maman.

Sevastian V. Sturtevant

Sat 02:41AM CST
Sometime past dawn the elevator dings into the penthouse. Almost-silently the doors sweep open and do not close. Private fuckin' elevator shaft, baby. No one else to call it down; no hurry to deposit passengers and move. The doors will hold open as long as he wants them to. And at the moment, he doesn't look like he's willing to move.

Slouched against the side of the elevator, his head back against the glass walls, his hands braced apart from his body on the rail, he looks out at the world from behind slit eyes. The crisscross of his dark lashes impinges upon his vision a certain blurriness; inclarity. It's almost like being drunk, though he, of course, is well beyond drunk.

Hitting up on the H again. Maybe. Or maybe just a pill, some X. A few drinks. A night and then some without sleep -- it's 10:30am.

Eventually he rouses himself enough to peel off the side of the elevator and stumble, slowly, into the heart-of-the-city condo. Except Vast doesn't stumble -- ever. His balance is flawless. No matter how much he drinks, what he puts in his system, he only slows down. Sways a little.

Never staggers. Never falls.

His wasp-yellow motorcycle helmet -- one of several, and the one that happens to match his equally yellow motorcycle jacket -- slips from his fingers and clacks noisily onto the marble floor. It wobbles, spins, and finally falls still on the open visor. With numbed fingers he unzips the jacket, peels it off, and tosses it aside. The dark smudges under his eyes tells a story of where he's been and what he's been up to. His jaw's in need of a shave. In slow motion, like a sleepwalker, he makes his way to the kitchen and starts to pour himself a wake-up drink.

Strong whiskey, of course.


Evangeline

Sat 02:52AM CST
Motions like a siren.

“I was wondering when you would finally get home.”

The unmistakable timbre of that voice, each word a smooth and dulcet overlay against the noises he had made until this point: they shame their birth, that sound, the way the French curves like a molten fire in words which could be censure, but are ever so mildly put. Soft and feminine, they hide the concern which registers briefly in her eyes when his form had first flickered through the narrow line of sight of where she had waited, then carefully obscured by the time she is behind him, standing in the kitchen door.

There is a spare room in this apartment: the largest outside of his own room, and now touched by her womanly hand. A suitcase, opened and residing on the bed, articles marked by the scent of her hanging in the empty wardrobe – delicate things, spun of silk and designer’s thread and disdaining the short confines of the leather. He would not know it yet, he had not expected her, though she attempted to ring him several occasions through the night.

The step of haste: for allegiance. Yet nothing of this shows in her eyes, those large, radiant orbs, as they look on instead with open fondness [--all other emotion a shelter within the line of her lips, the arch of her brows] even should none of it touch the ice-sculpted ethereality of her face.


Sevastian V. Sturtevant

Sat 02:57AM CST
He could -- maybe should -- spin around in a shock, gape at her, stutter, stumble through his words like a boy. But he is no longer a boy. By the laws of humanity he is a man; by the laws of the Fangs, he has been one for some time already. Has a man's hands, which spasm only briefly tighter on the neck of the whiskey bottle. Has a man's voice, low and sure. Has a man's confidence. A man's desires.

He finishes pouring his drink and, smoothly, pours another. Then he caps the bottle, puts it back in the cabinet, and turns to hold one glass out at her in offering. By some measures he's too young to drink, but she's born of the country of brandies and wines, and he's -- well. Him.

"Mother," he acknowledges and greets her, smiling: heart hammering, an effort to keep his eyes where they belonged, on her face; a mad spinning of his mind to decipher the why, the when, the how of her sudden appearance. "I wasn't expecting you."


Evangeline

Sat 03:06AM CST

"No," the wisp of a smile tilts those crimson-fleshed lips, striking the high notes of her cheek, and this time her voice is almost chiding, and wry. "I had expected with too much warning, I may have had to chase you half way across the country." The reason he left are well beyond her knowledge, and in that articulation are only half-beliefs, half truths. "But then I did not think I would be coming until two days ago, anyway. Your phone was out of range all last night."

The clip of her heels bears the same slow precision of the image she presents: elegant with sienna fine hair swept up and back in a loose french knot, the pale gleam of her skin belying the fact that she had endured the airports, the taxi and the flights to get here. Her dress is almost casual, or what would be so in her estimates: the line of her skirt a flirt with her knees, the light jacket she wears edging to just above that hem.

"But I have only been waiting for half an hour, so it does not matter. How are you, Sevastian?" That question brings her warm hands to his cheeks, drawing his face to hers so she can look into his eyes and judge for herself. A mother's touch of concern, it mirrors now in the deep pools of her own warm blue gaze, as the wear of the night is like a story across features which steal from her own.


Sevastian V. Sturtevant

Sat 03:11AM CST
His eyes: pale, like his father's, almost wholly gray (...silver.) but for the slightest touch of blue. The end result, a hue like dissipated smoke, startlingly cold, clear. The pupils are huge; he was almost certainly stoned, or worse.

Her hands linger on his bristly cheek only a second. Then he sets the tumblers of whiskey down, turning half away as he does so. His hands freed move to hers, encircling her wrists and pulling her touch gently away.

"Tired, maman. I'm going to sleep soon." Pause. "What... are you doing here? Does father know?"


Evangeline

Sat 03:21AM CST
Dark and sleek brows threaten to meet across that pale brow, disliking what she sees in his face and his eyes. A sample of it is revealed when those lips loose some of their swollen curve as they compress, ever so slightly, as her hands are drawn away unresisting and limp in his grasp.

"Of course your father knows," she hesitates, the words of rebuke on her tongue and as swiftly swallowed through some swift calculation. There was a time, perhaps it was five years ago, when she stopped telling him what to do. When this mother he adored, who in his youth would play with him and spoil, read bedtime stories that would over time evolve into pearls of wisdom and a listening ear, at the side of his bed or across midnight snacks in the kitchen - girls, puberty, and all those confusing adolescent trials as he edged towards his growth as a man – at some point, only compounded by first change, did she withdraw. Still there, still someone to hear, but something in her withdrew. Perhaps to leave his care dominated by his father, as he would be moulded into man and garou. Upstanding, strong, Silver Fang, and coddled not by the whims of a woman.

A few sharp words and she had subsided: holding her tongue even now against this son and man before her, fully grown. Except, perhaps, in one matter: the one she bears with her now.

“But I think you should sleep before I tell you why I’m here.” That same smile, though distracted this time, as her eyes slide away from his face to the whiskey on the counter, the pungency of its aroma causing her nostrils to flare. “There is no rush. Your father does not expect my return for a few days.”


Sevastian V. Sturtevant

Sat 03:28AM CST
Exhaling, Vast turns to the counter as well, and the two tumblers of whiskey side by side, matched. In a smooth grab he lifts one and drinks, draining the two fingers' widths of whiskey quickly, efficiently, his mouth twisting a little at the burn before he leaves the glass in the sink for the maid to collect when she came by later that day.

"Tell me now." Ah, there it is. That quiet imperiousness; the product in equal parts of the spoiling of his mother and the doctrine of his father, and his father's father, and his father's father's father, all the way back to the first Silver Fang to ever wear the crown.

I say what I want.
I want what I want.

Pushing off the sink, he keeps his wary distance and watches her, the tilt of his jaw just a touch stubborn. "I'll forget later," he justifies, belatedly.


Evangeline

Sat 03:40AM CST
Those eyes had followed the rise and fall of the glass, the sink of that amber liquid within the arched exposure of his throat as he swallowed. Her lips have yet to ease from their pressure, the rouge ceasing their swell in that displeasured line. She’s not completely biddable: his father’s breeding or not. The child should know that.

Grasping his chin between her fingers, the indent of her nails into his roughened flesh firm but not like he could break her hold without a struggle. “Sevastian.” The syllables of his name are sibilant on her breath, moulded so because of her accent, because of the inherent product that is his name: and then there is also the faint hint of scolding, the furthest she would breach. “You should rest, as will I.” That hand lets go to move palm flat against his cheek, the run of her thumb along the strong arch of his cheek, and then it falls to her side as she steps back, away. “You look exhausted, and this can wait until you wake.”

A pause, and she lingers, those lips still parted as if she wants to add more and a flicker of uncertainty edging in those eyes. For all the strength he has seen her convey in the past, for all the moments she has abided her role as support by his father’s side: her son has seen the vulnerability, the tears, the uncertainty which would sometimes shakes the foundations of the woman that she is. Much like he had seen those moments of innocence and distance (-lost and longing-) as they warred instead with this life.

[She once was a dreamer.
A girl star-eyed in her youth.
Private, tattered remnants seen only by husband and son.]


Sevastian V. Sturtevant

Sat 03:51AM CST
He almost flinches back--

because, no matter what else, Sevastian was born human first, garou after. And unlike wolves, to whom incest was nothing, was beyond nothing, was normal and even expected, to him the idea of it is horrendous, horrific, tabooed and censured. No one had sent him from New York. He'd left himself, when it had become plain to him that for all his attempts otherwise this growing fascination would only be satisfied by one thing.

Father had grown distant, a silver fang upholding his silver dignity and poise.
Mother had grown distant, allowing his father the right of discipline and education over his son.

And he had grown lean and hungry, and his appetites has swerved in entirely the wrong direction.

--almost flinches back from her hand but, at the last instant, holds still. Beneath her hand he's rigid, like marble, like a column of stone - if he gave himself an inch of yield, he feared he would rub his cheek against her hand like a cat. Or worse, grasp her and rub himself against her like a beast.

Her hand falls away. She steps back. He breathes again.

The exhale holds only the faintest hint of shudder -- "...as you wish, madam." He looks down briefly, his hands restlessly cracking the knuckles of one fist against the palm of the other. "The maid will be by around 3pm." Control regained, he looks up; his eyes are level, steady, pale. "If you need anything, she will know where it is. Mother--" a sharp click of his heels, a sharp bow to her -- no matter his decadence abroad, in his home and in the presence of his mother he did, at least, occasionally attempt the pretense of the sharply aristo-military culture of the tribe, "--I take my leave."


Evangeline

Sat 04:00AM CST
A nod, another hesitation spawned by the military cadence which falls over the form of her beloved child, and with swift steps she seeks him, hands again to cheeks before the warmth of her last touch had faded, drawing his head down and pressing her lips against his brow. Her breath is a light touch, stirring, as she speaks with utter devotion and love: a rare glimpse of emotion she often holds so tight, like a tigress defending its prey.

“It is good to see you, Sevastian.” Exhalation, soft yearning words, “I have missed your presence at home,” from a mother. Gently he is released, her eyes catching his, before with a wistful smile she leaves the kitchen. The bedroom door a dull click as it closes quietly behind her a few seconds later.


Sevastian V. Sturtevant

Sat 04:16AM CST
What she sees:

The continuation of his bow, the posture held with military stiffness while she draws his head down that extra half-inch and presses her lips (mouth.) to his brow. His cheeks are rough with a 24-hour beard, but his forehead is smooth and unlined, young. When she releases him his eyes are untelling, the color like glass and just as reflective.

"Goodnight, maman," he murmurs, though it was day, and she leaves the kitchen.

What she does not see: the twitch of his hands barely held back from gripping her hips and dragging her to him. The shutting of his pale eyes and the silent parting of his lips when she kisses his brow. The fast, half-desperate sip of air in, too quiet to be heard, and then his fists balling so tightly the knuckles stood out white.

What she does not see: the look in his eyes looking in her wake, and his hand, which had missed by a hair of self-control its chance to touch her, folding back instead to press palm to his solar plexus, dig fingers into the flesh of his own chest and abdomen until his fingernails went pale -- as though to hold together a sucking wound, or to hold in a monster that was tunneling its way out of his flesh.

Had he come all this way just to end where he began? The irony was treacherous.

Nevermind. He puts it from his mind. He drinks the whiskey he had poured her as well, a single smooth gulp, and where her door closed with a quiet click, his slams shut loud enough to wake the dead.