Evelyn Bryant
Sun 11:52PM CST
Late Sunday night.
The 9pm session at the cinema has just ended and a steady stream of moviegoers are exiting, a rising bubble of chatter and smatterings of laughter as they spill out into the street. Toward the rear of the crowd comes the statuesque figure of Evelyn. She pauses by the brightly-lit entrance to the complex, pulling her leather jacket on and tugging out the plaited blond hair from the collar.
Her breath mists barely before her, an indication of the temperature. She glances either way before beginning to weave her way through the crowd, down the street to where one presumes she’s parked the tiny vehicle she calls a car.
Vast
Sun 11:59PM CST
"Dull, wasn't it?" Cutting rudely between two determinedly jaded UoC film majors, Vast is a splinter of ice in an amorphous crowd: sharp, hard, edgy, cool. He stops to pull his motorcycle gloves on, velcroing the cuffs tight about his wrists, his helmet caught under one arm. "Want a ride?"
Evelyn Bryant
Mon 12:06AM CST
She’s got her slender hands in her jacket pockets by the time Sevastian addresses her. And for a beat she doesn’t actually slow her steps. He might think she’s not heard him, or perhaps she has and is simply going to ignore him.
Perhaps.
And then the soft clack of her boots halts, grinding down on the pavement as she turns smoothly, a hint of her vocation even in the smallest things, and a hand emerges to carefully extract a few strands of hair from her eyes.
“Yes actually.”
She glances briefly back toward the cinema, then at the passing students. Eventually her dark eyes find his face again and it’s not imagination to think she seems colder toward him. Guess she’s still holding onto anger from their last encounter.
He asks if she wants a ride, and Evelyn’s full lips quirk against her better judgement, and she steps forward to clear the pathway.
“I can walk. It’s not that far to my place.”
Vast
Mon 12:12AM CST
"Don't lie. You drove." He strolls toward her, arrogant in his negligence. If she'd almost ignored him, if this galls him that she had the nerve to do so, it hardly shows. In his expensive urban gear and his well-cut motorcycle jacket, he's as he always is, cagey despite his fucking noble ennui.
It was almost impossible to imagine him in a tuxedo; when he died, they'd probably bury him exactly as he is now. His gray eyes, with their touch of smoke-blue and their glittering falcon clarity, sweep her briefly before turning to the street. "At any rate, you've failed to answer the question. Want a ride?" A pause and he amends, "To your car."
Evelyn Bryant
Mon 12:18AM CST
Evelyn stills and actually takes a small step away from him as he strolls so easily, and annoyingly elegantly despite his lack of apparent effort to seem to, toward her. She steps away but strangely lifts her chin as if in direct opposition to what could be taken for apprehension.
“Fine. I drove.”
She lifts her shoulders in a light shrug, and glances down the dark street. She stares into the darkness for a moment as if weighing up the pros and cons of walking before she lets out a quiet breath and looks back at him.
“Yes, I would appreciate a ride.”
Vast
Mon 12:25AM CST
Fine, she drove, she says, and he laughs -- "Still angry, are you?" And then she acquises, and he tilts his head toward the motorcycle spaces. Smaller than cars, and rarer, bikes had the privilege of being parked much closer to the theatre, even in this crowded downtown district. "Come on."
As he goes he zips the jacket up to his collar. The leather is soft and supple, taut on his body. It's black tonight, unmarked, and so is the helmet. The motorcycle is still the crimson Hayabusa, the kanji 'tiger' scrawled in place of the usual 'hayabusa' character on the curving engine hull.
She's ridden on the back of his bike before, but perhaps not since they broke it off for good. He seems to pay her little mind, however, as he swings astride and fits his helmet on, busying himself with alarms and ignitions and throttles while she gets on behind him. That he had asked her to dance for him just weeks ago, and had placed his hands on her body, seems all but forgotten.
Evelyn Bryant
Mon 12:33AM CST
“Still angry, are you?”
Her eyes narrow slightly and not for the first time it’s clear exactly which Tribe she belongs to. A lot is said about Fianna women, and not the least of that is about those fierce tempers. Evelyn is uniquely calm and quiet tempered, at least on the surface. Her lips tighten and for a minute she doesn’t move. She just watches him getting on the bike.
Eventually she slips on behind him, easily throwing one jean-clad thigh over the bike to straddle it. Her boots coming to rest either side, the end of her own leather jacket hanging over the back of the motorcycle. She slides her hands around his waist after a minute, and even in this action she seems bolder than before. Can anger be felt in such a way?
She settles in and waits, silently.
Vast
Mon 12:37AM CST
The wait isn't long. It never is. He kickstarts the bike, which was never meant to be kickstarted when it came off the assembly line. Japanese-made, it's designed to be smooth, sleek, fast, high-maintenance: not a bitch to be roughed up and pushed around. Customizations, however, change the little details around, and Vast was never the type to pamper a lady: that much is obvious.
"Point."
He tears down the street and there's no room for conversation. If she doesn't point, he'll take her all the way home. Otherwise, the ride ends at her cute little sports car, and Vast sits back in the slim saddle of the Hayabusa as he pulls his helmet off to see her safely into her ride, or something like that.
"Should I apologize, then?" he interrupts, evidently hellbent on the subject, as she's opening the door.
Evelyn Bryant
Mon 12:44AM CST
She points it out to him. There. Down the end of the street, parked beneath a small, sad looking little tree. The pale blue (sky blue is it’s actual title) sportscar which is suitable for her needs. She doesn’t linger on the motorcycle long either; it’s obvious she doesn’t enjoy the machines much. Certainly doesn’t see the beauty in them.
She steps back, adjusts her coat and is in the process of taking out her keys when he asks—
“Should I apologize, then?”
She pauses; the keys cool in her palm and slowly lifts her eyes to him. She watches him a minute. Taking in his perpetual cool demeanor. The devil-may-care attitude.
“Do you think you should?”
Vast
Mon 12:44AM CST
"I never think I should."
Evelyn Bryant
Mon 12:48AM CST
She smiles, a brief thing probably closer to a smirk.
“Then don’t.”
She turns, and sticks the keys into the lock, pulling open her cardoor. It seems she’s just going to leave, simple as that. Whether or not she’d even except his apology if he offered it to her isn’t clear. There doesn’t seem to be any lingering sentimentality on her half anymore. [Or is she just getting better at hiding it?]
Vast
Mon 12:59AM CST
In one move he's lowered the kickstand and swung off his bike. He might've been born with that machine fused to him; Glass Walkers would envy his understanding of its moods and gears, mechanism and speed. But let's not stray from the topic. In one move he's off the bike. In two, he's pushed -- not slammed, and not shoved -- the door shut.
"I'm not sorry for visiting unannounced." One hand on the car, he wheels to face her, crowding her space. An electric intensity crackles across what remains of distance between. If she moves back, he moves faster: sets the other hand against the car as well, and cages her in. For all that, he speaks calmly, evenly. "I'm not sorry for asking you to dance for me. I'm not sorry for touching you. For insulting you. For stealing you from another man. Twice.
"But maybe I am sorry for not making it thrice." He straightens.
Evelyn Bryant
Mon 01:08AM CST
She’s so close to getting away. She was in the midst of getting into the car when he lowers the stand. Gets off. She’s already straightening up, her heart rate accelerating even before he shuts her door [escape] on her. She stares at him, you might say she appears shocked, but only for an instant before something akin to anger, frustration settles over her attractive features.
He’s caging her in and Evelyn has no place to look but into his eyes.
His last admission, his last statement has her eyes glittering, her lips tightening into a thin line. It’s cold, but until now she hadn’t appeared so pale. That electricity is crackling between them. Such a small distance between them now.
“I don’t want to hear this, Vast.” She sounds angry. Her voice is strained. She hasn’t called him Vast in a long time. She lifts a hand and pushes him away, reclaiming her personal space.
“You mean you’re sorry for trying to make it three times. I wouldn’t do it again. Not this time. Not with James.”
Vast
Mon 01:11AM CST
In the beat after she pushes, and before he shows signs of moving, his pitiless clear eyes flick ever so briefly down to her hand. "Of course not."
Evelyn Bryant
Mon 01:16AM CST
Her breath catches for that instant between her palm pressing against the soft leather of his jacket and his movement away. Stepping away. Whatever he does. Perhaps he noticed, his eyes on her hand, felt the slight tremour. Not as removed as she’d like it seems.
“I have to go. James is – ” She breaks off. Holds his eyes for an intense minute before she goes to open her door again. “I need to go.”
Vast
Mon 01:20AM CST
James is -- "Waiting. I know." A moment. She says nothing; he says nothing.
Then she reaches behind her for the door again. She needs to go. "Goodnight, then," he replies. He takes the door with him as he steps back from her at last, pulling it open and holding it for her. When she's in, he gives it a push, letting it shut of its own momentum, and steps back enough for her to pull forward and away.
Evelyn Bryant
Mon 01:27AM CST
He knows. She feels a twinge of—what? Regret? That James is waiting for her. Good, sweet James who loved her. No, not regret.
He says goodnight and holds the door for her. She’d have considered it chiveralous if it were not him, and it were not her that he held it for. She feels the gentle vibration as the door is shut and she does up her seat belt. Starts the engine.
She spares Sevastian only one look, watching him standing beside his motorcycle for a moment, and murmurs “Goodnight Sevastian”, even though he couldn’t hear it through the glass. And then she pulls forward, and drives away.
