[Assaulted by pulsing lights, loud, raucous, music, and wet, writhing bodies, the club is the last place John wants to be, especially during the passions of Carnivale, but Spike had called, and John had come.
He doesn't see him at first. The air is thick with smoke, and scented vapour. John spots the shock of Spike's hair before he sees anything else. He cuts through the dance floor a knife, moving with the push and the pull of the crowd, his eyes never leaving their target.
John makes it to the lounge tousled, his leather jacket wet with the sweat of other people, but otherwise unscathed. He takes a seat on the plush, velvet seat next to him, looking out over the crowd, then back at Spike, in his black on black, gothic splendour. He orders a whiskey when a server wearing little more than a series of leather belts struts by.
It's been a couple weeks since they'd last met. After Spike left the motel and went radio silent, John spent the rest of his fugue up to the elbows in wet work. When he'd finally come to his senses, a richer, and more wanted man, he told himself the ball was in Spike's court, and that it was Spike who needed space following those smoke, sex and violence filled days spent together in that little motel at the edge of town.
John nearly lost his job in the aftermath. After apologizing to the police department, his colleagues, and his students, he'd gotten off with a fine, and a slap on the wrist. Community service teaching self-defense to bullied children at a local rec centre.
His ring is back on his finger. He takes a long drink before speaking.]
no subject
He doesn't see him at first. The air is thick with smoke, and scented vapour. John spots the shock of Spike's hair before he sees anything else. He cuts through the dance floor a knife, moving with the push and the pull of the crowd, his eyes never leaving their target.
John makes it to the lounge tousled, his leather jacket wet with the sweat of other people, but otherwise unscathed. He takes a seat on the plush, velvet seat next to him, looking out over the crowd, then back at Spike, in his black on black, gothic splendour. He orders a whiskey when a server wearing little more than a series of leather belts struts by.
It's been a couple weeks since they'd last met. After Spike left the motel and went radio silent, John spent the rest of his fugue up to the elbows in wet work. When he'd finally come to his senses, a richer, and more wanted man, he told himself the ball was in Spike's court, and that it was Spike who needed space following those smoke, sex and violence filled days spent together in that little motel at the edge of town.
John nearly lost his job in the aftermath. After apologizing to the police department, his colleagues, and his students, he'd gotten off with a fine, and a slap on the wrist. Community service teaching self-defense to bullied children at a local rec centre.
His ring is back on his finger. He takes a long drink before speaking.]
Working hard, or hardly working?