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Rain thumps on the rooftops. It soaks the streets and overflows the gutters, carrying away beads and wrappers and foil balloons. A party in East Village hosted by some artist commune is practically washed away. It doesn't bode the best for the night.
Rain keeps away revelers in their short dresses and hip clothes. The sultry dampness fogs up the windows and makes the humidity unbearable. Tempers are going to spike. Bouncers are already flexing their fists and managers warning security about additional details. The cops aren't any happier.
Lux is true to this pattern in another way. The VIPs of the night will need even better treatment. Resident staff know the pattern, but a quick meeting of minds covers the basics. Lucian leans against the bar. Behind it, the black-haired bartender — a woman about thirty — frowns. Two others glance up to the doorway in anticipation. Their smiles are uniformly dangerous.
Weather: one of the few things that humanity cannot yet control and continue to suffer at the will of. Mother nature flexes her muscles and people suffer for it. Not everyone suffers under the unrelenting deluge of rain and sticking humidity; one sodden looking red-headed man appears in the entry way of Lux, bright hair stained a darker tone of the shade, Jay was at least smart enough to offend any gods of fashion and throw a flimsy plastic slip over himself. Dear sweet mother of pearl, it couldn't be an actual trash bag, could it? Regardless, it keeps the majority of his body dry save for the long primary and secondary feathers which align with the backs of his legs. Jeans are soaked up his shins, flip-flops are resilient against the water and not nearly as dreadful as proper shoes.
Stopping near the door, the young man shakes his hair out a little and combs pale fingers through it to separate the glued strands. An uncertain look toward a bouncer, he hesitates, but politely approaches, asking if 'Miss Rosemarie' were around, unsuspecting and mild in manner.
The damp weather is no consolation for the girls with wet shoes, the men with rain-speckled dos they tried so hard to make look effortless. Not a problem for those inside the breezy club where the smoke filters up from the booths and the drinks flow freely. Dancers practice a variation on go-go on the mezzanine, and they don't give a hoot about what anyone thinks. A sinuous, slinky soul rock beat pours through the speakers of the club thanks to some hidden musician on a vinyl-pressed recording that'll make it big in another four to six months.
Lux's mellow attitude dissipates into an attitude of pure indolence. Chocolate drizzled over desserts isn't the start. Indolence in the music seeping into the ears, in the way couples press tight in their booths, and the white-hot electricity of attraction spills over the crowd. The old saying man isn't an island isn't the truth here; they are, archipelagoes of horseshoe booths united only by the servers meandering through.
Jay has the misfortune of meeting Mazikeen: tall, dark-haired, a whip or a scimitar of a woman. She meets that question of 'Miss Rosemarie' with dark, fathomless eyes that belong to a squid, a shark, a glacier. "Why? She doesn't work here." Her question is flat enough. "You're old enough to visit. You're old enough to drink. Go order something."
Lucian bestirs himself from his martini long enough to look over his shoulder.
Jay arrives from Private <P>.
Jay has arrived.
The coarse suggestion HAS jay's brows lofting slowly upward at the woman. "Ah, actually, Ah don't think Ah am, Ma'am." Jay explains gently, unaware of the drinking age difference between good ol Kentucky and New York. Still, rather than face the woman's dismissive wrath, there's a soft squish and click of Jay's sodden flip flops as he squishes through toward the bar, droplets of water speckle the floor around him, shaking off the thin plastic sheet that may or may not be a garbage bag that he's draped himself in.
Ninette doesn't always come to Lux to sing for her supper. Even Lady Winter feels the need to socialize. She's playing with fashion tonight, white tights clinging to her shapely legs, an ice blue dress with short sleeves and a skirt that terminates just past her derriere. The cut is backless, showing off more pale skin. Her hair is piled high on her head, held artfully by pins tucked away from view. Her lips are cherry red, her green eyes framed by long lashes. A doll brought to life. When she walks into a room, heads tend to turn.
She looks around the islands of couples in their horseshoes, and her gaze skims the go-go dancers. Is this what she'll have to compete with next time she sings here? Hmm. She scans the club looking for something, someone, a reason to descend from her lofty penthouse.
"No?" Maz eyes Jay up the way someone might look over a car to determine model year or a cut of meat to see if it's rotting or bloody. Her mouth curls, arrogant. Her gaze follows the path of wet footsteps. If anyone thinks she is cleaning that up, they're out of their mind. Someone else is on mopping duty.
Lucian has gone for a look more casual than his usual white buttondown shirt and black slacks. Laced trousers are a thing, and so is a gorgeous beaded velvet jacket in a shade of sunset most men would never try. Ever. It laces over the front and leaves his chest bare. He's just dandy that is fit to make other fellows of any colour or ethnicity seem plain. And how he manages to wear his hair to his shoulders in loose waves? The world isn't freaking fair.
"Dear me, is it that atrocious out there?" The question is rife with amusement, like he made it rain. Lucian watches everything. Ninette in her glory. Jay in his humility. "Proof everyone is overdressed."
The world isn't fair, but children on earth have been hearing that since they were knee high to a carnie midget. Until he gets kicked out or he happens to spot the woman he came here looking for, Jay opts to take his humid, sticky, rain soaked self to the bar. One look at the seats and the young man hesitates briefly, pulling the thin plastic sheathing over his head and folding it up into a mildew-ensuring mess, lest he get any of the posh furniture wet. Another shake out of his hair with one hand, giving it a separated and touseled look, the small lump under his favorite denim shirt writhes slightly, prickling with the sensation of undesireable moisture, but are ignored as he slides into a seat, plastic crinkling in his lap.
Practicing in not looking at anyone directly, but sneaking curious looks at the club he's only just been introduced to recentlythe theme for the days revelry seems to have changed, which only makes the appreciative thrum of curiosity hum around him all the more palpably. A new voice introduced in the mix, those verdant eyes flash in the way ofwow. "Yeah, it's—" Jay turns toward Lucian and completely falters. His lips form a silent 'o', stopped in midsentence as he notes the bold color and cut of the fellow's attire, but more than that, there's a transcending factor he can't quite put a finger one. Youth. It's less than smooth.
Recovering a moment or two later, those deep green eyes blink a couple times to regain focus, trying to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Ah, yes. Sir. It's rainin' pretty hard. Ah'm just waiting fer the frogs to start."
Ninette checked her umbrella and coat at the door, and she arrives at the bar untouched by the weather outside. Her driver brought her to the front of the club, so it was a short jaunt in any case. Her hips sway when she walks, her chin held high. With a glance at the winged man, she pauses. Her gaze lingers. She then comes to a place two seats down and parks herself, crossing one slender leg over the other, her posture straight but not rigid.
"A martini, please," she orders from the tender. Her lilting voice carries a French accent, though her English is good. Of course, he can't help but notice Lucian, and her brows lift. She gives a small nod of approval. It's a bold look, well suited to his frame and fearlessness. The nod moves smoothly into a polite greeting.
Eloquent songs, usually performed live, are the bread and butter of Lux's entertainment. Drink preparation is another. Those who dwell in the booths need nothing of the spotlight when they can have privacy drawn around them in a heavy curtain. Momentary interruptions are sparks of spice in the passing night. Bulbs overhead glow their deep copper to impart a sheen of antiquity and mystery. They catch on the plastic trash bag and the denim, wearing out Jay's age to something tawny from a distant desert. Brunettes and black-haired guests become exotic participants of history's pageantry remembered on clay vessels and romantic poetry. Everyone is a gem in its proper setting when the alluring atmosphere is set just right. Yet the hint of the predatory and dangerous in this eastern souk of decadence can't be forgotten, and the cult master of it all turns in a loose spin to reorient himself.
There she is, blue and icy, a complement of frost to the deepest autumn. A frosted glass will be plucked from the bar, and the woman pouring cordials and rare concoctions signalled by two fingers from Lucian. Whatever it means, she nods and turns to a cabinet of diamond panels. Proper gin is dragged up from a bottle with no label and the other concoctions in smaller philtres set aside. "What will you have?" she asks Jay, this mystery figure.
On his part, Lucian glides to Ninette and offers her a canted grin. "«Mademoiselle, the night wouldn't be proper without you. Our guest tonight?»" French, pitch perfect, a mere trace of Occitan skimming underneath. Might as well add music to the melody. A proper turn, then, and it's back to Jay. "I do believe you are new to Lux," he says. That deep magenta-bruised coat does wonders. "No need for sir. Lucian, if anything. And you're called?"
Lucian turns away to greet Ninette and Jay finds himself staring at the two. not yet gawking, but there are moments of long, uninterrupted looking, inquisitive gaze poring over small details. the figure suddenly in front of him asking him what he'll have is a welcome (if slightly jarring) interruption as he swallows tightly and turns back, offering a sheepish smile in apology. "Whatever you've got on tap is good by me, Miss." the finer appreciations of alchol yet lost on him. Addressed again by the fellow in the striking jacket, Jay habitually wets the corner of his mouth as he turns again and offers a lily-white hand. "Jay, Sir. Lucian," a quick correction. "Ah think Ah saw you briefly the other naght, but you were taken away."
Ninette smiles, and it doesn't shatter that pristine face, even. «Monsieur, of course there is no place I would rather be when I'm not on the stage.» Her gaze flits to Jay, and the small lift of one brow inquires him of his purpose. Who is he? Why is he here? For what it's worth, the unspoken question isn't accompanied by even the merest glance at his wings. It's not the mutant she's considering but the man.
Looking then to Lucian, she says, «You are devastating tonight, monsieur. This look begs copying, but who else could do it justice?» She glances around the room. Who could pull it off as well as the devil? She's not finding anyone.
The presence of wings, however visible, probably earns more than a few curious looks. No one is discussing the obvious deviations a person has, not in any language plain and loud. Private thoughts are their own. Jay's safe on that score. Lucian takes Jay's hand in a proper shake. For all the dandified clothing, the man has a strong grip. Probably terribly so. "Jay. Thus, you have Lux. We've a private party on the mezzanine tonight." The go-go dancers explained then. "Otherwise prowl as you like." That grin is a promise wrapped in silk and steel, before his attention goes back to the Frenchwoman.
He adopts her preferred language without even trying. A nice little touch, or perhaps one of thsoe necessities. "«Too kind. I make do with the diminished condition we find ourselves in, what with the various worldly cares troubling everything.»" Art must suffer when war is on the rise, in other words.
Jay, as always, depends on every person's general selfishness and distraction with life to 'pass' better. The slight hump on his back noticable when it starts moving, but otherwise it is barely there. However, the bright wingtips which hang to either side of his chair, vanishing under the sheath of his open denim overshirt. He's used to the glances once people notice, but for the most part, he has a chance for passing by folks without notice.
the handshake greeted with a firm one of his own, though his hands are ridiculously soft, to match their pale appearance, it would seem like the man has never even lifted a pen for an extended period in his life. Amiable, Jay's gaze meets Lucian's directly. Good, honest gaze. Unguarded. Gaze which flicks up toward the hanging mezzanine, nodding slowly his distracted understanding. "Ah see. When Rose brought me by, there were animal masks up there. Had no idea what was goin' on, but it was interestin'. Thank you kindly for the warm welcome." Though he doesn't seem stricken to keep interrupting the other conversation, there's a polite nod toward the French lady.
Ninette smiles ever so slightly to Jay, and she lowers her gaze before looking away to accept her martini from the bartender with a murmured, "Merci." She takes a small sip, too smart to get wasted in the club right off the bat. There are predators in the club, and she is but a wee kitten, honest.
She switches to accented English. "It's in these times that we must uplift ourselves more than any other, Monsieur. The world looks to its leaders, and in the realm of fashion, you're our unquestionable King." So she has decreed, so is it so.
Jay's gaze meets the endless night-sky embodied in Lucian's, the blue a crushed lapis mixed with amethyst and a heavy dose of tourmaline for a start. An admixture almost impossibly deep in burning luminosity captures the copper shards flung by the overhead bulbs with their antique wire spiral filaments. For but a moment, reality focuses on a laser thin measure that encompasses the younger man. He gives no quarter when letting his thoughts melt away to a single frame of reference, or largely singular, and not for nothing is the smile frozen on a ghostly arc almost self-referential to its own amusement.
"Yes, we do host quite a number of things. Popular venue. We're different and we welcome everyone as long as they pass muster," explains the barman, for all tunnel vision might have slipped over the monster behind the very charming, easygoing mask.
There are monsters. And then there is Lucifer Morningstar, turning all hundreds of thousands of years of existence dissecting beings of varied creation to their base components and back.
"A king of fashion? My lady, for such sweetened words, you are truly a pearl without parallel and a knife of sharpest truth." He flashes that smile, but doesn't pull his gaze away, yet. Mazikeen haunts some place close behind him, a spectre watching over the drinks and the punch bowl and fates of nations.
Polite as a picture, Jay seems to have a slip in protocol as he turns back to Lucian and completely loses any sense of existance from the Frenchwoman nearby. As if she simply ceased to be, the fair young man stares rapt at Lucian. Compelled and twisted by something larger than his perception of the company he keeps. Long, almost translucently red lashes flash a few times over his gaze to draw him back to earth and dropped back into the middle of a peculiarly posh little club, at the bar. It is but a little thing, however, and Jay recovers swiftly with a neat little smile, a platitude to Lucian, polite but holding him at an acquaintence distance. "Very different, in a good way, sir. Lucian." Another swift correction and faintly self-chastising smile. "The music's what caught mah attention right off aside from the folk on the mezzanine. So what passes fer, ah, muster? Ah have to ask, of course, feelin' outa my depth between a couple of classy individuals lahke yerself and the lady." A soft hand gestures gently to Ninette. "Ma'am."
Thus dismissed, Ninette does not return her attention to Jay, though a small frown stitches her brow. It's not a response she's accustomed to. Even if one doesn't fancy her type, an introduction at least is usually on the menu. Still, it's the risk of lingering in Lucian's presence. He captivates. She turns her attention coolly to the rest of the room. Perhaps diversion might still be had, though so many people are coupled up already. She's about to make her excuses to leave the bar, no third wheel on her watch, but then he mentions her, addresses her. She turns her gaze to him, unconscious of how winter's chill wears her features well. "Monsieur?" she says.
"Oh, you are." His smile cut pristine, Lucian chuckles softly and the sound has a way of breaking whatever fugue he's in. It's an easy sound. Two parts honey and one part smooth spice, shot by the barest touch of something with bite for interest. "But that's how best to learn and broaden boundaries. Try what amuses you. Don't be too quick to dismiss the odd."
Words to the wise. Wise words all in all. Lucian extractes himself silently from that buesiness, and then shakes himself free of whatever has landed. "Mademoiselle," he starts for Ninette, the temperature rising a thousand ways. "Walk lightly." And that is enough for him to take his leave.