Dedicated to arabianred
This takes place in Magnolias-verse, but could be read as a standalone. This is for arabianred, since she wanted R/J, and this could also be taken as practice for ficathon, since the theme is songfic.
This is an outtake, and is inspired by this song. (Link opens a youtube video)
Title: Etoile Rouge
Rating: PG/PG13
Characters: Rei/Jadeite
Genre: AU Romance
"And he didn't even apologize! I mean, HE was the one who cheated on ME, and he didn't even apologize!" The voice over the phone was high-pitched, words punctuated by sniffles, and Raye Harcourt rolled her eyes as she turned the volume down on her cell phone. This was a conversation which happened monthly.
"Heather, Winston Newport the Third is scum, and you are better off without him, or for that matter any guy who's named after two brands of cigarettes AND has Roman numerals after his name," she said in a voice that was neutral and evenly modulated, boredom undetectable in the satiny tones. The cell phone was on her desk, on speaker, and she continued typing her report for AP English without cessation.
The girl named Heather sniffled and blew her nose, and Raye rolled her eyes again. It was beyond rude to blow one's nose into the phone, not to mention gross, but Heather Bennington was a little bit of a poser and still had to learn such niceties, particularly if she wanted to struggle into the popular set.
That was an uncharitable thought, and she silently chided herself. She was no longer the pampered, glamourous Manhattan teen socialite she had been two years ago. But old habits died hard, and it was people like Heather, who still attended St. Catherine's, that brought back the old life and old ways.
"You know what we should do, Raye?" Heather's voice was still at a rather shrill pitch, but at least she was no longer sniffling. "We should go out tonight, like the old days. Pull all the stops, break some hearts, collect a dozen phone numbers, see how many conquests we can make in the course of an evening. What do you say?"
Raye shrugged, but Heather couldn't see. "I don't know. I've two more pages to write on Voltaire."
"Whatever," Raye could almost hear Heather's dismissive hand-wave in her tone. "You've the whole weekend. It's a Friday night. Please? I need to forget about Winston, and besides, I have a killer Balenciaga to break in. Pretty please?"
The whine was grating on her nerves. Raye aimed a death glare at the phone on her desk. "Fine."
"THANK YOU THANK YOU!! MUAH!" Heather, in a dramatic 360 degree change of mood, now effused with giddy joy. "Could you make the arrangements if I buy the drinks? You always know the BEST places!"
Raye refrained from reminding Heather that both of them were underage and therefore the drinks wouldn't have run them all that much to begin with. Then again, it was probably Heather's intention. Whatever. She made a noise of assent, hung up the phone, and finished another page of Voltaire before dialing another number.
It took less than thirty minutes to make arrangements via her father's secretary. The Harcourt name opened lots of doors, even on very short notice, and money would never be a factor. The club called Etoile Rouge in Manhattan was newly opened, hip, ostentatious and very exclusive. It was almost impossible to get a pass for Friday night without a month's advance notice for the average person, even the average Manhattan socialite, but Raye wasn't one for being ordinary in any aspect of her life. At nine o'clock, the black stretch limo would pick her up before driving to Heather's house, and they would arrive at the doors of the club at ten-fifteen, just as the line would have started wrapping around the block, full of hopefuls trying to make their way past the trio of black-clad, seven-feet bouncers. Heather and her would be in their VIP booth by half-past ten, and by eleven at the latest, Heather would be working towards her evening's goal of breaking hearts and taking names. She, Raye, would have done her duty as a friend, and that would be that.
She phoned her best friend even as she went back to her report.
***
"You'll NEVER guess what I have," Bruce Roberts held up a pair of glossy black postcards embossed with red stars so smooth and shiny they looked like vinyl. His friend Jake Burnley glanced up from the copy of Sports Illustrated he was perusing with a bored look.
"What are those?"
"VIP Passes, my friend! To Etoile Rouge, THE trendiest club in midtown Manhattan, baby!"
"A new place usurps that title every other month," Jake shrugged. "And if you need a small lesson in geography to remind you, we're in the Bronx, which is like a bazillion subway stops away from your little bar. How did you get those passes anyway?"
"Oh, they're from Mark. Remember how he nearly lost his senior thesis the night before it was due and I performed a minor miracle on his computer and recovered the file last Monday? His sister Desiree bartends there. You know... the hot redhead with the dragon tattoo on her..." Bruce made a very expressive gesture with his hands. "He says it's like impossible to get in. So he threw in the passes along with the Benjamin Franklin, since I'm, you know, the shit, and saved his fucking life. So TONIGHT! It's you and me, baby!"
"Do I have to?"
"Come on, man!! This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience for regular people like us! We can play at being the rich and famous for a night. There's bound to be some hot babes. And come on, I just got paid by Mark in aforementioned miracle-casting and life-saving. I'll buy."
"Fine, whatever," Jake shrugged. It wasn't like he was doing too much else that night.
***
"Your friend Kevin isn't coming tonight?" Heather pouted into the compact she was holding and touched up her lipgloss. "That's a pity. He is SO cute, in that unapproachable rugged white knight way."
"You just broke up with your boyfriend," Raye pointed out as she stretched out her long legs in the leather seat of the limo. "You're not supposed to be checking out Kevin. And are we talking about MY Kevin? White knight? Puh-lease. Too grumpy and not nearly hot-headed enough."
"Still, he's cute! Why is it that you never invite me along when you hang out with him?"
Raye didn't say anything about wanting to protect one of the only guys in her life whom she knew she could depend on from a Balenciaga-clad female piranha, and settled for a shrug. "He's a busy guy. And besides, he has a girlfriend."
"Oh?" Heather leaned forward, interested. "What's her name? What's she like? We should all go and get manicures at Belladonna's together. Is she pretty?"
"I don't bug into Kevin's personal business. But she makes him happy and she seems good for him, so that's pretty much all that matters." Raye had opted for subtle, since it was Heather whose goal it was to break hearts tonight, and smoothed down the skirt of her little black dress. The only hint of colour and adornment on the garment was a satiny red ribbon threaded under the bodice like a girdle, picking up the tint of her lipstick. The black stiletto heels on her feet might have been Manolo Blahniks, but they were similarly plain in design. Even so, and a little part of her was aware and took a small, shameful pleasure in it, she was much better-looking than the brightly clad, heavily made-up Heather.
The limo pulled to a stop right at the entrance of Club Etoile Rouge, and the two girls stepped out to the slack-jawed admiration of more than a few of the guys in line. Heather strutted up to the bouncer and all but thrust her VIP pass in his face, but Raye simply handed over her own with a sigh. When would that girl realize that there was only a fine line between tasteful satisfaction at one's station in life and gauche, classless flaunting? They were ushered in to a VIP booth decorated in silver and black, studded with red stars, up a spiralling red staircase from the main floor where multitudes of young and beautiful people were already dancing.
Raye ordered a nonalcoholic version of the house special drink, a twist on the classic Mimosa with blood orange juice mixed in Sprite to make the club's signature fiery red. Heather was already up and about, more than ready to wash away all memories of Winston Newport III, but she just wanted to relax for a bit before facing the masses, air-kissing countless cheeks, asking the usual polite and meaningless questions about summers in the Monterrey or Bar Harbour or Europe, gossiping about the fight that broke out just last week in this very spot when Paris Hilton and entourage were in here. Bored, she scanned the upper level, passing over several professional athletes, a handful of Wall Street heirs and heiresses, Ashlee Simpson and her eyeliner-wearing band-type boyfriend, and a few supermodels, their elongated, bony limbs sharp and too thin in the harsh light. Jaded, she looked for someone new and interesting, and her eyes landed on a pair of young men looking completely out of place at a table across the room.
***
"This club has got to be the most pretentious thing ever," Jake shook his head as he looked around the room. Bruce was practically pissing himself in excitement at the sightings of numerous rich-and-famous types in the VIP level, but Jake's cynical mind noted the overpriced drinks, the fake, forced smiles on more than a few people, the glassy eyes of a supermodel he was sure was stoned to the gills. So this was the playground of the moneyed and sophisticated.
He'll pass...
His thought process shut off with a nearly audible snap as, on an idle scan of the room, his eyes met the fathomless, violet ones of a lone girl seated at one of the tables toying with a red-tinged drink in a champagne glass. For the longest moment, time seemed to stand still, and everything and everyone else in the background seemed to fade away, blur like a smeared watercolour, and he could swear that he was paralyzed. Their eyes locked, held, held... and then, instead of breaking the gaze or blushing or giving him a flirtatious smile or any other obvious, standard reactions, she quirked a perfectly arched dark eyebrow as though in challenge.
Aside from that, she didn't move. For a second, he almost thought that she was a work of art, so still and unearthly beautiful that she couldn't be human. And then she lifted her glass to her crimson lips and took a sip, and he stood from his seat.
***
The last time she'd seen a blue that intense, that fiery, it was in the flames of the gas range stove at her grandfather's house. The blue-eyed blond was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a nondescript black t-shirt and jeans that, to her discerning eye, were definitely less than a hundred dollars. He looked out of place in here, his hands too big and capable-looking, his golden hair an unstyled, tousled mop. And when their eyes met, she felt pinned to her spot, almost hypnotized, as though his eyes were really the blue of the hottest flames.
Well. There's no point in letting anyone stare her down. She finished her drink, set down the empty glass, and got to her feet. Striding forward on her Manolos, she took the first of the steps that would lead to him.
***
"What's your name?" The girl wasn't shy, that was for sure, but there was more curiosity than flirtation in her gaze. She wore a deceptively simple black dress that clung filmily to every perfect curve, and high heeled sandals that showed off slim, toned legs. She didn't try to pitch her voice above the music and shout in his face, but leaned close enough that he'd be able to hear her even if she whispered. He caught a subtle whiff of perfume that smelled hot and not quite tame.
"Jake," he answered, holding out a hand for her to shake.
She smiled then, a secretive smile, as she placed her slim hand in his big one. He couldn't have guessed that her thoughts were full of pleasant surprise that it was Jake, not Jacob Ainsworth Fettersley or something similarly pretentious. Instead, it was simple and strong and solid, much like the hand he held out. "Raye. Nice to meet you. I'd ask if you came here often, but it's clear that you don't."
He felt affronted by that, even though just a moment ago, he was reflecting that he wouldn't care if the club closed in three weeks. "What makes you say that?"
"Don't get mad," she said evenly. "I don't mean it in a bad way. But you're not the type to look for ostentatious thrills or get excited over running into the rich and famous. And the drinks here cost too much. It's all over your face."
Well, all right. That wasn't too bad. It was an honest assessment, and there was no snobbery in her tone or her face. "Do YOU come here often, then?"
"Not at all," she laughed as though that was the funniest thing in the world. "I'm just doing a big, fat favour for a sort-of-friend who had a boy crisis, again, and needed to surround herself with glitzy people and guys rich enough to buy her the aforementioned overpriced drinks so she'd feel better about herself."
"You're very cynical," he observed, and this was rapidly turning into the most bizarre conversation he'd ever had with a stranger at a bar or club. It was okay, though. It was more real, somehow.
"Probably," she agreed with a grin. "Well, since you're here, even though you don't want to be, want to dance?"
He would have said no, despite her striking beauty, despite the way the world tilted when their eyes met across the room. She was still a creature of a different world than his, and he felt sure that the slim diamond tennis bracelet on her arm cost more than the college tuition he'd be shelling out next term. But her grin bespoke a mischievous disregard for all the pretentiousness surrounding them, a determination to carve out something new and extraordinary and unexpected for herself, and he found himself reaching for her hand.
This is an outtake, and is inspired by this song. (Link opens a youtube video)
Title: Etoile Rouge
Rating: PG/PG13
Characters: Rei/Jadeite
Genre: AU Romance
"And he didn't even apologize! I mean, HE was the one who cheated on ME, and he didn't even apologize!" The voice over the phone was high-pitched, words punctuated by sniffles, and Raye Harcourt rolled her eyes as she turned the volume down on her cell phone. This was a conversation which happened monthly.
"Heather, Winston Newport the Third is scum, and you are better off without him, or for that matter any guy who's named after two brands of cigarettes AND has Roman numerals after his name," she said in a voice that was neutral and evenly modulated, boredom undetectable in the satiny tones. The cell phone was on her desk, on speaker, and she continued typing her report for AP English without cessation.
The girl named Heather sniffled and blew her nose, and Raye rolled her eyes again. It was beyond rude to blow one's nose into the phone, not to mention gross, but Heather Bennington was a little bit of a poser and still had to learn such niceties, particularly if she wanted to struggle into the popular set.
That was an uncharitable thought, and she silently chided herself. She was no longer the pampered, glamourous Manhattan teen socialite she had been two years ago. But old habits died hard, and it was people like Heather, who still attended St. Catherine's, that brought back the old life and old ways.
"You know what we should do, Raye?" Heather's voice was still at a rather shrill pitch, but at least she was no longer sniffling. "We should go out tonight, like the old days. Pull all the stops, break some hearts, collect a dozen phone numbers, see how many conquests we can make in the course of an evening. What do you say?"
Raye shrugged, but Heather couldn't see. "I don't know. I've two more pages to write on Voltaire."
"Whatever," Raye could almost hear Heather's dismissive hand-wave in her tone. "You've the whole weekend. It's a Friday night. Please? I need to forget about Winston, and besides, I have a killer Balenciaga to break in. Pretty please?"
The whine was grating on her nerves. Raye aimed a death glare at the phone on her desk. "Fine."
"THANK YOU THANK YOU!! MUAH!" Heather, in a dramatic 360 degree change of mood, now effused with giddy joy. "Could you make the arrangements if I buy the drinks? You always know the BEST places!"
Raye refrained from reminding Heather that both of them were underage and therefore the drinks wouldn't have run them all that much to begin with. Then again, it was probably Heather's intention. Whatever. She made a noise of assent, hung up the phone, and finished another page of Voltaire before dialing another number.
It took less than thirty minutes to make arrangements via her father's secretary. The Harcourt name opened lots of doors, even on very short notice, and money would never be a factor. The club called Etoile Rouge in Manhattan was newly opened, hip, ostentatious and very exclusive. It was almost impossible to get a pass for Friday night without a month's advance notice for the average person, even the average Manhattan socialite, but Raye wasn't one for being ordinary in any aspect of her life. At nine o'clock, the black stretch limo would pick her up before driving to Heather's house, and they would arrive at the doors of the club at ten-fifteen, just as the line would have started wrapping around the block, full of hopefuls trying to make their way past the trio of black-clad, seven-feet bouncers. Heather and her would be in their VIP booth by half-past ten, and by eleven at the latest, Heather would be working towards her evening's goal of breaking hearts and taking names. She, Raye, would have done her duty as a friend, and that would be that.
She phoned her best friend even as she went back to her report.
***
"You'll NEVER guess what I have," Bruce Roberts held up a pair of glossy black postcards embossed with red stars so smooth and shiny they looked like vinyl. His friend Jake Burnley glanced up from the copy of Sports Illustrated he was perusing with a bored look.
"What are those?"
"VIP Passes, my friend! To Etoile Rouge, THE trendiest club in midtown Manhattan, baby!"
"A new place usurps that title every other month," Jake shrugged. "And if you need a small lesson in geography to remind you, we're in the Bronx, which is like a bazillion subway stops away from your little bar. How did you get those passes anyway?"
"Oh, they're from Mark. Remember how he nearly lost his senior thesis the night before it was due and I performed a minor miracle on his computer and recovered the file last Monday? His sister Desiree bartends there. You know... the hot redhead with the dragon tattoo on her..." Bruce made a very expressive gesture with his hands. "He says it's like impossible to get in. So he threw in the passes along with the Benjamin Franklin, since I'm, you know, the shit, and saved his fucking life. So TONIGHT! It's you and me, baby!"
"Do I have to?"
"Come on, man!! This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience for regular people like us! We can play at being the rich and famous for a night. There's bound to be some hot babes. And come on, I just got paid by Mark in aforementioned miracle-casting and life-saving. I'll buy."
"Fine, whatever," Jake shrugged. It wasn't like he was doing too much else that night.
***
"Your friend Kevin isn't coming tonight?" Heather pouted into the compact she was holding and touched up her lipgloss. "That's a pity. He is SO cute, in that unapproachable rugged white knight way."
"You just broke up with your boyfriend," Raye pointed out as she stretched out her long legs in the leather seat of the limo. "You're not supposed to be checking out Kevin. And are we talking about MY Kevin? White knight? Puh-lease. Too grumpy and not nearly hot-headed enough."
"Still, he's cute! Why is it that you never invite me along when you hang out with him?"
Raye didn't say anything about wanting to protect one of the only guys in her life whom she knew she could depend on from a Balenciaga-clad female piranha, and settled for a shrug. "He's a busy guy. And besides, he has a girlfriend."
"Oh?" Heather leaned forward, interested. "What's her name? What's she like? We should all go and get manicures at Belladonna's together. Is she pretty?"
"I don't bug into Kevin's personal business. But she makes him happy and she seems good for him, so that's pretty much all that matters." Raye had opted for subtle, since it was Heather whose goal it was to break hearts tonight, and smoothed down the skirt of her little black dress. The only hint of colour and adornment on the garment was a satiny red ribbon threaded under the bodice like a girdle, picking up the tint of her lipstick. The black stiletto heels on her feet might have been Manolo Blahniks, but they were similarly plain in design. Even so, and a little part of her was aware and took a small, shameful pleasure in it, she was much better-looking than the brightly clad, heavily made-up Heather.
The limo pulled to a stop right at the entrance of Club Etoile Rouge, and the two girls stepped out to the slack-jawed admiration of more than a few of the guys in line. Heather strutted up to the bouncer and all but thrust her VIP pass in his face, but Raye simply handed over her own with a sigh. When would that girl realize that there was only a fine line between tasteful satisfaction at one's station in life and gauche, classless flaunting? They were ushered in to a VIP booth decorated in silver and black, studded with red stars, up a spiralling red staircase from the main floor where multitudes of young and beautiful people were already dancing.
Raye ordered a nonalcoholic version of the house special drink, a twist on the classic Mimosa with blood orange juice mixed in Sprite to make the club's signature fiery red. Heather was already up and about, more than ready to wash away all memories of Winston Newport III, but she just wanted to relax for a bit before facing the masses, air-kissing countless cheeks, asking the usual polite and meaningless questions about summers in the Monterrey or Bar Harbour or Europe, gossiping about the fight that broke out just last week in this very spot when Paris Hilton and entourage were in here. Bored, she scanned the upper level, passing over several professional athletes, a handful of Wall Street heirs and heiresses, Ashlee Simpson and her eyeliner-wearing band-type boyfriend, and a few supermodels, their elongated, bony limbs sharp and too thin in the harsh light. Jaded, she looked for someone new and interesting, and her eyes landed on a pair of young men looking completely out of place at a table across the room.
***
"This club has got to be the most pretentious thing ever," Jake shook his head as he looked around the room. Bruce was practically pissing himself in excitement at the sightings of numerous rich-and-famous types in the VIP level, but Jake's cynical mind noted the overpriced drinks, the fake, forced smiles on more than a few people, the glassy eyes of a supermodel he was sure was stoned to the gills. So this was the playground of the moneyed and sophisticated.
He'll pass...
His thought process shut off with a nearly audible snap as, on an idle scan of the room, his eyes met the fathomless, violet ones of a lone girl seated at one of the tables toying with a red-tinged drink in a champagne glass. For the longest moment, time seemed to stand still, and everything and everyone else in the background seemed to fade away, blur like a smeared watercolour, and he could swear that he was paralyzed. Their eyes locked, held, held... and then, instead of breaking the gaze or blushing or giving him a flirtatious smile or any other obvious, standard reactions, she quirked a perfectly arched dark eyebrow as though in challenge.
Aside from that, she didn't move. For a second, he almost thought that she was a work of art, so still and unearthly beautiful that she couldn't be human. And then she lifted her glass to her crimson lips and took a sip, and he stood from his seat.
***
The last time she'd seen a blue that intense, that fiery, it was in the flames of the gas range stove at her grandfather's house. The blue-eyed blond was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a nondescript black t-shirt and jeans that, to her discerning eye, were definitely less than a hundred dollars. He looked out of place in here, his hands too big and capable-looking, his golden hair an unstyled, tousled mop. And when their eyes met, she felt pinned to her spot, almost hypnotized, as though his eyes were really the blue of the hottest flames.
Well. There's no point in letting anyone stare her down. She finished her drink, set down the empty glass, and got to her feet. Striding forward on her Manolos, she took the first of the steps that would lead to him.
***
"What's your name?" The girl wasn't shy, that was for sure, but there was more curiosity than flirtation in her gaze. She wore a deceptively simple black dress that clung filmily to every perfect curve, and high heeled sandals that showed off slim, toned legs. She didn't try to pitch her voice above the music and shout in his face, but leaned close enough that he'd be able to hear her even if she whispered. He caught a subtle whiff of perfume that smelled hot and not quite tame.
"Jake," he answered, holding out a hand for her to shake.
She smiled then, a secretive smile, as she placed her slim hand in his big one. He couldn't have guessed that her thoughts were full of pleasant surprise that it was Jake, not Jacob Ainsworth Fettersley or something similarly pretentious. Instead, it was simple and strong and solid, much like the hand he held out. "Raye. Nice to meet you. I'd ask if you came here often, but it's clear that you don't."
He felt affronted by that, even though just a moment ago, he was reflecting that he wouldn't care if the club closed in three weeks. "What makes you say that?"
"Don't get mad," she said evenly. "I don't mean it in a bad way. But you're not the type to look for ostentatious thrills or get excited over running into the rich and famous. And the drinks here cost too much. It's all over your face."
Well, all right. That wasn't too bad. It was an honest assessment, and there was no snobbery in her tone or her face. "Do YOU come here often, then?"
"Not at all," she laughed as though that was the funniest thing in the world. "I'm just doing a big, fat favour for a sort-of-friend who had a boy crisis, again, and needed to surround herself with glitzy people and guys rich enough to buy her the aforementioned overpriced drinks so she'd feel better about herself."
"You're very cynical," he observed, and this was rapidly turning into the most bizarre conversation he'd ever had with a stranger at a bar or club. It was okay, though. It was more real, somehow.
"Probably," she agreed with a grin. "Well, since you're here, even though you don't want to be, want to dance?"
He would have said no, despite her striking beauty, despite the way the world tilted when their eyes met across the room. She was still a creature of a different world than his, and he felt sure that the slim diamond tennis bracelet on her arm cost more than the college tuition he'd be shelling out next term. But her grin bespoke a mischievous disregard for all the pretentiousness surrounding them, a determination to carve out something new and extraordinary and unexpected for herself, and he found himself reaching for her hand.