By Chris, for Idolatrie.
The sign lit up the night. 'Tourmaline,' it read, eggshell white stabbed through with thick black splinters. Black and white. Zach liked it.
It was his first semester abroad; he still wasn't used to the smells of Venice, but the nights were oddly comforting. Greyish moonlight falling on the inky canal. Black and white stripes on the homeward-bound gondoliers. Everywhere light and dark.
It was late December, and a stiff breeze stirred the water. His fellow students had all gone back to the States for the holiday, but the thought of home was unappealing to Zach. His parents asked him to come, of course. Jenny and Tom had announced their engagement, and everyone wanted to celebrate Not Zach. Anyway, California was always too bright, and the garish colors of Christmas sizzling in the balmy heat left a sour taste his mouth. And so he stayed on, spending his days with his charcoals and inks.
But the calendar said December 24th. He'd heard the carolers on the street, and suddenly the solitude didn't seem so much a blessing. So here he was. Club Tourmaline. Heavy bass seeped into his sneakers, traveled up to his heart. He nodded to the bouncer, slipped him some coin, and slid inside.
It was a club. He didn't know what he'd been expecting. Magic, maybe. But it was a club like any other-- a dance floor, a bar, a string of black-clad twentysomethings with perfectly-painted, expressionless faces. White light razored the darkness in time to the music. Zach sighed and went to the bar.
The bartender was tall and stared at him dispassionately. Stuttering in terrible Italian, Zach ordered a gin. He had no idea what was in the glass that was shoved into his hands, but it sure as hell wasn't gin. He paid for it anyway. He took a sip and sputtered. It burned a line down to his belly.
A girl next to him gave a sharp laugh. She had fluffy blonde hair and her lips were coated in pink gloss. She reminded him a little of Summer. "For you," she said, pressing some sort of odd, sugar-dusted candy into his hands. "Americano."
"Is it that obvious?" he asked, practically yelling over the music.
She looked perplexed. "Buon natale," she said, nodding at the gummy candy in his hand. And so he ate it-- it was sour but not unpleasant.
"Uhm, grazie. Buon natale. Uh, mi chiamo Zach--" he began awkwardly.
The girl waved her hand dismissively at him. "Buon natale," she said again, emptily, grabbing his arm and pulling him onto the dance floor.
Oh.
Zach had many talents. He was a capable artist. He could troubleshoot any sound system in existence. He had a remarkable ability to drive off anyone he might be remotely interested in. Dancing? Dancing was not a talent he had. He bounced somewhat rhythmically as she gyrated against him, her eyes closed. She smelled like strawberry candies and cigarettes. He wasn't sure where she was, but it sure as hell wasn't here. After one torturous song, she wandered off to rub against someone else. He had the good sense to be at least somewhat grateful, but that left him back at square one-- alone. Again.
Perhaps this had been a miscalculation. He turned and headed for the door.
"Leaving so soon, Americano?"
The voice was velvet-soft, quietly ironic. He turned. When he saw the man's face, he felt a wave of panic. A Shadow Man. Had to be. No way someone that beautiful could be human.
"Uh..."
"Well, look at the little lamb," said the dark haired man.
Lamb. Lambs and monsters. Run. Runrunrun.
"I know what you are," he said, taking a step back. The lights cast shadows on his face. On the angled planes of his cheekbones. On the soft cupid's bow of his upper lip. Pale skin and raven hair.
"Do you, now?"
"You're a Shadow Man."
"Never been called that before, but it's fitting enough." A grin tugged at his perfect lips.
"I really have to go now." Zach turned towards the exit.
He was ten yards past the door and into the chill of the night when he realized the man was still behind him.
He whirled around angrily. "What the *fuck,* man?" he demanded. "We're done, you and me. Done! I don't want to play any more fucking games!" The rage warmed his cheeks.
The man cocked his head and peered at him quizzically. "I don't think you're crazy, and I don't think we've met. Are you usually this rude to strangers?"
Zach stared. His brain was telling him to walk away. Walk away, and in the morning, there'd only be a vague sense that he'd been a dick to some nameless dude on the street. Some nameless dude with sculpted muscles. Who seemed to be interested in him anyway. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made.
He signed. "You're not-- sorry. Um, I'm Zach. You'll have to excuse me, I'm not really used to this--" he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the club, "--this. You know, the club scene. The meat market. Everything. It gets me a little frazzled."
"I'm Damon," he said. "And that much was obvious." He extended his hand. It was cool to the touch. Zach shivered.
"So what now?" Zach asked. "I don't really do this, so--"
"Now we get something to drink, Zach. I think that's the only proper way to apologize."
"Sure. What's your pleasure? Know any good bars?"
Damon smirked. "You're cold. How about some tea?"
"I don't think there are any cafes open--" and then Zach shut his mouth. Oh. Okay, Taylor. Get it together. "Your place or mine?"
"Ordinarily, I'd say mine, but I think you'd be more comfortable at your place."
Zach eyed him up guiltily. "Okay, fine. My place is this way."
His dormitory room was warm, if small. He'd been glad to secure a single and took the room without question. He had a microwave and a mini-fridge and all the privacy in the world. He only had a few baggies of Earl Grey-- he popped them into his coffeemaker with a bottle of spring water. "It's what I've got," he said shrugging. "I think I'm out of sugar."
"No matter, it's for you. Are these yours?" Damon gestured to the walls, which were covered in paper. Zach's charcoal sketches-- still lifes, renderings of models, all black and white.
"Yeah, I'm studying art here." They talked about art for few minutes, small talk mostly. The Italian masters. Things any dilettante could pick up from a uni textbook. Pretense.
"You have talent," Damon said. "Only beautiful fingers could have drawn these."
Zach blushed. "Practiced that line much?"
Damon laughed. "Not much for the usual routine, I see."
"Even if I knew what that was, probably not. So how about you just tell me what you want?" The pot beeped; the tea was done.
Damon ignored the question entirely. He pressed one hand against Zach's hipbone and saw his eyelashes drop. "Why were you at the club tonight?"
Zach couldn't raise his eyes. "I think I just needed-- I don't know. It's so..." He swallowed thickly. "I think I needed to be a little less alone tonight."
Damon lifted Zach's chin with a finger, forcing the smaller man to meet his eyes. "Honesty," he murmured, appraisingly.
Zach shrugged. "You still haven't told me what you want."
Damon dipped his lips and kissed him, pulling him close to feel the flat muscles of his body. Zach gave into the kiss, pressing in to suck on Damon's lower lip.
"I see," he said. "I'm kind of--"
"--new at this," Damon finished for him. "I figured." His grin was infectious-- Zach felt a smile tugging at his lips.
"So, not a Shadow Man, then?" Zach asked.
Damon pulled one of his fingers into his mouth and sucked. Zach gasped in pleasure as he felt a tooth pierce his skin.
Light lit up Damon's dark eyes. "I suppose that depends, doesn't it?"
Fin.
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