weapons don’t cry.

Darling. Zmei's been called many names but darling makes him grit his teeth. "Certainly. I could have a better time talking to anyone else, Ебаный Блядь..." Zmei sighs, adujsting his grip on his can e and starting to contemplate leaving if he's only going to be made to feel older and weaker than he already is for Edgar's entertainment. "Mm. It would also be good for his strikes to land properly. He respects me too much, and a sandbag is different from skin and bone."

Finally letting the teasing tone fall away from his voice, Edgar agreed. "Fine, I'll do it. Anything for you." It was perhaps the first earnest thing he'd said throughout the duration of their conversation, but Edgar meant it. Assisting Zmei with the training of his student was the least he could do for the man. "Set it up and send me a message. I'll be there. And now that that's handled..." Edgar leaned in, voice dropping to a little more than a whisper, "have dinner with me. My place. Tomorrow night."

He was pleasant to look at on all fronts.

She watched him, however lazily, from where she was still poised on the bed, sheets drawn loose across her hips and partially draped across her chest as well; a state of repose if ever there was one. She wasn't looking to argue with him or tell him he was wrong, but her brow knit fractionally regardless of the way he spoke as if she wanted to say something.

And... Salome, being who she was, did, "It's not like I am bullying you into it. This isn't just my own plan, I think we both keep finding a way to justify it in the moment." Now she pulled up a bit, propped against the headboard of the bed in the dingy little motel, "We both agreed no strings and that it was likely a very bad idea, and yet... but you're right, it's the last time."

She sounded resolute enough, yet her eyes kept flicking from his eyes to his lips to his eyes again and back on a circuit, "Why do you keep doing it?"

"For the same reason you do it," he supposed. He settled himself on the edge of the bed. Even then, he held his body ramrod straight. Edgar didn't want to have this conversation, and if someone else had asked, he would have simply laughed it off, but he'd grown comfortable with Salome to some degree over the course of their affair. "Just an itch to scratch every now and then and it's easier with someone you actually like, no?" He cocked a brow almost daring her to contradict his words. "Isn't that all there is to it?"

At his question, her head lifted and scanned the room until she found the familiar mask her husband wore. Silver to her gold. She'd smirked when he'd handed it to her this evening, the gold mask adorned with a snake that made her fondly think of Edgar's beloved pet and it paired with her dark green gown quite well. Motioning to the man across the room, "Schmoozing of course. He's in the zone, I figured he didn't need the little wifey for a moment. By the way, He wants to invite you to dinner next week."

He followed his sister's direction, sighing lightly when he noticed her husband. "He does seem to enjoy that," he commented. Edgar didn't envy Ishmael his enjoyment of being around people. "It's weird." With a nod, he continued, "I'll pencil you both in. Promise."

Play the part. He'd been doing such since he was a young man. Taken on some many roles at this point he should get one of those prestigious American acting awards, but then again, he'd be just as likely to bite the head off the little gold man statue and break it down to something that he could liquidate. He never kept much in his hands, less to lose. Even now, his costume for this event was rather grotesque, a line walked between art and being classic.

His mask covered only one half of his face, one eye looking very in tact, while the rest of the mask gave the impression that his face was little else than bone and degrading skin. It was all elegantly done — the illusions made with fine fabrics and ivory that begged the question on what sort of bone it came from. On his head, a crown made from what were clearly antlers of a deer and covered haphazardly with some metallic formula here and there, and holes drilled into them within the bare pieces that gave him a distinctly dazzling and slightly petrifying aesthetic to anyone who looked too closely. The crown was his own personal joke. Hell, this whole thing was his own personal joke to a degree, if you considered him capable of such.

He had a glass of what people thought to be champagne in his hand, overhearing someone say that the composition playing was Mozart, he said quietly, "It's Beethoven. Not Mozart. Beethoven." It was a profoundly sad piece that made Elias wonder why they'd play it at a party, but still the quartet was a thing of beauty. "Was always fond of the strings and a piano, and few men have composed finer pieces. I prefer him to Mozart." He listened for a beat more. "How long, do we think, until the DJ decides to put on some pop like this crowd knows what a TikTok is?"

"Uncultured swine," he commented, glancing over at the person who'd spoken beside him. "They play at knowing, but truly, the majority of them here know nothing more than how to inflate their own egos." With a slight grimace, he brought the glass to his lips. Typically, Edgar didn't indulge in alcoholic beverages. The odd glass of wine here or there, as was befitting the heir of a wine empire, but anything else was outside of his interests, just an exercise in play acting to appear as if he was indulgent as those around him.

"Would you prefer to dictate the musical choices," Edgar offered, with an amused snort. "I can make that happen for you."

"What is there to keep track of? Your stats have not changed in years." Zmei rolls his eyes, but his grip tenses for a moment on the handle of his cane. He takes a breath, and cocks his head to the side slightly. ".... Quitting before you're ahead usually implies that you don't leave without a word before hitting your prime. You still had miles to go." It had been an odd enough departure that Zmei'd even written a piece on it, not that he can remember if it ever got published or stayed on the cutting room floor. But he shrugs it off, still watching Edgar's face closely, mentally trying to pinpoint what had and hadn't changed.

"I didn't mean me, you'd have me at a disadvantage. Unless you are willing to to fight me with grappling rules, I would rather you spar with Kaan. It'd do him good to learn from someone other than me."

"Come now, darling." Edgar was surprised by how easily the endearment rolled off his tongue. He'd never been one for pet names, generic or otherwise, and had certainly never used them with Zmei, but this was just one more way to ramp up the tension between them. "I'm almost certain that you and I can think of more interesting ways to spend our time." Another grin in the fighter's direction, this one slightly wolfish. "If you'd like me to knock your child around for a bit, I'd hardly say no. It may do him some good to actually learn from someone skilled for once."