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It’s hardly a feat that he should feel disoriented and disorganized at such a hour—this liminal space in which everything and nothing matters at all: it is unnerving.
Here he stands: nothing but a blip, the embodiment of indecision, self-imposed stasis against the passage of time as he lingers on an unimportant-important street corner in Midtown. There’s better places for him to be—and if not better, smarter places, at the very least—yet, like clockwork, or perhaps more like an infection that never seems to heal, only persists: he stands, smoking, measuring the weight of his perceived options as Raphael’s apartment looms tall in the twilight of the city’s sky like an omen.
If he tried, he could count it: the floors, the windows; he could find Raphael’s apartment easily, easily because he knows that those wide, spotless panes overlook this very street.
He lets his eyes drift higher, above the edge of the building and,
Above: an airplane soars; its light blinks, draws his gaze as it drifts through the sky like a shooting star, and he wonders: if he made a wish, to have better, want better, be better... would the Fates deem it enough?
Long since have his fingers turned stiff—but the chill, it’s a nasty thing to contend with: pushing up through the concrete to penetrate the thin rubber soles of his boots, weaving itself through the threadbare cotton of his sweatshirt and... truly, the smart thing to do would to move, to force himself to go inside despite all the ways in which he knows doing this, continuously doing this to himself is a bad idea;
⸻and yet,
Moving is near impossible, even in light of promised comfort and softness of a man with more money than sense; and how funny that: being welcomed in such sleek luxury as if he actually belongs there. Such are the perks of fucking someone rich—of fucking someone like Raphael. It’d be a lie to say it’s not leagues better than all that he had with Cazador, but...
The smile that forms around the dented butt of his cigarette is a bitter one.
Mistakes: lessons he can never seem to internalize, lessons that feel less like cautionary tales and more like prophetic musings; mistakes: tonight, another one blooms as a bus approaches, the last of the night. The breaks squeak, ear-splitting loud as it rolls past and stops just few feet away. The metal doors clack-creak open and he watches as people shuffle out to make the last leg of their journey home, wherever home may be.
The doors remain open long after the final passenger disembarks; the orange-yellow glow of the interior lights calls to him, beckoning as if in silent offer: it’s not too late. Tragic that only at this time of night could the germ-infested coffin be seen as a safe haven—because it’s not quite as warm, not quite as welcoming as, as inside; but it’s... a choice—his own choice;
He could leave. Could finally find that self-preservation and respect he’s been devoid of since so long ago, since, since Cazador; and there’s, not a lot of it, but there’s, just enough, enough money in his back pocket that could get him on this bus, get him to the station just in time to make the last train and get home, and maybe, just maybe, it’d be the unexpected catalyst, the action that changes things, changes him:
⸻but his legs don’t move. Courage refuses to manifest. Instead, he’s left to watch with his practiced yet no less devastating detachment as the doors fold into themselves, revoking their promising embrace. The bus pulls free from the curb to slip into the push-and-pull of late night traffic—a blink and miss it moment, one he’d think he dreamt up were it not for the heavy cloud of diesel left in its wake.
There’s nothing left of his cigarette. Would that he had the means, he’d languish even longer on this unimportant-important street corner as the city glitters and shines but,
There’s nothing left of his cigarette, there’s nothing left in the crumbled pack and the pittance of dollars in his pocket just isn’t enough. It never is enough: money; because, and he thinks this often, because: if only he didn’t need the money, but—that’s just it, isn’t it? The thing that keeps dragging him into these endless cycles, the thing that dropped him, kept him, in Cazador’s clutches, the thing that keeps making him find love in loveless places:
Money: something he’s always needed; something he still needs, and given the hands Fate continuously deals him: he always will.
It’s the same as it always is⸻the elevator ride: a slow ascension to inevitability: a metaphorical death; literal, if one considers the culminating effect of these numerical countdowns to his pride, ego: floor by floor and second by second—it’s the same as it always is: the long walk down carpeted, winding halls, counted steps: fifty-six, just, just, fifty-six, fifty-six instances that lead him to the inescapable truth of Raphael’s apartment.
And even now, despite the late hour, it’s not, too late, to: turn around, walk those same daunting halls back to the elevator with just a push of a button that’ll take him back to the lobby and the doorman that barely blinks at the blight of him anymore even despite the fact it’s obvious he’s the bad sorts, the wrong sorts:
But pride is such a dreadful thing; it is a vice he’s yet learned to relinquish; and so, he can do nothing more but stand in front of the beautiful grain of a sturdy oak door. It’s all that stands between him and another night of being pulled into the whispers of those sweet delusions that rise from the depths of him as he falls into the grasps of... a different devil, perhaps, but a devil all the same.
His hand rises, steady; just three knocks.
The silence is oppressive, heavy; but it is a temporary silence that gives way at the faint click of a lock sliding free.
Jazz rides out on the coattails of warmth as the door swings open. He takes in a breath that pulls a tight grimace that could be considered a smile to his face because once this wooden barrier is breached—there can be no more him: he cannot exist as he is; no, for this night: he is little mouse, he is pet, he is Astarion with endless conditionals that he’s helpless to give into.
He's ready for a sharp tongue, poison-dipped daggers reflected in the depths of Raphael's gaze as Raphael tilts his head up to look at him—and while he expects frustration, ire, all he finds in its place is: Raphael, wilted, melted like Raphael only ever is when the role he stuffs himself into rips apart at the seams to allow vulnerability to escape. Here stands Raphael: contemplative twist sitting freely the corners of his lips like there only ever is when Raphael has been drinking enough to drown out whatever thoughts must plague him.
Ah, so it's that kind of night.
That's. It's better. Maybe.
“Hello, darling," he greets.
“You're late," Raphael says, eyebrow twitching but still stepping aside regardless to grant him access.
He closes the door behind him, near soundless except it’s,⸻another nail, hammered through the splintered wood of his coffin.
It’s the same as it always is: him, left to leave all the dirty parts of him at the door before joining Raphael in whichever sprawling room he deigns for the first part of the evening to be spent—except:
Tonight, when he follows the music into the living room, instead of lounging on too soft furniture like Raphael is wont to do, he finds Raphael by the windows. Rare that he has the opportunity to observe Raphael so off-guard, but... that’s not quite right either: black sweater, expensive; soft fleece pants to match, wide stance with bare feet—Raphael looks dangerous, but not in the violent way, no, Raphael looks⸻touchable, soft and wholly out of place given the stern stylistic choices surrounding them; and... would that he could smother the persistent yet weak flame of hope that flickers against his rib-cage when Raphael... feels like this, looks like this, but tonight, the warmth that blooms from his foolishness: it is welcomed.
“You seem to be in a... peculiar mood, tonight, darling,” he hedges.
The alluring line of Raphael barely shifts even as the air does.
“Am I?” Raphael asks, murmurs.
“I’d say so,” he says, slowly maneuvering his way to the liquor cabinet on the right side of the room. Raphael says nothing, even as the decanter that holds the expensive whiskey Raphael never lets him drink clinks and echoes. A healthy pour into a spotless crystal glass; the finger of whiskey feels like temptation and even more so on his tongue. “You’ve hardly cursed me, even now. You might need to pinch me in order for me to know if I’m awake or not.”
Jazz occupies the silence between them.
“If I truly had to say, I suppose I could blame it on the weather,” Raphael explains, in a manner of speaking, after a moment, two. “The cold... it reminds me of home,” a pause: “I don’t enjoy thinking of home, in most regards.”
He raises an eyebrow as he drains his glass. He’s found enough courage in the amber liquid to slide a closer but still well outside of the range of Raphael’s peripheral until he figures how to navigate this mood they find themselves in except: a gust of irritation disrupts the flame inside of him: how droll, for someone so wealthy to wallow in the ghosts of a past as if he’s the only one.
“I’m not fond of the weather myself, but I must say, pensiveness doesn’t suit you at all. Though, indulge me a bit, darling—is tonight the night I play therapist? Listen to all the ways daddy dearest never loved you enough?”
And that’s, blunter than he means it to be, rude—a misstep, gods, a costly one if he doesn’t try to correct himself but when Raphael turns to look over his shoulder, it’s as if he’s looking at the phantom of Raphael instead of the man that’s gone and made a mess of all his personal logic and rules.
“No, you’re here to fuck me,” Raphael says with a thin smile. “But not quite yet. Tell me little mouse: do you know how to dance?”
And that,
“Dance?” he questions, clarifies.
Raphael’s cheek twitches. “Yes. Dance. The thing you tend to do with two legs alongside a decent tune should you be so lucky, you’ve heard of it.”
Dancing, dancing: flashes of Cazador: of being dragged to events that never interested him outside of putting him on Cazador’s nice side, if only for a few hours, of a life... so long ago that the edges of it are worn and faded, and all he can truly remember is the faint floral of his mother’s perfume—
He clears his throat. “I can manage.”
“Oh?” Raphael turns in full. “Well, here’s your chance to impress me.”
There’s, no real reason to refuse: if Raphael wants to find indulgence in pointless dancing, so be it, but it’d be a lie to say that this—Raphael approaching him, but only after turning the speakers connected to the record player just that bit higher; that this—Raphael standing in front of him, expectantly, close, with no pretenses for sex, at least not yet: isn’t all... that unwelcome, if unpredictable; but more the fool he is to think of Raphael as the transparent sort.
“At the start of the next song, then,” Raphael says, sniffs, already unimpressed. One of Raphael’s hands hovers in the air, and he blinks as Raphael’s other arm drapes itself over his shoulder. “You will have the pleasure of leading. Do avoid my toes if you know what’s best for you.”
There’s plenty he could say in response, but everything falls into oblivion at Raphael’s touch because this, contact: physical⸻it only happens in the confines of Raphael’s bedrooms on sheets so expensive that just the act of staining them with their white feels sinful; yet here he stands, here they stand: in a room bigger than his entire apartment; and this: Raphael’s hip underneath his palm, Raphael’s warmth encroaching his space, gods, here he stands: holding Raphael, embracing Raphael.
Raphael’s free hand waits for its own embrace; and so, he, holds it, firm, as if it’ll disappear underneath his touch, little more than a mirage; firmer, once dry fingers curl around his. Moths dance around the strengthening flame inside of him and;
They stand, and he, he holds Raphael, as they wait for the vinyl to shift into the next melody. This close: Raphael—Raphael is everything he’s been trying to deny: captivating, heartbreaking, tempting with smoke and whiskey and lust and sadness embedded in every inch of Raphael and,
What a curse it is indeed, to indulge in the whims of a rich man for all the wrong reasons.