O.D. 9.11.2001 [1:33 p.m.]

(I just now noticed I actually played this scene on Sept. 11th - at 2am Pacific Time, just a few hours before the WTC went kaboom. Huh.

Well, anyway, this is Thomas Chastain, my Toreador artiste, and his ex-mentor, Estelle De Medici (Katya's Toreador poseur).)

[Estelle De Medici]

154|203.134.116.185

Tue 01:29AM The passage of time.

The passing of age.

Little seemed to matter for the raven-haired woman draped languidly in her chair. She looked to be in her early twenties, every inch of her modern, tasteful, straight off a Milan, Paris, New York catwalk from the Donna Karan dress she wore, to the Prada heels gracing her feet. An attractive woman, she looked almost to be a catwalk model herself, with the high cheekbones, the wide set eyes and wide mouth favoured currently. Not classical beauty, but certainly, intriguing.

Only a few guests remain within the restaurant, couples, hushed conversations, intensity in gazes locked only on the other. And here she was alone. As she had been since she had arrived.

A thoughtful gaze scans without, the glass attempting to capture a reflection she pays little attention to. A reflection unchanged in the many years she has worn it, every detail etched vividly in memory to be recalled at will. She had grown sick of that face. And yet, still it intrigued her. She would never see the wrinkles, her midnight tresses pale to grey, the sagging of flesh. The thought should please her.

It did not.

But neither did it displease her. Had she been given the choice that night, many years ago, the outcome would not have changed, and she would still be sitting here, at this table, in this restaurant, lit by the amber glow of candlelight. Beholding a wine she could never savour, a liquid which would never tantalise her tongue... did she even remember the richness? The spice?

A choice has many coincidences. And should she have chosen... Thank God she had not...

[Thomas Chastain]

13|206.170.33.79

Tue 01:53AM Presently, there's a stir in the quieting restaurant. This is a place people who are not-quite-rich, but certainly well off, come to feel they have become part of the high society that occasionally breezes through. This is a place where people come to see and (to a lesser degree) be seen, where they dress in their better clothes and speak in dignified, refined manners. This is a place where the local upper-middle class gathers to aspire toward what one thousand years of European history teaches them to be their betters.

People like the dark-haired beauty in the back of the restaurant, for example.

People unlike the man who just walked in off the gangplank, for another.

Heads turn (don't look now, but...), smirks form, whispers pass. (You think he's lost?) Thomas stands in the doorway, a little on the tall side, a lot on the inelegant side. There's a moment of uncertainty as his eyes - possibly the one feature that might mark him as Toreador to the more traditional, deep and lovely without ever quite being soulful as they are - skittering over the room, and then they come to fix on the one that has come to meet him.

When he has found her, he ducks his head a little, though hardly out of embarrassment, and comes across the room. No; nothing elegant here; nothing graceful. He thumps when he walks, and his shoulders sway beneath their beaten leather coat. He's tracking mud.

Ask if he cares.

The leather jacket drops into an empty chair, he into another. He flips through the menu loudly, sets it down, and places his palms on the table: one on the menu, one on the wine list. And he looks at her for a moment, eyebrows raised.

"So." No Southern accent. "Come to Charleston now? Thought Italy was more your thing."

[Estelle De Medici]

154|203.134.116.185

Tue 02:08AM Lush, dusky (...the vibrancy in hue of a well-aged shiraz lifted to the light...) lips thin ever so slightly, before widening in a smile, even teeth gleaming ivory in greeting.

The very look of her.. practiced... the very grace of her ...poseur... and one would wonder how she would suffer such company ...ahh.. not quite...

"It is." Her voice is musical, honed to be so over (too much) time. At a glance, a vain creature. How... accurate.

"But it is from New York I come more recently." The smile shifts, subtle and hinting... warmth? "Ah Thomas, how little changed you are."

[Thomas Chastain]

13|206.170.33.79

Tue 02:15AM On his side, the smile goes cynical. "Please. Tommy. Tom. Anything but Thomas." He makes a face, craning his neck to one side and rubbing his shoulder with the opposite hand: "Makes me feel ancient and anal-fuckin-retentive."

A well-educated young man, really; or he was. A promising field gone to seed. Beneath the battered jacket he wears a plain t-shirt, black, and scuffed workman's blue-jeans. An equally scuffed shitkicker boot goes up on the empty chair to her right, opposite the one that held his jacket, and thus does he take up three-quarters of the available table space, tilting his own chair on two legs and leaning back to look at her out of the bottom of his eyes.

"Like New York much? Or did it get boring when the rebels with a stupid cause packed up and left town?"

[Estelle de Medici]

154|203.134.116.185

Tue 02:32AM Pale fingers entwine the stems of the wine, raising the liquid to her lips, cool flesh identing at the pressure. The deep blue of her eyes hooding as she inhales the scent, wishing, just once... not now. A parody of a sip, a bare drop still lingers, and she returns the glass.

"Relaxing. For a time I was able to... contemplate things." Her gaze turns considering, reflective, and the slight crease appears in her brow. "But after a while, yes, it did become boring. I hear that is not quite the case here in Charleston. It does not surprise me that you remain here, Thomas." The frown smooths to be replaced by amusement.

[Thomas Chastain]

13|206.170.33.79

Tue 02:38AM "Eh," he says - well, to be honest, he grunts. "Just got back, myself. The rebels must've tromped out of New York, straight down here. Had to get out of dodge until the heat died down. But," and he leans forward, the front legs of the chair coming heavily down, to catch the drop off her lip, "I'm back now."

He flashes a rare grin, which is a sight to behold, but then it fades back into his sullen, impatient stare that roves the emptying room as his absent finger, wetted on her wine, traces the stubbled lower margin of his bottom lip. "Get in touch with the others yet?"

[Estelle de Medici]

154|203.134.116.185

Tue 02:55AM A shake of those sleek blue-black waves and her gaze turns pensive. "No. In truth, I am unsure of my inclination to do so, as yet... I know very little. And it was looking for you which brought me south. But soon I will."

A waiter, finally noticing someone has joined her at the table, makes his way over, friendly smile fixed firmly in place. There had been some discussion on whether they should just ignore the man seated there, so clearly unsuitable for the premises as he was. Maybe he would go away. But it was late, and the majority of guests who has been present at Estelle's first entrance has paid their bills and left. Other than the two seated here, but three tables remained, all of couples. Decision? One drink would be offered before te bar was closed. It was getting late after all.

"Good evening, madam, sir, would you like to order anything further to drink?"

The waiter's attention focuses on Thomas, and he can't help but give the young man a once over, veiled disapproval in his eyes.

For her part, Estelle's features turn carefully neutral, dampening the amusement from once more blossoming on her face.

"No, I am fine. Thomas? Would you like something perhaps?"

[Thomas Chastain]

13|206.170.33.79

Tue 02:59AM "Oh? Looking for me?" Another man might've been flattered. Thomas is simply wary. "Should I even ask why? Or - vodka, straight up - would I rather not know?"

The waiter departs, and Thomas watches him go. Turning back, scowling, "Quit smirking. You're not showing it, but I can see it in your eyes. Besides," he adds, as he fumbles through his pockets for a smoke, "they need a little excitement. Just look at him go. This is the most fun he's had in years. Probably halfway to a coronary, imagining the part he'll play in three or four hours when he throws me drunk and blathering off the MaryAnn. Cigarette?"

Over his head, the NO SMOKING sign glares emphatically.

[Estelle de Medici]

154|203.134.116.90

Tue 03:51AM An evasive smile and the offered cigarette is taken, for once she is choosing to unbend just a little. She leans forward in her chair, the movement pulling taut the deep blue silk of her address along tall and slender lines. Raising the cigarette to her lips, she waits for him to light it, inhaling deeply when he does so. Thick fumes glide down her throat, encased within her non-functioning lungs, held, savoured, expelled slowly.

The grey smoke, dirty, ugly, feathers along flawless alabaster skin before dissipating.

She was not particularly fond of the taste of the tobacco and chemicals but the act itself was calming, reassuring. The fact that she partakes in that act now, when usually a sole of proprietary behaviour. Well, it is interesting to say the least.

"How goes your art, Thomas?"

Thomas fascinated her. It was partly for that reason that she had come to Charleston. That, and the intrigues of the city itself. The intrigues... the passions... the heat.. all that embodied the south.. It was enough to draw a Toreador, such as herself. But him? Toreador. A clan that embodied the epitome of what it was to be an artist. Yet some representatives of the clan seemed sadly, decayed, in their self-absorbed, self-titled creativity. Stunted, not blossoming, stagnant, not dynamic. In a word, fops. Breaking the essence of the very foundation of what was once magnificently, Toreador. They give us a bad reputation. It took but a few. Much as she was likely considered one of their number herself. Not at all...

But Thomas. He was different.

[Thomas Chastain]

13|206.170.33.79

Tue 04:00AM There are three left in the beat-up carton. Marlboros, nothing fancy. He lets her have one, clamps another between his teeth, and tucks the last behind his ear. The carton he crumples up, tosses aside.

A match fizzles. He blinks as the flame catches, almost (not quite) a flinch, and then the instincts are stamped down and he lights her cigarette, then his own, shaking the match out with a curse as it threatens to burn his hand.

Leaning back again, placing his feet up on the pristine tablecloth this time, he frowns at her. "Crappy." It's the usual sort of response. Crappy. Fucked up. Stupid. Bad. Trashy. Stuck. Hate it. He never gave himself good reviews. Maybe that was why his art was still good. The waiter comes with his vodka, and he moves his feet aside - slightly - and smirks up at the frown he gets. Then, to Estelle, "Why?"

[Estelle de Medici]

154|203.134.116.90

Tue 04:12AM Her muse...

Clarity strikes her at an unsuspecting moment, and those dark fathomless eyes focus on him differently - fascination suppressed.. escaping. The moment passes, the thought is dismissed to be picked over later, and she takes another drag from the cigarette.

Her voice is a purr, a deep thrumming playing along the back of his neck, tickling the hairs, then drifting as quietly away. "I am concerned for you. Your talent. Your art."

"You neglect yourself."

Yet in your neglect... you inspire me...

She finally exhales, once more slowly, dark lashes sweeping against the high curve of her cheek as she imagines ...feels... the caress of the fumes. Eyes flutter open, and once more she smiles at him, that warmth hinted at her initial greeting, returned in full.

[Thomas Chastain]

13|206.170.3.195

Tue 04:23AM Thomas laughs; bitterly, you might say, but that would be a lie. He laughs wryly, and a little sadly. "Oh, what bullshit. You aren't concerned for me. You're concerned for your own art."

He shrugs; he's a broad-shouldered man, and he was headed towards a husky, rugged sort of maturity before the Embrace froze him forever at the age of twenty-two. "I don't give a damn if I'm your model or your inspiration or your fucking used tampon." He sucks in a poisoned breath, exhales the smoke, and cocks his head to the side, half-grinning. "No love lost between us, Estelle."

Ah, but his eyes slide away when he says that...dance over the drapes the waiters are dropping over the windows, and the lights of Charleston outside.

His gaze swings back to her. "Just don't lie about it."

[Estelle de Medici]

154|203.134.116.90

Tue 04:44AM Soft flesh compresses angrily, at herself, at him. To him conveyed as disapproval. Concentrated effort, and it is visibly eased away though her own eyes avert from the frankness of his. Ten years, it seemed so little, but this moment proved it to be more than she should ever have allowed. A moment of panic seizes her.. Have I lost him..? before she draws around her, her habitual haughty disdain, the warmth banished.

It disturbed her that at just her moment of realisation, he should already know it. Was she so transparent?

The moment is broken, and she is saved from replying immediately by the approach of the waiter, bearing the drink and placing it quietly in front of Thomas. The lengthy delay between order and delivery had gone unnoticed, until now, by the two.

Vodka. Vague, hazy memories stir and she remembers a man.. her father?... cradling a bottle of that drink.. collapsed.. on the ground. Thomas knew of her aversion to that alcohol.. the strong smell of it. Her nostrils flare in repulsion and the wine glass is quickly dragged to her lips.

"It was no lie. But suit yourself to think so."

No. In some ways, she considered Thomas her art.. a work in progress.

[Thomas Chastain]

13|206.170.3.195

Tue 04:54AM He just watches her...

He cocks his head to the other side, and the little smile on his lips, somewhere between sad and bemused and false, remains. He watches her for a long, long time, and then he shakes his head a little. The movement is smooth: he takes his feet off the table, and rocks forward. The chair bangs flat on the ground again. The shot of vodka follows to the tabletop a moment later, and Thomas stands, snagging his jacket from the chair.

"We never do change, do we?" he asks, but it's not a question she's meant to answer. "Forget it. I'm getting out of here."

The leather jacket, the same one he wore the night he saw her off to Milan, swings easily around his shoulders. It's not particularly well-cut; nor is it a particularly fine grade of leather, but long wear and familiarity has made it as much a part of him as his eyes, or his hands. He shrugs into it and then pauses a moment, hands on the back of the chair.

"Rumor has it the others hang out around here. Leave a note at the office, and maybe someone will find it. I'd watch what I say, though."

[Estelle de Medici]

154|203.134.116.90

Tue 05:32AM As a child she had loved the polished metal mirror her mother owned, played with it constantly until it was finally taken from her grasp to be hidden away until such occasion it was left out, and she would play once more. Her features as a girl.. could she remember them still.. concentrate... the stark cheekbones not as prominent in a face rounded with puppy fat, the wide mouth ungainly and awkward, as were her eyes. Not an attractive child. In truth, not even really attractive at the time of her Embrace. Those cheekbones? Too high. Those eyes? Too wide. That height? The men who thought to court her.. it was not long before her being tall dissuaded them. A lonely child, a lonely young woman.

But that mirror, the reflections it bore faded yet discernable, softening those lines, making her believe she could be that beautiful princess who found her handsome prince. A child's hopeful dreams.

Her embrace had been one based on her burgeoning talen ...refuge... or so she believed. It amused her that in these years, what had been the oddity of her features were now the presentation of beauty splashing the covers of women's magazines, that her height was wished for by young teenage girls throughout the country, craving those extra inches to make the catwalks.. to be beautiful.

To her, beautiful was the play of emotions on a face, so human yet... so dead... realising, for the first time, what they are.. they're real.. oh so real... life, taken, stolen, snatched yet not ended.. For that play to continue, those passions to be reached, an artwork, living, breathing, evolving. Immortalised.

Oh, Thomas...

She does not stand and at first she does not look at him, her eyes gazing expressionless onto the black waters below. ..flowing.. shifting.. moving on..

When he says the last, she finally speaks, her head turning, fine strands brushing against the delicate line of her neck. The glass is set down, pushed away, and she straightens, that compelling gaze capturing his own with intensity.

She was going to say something else but the words lodge in her throat, and some of that intensity melts away. Not yet.. he's not ready...

Instead, a quiet, "Thank you, I will do that."