orangetoughguy | log post II

Before a caper's ending I tell myself that it shall be the last, that I should rest upon my laurels. With the chance within reach it no longer seems appealing to me. For now that is my next plot.

[A gloved hand waves off the rest. Such is the sound of an old man's banter. Lawrence is aware that his twilight is coming. There are many in his profession dead and rotting.]

Court no one?

[Strange. This statement is kindle on the fire. It was his own doing speaking of ladies of the night, acknowledging his own yearnings. Go and burn now, Lawrence.]

Perhaps we may cross paths. There is much to see.

[Ah. Ys. Wine and food other distractions.]

[These words stir a curious feeling within Alfred Newendyke. A man who waves arms and steals by brute force is still a man after all. Could a judge understand that? Of course Orange here speaks as if a judge might not be corrupt himself. He would be the fool were Lawrence Dimick connected by personal means, these laurels. But he is tired too, at least that's how he sounds. They say some men cannot stop no matter how much he wishes to. Pillaging is in his blood, some are simply sanctioned to do so by the law while others are not. What is the difference between a pirate and a privateer?]

It sounds comfortable.

[Truly? Is that the best you can do, Newendyke? He curses himself the idiotic slip of words. Wine it is. And bred too. Also some cheese and sausages. Just because he is dressed like a noble doesn't mean he must eat like one. When the serving boy is gone green eyes turn back to brown ones.]

I would have to call for you, my knowledgeable guide, if I get lost in the Spanish countryside.

[A letter of mark and the protection of the crown is the difference between a pirate and a privateer. A pirate is his own man. Lawrence does not proclaim himself to be a sovereign nation, and he has done a service to his country. Such a man is not common. ]

The short time spent there was memorable. Thinking on it now warms me.

[The meal is modest and for a moment Blanc half thinks that Orange will require something more fine. No? Such a man he is.]

To your side then I would fly else I must claim you and make amends for any sorts of wrong done.

[A smile, a laugh, they come so easy. Lawrence pours the wine and takes up his goblet soon after.]

To our success.

You would do that for me? Or would harm come my way be an affront to your reputation as the best mentor and guide a man can have?

[Watch your tongue, Newendyke, now you speak too boldly. Oh good, he's turning to the wine too.] And our respite thereafter.

[Alfred nods once, goblet raised. He hasn't forgotten that Lawrence Dimick wishes to retire once this heist is over.]

But of course. Trouble in Spain, trouble tomorrow? What is the difference.

[It is out into the air before he can consider the exact nature of these words. No use now, he must continue.]

I have no fear of slander when it is a matter of honor at the core. Your health is not protected by verbal reputation alone.

[The wine flowing down his throat shall keep a few words at bay.]

For that you have my thanks.

[Is he...actually blushing? Blame the wine and the cafe and the weather, it makes one hot.] Tell me, do they play there? I may not be a gambling man but I could never turn down a rousing game of ball.

[The color in his cheeks is not powder of crushed flowers or shells upon more ghastly powder. It is beautiful, rare and alluring.]

Of course they play. There's no short supply of pleasure and amusement. After all, this is Paris, is it not? Save your money, sir. Don't play with the rabble.

[Then Lawrence would be forced to share. These thoughts.]

I'm sure we can find sport elsewhere.

[What? Alfred laughs again. How many times has Monsieur Blanc evoked laughter from him (and simultaneously a feeling of attraction)? He has to put his wine and bit of meat down.]

I meant in Spain, sir, but now you pique my curiosity. In what other sports do you partake?

[Wrestling? Swords? Riding? He appears to be an athletic man, with or without connotations of age. His form is clearly that of a man who takes care to keep himself in good condition, the better to survive.]

Whatever I can manage. Horses, dueling, sparring man to man though more sparingly as of late.

[Do any of these things please Monsieur Orange? Again and again his thoughts push the limit and each time he finds that he is not afraid, just concerned at the implications. He will be coming to a sharp stop at any time. One word or fancy shall be one too many.]

Do you allow yourself to enjoy any sport?

[In the meantime then Blanc must enjoy it all until it is gone like the cheese and wine. He dabs his mouth with a cloth napkin.]

[Man to man, he says. Alfred pushes certain thoughts out of his mind because surely Lawrence doesn't mean what first came to him, right? He just spoke of women and women's bodies for God's sake.]

A few, yes. I can duel and I've hunted. I'm no good with a racket but I know my way around balls.

[How many puns could possibly reside in one remark? Orange crafts a little grin only to further push forward the idea that he spoke it to be clever, not to be enticing. A palatial ball can be a sport, after all.]

[In context he meant for sport and sport alone. Damage done. Consequences all belong to Monsieur Blanc posthaste.]

A hunt. Ah. That I have not done in many a year.

[As for racket ball or lawn bowling or the like...they are not his sports though to hear Msr. Orange speak about it? How could he refuse. Lawrence is drunk not on the wine but the conversation. It's sweet, strong and going to his head. Soon it shall reach his loins if he is not careful.]

What kind of game falls prey to your appetite? Any large beasts?

[He leans forward only a little.]

[Alfred has reclaimed part of his meal only to nibble it some then put it down again. He feels as if he may or may not regret speaking to Blanc of these matters. It is personal in the respect that it refers to Alfred Newendyke, not to Monsieur Orange, but Lawrence wouldn't know that. How unfair and cruel you are, Newendyke. No, Holdaway would say this man would not return the favor. Oh but he would for such is the trust I've cultivated.]

My grandfather taught me to shoot fowl when I was a boy but I found the game poorly matched against our superior weaponry. It wasn't unlike shooting fish in a barrel. I insisted we seek out fairer game, even a buck would do. Once in colder country we chanced upon a very large bear and I daresay after that experience I chose not to take up such bigger game ever again. But it whet my appetite for the challenge, only preferably in another form.

[And up again to his mouth. He finishes the meaty morsel, looking somewhat disappointed in himself that his story did not have a more adventurous ending like the stories of the crew aboard the Fantastick or Lord Iron.]

You slew a bear?

[Even if he did not, Lawrence is pleased so very pleased that Orange is not wholly the man of fashion and title he appears. In the same way he found Joseph Cabot to be a man like any other with rank and influence to back his name, it makes a person more likable. Though liking has been no issue here. It all has been flowing as naturally as any easy matter.

He is laying waste to a portion of meat and cheese on his side.]

Killed or not I see you are capable of engaging in savage ways.

[Now the devious desires have grown so that a plot is formulating within Lawrence's head to get Monsieur Orange to his abode. Even if no tryst...tryst this is sensational...happens, he will at least know what the man looks like in his temporary quarters waking. Escorting him into the land of dreams for many a night hence may not be a challenge after.]

Tried to. Surprised is the word I would use, although to my credit I think the bear had a story to share upon returning to its den. I refused to lose too easily.

[It's Lawrence's own manner that encourages Alfred to smile and laugh again, validation of his own engaging ways. He consumes his wine until it's a little less than half a cup left.] No one can call himself a man if he's not willing to get his hands a little dirty and his pride hung out to dry. To have it hung out to dry by a bear? That's not terribly shameful.

[He is feeling warmer again, oblivious to plotting but just as much willing to extend their company.] A beer or two after the wine, Monsieur Blanc?

[How many pitchers have come their way? The conversation has been carrying from here to there on music, talk and more sport Lawrence has neglected to pay attention. No matter he has enough coin for it.]

The hour has grown late so soon.

[Embolden by the spirits he sets his hand upon the man's knee beneath the table. Gloves prevent him from feeling exactly what manner of fabric separates them. His intent may be considered too friendly. If that is what pleases and comforts Monsieur Orange may it be so.]

We should depart else the bill take my funds for room and board. It is not so far from here.

[Brown eyes look into his face before continuing steadily] You may rest there until ready to depart.

[Still yourself, man, Orange is finishing his cup. Ah, that was a good one. He sets the vessel down like a gentleman unlike what some foreigners might do ahem. Now then, green eyes looking quite more caramel than jade settle on Blanc. Monsieur Blanc. Lawrence Dimick. Alfred is so very lucky he hasn't called him by familiar, beyond Blanc of course.]

Has it? You're right.

[Monsieur Newendyke concludes without so much as a second thought. That's how right Blanc is. His cheeks are very warm but he is not too inebriated to be considered a drunk. The hand on his knee does not go unnoticed for what some might say are the wrong reasons. It feels good. It sends pleasure right up and down his whole leg. Alfred likes to be touched.]

I wouldn't wish such a misfortune upon you, Blanc, but if I may add I could still drink you quite under. [He smiles, joking, could be the beers talking.] The least I can do is escort you there.

Talk of misfortune or intrusion are unfounded, friend.

[Not drunk but not himself Yes, that is an accurate assessment. He is not himself at all. What illness has made his sustenance the smiling gaze of Monsieur Orange? The settled eye contact is exactly what Lawrence craves. The hand at his knee lingers upward a portion before going away to fetch his hat. They are leaving after all.]

Where shall all of those spirits go, sir?

[A playful jest at his size this time. Why the devil not? They are friends now.]

Escort away.

[The moment those fingertips seem to feel they're reaching higher is the same moment Alfred finds himself thinking more. But then his hand moves away and all is lost. Yes, put your hat on, recover. He sets his own upon his wig too.]

I have my depths hidden about me.

[Orange quips with another friendly smile before taking the lead only because he has been granted the privilege of doing so. Their mounts are nearby too but so is Blanc's quarters if he remembers right.] Shall foot do it? Riding on drink is not the safest way although it's hardly the most dangerous too.

I believe that.

[And want to discover each wonder of it as the naval forces of the world do in the new world. What trash, Lawrence.]

Yes. Not even two streets away. [Standing is a feat only for a few seconds. Blanc can walk on his own.] Let us go on foot. The horses should be in good keeping else they want to test my patience. [An idle threat but a threat in passing for he is making his way to Monsieur Orange's side so that they may walk in this fashion out of the door with him giving direction. By now it is dusk. The darkness can be used.]

I'm flattered for it.

[Truest words if only he didn't wish he said them as soon as they left his mouth. Now he might know, Blanc might be aware Orange craves validation, attention, the approval of his peers. Might he think him weak, a pathetic fop? No of course not, because Monsieur Blanc is not that kind of man and this only makes Alfred feel stranger. He should be ashamed.]

No man with a shred of intelligence would test such might, sir.

[Back again to friendly laughing ways. Orange thinks back to when he first saw Blanc across the room, the way he stood and the hard lines on his face. He is not someone to toy with if one isn't familiar to him. The horses will be well.] You said you'd leave for the south, would you not consider making Paris your home?

[The unspoken part is that as much as Alfred would like to visit he could never make his home there. He must stay in Paris or give up his life's blood.]

[The only worthy reply is to grin. How can he cease this feeling deep within himself? Surely, Monsieur Orange has no inkling of what he does. All the same Blanc is hooked upon this as though a fish on a line.]

Daft is all the rage.

[A jest even when he can make well on any threat. The night air even in its darkness can sooth a little of the flames so that they are not so destructive.]

I have considered it. Though I am not for Paris. She has no love for me. Still, while I am away I think of her. [He keeps close to Orange so that his answers may be spoken softly.] The desire for the thrill of travel is in my blood.

Oh? Maybe you haven't loved her properly, Paris is no ordinary woman you know.

[His thoughts and feelings aside, Orange can talk like any other man espousing the value of a lady even if she is really a city. It's the metaphor that makes it easy.]

I see, if you don't grant her commitment by your hand then you're free to see what else this world has to offer. [Another smile.]

[Monsieur Orange's architecture illuminated by a passing light in a window makes him appear more striking and exotic.]

I suppose that is the trouble. Were I to commit I deny myself so much. As it is within her city I am confused even in my enchantment.

[A small touch at his elbow to guide him to the correct apartments and room.]

How best am I to love her, monsieur? Even in your no courting ways I believe there is a Lothario in your skin.

[Under the cover of darkness in the stairwell Monsieur Blanc cups Monsieur Orange's chin to examine his face this way and that, inspecting.]

[He is most unaware of what Blanc gains when looking at him under a brief veil of light. For Orange they are merely walking together, sharing intimate company in a way most men, most people are often too frightened to do these days. Yet that observation alone makes Alfred a hypocrite because his attraction goes beyond friendship. He sees in the older gentleman a desirable person, one he is going to have to tear down in days.]

She's a lively one, Paris. It's hard to keep up with her. [The younger man says in agreement, guided with equal ease.] A lothario--

[He laughs. Then suddenly he is acutely aware of his surroundings. That touch to his chin stills his very blood while simultaneously heating it up to boiling point. Alfred's green eyes become wide and suddenly he has no idea what to do. What to say. It's as if he's fallen under the spell of some dastardly woman's black magic.]

[All of this exchange is intimate. Where had the pretense gone? With the wine? Or was it before that? There was that comment about the woman that had happened by and where she belonged on a new mount. Could it have been then? Whatever the case may be, Dimick is caring less about what it was and more on what it can be.]

Can you keep up with her? With her wanton ways?

[Lawrence is close enough that he can practically taste Orange's breath.]

Come into my apartments.

[For he has a key to unlock the door. What kind of spell has come upon them both so fast.]

We can discuss further.

[This invitation leaves an option of refusal. By now the signs must be clear.]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject