Log:This is the Moment

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This is the Moment
Characters  •   Zane Bloomquist  •  Desdemona Marchant  •
Location  •  Mona's Balcony
Factions  •   Bloomquist Family  •  Marchant Family  •
Date  •  2019-09-18
Summary  •  Whoever had 'Monday, May 24, 1994' in the betting pool can finally collect.

Morning comes, and the vampires haven't. No one's seemed compelled to do anything they weren't going to do anyway, certainly nothing involving running out to drink blood. Any remaining restraints are unrestrained, most of the food is probably eaten, and as the sun is coming up so are Zane and Mona, hand in hand, back to her balcony to see the return of the star they watched go down the night before.

It's been a long night, and even if nothing seemed to go wrong, the lift of those lingering worries is a relief. Danger there may still be, and the fact that none arrived last night is confusing, but daylight is safety by all accounts, and as it begins to spread its fingers over the horizon, there they still are to greet it.

Also there are a couple of those chocolate croissants. Neither of them are likely to pass those up.

There is already a clove in her hand, and coffee brewed and dragged out along with them; screw the elegance, she drags the thermal carafe out, with one mug to share between them. Nothing spiking it, as for all the stress of the night, there's no need, this time. There have been mornings like this before now, breakfast snuck upstairs to eat up here with a view of the city sprawling out beyond them, but this one is more quiet. It isn't 'just up', it's 'still up', and only once she leaves the door open behind them so the lazy trio of felines can finally spill out to take advantage of the fresh air does that weariness truly hit.

"I have to wonder if it's just that they won't fuck with this house, or something else," she considers aloud, but a snap-shake of her head follows. "No. Not even going to think about it. Not right now." The mug and coffee are set on the table, alongside the clove and lighter and case. She just turns to face him, arms winding instantly up to his shoulders, and rests her forehead against his chin. "Still here," she whispers, smiling.

"I'm glad Art's all right. And everyone else."

Zane stoops to ruffle Prince Prance with his forearm as they go, since he doesn't have a hand free at the time, and once they're where they're headed he sets the plate of pastries down next to the mug and coffee, which is clearly the logical place for them to go. And then he wraps his arms around her waist, because that's clearly the logical place for *them* to go.

"Still here," he agrees quietly, head tilting down to kiss hers while it's right there, and the act of doing that makes him smile as well. He nuzzles gently into her hair, breathing in the scent. Which is probably very similar to that of his own, currently -- using each other's shampoo'll do that. "...and so'm I. You think--" A pause, a faint shake of his head. "Not right now." He takes a long, slow, silent breath, focusing instead on the cool morning air and the warmth of her right up against him and the faint glow overtaking the sky and leaking into his half-closed eyes, and lets it just be that way for the moment.

She sinks into the kiss warmly, and, perhaps due to the sunrise over the lake, in a delightfully unhurried manner. They've bought themselves some time, at least until the sun starts to creep down once again. It's only a few nights until the show, until they have to be out and about in a public space after dark. It isn't lost on her for a moment, and the idea that they won't be able to hide and bar the doors means that the time they have just like this is all the more precious.

She breathes in and out slowly, warm against the side of his neck as she holds him, silent. Even the trio of felines is still lazy with dawn, filtering out with small yawns and quietly padding feet to perch in a semi-circle around them, watching the night birds flee into the trees with placid indifference.

There are things to say. Maybe too many. Deciding which is nearly impossible, and so for a long while, there is that relieved and uncertain silence instead.

When she finally picks one, it's the one thing that's already utterly clear. "Love you, Zane. Still feel silly it took all of this to wake me up about it." There's something utterly self-effacing in the words; she wants to laugh at herself, but hasn't the energy to. It still colors the words with a small lilt, and too much honesty. "Now, I see you, and I just... don't think I'd know what to do if I didn't."

Surely they wouldn't attack them at the show? They wouldn't interrupt a performance? That's almost truly unthinkable, enough that for all Zane's absorbed the worry about Prom, the same isn't really true for Kiss of the Spider Woman. Even so, the previous night and all the general uncertainty is enough to leave him off balance, and the relief in that growing sunlight is pervasive, warmer than the emerging rays themselves.

For most of his childhood, silence wasn't really something he was great at, but age and year after year backstage have honed the ability. He can stand in that silence with her for a good long while, now, and even do it comfortably. More comfortably, holding her like that. Being held like that. And when she does finally speak, he's almost surprised -- first by the sound at all, and then by the words themselves.

He draws back, just enough to be able to see her face, and his eyes search it. His lips are parted just a little, and they shift into a very small, almost tentative smile after a moment. "I love you," he says softly, like he's tasting the words or trying them on, and if he is they must be delicious or tailored just right, because the smile spreads almost immediately into something brilliant enough to compete with the just-rising sun. "I don't know if I-- care why I know. I mean, I care about-- you know. But I'm just." A tiny shrug, felt at least as much as seen, as he ducks his head, then lifts it again. "...it feels how I always wanted it to feel. And I'm really glad we're going to New York together."

They aren't necessarily the easiest words to say, in the broader sense. Even so, she's surprised at how readily they came to her, spilling out as naturally as her breath. It doesn't mean that hearing their echo is equally easy; it steals that breath right out of her again. Mona watches the evolution of his expression with a look he's doubtless only seen echoes of before, in the odd times they've gone in a cluster to New York or Los Angeles and attended an exhibit of this or that in a museum -- often historical clothing, but other times, some grand exhibition of a particular style that all the good little socialites should become familiar with. While most of those dragged in such a manner for this study typically look as if they would be anywhere else on earth, every so often, the rest of the cluster would have to thread their way back through the maze of displays to locate one Desdemona Marchant, staring with helpless awe and fascination at a particular piece as if she were about to cry over whatever impossible secrets it whispered to her.

It is the same, and somehow different. This time, the words, his face, they offer no secrets, no hidden truth. Instead, they are another song she never imagined before, played on the strings of her heart in such a way that there's no 'about to', this time. Her lower lip trembles, and her lashes glisten as -- just as his head tips down -- she chases his lips with her own for an adoring, stolen kiss.

"I know what you mean," is all she says at first. And she does, and maybe that's the why, in the end. One hand rises to cup his cheek, and brush back a strand of tumbled hair. "Some day," she says after a moment, utterly serious in spite of the words to follow, "we will be sitting on our fire escape balcony at the brownstone in New York, watching the sun rise, sharing a clove when we really should be asleep, or studying, or-" The words break off with a soft chuff of a chuckle, impossibly fond. "-whatever it is we're supposed to be doing, really. And, instead? We're going to be talking about that time it took vampires... " She can't even finish that sentence, but the smile is so honest it seems more naked than she is. It's a smile she only ever has for him, and it's always been that way. Of course she should have known forever ago. "I want New York with you. And prom. And the show. And... everything."

"Even this overwhelming urge to smoke this clove, hug these daffy cats, and then... "

That's one dangerous dangling thread. She should know, as a seamstress.

They're good tears, he knows they're good tears, but it doesn't stop Zane's eyes from widening when he catches their existence. The kiss, though, does a damn good job of shutting his mouth, and the hand that had started to move up to try to do something about the crying ends up resting against the side of her neck instead.

Afterward, his fingers do move to brush away any tears that might have had the temerity to actually pass that barrier of lashes, and her words have that brilliant smile breaking out again. He has a lot of those, for all sorts of people and occasions, but this one's new, or at least a slight variation on one she's been seeing lately; warm and elated, adoring. "Everything," he echoes, and it's not until a heartbeat later that what could be a pink finger of the dawn (but isn't) touches his cheeks, as if the parts of his brain that hold various values of 'everything' just caught up and possibly had some suggestions that were not the ones he had in mind at the moment he said it.

Now, when she gets to that dangling thread? They've settled in to add their input to all these things. And if he were someone else that thread might get grabbed and tugged, woven into however he aimed to try to tailor things. As it is, he leans in to kiss her again, taking a bit more time about it this time, less stolen, and asks, "...and then?"

ROLL: Mona rolls spirit + 1 for: [1]: x3 (Set) [4]: x1 [5]: x1 -- Match Value: 3 (Raw: 4 1 5 1 1 -- d6)

Her own cheeks assuredly have their own tinge of natural rouge for the moment, but she doesn't shy away from it. Instead, there's a needful urgency in that kiss, as if she might tumble right into it and never come back up again.

In fairness, they look fantastic in leather. Better, though, the costumer knows for certain, out of it. The heresy of it all is not lost on her, but she's long past caring. She's never had to have words for this specifically before -- at least not when they weren't pranking the rest of their friends in some way immediately prior to a 'gotcha' and shoulder-crash of successful conspiracy -- and it takes her a moment to summon them up, along with the courage to say them.

"...and then, I want to go back inside, and lock the door." The hand at his cheek starts playing with his hair; it's an odd little tic she can't seem to stop doing whenever it nears her fingers. "And leave the cats on the porch to get some air." To this, there is a slow and thoughtful nod, ever so small. "Then, spend a completely irresponsible measure of time kissing you, when I'm reasonably sure everyone asleep downstairs will be starting to stir and shuffle about the house like zombies in search of something to do that involves food, showers, or rifling through the video collection, without giving half a damn if they wonder where we are."

"After that," she says, growing bolder, more certain with every word, "I want to peel off those layers one by one and spend an even longer time kissing you everywhere else." Her other hand strays down toward the neckline of his shirt, then a trifle further with a splay of fingers that toys with the mesh material idly. "And if something tears in the process? So be it." Gasp! Couture heresy again! Miraculously, she's keeping a mostly straight face, even if a far less embarrassed, and more heated flush is starting to rise along her neck.

"I think that would be a lovely start." There's a delightfully wicked gleam in her eyes when they raise again to his, her chin slightly low as yet, and she blinks once as if waiting for an answer.


ROLL: Zane rolls spirit for: [1]: x1 [3]: x1 [5]: x1 [6]: x1 -- Match Value: 0 (Raw: 6 3 1 5 -- d6)

It takes less courage to listen, which he does fairly avidly, eyes firmly fixed on her and entirely ignoring the dawn they came out to see. He has trouble keeping his gaze from falling down to her mouth again, watching the movement of her lips and tongue as she talks, so it keeps rising to take in her whole expression and then falling again. That touch of pink keeps rising as well, deepening and spreading across his cheeks and along the edge of his ears, and as she continues it's joined by a similar rise in colour along the back of his neck and just beneath the collar when she toys with it. She has his eyes widening again, and that slight part of his lips, and overall he looks somewhere between a deer in the headlights and a charmed snake.

Around the time she's talking about peeling off layers, he makes a pained little whimper and shifts against her, an uncomfortable rock of hips from side to side, rather than the more usual direction. A glance off sideways at nothing particular, but his visual attention is dragged back to her swiftly, and then she's asking if he has ideas. Ideas! His mouth opens, closes again, and he tilts his head back, with another quietly strained little noise. There's that look off to the side again, this time with his entire head, lips pressed together, a deep breath taken in and exhaled through his nose before he manages to look her properly in the face again and ask plaintively, "...do we have to smoke the clove first?"

She's started to become somewhat familiar with that other rock of hips, or at least enough so that... yes, now he surely gets it, leather pants are not as comfortable as they look! Mona was never kidding about that! The look out over the pool drags her own gaze in that direction, and results in a near collision of nose to chin as they turn back in unison, and her eyes find his.

"That really would be putting the cart before the horse, wouldn't it," she agrees with a very serious nod and a slow, deliberate intake of breath as she tries to keep herself together. It goes about as well as one might predict, as the bloom of color begins to shade her ears and she swallows a second gulp of air before asking, "Alternate plan: see if we even make it to the door to lock it first?"

Now that's a much more likely plan to bring to fruition, but it's still spectacularly iffy. The hand at his chest is already starting to stray downward to tug at the tie of the flannel to seemingly both loosen it and direct the pair of them to the sliding door to the balcony, leading back inside.

Leather pants are not as comfortable as they look. Or at least not as comfortable as they look cool. But they do look really cool. He may even actually get what she means about the cart and the horse, but it's hard to be certain because the odds he'd nod agreement that firmly anyway to anything that seemed to translate to 'other things can wait' right now are pretty damn high. And really, how much does it matter?

"I'm pretty sure we can manage the door," he says, with another nod, this one as if convincing himself, "I have faith in us." He's just going to stay all flushed, and that's... fine. Inevitable, so it'd better be. The flannel makes a very good if probably unnecessary lead, and he's not going to stop her untying it either. All his layers are belong to her. All his everything are belong to her, right now.

The cats are probably quite confused about this change in plans; they only just came outside, and now the humans are heading back in? Zane himself hesitates when they're just stepped inside, glancing back to see whether the fluffballs are following. If not, do they leave them out there? Leave the balcony door open?

The cats observe the strange antics the humans are up to with the usual feline inscrutability, after a fashion. Spook is uneasy, Diva looks unimpressed, and Prance is clearly wondering if he left the oven on. Also, what an oven is. It gives Mona just enough time to snag the door behind her and pull it most of the way shut -- enough so that a cat couldn't get back in without some serious effort, but then... they're cats. They will accomplish whatever mischief they set their tiny minds to with a remarkable rate of success.