Warehouse District, London
Close to midnight
Rated 'M'[1]




Everything had changed, the world around him despite the spinning laughter seemed as though eerie silence is all it had ever known. From one face to another, there was only the quiet footfalls of his steps. How was it that anyone could live in such a suffering silence that even the feel of his own heart thundered like a drum. The party was in full swing, long bows pulled over silver strings, little bits of ivory keys illuminating the air with starfall. He loved this song. It reminded him of a time when things were not so difficult, and there was love like spring—gentle and warm.

’But he had magic, Father, real magic. I saw it. In the water, he did a trick for me.’ His son’s young face turned up to him like the moon, and large round owl eyes blinked with a confusion that he could not correct.

‘Perhaps he did, but it’s of a world that we will never belong to, Rossignol, not even if we had all the riches in the world. Money can not put you in such a place, but there is hope.’

His son had gotten his letter, and no matter how many times he tried to solve the puzzle as to how, it always came back to that wizard in the woods so many years ago. And no matter how many times he walked among them, he felt as though he were betraying the very trust that had been bestowed upon him.

The hand of his employer was a strong one, his grasp around his neck enough to choke free the very spirit of his soul. Yet, night after night the prowl became a thrill, one that he had thought by now to be free from his desire. Jean-Luc waited patiently in the shadows, black eyes peering out through the crowd in search of the little red lines that often drew him back from a fleeting moment of weakness. Who was he to ever think that this life was beyond him now, this was as much a part of him as the blood that his parents slipped into their wine at night.

The event was for charity, an underground show for the locals to display their spring fashions and the hope for the winter to long be forgotten. Forward thinkers these fabric tinkers, who spin their gowns like spiders their webs all were alike in many ways, but Jean-Luc had little mind for fashion tonight.

The theme of the night went along the lines with the industrial punk that so fascinated the fall lines, but now with the very air of spring gears of glass had been replaced with rotating floral in bright vivid reds and black and white. Of course this was not to be the only spring event, it was only a prelude of what was to come. The circus itself a perfect attendant, with aerial artists and rope walkers, it pleased their king to allow them the chance to truly preform and not worry of what was to come beneath it all. Tonight, his people were not the ones to ruin the mood, it was what waited in the shadows. 

”You are aware that they will be heartbroken,” A voice as cold as ice and without any emotion slipped all to familiarly in his ear, but he made no motion to even acknowledge her existence. Camille with her ruby red lips and blond victory rolls looked as though she belonged right up there on that short stage where fashions were flaunted and fabrics came to life on bodies that hardly needed any enchantment.

“I am aware,” to the air he watched the subject of the conversation, where a pair of aerial artists amused the crowd, “But best not to tell them. We will need to panicked looks on their faces to keep our name from the papers. We cannot take any sort of speculation right now. Not with everything still in the red,”  Books were kept for financial issues, lives too that owed more debt than one pocket could pay, and right now Cirque de la Lune was so close to being free from those horrid marks that he could nearly taste the freedom.

”You are cruel, and a wicked man Jean-Luc,” With her arms crossed over her chest he knew that he was hated more than anything. Her lover was up there, as sweet and innocent as the day they found her, and in her smiles now he could see how much she enjoyed her flight. This was what he worked so hard for, to see them free.

“You know that I am right, Ma conducteur and you would do your best to not hold your tongue on the matter,” His venom spit the words from his lips like a viper, but her cherry lips only curled with a grin to answer.

”You are aware that two can play this game right?” She whispered against his ear, while her hands came to touch the lapels of his jacket. They appeared to the party nothing more than two lovers enchanted with another, but her deadly kiss was only a rouse to get him to turn his attention to one particular tailor whose name was nearly the headline of every event when it came to fashion.

And his stopwatch heart came to a standstill once his eyes came to find the owner of the Libertine.

”Is the money worth it now?” Camille asked, but left him no time to answer as her six inch spikes clicked away with the memory of what a heart should sound like. For now all that came from the cavity of his chest, was the grinding of rusted gears as the world stopped spinning. 

1.	Thread is rated 'M' for violence

It had been a wonderful evening and very successful as far as Darian Morgan was concerned. He hardly needed the excuse of charity to seize any chance to showcase his line or to mingle with other fashion-minded peoples. Confident, this was entirely his stage. Darian drew the eye at once in a magnificent gold jacket pieced together of many individual metallic pieces and intimidatingly uncomfortable-looking. Under it he was almost leisurely in a very fashionable way with his leather-trimmed crepe pants and the unsubstantial shirt which clung to his wrists and drooped from his neck, all of it black, all that disarmingly simply and artless style of clothing which seemed casual and yet had undoubtedly cost a great deal. His shoes were a shining black as well, and his belt, and his gloves which he had mysteriously disappeared earlier in the evening. The only other points of gold on his person were those which winked from his fingers and at his ears through the thick mane of curling hair which fell, incorrigibly, over his pellucid red-lashed eyes.

It was all quite understated save for that jacket which sheathed him like the scale armor of King Midas. He played the noble role very finely; less finely perhaps than usual, for it was the prerogative of designers to be haughty and shrillish. Though mostly quite charming Darian was rather high-strung when it came to his work, his darlings, his designs. Many a clumsy-handed assistant had felt the sharp of his tongue in a manner unimaginable to those who interacted with him in normal society, and had anyone committed a grievous sin against the handling of his clothes he would have leapt on them at once with all the sympathy and understanding of his peers behind him. Fashion really was an entirely different world. He still laughed easily, chattering away, but his speech held a sharper, more candid quality than his usual. The imperious cut of his eye was less welcoming to idle criticism; his generous mouth curling into smirks over smiles. Fashion was also terribly cutthroat.

However, his models had walked much earlier in the evening and he had some cause to relax into his normal pursuits. The jacket had drawn its share of admirers as intended and as the hours stretched Darian was very willing to keep them around to entertain himself. Ferociously glittering, it was not long before the first reached out to touch. Then they marveled, it's soft! and he had many ladies stroke his arm and the curiously yielding garment throughout the evening. Its bulky solidity was an illusion entirely of Darian's skill; it was in fact queerly silken, easily coaxed into new curves with the lightest touch. Darian brightened all the more with each compliment to the thing as though he was not already well pleased with himself from his successful portion of the show.

The only downside to the evening was the presence of the circus performers, of whose part in the event he had not been informed. He kept a wary and slightly startled eye on them at first, trying to recognize them through their disguises; for if these were familiar so too was their master, but he hadn't spotted the red-haired boy angel or the robust Italian twins that he remembered so well from his informal visit to the Cirque de la Lune. As for the others, any long-legged acrobat might be the same all covered in their leotards and in this case most confusingly their masks. He had had other things to worry about and tsked at himself for the ill-placed concern, his line really needing the whole of his last-minute attention before more guests had arrived and the models were unleashed upon the small runway. Secondly he had planned for himself a more pleasant diversion, having invited Tapendra some weeks past to the event and wheedling a promise of attendance out of him for "moral support." At the time he'd had no particular seduction schedule and it was only luck that made his promising visit to Tapendra's tower only a day or two ago. The state of affairs between them was thus rather delicious, Darian attentive and friendly not at all out of the ordinary when they met at the gate. Only at the most disarming and unexpected moments did he send a heated, coy little curve of lips in Tapendra's direction or let his hands linger approvingly over the other man's trim jacket. Surprisingly - hilariously - Tapendra had brought a date, and of course Darian was perfectly polite and charming to Aileen Reid too.

He had no reason to be impolite. He was feeling victorious.

He neglected them rather a bit throughout the evening as they were adults and could mingle on their own - and he had so very many admirers to greet - but he drifted back every now and then, solicitously, as if to check on them. Now again he strode easily through the crowd, it parting before him like Moses' sea, and he looked to them both (though naturally, on Tapendra, his gaze was warmer).

"Having fun?" Darian asked in an intimate, amused little hum. He bore two wineglasses, which he offered out with a flourish that barely disturbed the liquid inside. There was no food here tonight, but - like art openings - fashion shows could always be counted on to serve something alcoholic.

Where once he might have found Darian's neglect disconcerting and a bit hurtful, tonight Tapendra was quite grateful for it. Asking Aileen along had been yet another last-minute idea. Why he'd done it, he wasn't entirely sure. Of course he enjoyed her company (a state of affairs that was bizarre enough all on its own) and she was rather more at home in these kinds of gatherings than he; but somehow exposing her and anyone from Hogwarts to Darian on a night when fashion was involved seemed incredibly foolish.

But that wasn't what he was worried about, was it? Aileen wasn't here to be strictly company, to have someone who could slap his elbow for picking up the wrong fork. No - she was here as a shield, a desperate grab at anything that might make him survive this night. The strange encounter in the Astronomy Tower had passed days before, yet it felt like it was mere hours; he could recall it with perfect clarity, and try as he might, he often did. Darian's words, his lingering looks - they ghosted about his mind constantly, refusing to be buried as Tapendra usually buried all his uncertainties. The memory of the other man's touch remained, and even now he sometimes unknowingly raised a hand and ran his fingers over where Darian's hand had been.

He couldn't get out of this without being rude, he knew. Why he hadn't just pretended to come down with something, he wasn't entirely sure. Of course Darian would know it was a lie - that was one reason - but in these circumstances, would it matter? He shouldn't be too close to the man right now.

He might do something he'd regret.

Throughout the night, Tapendra tried to focus on the show, on Aileen, on the glasses of wine he'd started downing early on. It was light stuff, just enough to get him buzzed, to make his smiles come easily and his manner warm up...and to the horror of his rational mind, it made his thoughts come more easily, too. Darian's knowing looks were impossible to ignore - his gaze was drawn to the other man's as if pulled there, and all he could do in response was swallow and look away. The pulse of heat that shot through his body with every single one made him visibly shake. It was difficult not to want to run away. He couldn't face this - not now, not ever.

Yet being away from Hogwarts made it easier to think about this, to some extent. This bright, loud event was so far removed from anything he experienced in his daily life that it felt like another world. Certainly few people recognized him; those that did knew him not from the school, but from that bloody photo shoot. He didn't feel like a professor, here. He didn't feel like much of anything.

Maybe it was the wine talking. Probably was. Bloody stuff was making him think about things he didn't want to, like just how welcome that lingering kiss had been. Darian's held a power that Dolly's hadn't had. Kissing her had been...well, nice. He couldn't lie to himself about that - after almost a decade alone the gentle embrace of another had been sweeter to him than anything he'd experienced before. But Dolly had been warm, friendly, familiar. Darian wasn't. His touch, his look; they carried the pulse of something sinful.  Whatever it was he wanted from him, it wasn't romantic or friendly. Tapendra certainly didn't love the tailor - thought of him as a friend, yes. But love him...no. There wasn't anything here quite so chaste as that.

He'd thought he'd grown out of this - out of something so fundamentally base as lust. But this burned in him like a fire, threatened to reduce his rational mind to ash. It was passionate unlike anything he'd felt before. Darian's eyes - and Merlin, he wished he could forget them - had been possessed of something carnal.

He wasn't a schoolboy anymore. Back then, this sort of thing would have been acceptable. Schoolboys could be base, they could be crass. They could be experimental, they could...

But that had been what got him into trouble, hadn't it. It'd been the reason he'd had to sell himself to Almasy - to live the life he led now. He was alive - he counted that among his blessings every bloody day - but he'd also learned a lesson, back then. Never, ever give in to his own base urges, lest they be used against him. And this twisted interest in another man was as base an urge as they came.

He had more people than himself to worry about, now. He was a parent, a professor, an adult. He was no longer his own man. He had the girls to think about. And they wouldn't - he didn't know what they would have wanted him to do. Not this, certainly. They were both still children, both young enough that his private life affected them even when they didn't realize it. He couldn't replace Cyhirae's mother. Couldn't do that to her, not ever. Darian certainly wasn't going to fill that role, but...

Even years later, he could feel Judy's eyes on him. It was the same feeling that had made Dolly such a nightmare for him, when he was alone with his thoughts. He'd tried so hard to make himself regret being with Dolly. And yet he couldn't - and that was that he regretted most of all, the fact he was human enough that he couldn't go through life alone. He knew in his heart he should have been man enough to be unattached. After everything that had happened to him, he ought to be able to be happy with what he had, and not desire anything more. Hadn't he fought hard enough to get where he was? Why risk it all, for something so wrong as...

Perhaps that was why Darian was so tempting. He didn't feel like himself around the man. He didn't feel wrong, or off...but with Darian around, when he was in the tailor's glittering, unforgiving world, he could temporarily forget who he was supposed to be. It was easy to forget the castle, the house, the labs. All the people he knew expected better of him didn't know he was there. It was a dangerous feeling, he knew. The freedom that this world offered was a mere illusion, another layer of temptation that Darian drew around himself. Darian used it to blind Tapendra to the danger he was in, and yet...yet that in itself made it even more desirable. It was wrong, sinful - forbidden.

Tapendra wanted to tell himself he didn't know what he wanted. But in this case, what he wanted was clear enough that it sat heavy in his mind, the words ones he tried so hard not to think. But...Darian was intoxicating on almost every level. Even when he was being exasperating, Tapendra found the man fascinating, found his eyes drawn to him even across this busy, crowded room. The way the man moved, his little half-smiles, the gleam in his eye as he watched his designs walk - all of it drew Tapendra like a moth to a flame. The man had a confidence and a grace Tapendra could only wish he had. He hung on every word Darian uttered, felt a flutter in his chest when the man crooned over his attire. Silly, idiotic. He was older than the tailor, and yet...

He had to think of the girls, he told himself. It was a mantra, some single shred of feeling that he clung to as a drowning man might grasp at straw. Think of the girls, not yourself -

But you keep so many things from them, a small, horrible voice said. It was his own, he knew, raised by wine and by that cold rational bit of him that he often wished would be silent. You keep so many things from everyone. What's one more secret?

He looked at Aileen, a thousand words freezing in his throat. He need to talk, to have someone talk to him, anything to make him have to divert his thoughts. They seemed to consume him. He couldn't really remember most of the evening; it had been a blur of light and sound, aside from Darian, who stood like some crystal-clear vision.

And Aileen. He could feel her, rather than see her, and it was odd to think of the former Slytherin as a bastion of anything; but she was like a cold, icy reminder of who he wanted to be. And she was certainly well-dressed tonight. It had to be the strange carnal haze brought on by Darian, that made his thoughts go this way. Yet she was here, her slim body ivory and steel next to him. He watched her now and then, if only to take his eyes off Darian, and it was difficult not to notice the elegant line of her shoulders, the way her long neck swept down to meet them, the way her dress formed perfectly to her form.

The urge came, now and then, to sweep her up in his arms, to bury his face in her neck and breathe in her scent. It was not a loving urge, but a desperate one; as his thoughts raged inside him, he felt an almost fundamental need to cling to her, a physical reminder of himself. An anchor to reality. This whole night felt like a strange, bright fever dream and she seemed the only real thing in it. It was a horrifying urge, a weak one. Was he so pathetic as that?

He reached out towards her a moment, touching her exposed skin, feeling the warmth there. It was only when his hand gently cupped the ball of her shoulder that her realized he was shaking.

"Having fun?" Darian's purring hum came like a shot, Tapendra's head whipping around to look at him, eyes an open window to his mind for a moment before he swallowed, blinked, and his face was like a mask again. The smile was sunny, sincere and in reality, utterly forced. He took the wine. He didn't think drinking would help, but...

"Yes, of course," he said, quickly, as he took rather larger a drink than one ought to. "Your designs looked...nice," he added, as he blinked and swallowed back the feeling of the wine in his throat.

Like many of their evenings out as of late, Tapendra’s invitation had come suddenly. Aileen had looked at him in surprise, agreeing even as she wondered how she'd find a suitable gown in such a short time-frame. But she'd managed. And she'd don flip-flops before she would admit the haste with which she'd left the castle this afternoon, the hours spent at her vanity, or the precious minutes wasted shooing Abby away.

And like many of their evenings out as of late, this wasn't a date. It was more of an awkward alliance, fraught with the bustle and noise of other people. Darian Morgan, too. He didn't just flutter or flit about the room; he was the sort who caused hurricanes, leaving those he touched eager to get caught once more in the wake of his attention.

Except, perhaps, Aileen.

She didn’t know what it was. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Perhaps it was merely his presence, the presence of another of Tapendra’s friends, and her surprise at Darian meeting them here that caused the knot in her chest. The more irritated she felt, the more she tried to ignore it, but in stifling that emotion she also dulled her enthusiasm for the evening.

Their attire clashed subtly as he meandered toward them in molten gold. Aileen moved in a paler shade. Her hair had darkened slightly over the winter months, but the gown made the blond strands gleam, gave a warmth to the jewels around her neck, and turned the red of her mouth rose-red. Where Landis smiled and obligingly angled his arms for the crowd, Aileen kept her hands close to her sides, her chin tilted up. Her sculptural dress seemed softer than she did.

A hand touched her shoulder, startlingly warm, his grasp unsteady. Aileen turned her head to give Tapendra a searching look tinged with exasperation. Though they’d not planned it, she and Tapendra complemented one another tonight, his dark suit subtly rich, the collar curving elegantly around his neck. At times she felt his gaze on her, and she’d catch his eye and look away, well used to admiring  and watchful glances, to letting them buoy her steps or slide off the sharp edge of her shoulders depending on her mood. But his look, especially now, felt more trapped-rabbit than man. He’d reverted to an anxiousness similar to what she’d seen at the Yule Ball when he hadn’t known Aisling. He knew Darian. So what was it? The lack of halls and theater boxes to escape to?  The drinks he’d been downing? Her?

Before she could ask, Tapendra turned at Darian's voice. Aileen's mouth pursed, then slipped into a small, polite smile. She murmured her thanks as she took the offered drink, watching Tapendra nearly gulp his. ‘Nice’. An innocent word that could cause great offense, if Darian were easily offended.

“All that glitters may not be gold, but your designs prove it hardly makes a difference,” Aileen offered in a cool, complimentary tone, letting her smile linger. He'd been friendly and charming - she could do the same.

“I must admit, I hadn’t expected the circus act." She cradled her drink to her, her voice turning wry. “What next, to shake us out of the winter doldrums?”

He had startled him with his approach, and Tapendra when he turned gave Darian the most peculiar look. It was the eyes; they spoke volumes. He barely had time to savor that look, to dissect it - let's see, that there, the hopeless longing of a drowning man as he looked at the outstretched rope, yes, Darian wanted it - before Tapendra slammed down with an enormous smile that chased all the emotions away that Darian was so curious to see. He tilted his head at Tapendra as the other man snatched from him the glass and drank, rather as though he'd seen something of interest that he might, if given the opportunity, pursue. He was smirking again.

"Nice," he repeated, but by the way his lips wrapped carefully around the word he was amused and not offended. "Well, I am so glad you might think so, I did spend some time on them." Anyone else he might have made fun of a little more, but it was a very Tapendra-like thing to say and besides, usually he needed to do very little to make Tapendra self-conscious of his vocabulary. Aileen's compliment was more polished - he hadn't really expected any less. Reid seemed all around to be a very... polished... woman. Sleek and self-contained, she was the beautiful product of pureblood breeding as carefully designed and exquisitely soulless as a modern minimalist glass dining table. He inclined his head to her, his hand raising to press against his heart in facetious gratitude.

"It was a surprise to me too," he said. "Imagine, not telling the designers! Bit distracting, I think, but oh well - the night's almost over." It wasn't as though the circus had been in his or any other's design theme. The performers' ensembles had been matched to the industrial punk wizarding look everyone else was going for, and so it wasn't that they LOOKED out of place... But of course, there had been competition with the show ongoing and it seemed to him all very odd. Darian itched to have a word with the event coordinator. He drew his silent musing back to the two before him and, with no particular change in his cheerful tone, continued, "Next as is industry tradition we shall all pick a partner to take home. As far as I know, it's the only exciting ending we have planned."

The two of them spoke, their voices and words polished, careful, stylish. The way Darian curled and twisted the word 'nice' made color rise in Tapendra's cheeks, and he was ever thankful for a skin tone that hid it; but nonetheless his dropped gaze said volumes on its own. He'd no idea what to say to Darian, no idea how to act at these events. He was as suited to this place as a fish to the desert - he certainly had as much grace as one.

His hand off Aileen's shoulder, he cupped the wineglass instead, looking at the contours of it. Darian's glittering coat made points of light catch and dance in the glass, and Tapendra tried not to look at the man. He'd seen too many of the man's looks, tonight. Better to keep his gaze on the floor, at anything else-

He couldn't keep that one up. As Darian continued to speak, his eyes found him again, moving across the polished marble to Darian's shoes and then up the man's long, elegant legs to his face. Tapendra found himself watching the way he moved, the way his dark red hair tangled in the depths of his collar, the way his lips worked, the flash of his teeth.  Everything about it drew him in. Now that he was aware of it, could so easily remember those lips pressed eagerly, hungrily to his own -

"You what?" He had been listening, but not really processing their conversation. At Darian's words, his heart skipped a beat - his gaze darted between the two of them, panic on his features.  They - did he - what if Darian took someone else -

Logic arrived like a splash of cold water. Darian was having him on.  He always was. Tapendra's face twisted into a grimace that in other circumstances might have been a confused smile. It was the best way to hide the heat of embarrassment that made his stomach twist. Why was he such an idiot?

"Oh," he managed. "Hah." It was a useless little laugh, almost an imitation of one. "I wouldn't rule that out, actually. Not with...with you lot." He waved vaguely at some of the more scantily clad models in the crowd. His gave did not leave Darian, however, and his eyes narrowed. No doubt Darian would go home with someone tonight...

He took another chug of wine, at that thought. Merlin, he wanted to go home, and yet...he didn't. What would going back to that dark tower mean? What would he do there, other than get as drunk as he could manage? He couldn't run anywhere, not when what he was running from what his own thoughts.

Merlin, was he jealous of whomever Darian picked? No, he wasn't- he knew jealous, and this was different. This was...disappointment. The awareness of opportunity, and knowing he wouldn't take it - and knowing it was unlikely to be offered anyway. Who would sanely offer that kind of thing to him, when there wasn't an ugly face to be seen in this crowd? When they had their pick of beautiful, confident and exciting?

Air, solitude, something - he needed to go, if only for a few minutes. His actions abrupt, he took a step backwards, uncertain.

"I'll - I'll be outside, I think." He tugged at the collar of his suit. "Just - a moment - sorry -"

Aileen arched an eyebrow at Darian, unsurprised if he spoke in earnest. He had his pick. She likely did too, but that would require the sort of spontaneity she felt she no longer had.

Before she could suggest that Darian might want to stand in one place with his arms outstretched, collect his admirers and flutter out (all spoken in a perfectly friendly, joking tone, of course), Tapenrda expressed his awkwardness once more. Aileen stared at him, perplexed. He wasn't that uncomfortable with innuendo, especially when he'd been drinking, and if she could handle this, he certainly could.

Aileen said nothing as Tapendra made his abrupt exit. Her eyes narrowed as she watched his retreating form, his height only accentuating the hunch of his shoulders. He looked lost in this colorful crowd.

The uncomfortable smile, the odd glances, the suggestion that she and Darian would easily find company for the evening - it was beginning to add up. Was he jealous of the ease with which she and Darian spoke to one another? Did he think they were flirting? Merlin, no. They were products of their upbringing and could interact civilly, even if Darian used such words as 'partner' and Aileen modified Shakespeare quotes.

He must feel left out. For just a second, Aileen pushed away a twinge of guilt, questioning if she should have involved him more. Then she shook her head slightly. He'd invited her. He could have his fresh air for a few minutes. She wasn't going to run after him like a lovelorn mooncalf.
 
Aileen gave Darian a tight smile. "Poor man. He acts as if someone is going to pull him onto a platform and make him strut the runway," she glanced at the models, then considered it more carefully. Tall. Lean. The perfect hanger. It would explain how the Libertine owner and the Astronomy professor had become friends.

"I wouldn't inflict that on him," she spoke with a touch of faux innocence, sipping at her wine and turning her gaze back to Darian over the rim of her glass. 

Darian had sworn the next step would be Tapendra's. He'd left the ball in his court with their kiss. But he was exquisitely aware of the weight of Tapendra's gaze on his mouth and it made him so smug. He longed to drag his teeth over the fleshy fullness of his lower lip and wet it with his tongue. He couldn't help himself. He was a natural tease. And it was a dark satisfaction that lit him when Tapendra couldn't tear his eyes away, an advantage he was inclined to press.

He only restrained the impulse with difficulty, a sharp little mental admonishment to start thinking with the head that actually held a brain. It was hard to be patient when he could nearly taste the concluding pleasure of the year-long chase. But Tapendra had brought this woman for a reason. She was his shield, his colleague and his friend. Somewhere in here was a line Darian shouldn't cross and he couldn't be hasty just because he'd finally received his reciprocation. He was too hungry! Never had any conquest held out for so long! Darian watched Tapendra's grimace with glittering eyes, drinking in his sad little laugh, the stammers, only tossing his bright head of hair when Tapendra excused himself as if not concerned in the slightest by the man's departure. He knew this wasn't the prelude to refusal - or at least, he knew there was no shortage of lust. Tapendra would be embarrassed by his own reaction, conflicted, confused. Darian could afford to be magnanimous... if there was going to be a payoff later.

Reid watched Tapendra go as Darian hadn't, not seeming particularly concerned. They were both too highly bred to appear to care. Certainly too highly bred to go after him. No, they must stay and politely converse, though Darian (perhaps too sensitive to cattiness at an event people murmured with tongues like knives sheathed in velvet) sensed in Aileen's tone a prelude to sharpness he was too happy to answer. He saw the moment she glanced between him and the runway. Was this the only association she'd made between him and Tapendra, or did she know the truth? The latter option lent her words the extra edge of maliciousness, hinted at her intention to possess. If only the former... well, it was a challenge either way.

He laughed, a clarion sound. She couldn't begin to touch the hold he had on Tapendra. "Oh, I wouldn't either," he said, red mouth curling just so. "In public."

Darian did not run after Tapendra, but neither did he run off to entertain the crowd. The two of them remained, and Aileen couldn't help but marvel at his persistent mirth. Which meant he was fantastic at keeping up appearances. Or Tapendra and Darian weren't as close as she thought they were.

If only she knew.

At Darian's comment, her look sharpened ever so slightly as her hands stilled around the glass.

"Good luck with that," she replied neutrally. "He only struts when he thinks no one's looking."

Tapendra didn't really strut. But there was something about the way he moved. A loping stride when he walked into the Great Hall or the staff room, his hands swinging, shoulders relaxed, face open. And in front of the classroom, she'd seen a contained energy in every movement, interspersed with moments of intense thought - glances at the ceiling, his glasses slipping on his nose.

That was attractive. When he didn't try. If he could just see that... well, he wouldn't need to dash from the room.

A sad somber sound, the way the violins pulled over their strings now as the music no longer throbbed to a tempo that could be reflected in the walk of the runway. One, two, three, all in a row like a heart beat their heels had clicked, strutting down the catwalk as if starting out into a night, and in this Camille had watched with envy the ever so careless lives lived by women who put too much weight in their beauty and not of what the world beyond the edge of the walkway. She had once been there, careless and free, without a doubt of what was the come, and of a world that had only known the kind of affections that came with the praise of perfection. She had wilted long before her prime, the pedals of her flowers hanging low like the bags of deep shadows beneath her eyes.

This life was too much, but sometimes without it she worried she would have died long ago.

Pureblood's stuck out like a sore thumb, thorns along the spine of fine roses, but their blood as blue as the next. Camille had known that Darian would have been here, how could he have not, with such a chance to steal the show. The guest list far too prized to be without his line, but of the little trophy at his side she had to wonder. What was the story for such a finely arched brow and a perfect snobbish nose.  A man, as tall as Jean-Luc had left in a hurry, leaving behind the remnants of the party with a little less hot air and a tad more electricity, was he a friend? Fascinating. This entire thing like the venom on her lips made her want to know more, but for now she could only do this...

With poise and purpose, the leather clad conductor fingered the zipper at her neck, the skin tight attire a second skin that came with her profession, and let her well manicured fingers walk the teeth down to the mid-section of her chest. The cool air was a welcome addition to the release that it offered, but also acted as a signal to start the show.

“Darian Morgan.” Her voice purred from her lips, totally unaffected by the way he seemed so intent in his conversation, “What a pleasure seeing you here.” Her fingers walked the line of his shoulders, and she turned a very cat like look on Aileen,

“Introduce me to your friend?” All of the best performers had a false smile, worn the same way a harlequin wore their paint, and though she flashed her teeth to Aileen she walked around Darian’s back so that she could use his shoulder as a shield, from the daggers that Jean-Luc did glare.

---


In the distance the walls did separate, the black fabric that hung in panel x’s that marked the spot did start to rise as legs were formed, long and angular. Manmade stilts that gave the four legged walkers a terrifying shape of their own.  All in black the large cumbersome electronics were controlled form the inside, and bits of steam did rise from the shafts above their heads.

Oh what a clever trick. Some did say, smiling their crooked grins in awe of the performance that would mark the end of the show. From all over the room men and women alike dressed in black body suits that even covered their hair filtered in and out of the people like lazy flirts. The spades and clubs worn in white over their hearts like a deck of cards gave them distinct definition, but for the rest they were all the same. Simple little pawns placed out for the pleasuring purpose of entertainment—crowd control.

In the air the show had not stopped as the men and women on silk still circled one another in an elegant, graceful dance, but hidden in the rafters a different sort of aerial artist waited, and the man with the long red hair stuffed his braid down into the back of his shirt.   

Charms and spells alike were cast around the room, creating a barrier that could not be penetrated easily, and all the while laughter still came as wine ran like rivers and the high of the night came crashing down.

---


“You remember me don’t you?” She said dryly, “Certainly you remember him.” With a point she cast her finger with contempt as if condemning her maker to hell, and Jean-Luc stood with quiet hatred in his eyes. The look did not change upon giving it so tellingly to Darian, nor to the companion who was no more than a speck in the sea of faces when standing beside the boy who was more akin to fire.

“What are you doing here?!” His voice boomed like low thunder as he took a few towering steps over the dressmaker. “Your name was not on the list,” Jean-Luc was wrong, the name of the Libertine was on every list, a little known secret in the wizarding fashion world. Darian Morgan did not need to even flash his ID, only his smile and he could walk into anything, how could he have been so stupid?

Camille smirked, amused by the whole thing before taking a few steps back and extending her hands to be swept up by the aerial artist on the beat of a drum, that now counted down the show. The crowd cheered as the display started to change, the lights dimming enough to give spotlight once again to the stage.

”Ladies and gentlemen, boys…” The voice purred, low and seductively, feminine and alluring, “And girls—“

As expected - as Camille desired - his eyes flicked down to the tight suit she wore and its low, unzipped neck. Once he recognized her, it became more difficult to enjoy the view. She represented something much more than herself, and the set of his shoulders tensed briefly under her coy walking fingertips before deliberately relaxing.

Alarm or surprise, it barely showed on his face. Instead he adopted an arch expression, posture opening as if he very much did not mind leather-clad women invading his personal space. There was also something about him a little haughtily amused, sensing the intent in her malicious and sly. He'd not had the real acquaintance of her before, but it didn't take him an instant to know a snake when he saw one. Like recognized like.

"If only I could," he said, one hand over his heart, not especially sorry. "But our own introduction suffers. I never caught your name."

His gaze wasn't even on her. He was already glancing about for her employer. Other than the pretty picture they'd make, there wasn't anything to interest one woman in the other. Likewise, he did not fool himself that there was anything of interest in his own person to her beyond her master's stake. He had to be here, or she sent on his behalf - and yes, as he followed Camille's pointing finger, there was the dark figure of a man Darian least wanted to see.

Subtly, his expression hardened. Not so angry or so obvious as Jean-Luc's. But the sharpness beneath his skin all evening rose like ready knives behind his lips and his eyes, the cut of his gaze locked blue and flashing on Jean-Luc, his fingers suddenly jittery like they became when overcome with creative mania he itched for his wand or a pen. That hate he saw there he welcomed, even if he didn't at all understand. He'd only be grateful Jean-Luc wasn't staring at him with anything else.

The ringmaster bore down on him with a roar that had him blinking languidly, disdainfully. "Poor Jean-Luc," he said, smile full of teeth not especially charming. "I suppose you can't read." Without missing a beat he turned his back on the man, crystal-clear dismissal in the impetuous toss of red curls and his aristocratic profile bent now entirely to Aileen.

"It's abysmal," he sighed, "the people they let into this place." Briefly he wished the one he was facing was Dolly, or Eloi, someone other than Reid. They would have played along. What a comfort!

It was one he might need. Camille's smug satisfaction made Darian incredibly suspicious, and as an acrobat bore her away he followed the sight of her with quickening mind. Nothing that pleased a woman like Camille could be good for him. A cold trickle of unease ran through him, almost a premonition. It was irritating. The evening was supposed to be his. This...

He didn't like that Jean-Luc was here, nor the way Camille had looked at him. Indignant though he was, perhaps he should leave.

The habit of ignoring his instincts where Jean-Luc was concerned was a poor one, and so Darian followed this. Without another glance at the man he inclined his head to Aileen with a sardonic sort of twist to his mouth, turned on his heel, and strode briskly away. Around him people were murmuring impressed little sighs over the show, the performers twisting now in the changing lights, but Darian didn't watch. He was disinclined to be present for the finale, headed instead for the familiar closeness of the backroom where the models congregated and his clothing hung on racks. The event was nearly over, and he had to be there to organize the aftermath of his own line. He didn't walk like a man concerned of anything, his step the usual confident lope, hardly hurried enough to draw attention. But his expression, a little preoccupied, distant, lacking a smile, didn't encourage anyone to try and stop him for conversation.

In his red, the theatrics around him were not necessary. He moved through the crowd like a fire, the air suffocating as the oxygen left--every inhale as sharp as the last. But there was a wind pressing hard at his back as if it were the very grace of god pushing him forward to Darian. He had not expected him, nor did he understand what it was that even kept him compelled to keep the other man safe, and frankly he should have just let the boy go. He was nothing to him--a speck beneath his shoe, though in watching the way the redhead did leave Jean-Luc caught a smirk forming on his lips. Was he running? Never, but he certainly was moving through the crowd rather swiftly.

Darian's path was blocked, the doors to the models closed and the panicked look on the women's faces were enough to let on that they were not alone in there, but when the music started again it was enough to drown out their screams.

Silently, he came up behind Mr. Morgan, his fingers long and brutal went around the boy's wrist as he pulled him away from the dark figures that stalked the outline of the room, and in a low voice hissed, "If you want to escape this, then you need to stay right where you are." He didn't release Darian, not yet.

The wizards had all been asked to be relieved of their wands at the entrance, but he knew Darian was perfectly able to do many things without his wand. Charm a room, tie him up, and capture the hearts of many; however, he wasn't willing to let them get to the designer.

"Do as they say, and do not draw attention to yourself," He hissed through his teeth again, leaning in a little lower to better look the boy in the eye, "I know that is asking a lot of you, but it can be done." You are not that special.
 

Tapendra all but burst from the building, the backdoor opening into a small, narrow alley that ran between this building and the next. It was raining, the drops light and clinging, and the winter's chill still clung to the air. It was an abrupt change from the crowded building, and the night air hit him like a wall. The light of a floodlight above the door was the only illumination in this part of the alley; it faded into glittering, washed-out shadows at the edges, the distant streetlights setting the cobblestones at either end a shimmering purple.

He was a fool, an utter fool. He shouldn't have come here and he definitely shouldn't have brought Aileen with him – trying to use her as a shield only made it painfully obvious that he needed one. What must she think of him? Knowing her, it was probably accurate, and possibly a mirror of Darian's. They must both think him utterly pathetic. They were right to. He was in his thirties, and yet...

The thoughts came like a tide, unbidden; wasn't it a good thing, then, said some deep-buried voice in his mind, one of the many that watched him drift through life and sneered. Wasn't it good that Cyhirae was so much like her mother, and that Georgiana was so much like theirs? Better than them taking after him...

Rainwater, damp and cold, soaked through the thick fabric of his tunic as he leaned on the wall, the drops condensing into small rivulets that dropped onto his shoulders, ran down the nape of his neck. He felt hot, felt like the water should burst into steam when it hit his skin. The feeling of panic felt washed away by the rain, replaced with a steely discomfort that he'd have to go back inside. He'd have to face Aileen, or at least stand at her side in silence while both of them obstinately refused to ask what had happened. He didn't want to, of course; the distant ends of the alley called to him, let him fantasize about simply leaving and walking away.

No – he had been a coward enough, for one night. He could go in, face this, and return to the tower – and get thoroughly drunk. Easier to face these feelings while sloshed, wasn't it?

He sought out his pockets, curse echoing up the narrow stone walls when he remembered he hadn't brought any cigarettes with him. At times like these he ached for one, longed to let the gentle high soothe his racing thoughts. So be it if he'd smell of booze and smoke in the morning; it wasn't like most people saw him until 10am anyway.

The crunch of boots in the alleyway was what drew his attention to the fact he wasn't alone. He looked up, silhouetted under the floodlight, as the shadows seemed to move. The forms in them were men, large men, clad in dark, tattered clothes. Their dress and manner varied from man to man, but their expressions were one and the same; those that looked at him smiled in a polite way that was nonetheless disconcerting. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and for all his panicked thoughts, it was something of a relief to have them washed away by a much more primal feeling.

“You ought to be inside, sir,” said one of the men closest to him, his voice rough and his accent unidentifiable. The man smiled, revealing yellowed, missing teeth. “'fraid the the alley's for employees only.”

Tapendra smiled. It was brittle, even hopeful, the grimace of a cautious man. “Oh. Sorry,” he said, as his gaze darted from one to the other. They seemed to be multiplying, surrounding the stairwell he stood on. The small section of concrete seemed ever more like a raft, the sharks' fins looming up from the dark to circle it. Their expressions carried an edge of hunger, of an aggressive sort of eagerness. Most watched him with a bit of a lazy edge to it; it made him think, in a primal kind of way, of the way his cats looked at mice.

His smile felt ever like a mask as he grasped the door handle, touching his forelock in a silent but polite farewell. He thanked his lucky stars that the handle turned when he grasped it, until that moment not thinking for a second that it might have been the sort of door that only opened from the inside. He wasn't sure what might have happened otherwise -

Of course, they'd encouraged him inside, hadn't they...?

Tapendra ran a hand through his damp hair and headed back towards the main ballroom. He couldn't help but notice a seeming increase in the amount of bedraggled circus workers about; men in dark, tattered clothing like those in the alley. They walked the hallways, looking at him with that same interest. Had they been there before? He couldn't really recall. He'd stormed from the building in a flurry of self-absorbed emotion -

Nonetheless his gut instinct told him something was wrong, and he had long learned to trust his gut. It tended to be more aware of circumstances than his conscious mind was.

He stepped back into the ballroom, and the noise and music was like the cool air from the alley, a wall that cut off the outside world. But here, too, he could now see the men in dark clothing, lining the walls and near the doors...

“Blast,” he muttered, and wove through the crowd, looking for Aileen. She ought not to be hard to find, a pale beacon in this sea of bright colors. He needed to find her, and then Darian – certainly Darian would know what was going on, be able to call him a fool for worrying.

“Aileen!” He called, when he saw her. She was heading through the crowd towards him – and there was a buried part of him that found that a relief. He had expected cold indifference, on some level. He darted forward, stepping over the train of one woman's dress.“Something's going on,” he said as he reached her, not bothering to worry if he made sense to her or not. “Where did Darian go?”

Darian departed, taking his charm and cryptic comments with him. The tall, imposing man followed with a smirk. Aileen watched them coolly, saw the glances catching on Darian's shoulders as he slipped past his admirers. She knew pride. Understood it. He'd never think to shuck his dragon's skin, even as Jean-Luc cut through the mob, eyes only on gold.

Black stilts crisscrossed in front of her and Aileen lost sight of them, missed that crucial moment when Jean-Luc pulled Darian to the side. Her attention drifted. She thought of how she must look. Pale. Overdressed. Alone.

Aileen moved in the direction Tapendra had left, the bottom of her gown slimming and bending as she weaved between close knit figures, then reverting to crisp, full folds as soon as space allowed. Her gaze flickered around the faces of the crowd, ignoring any glances and smiles. The features of her face seemed still but not calm. She wanted to leave.

If Tapendra chose to leave with her, then fine. Otherwise, he could stay and hide, because she wasn't having any more of it.

He called her name and she paused, easily finding the top of his head with its ruffled hair. Her steps quickened, then slowed at his words. Something was wrong.

Disappointment touched her shoulders as softly as the steam puffing out into the air. It left before it could settle, but the urge to shiver remained.

Darian. Aileen's mouth twisted slightly to the side. "He glimmered away." She tilted her head toward the dressing room.

Her tone was flippant. Disinterested. "A man in red chased him. A 'Jean Luc'. Jealous designer, I'm assuming."

She rested her hand on Tapendra's arm ever so lightly, as if she'd asked him to waltz. "Did you see something outside?"

It would determine which exit they took after retrieving their wands. That was Aileen's main concern.

Darian paused, looking over the grinning figures who stalked before him now. Blocking his way. They were all along the edges of the crowd, he realized. He tracked them with his gaze, slowly, consideringly. Jean-Luc hadn't known he was attending. So why were they here?

Half lost in calculating thoughts, Jean-Luc's abrupt grab startled him badly. Though Darian had hardly forgotten the danger of him, he hadn't for an instant expected Jean-Luc to follow. It lacked drama. It didn't look as good. In their short acquaintance, Darian had come to expect only the most theatrical actions from the other. Oh, he might stalk like a wolf after Darian, circling the room, and emerge at last with a smirking bow flanked byhis subordinates who were also smirking. But rush after him? That was hasty. It didn't bode well. If Darian had picked up a dangerous criminal stalker, he didn't want a dangerous criminal stalker who was impatient.

"What are you doing?" he asked, features writ in perfect astonishment and exasperation. He pulled at the hold with no result save the sleeve of his jacket buckling under Jean-Luc's hand like tissue. The fabric crumpled, making harsh new angles to catch the light. Darian's mouth curled into something spoilt and cruel.

He hated this, how Jean-Luc took liberties. It was all he ever did! Very ill at ease with violence, Darian was nevertheless just dying to kick the man in the shin. Here he could almost get away with it. Designers were expected to be divas. But of course, Jean-Luc again had the advantage - always had the advantage - of commanding a great brutish gang of men. They waited on the outskirts now, hungry for their master's orders. Darian remembered being at their mercy only too well.

"Do as they say, and do not draw attention to yourself. I know that is asking a lot of you, but it can be done."

Jean-Luc leaned in. Darian looked at him flatly, understanding now that something was happening and that it was - of course - this man's fault. He tugged at Jean-Luc's hold again, a subtle straining of muscle rather than the sharp twisting motion that would be more visible but would free his arm. "You are drawing attention to me. Walk away!"