's consideration. "But not by you, I think." Darkness lurks around them, a tangible presence. "There is another power here. You feel it, don't you?"

He glances toward the window where Balthazar had stood, the glass black as obsidian and perfectly mirrored. Outside of that window the darkness is impenetrable, and he doubts whether they truly exist in any physical location in the mortal realm, just now. He walks past Balthazar and goes to lay a hand on the glass, thinking briefly of ordering the darkness to part and show him what lays beyond it. But he's not yet ready to stop feigning ignorance and powerlessness.

"I'll help you break it, if I can," he tells the man, "as it insists on delaying me here. First, however, I believe you mentioned tea?"

[grimholdkeeper]

It's not just the sound that's hit him, it's the sudden certainty of knowing what those feathers should feel like. But then they're not there after all, and he's left wondering what he was thinking, moving to touch where he has no business touching. "...sorry," he shakes his head, trying to make sense of what's inside it. "I thought I...never mind. No, I don't do summonings, except in emergencies. It's unethical, and there's too much potential for backlash."

He watches his visitor touch the darkened glass, chilled and uncomfortable. "But I have enemies, and I'm sure if they could do this to me, trap me, they would." He just doesn't think any are capable. Maybe Maxim, with some power boosting and assistance, but he's out of commission.

"...tea, yes. Green, black, or pu-erh?" He moves through the doorway into the nearby kitchen, reaching for a cabinet door.

[phosphoriel]

He tips his head faintly and smiles, amused by this overview Balthazar takes on the business of summoning. "Unethical?" he echoes. "That would depend on what's being summoned, I would think." Though he doubts that his purpose for being here is to debate the moral uses of the man's sorcery. There's no reason for him to take any particular interest in what he does, though he supposes he could tempt this sorcerer to sin easily enough if he wished to. Such depth of power, he senses, for a mortal, and yet such restraint, such willful control.

The kitchen appears as homely as the rest of the apartment. Its faintly disreputable air suggests that it is looked after by a man with his mind often on other things. Lucifer follows Balthazar into it, drawn by the way the man seems drawn to him in return, by this talk of enemies, by his secrets. "Black," he answers his question, and then he steps in closer behind him and lays a hand against the center of his back.

"Who are you, I wonder?" His voice is a low murmur. It would be easy enough to find out for himself, if he didn't mind potentially damaging the man to uncover all of his secrets. But that would be a sorry thing when Balthazar is the only ready companion at hand, and no harm to him to let these mysteries reveal themselves.

[grimholdkeeper]

"Would it? As long as it's binding a sentient being against its will..." he shrugs and tries to focus on the tea. There are a number of tin canisters in the cabinet. It's all loose tea, and decent quality. He sets the containers out and moves to fill the kettle.

The touch to his back makes him freeze, something deep within him responding. The kettle overflows into the basin, and he doesn't seem to notice. "Just an old shopkeeper," he says, slightly breathless. "With a little magic and some knowledge how to use it."

It's not a lie. Perhaps an understatement.

[phosphoriel]

"What an ordinary description." The smile is audible in his voice. "Yet you seem to bear little resemblance to the common man from my viewpoint." His hand travels lightly across his back, from between his shoulderblades down the length of his spine, coming to rest again at the small of his back. "Balthazar." The sorcerer's name is a caress. The feathers of his wings rustle as they widen, temptation a lilting song, soft but audible. He is shadowed by the figment of those wings, the suggestion, even if not the visible shape. "For one matter, you're far older than any mortal man has a right to be."

He reaches past Balthazar to shut off the water. It runs down the sides of the kettle; he takes the handle and pours out the excess water, then puts on the lid. "Attend your tasks, sorcerer," he murmurs, his other hand still resting against the man's back, warm through the fabric of his clothes. "You mustn't let yourself become distracted in the middle of a working."

The contact breaks as he moves away to the stove, the kettle in hand, and instead of bothering with the gas he simple lights one of the burners with a thought, a bare flicker of effort, setting the kettle to heat atop it.

[grimholdkeeper]

The words are disconcerting enough, even without the encroaching presence and the phantom wings. The touch, comparatively subtle and gentle, threatens to turn him inside out. He makes a small, strangled sound of mixed approval and protest. He knew he was starved for contact, but not this starved.

So distracted is he that he forgets to wonder how the stranger knows his name and age, until he takes the kettle away. Deprived of the point of warmth against his back, he struggles to pull together scattered thoughts and dignity. This is all wrong, and everything is suspect.

He turns in time to watch the stove light, with no apparent effort on his guest's part, and the mixed feelings and alien hunger draw together in a cloud of resentment. "What do you want from me?" he demands in a low voice, eyes cold and hard. "Tell me the truth."

[phosphoriel]

The kettle heats quickly over the circle of fire and he lays his fingers for a moment against the curved metal side, unbothered by a touch that would have burned mortal hands. He can feel the dark threads of Balthazar's anger, the way they tangle together with the helpless want his hands provoked and he turns back to face the man with level eyes, untroubled by what he sees in his expression. He's accustomed to this, the way men want him, seek him, love him, all while fearing what he is, desperate to defeat him or break away.

"I haven't decided what I want from you." He approaches slowly as though to give him time to retreat, but he would only follow if he did. Taking Balthazar's chin in his hand, he lifts it a couple of inches or perhaps a little more to look into his eyes. Standing before him he is taller than this man, his grasp light and yet there is an immeasurable strength in his fingers, in the lines of his body. "And that is the truth." If he wanted to lie, he would be the best at it that the sorcerer had ever met.

"What do you want, Balthazar? Would you like the power to break free of this darkness?" He lets go of the man's chin, only to run hands down his arms, to catch them at his waist. His wings lift to cup around them, shelter them, and he thinks of dropping the guise that hides them from view but doesn't yet. "Or would you like to stay here in the midst of it, with me?"

[grimholdkeeper]

The mental struggle is visible in the clench of his jaw and the tension of his shoulders. He can't recall ever feeling desire so suddenly and acutely, but, perversely, he's inclined to chalk it up to interference on the stranger's part, or on the darkness outside, even without knowing precisely who he is, where the dark comes from, or whether they're responsible for one another. Lust isn't quite enough to overcome his sense of duty, not at this moment, and he can't afford to be taken advantage of. More than that, he doesn't want to be played for a fool.

Still, he doesn't flinch from the grip on his chin, or struggle. He can feel the strength, and he wonders if his magic is enough to counter it, but he's not ready to find out. As long as he doesn't struggle, he can tell himself he may still be able to get free with a strike at the right time. If he exhausts himself trying to get away and can't, the game is over, and he's lost.

What does he want? The grip on his arms sends sparks dancing along his nerve endings, and he's aware his breathing has picked up. Clearly, what he's getting isn't far off from what he wants, on some level. On the other hand, he's never been one to leap for the shorter, easier road, even as time begins to slowly break him down. Instead of answering, he asks a question of his own. "You're hiding something. Why? I can hear them. I can feel them. Show me."

[phosphoriel]

It's a bold request, certainly within his power to grant. "As you like," he answers mildly, letting go of the man to step back, and he wonders if he didn't want Balthazar to sense the wings from the beginning, to demand their presence. He sheds the guise on them like a curtain falling, unveiling them all at once in their glory, the huge feathered expanse of them. Opened, they are twice the length of his body and half again that; he keeps them closed in now, but the apartment is small and seems smaller for their visibility, and he larger.

"Is this what you wished to see?" One of the wings trails forward, unfolding. The feathers are blinding white, pure as snow, and the leading edge of pinions that brush the front of Balthazar's clothes are soft as down, though the spines are rigid and thick. "Touch them, if you like." His attraction to this sorcerer seems inexplicable. He can feel the man's longing just as he can feel him struggle to decide whether or not to fight him, bring his magic to bear against him. He flicks feathers against his cheek, teasing. "I'm not your enemy, Balthazar."

[grimholdkeeper]

He flinches slightly at the sudden brightness, squeezing his eyes half-shut for a moment as he adjusts. At the same time, a sense of familiarity creeps over him, an awareness that this is something he's been waiting for, desperately.

"Yes," he answers hoarsely, and his head tilts at the touch of the feathers. It's somewhere between an evasive motion and a silent plea for more, but just as suddenly he changes his mind and jerks forward, accepting the invitation to touch. He's less gentle than he would be, normally, still torn between anger, confusion, and longing. There's no shyness, though, as he curls his fingers in the silky pinions.

Blue eyes darkening with desire, he refocuses on his guest's face. "So you say. You know my name. Do I get yours?" The kettle begins to steam and hiss behind them, but he's no longer interested in something so mundane.

[phosphoriel]

The sorcerer's hands close harshly on the feathers and he draws in breath, a long slow hiss of it as though the touch pains him, but it isn't pain that he feels. Or rather, it isn't the pain that matters, the thick spines bending in the man's tight grasp, but the strange pleasure of it, the swelling of desire. He sees it reflected in the eyes which stare back at him, bright with longing, with bewilderment and a crackling of dangerous anger. His own gaze doesn't bother to hide the pleasure Balthazar's touch gives him. The wing pushes harder against his hands, like a cat demanding caresses.

He thinks of answering his question, making a gift of his true name. The kettle begins to whistle, and then to shriek, while the long tension draws out between them like a cord unraveling until he extinguishes the heat. In the abrupt silence there is a practiced flick of the wing, a deft jerk to free it from the man's fingers, and Lucifer steps forward and grasps his arms again and drags him close with that unfathomable strength, lowering his head to cover Balthazar's mouth with his own.

The kiss is consuming, strong fingers catching the man's chin to angle his jaw, the other hand pressing in at the small of his back to pull him still closer. His wings sweep forward and encircle them, a cage of feathers as inescapable as metal bars would have been. He searches Balthazar's mouth with his tongue, tasting his desire, his wariness, the tangle of confused emotions. To him, too, it's a strange familiarity, being entangled with this man, the pressure of his mouth beneath his. When he ends the kiss his fingers remain cupping his jaw, caressing. "Call me what you like."

[ooc: Lmao I just noticed that an earlier tag of mine ended up at the bottom of your post somehow. /deleted it]