Oleander Mareth

Florentin is the one transfixed now, by the sweep of that tongue over those lips. He’s tasted thousands before, and will likely taste thousands more to come, but in this moment, he swears he’s never found any lips so tantalizing. 

“Hm--?” He goes still as Florentin leans in again, not quite holding his breath but it’s hard not to react to Florentin when they’re both so obviously aroused and both so obviously trying their very best not to succumb to their baser instincts. By this point Ollie is this close to just saying fuck it to dinner and getting to the good stuff, but he’s a) stubborn as fuck and b) spent the majority of the afternoon making sure everything was going to be perfect. 

It’s not that he’d consider himself fake—in fact, his charm and cheek are both very real, his playfulness very surface, but naturally so. But Chase has made a living of being desirable,  he’s carved a life and a career out of being irresistible. And without this part, he wouldn’t quite be whole. Attention starved and otherwise abandoned, this is how he survives, this is how he keeps from falling away into a dark and deep emptiness, lost and never to be found. 

So Ollie leans in, he smiles, he plays along with Chase’s game, and Chase’s heart does a flutter and a skip. Like an entertained pup, excitable eyes watching the ball that the Master just might be getting ready to throw. That temptation to yip, to whine, out of the sheer anticipation of the glee. 

‘A daring adventure, huh? What’d you have in mind?’

Chase is a mirror; he grins back. But the mirror is a naughty conscience, and his grin pulls broader, impish on its own. 

He drops his eyes a moment, finger making lazy figure eights in the surface of the bar as he plays a mocking innocence. “Could be anythin’, really. Like…” he looks back up at him, all mischief in his gaze. “Oh, I dunno, sneakin’ outta here with a bottle of Jack, makin’ our own party at the park. Wanderin’ ‘round till we find a beach party to crash. Break into a school campus, just to wander ‘round and leave evil meddlin’ notes in people’s lockers. Stuff like, ‘I slept with your boyfriend’, or ‘I gave her herpes’.” He grins—Cheshire. “Or we could just climb up onto some poor suburban sod’s roof and make out. Take a dip in their pool.”

By now his elbows rest far too close to Ollie’s side of the bar not to be noteworthy. Tongue in cheek, his eyes speak his flirtation for him, his gaze sticky and lingering. 

Florentin had been the first time Ollie had recognized what he was feeling--and it wasn't exactly anything romantic beyond what would normally come from sexual encounters but the fact that he was emoting at all had been something of a marvel that occupied a large portion of his attention for several hours after they'd eventually parted ways.

He largely blames those feelings for the impulse to invite an incubus over for a dinner date, because nothing else could possibly account for that lack of common sense, trust or no trust. He doesn't regret it--his sisters had basically pretended the entire evening had never happened, much to his relief, and he had done the same where they were concerned. If he caught them smiling at him in an odd way he pretended not to notice.

His thoughts are brushed aside as Chase looks back up at him, and he only finds himself grinning wider as the other speaks. None of his ideas sound boring in the least, and while he may have a natural inclination towards the latter by way of his love for all things pleasant. He laughs, though, leaning in with his weight braced on one elbow as he responds.

"I don't know that there are any rooftop pools in little ol' Antioch, but the rest of that choice sounds like fun."

But then the hand in his lingers—quite obviously, actually. It’s a long few beats after the necessary, before he lets go of his hand, and Chase’s grin sparks with something knowing, and familiar. He peers at him mischievously, from behind long, dark lashes. He licks his lips. 

“Oleander? Good name, mate. Very.. Shakespeare.” He chuckles. And the fake pout is cute—enough so that Chase sort of wants to reach out and touch it (among other things) but he resists, his narrow form leaning comfortably closer, body language inviting and curious. 

“Well, Ollie, we can still go on an adventure, f’ya like. I’m always up for somethin’ daring.”

Finally, now that they’re here--in Antioch, a place that, on the outside, seems as quaint as can be--he feels like he’s finally able to shed some of that skin that he’s lived with his entire life. The knowledge that he’s not completely human has always been something of a barrier between himself and the rest of the world; his sisters were his only solace because they were in the same situation as him. Antioch has been so different because it didn’t take the Mareths long to figure out that many people were more than they seemed. So he had that excuse to peel some of that defense back, act a little more himself--as evidenced by tonight, in fact.

There are a lot of outside influences, but in the past when he felt as hopeless as he did tonight, his typical plan was to hole himself up at home. He thought it was time for a change, maybe, or he just didn’t give a shit anymore.

He certainly gives a shit now, though, as Chase leans closer, and he has to catch himself from doing the same; if he leans too much further he might just fall right off his stool (and what a wonderful impression that would make, falling right into Chase’s lap). “A daring adventure, huh?” He grins. “What’d you have in mind?”

And now he’d peaked the man’s interest with a story he can make entertaining, and he chuckles, practically preening under the pleasant feeling of being mysterious, even if he plans on leveling the playing field within moments. But his playfulness, his ability to surprise, that’s what keeps him a subject of intrigue, an element of people’s desires. It’s what kept him from falling off the map, back when he had nothing but this—this roguish charm, and a body that could be paid for. 

It’s arguable that he doesn’t have much more than that, still, but being in Antioch has at least given him a new kind of independence. He has hope for more, now, but he’s never not relied on the heavy hands and deep pockets of strangers. His service work for Isaiah comforts him, and he may not get away from wanting to rely on someone, or something, because he’s not running from it. 

He laughs boyishly, his smile bright, and easily hops onto the bar, lifting his legs and swinging them around until they’re hanging on the customer side instead, and then he hops down, takes the stool next to the stranger. “Don’t worry, love, I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he teases, holding out his hand to shake. “Chase. And I work for the owner. So I ain’t on the schedule, but I know the ropes.” He shrugs. “They were busy, so I was just helpin’ out. Perfectly legal, I’m afraid.” His grin is cheeky, his mock pout, impish. 

“Isn’t that a relief,” he says, grin spreading across his face again. Resituating himself, Ollie turns slightly on his stool, resting a single elbow on the bartop now as he faces the stranger more fully. “Ollie--Oleander,” he says, taking Chase’s hand to shake--and maybe holding on a bit longer than strictly necessary. But who’s counting? 

When he does finally let go his reluctance is less than subtle. If someone didn’t know better they might think that he’s the touch-starved type but it’s more than that. Being surrounded by so much death--from being stuck in his own head or getting a glimpse at what his sisters have to deal with--makes it very easy to crave life. 

It does explain his habit of sleeping his way through a town.

Chase’s explanation isn’t exactly surprising, but he fakes a pout anyway. “Damn. I was hoping for a daring escape when you got caught.” The disappointed face lasts only so long before cracking, though, and he finds himself grinning again.

Because he’d had nothing else to do. Nowhere else to go. 

He wonders if it’s the same for this man, but doubts it. It very much seems like he’s sitting here out of determination. Staunch resolution to steer clear of something else. The most a person can be running whilst sitting parked on a sticky bar stool. 

But there are all kinds of running. Chase should know. 

He grabs the glass with a smirk, plunking it onto the barback, and leaving it for later. And as the man leans forward with his reply, Chase lets out a bright, dash of a laugh. Because he’s right—this place would have the budget to bring in a thousand scantily lad dancers. On Monkeys. With crowns. 

“Alright, ya caught me. F’ya want the truth…” He lowers his voice, makes a teasing show of looking around to check for people listening, and leans close, as if to tell him a secret. He puts his elbows on the bar in front of the strangers, and brings his mouth just to the left of the man’s face. “I can’t bring ya dancers ‘cause I don’t work here, s’why.” Laughing a laugh that’s almost a giggle, he pulls back a bit, eyes twinkling with mischief and amusement, tongue playfully between his teeth. 

“But f’ya still want me to dance fer ya, I’d be happy to oblige. I reckon I’m pretty good. Or so I’m told.” He chuckles, throws in another wink for good measure. 

The other’s answer is enough to startle a laugh out of him, and he can’t help but glance around. “You’re not going to get kicked out for impersonating the help, are you?” His tone makes it clear just how uncool that would be--his own fun effectively interrupted, not to mention whatever unpleasant things his new best friend (a little optimistic?) would have to go through as a result.

Maybe he’s a touch dramatic about it all, but alcohol tends to do that to Ollie--yet another reason he usually tries to avoid it. His pride can only handle so much and he has a fascinating habit of making it difficult to maintain much dignity even in the best of circumstances.

“I don’t doubt it,” he says, though he can’t really know how good this one’s moves are--he’s a more-than-decent bartender but that doesn’t really speak to any skill relating to dancing. And besides, he’s rather hoping there ends up being more than dancing on tonight’s schedule.

He’s teasing now, grin bright and flirtatious (which is exactly what his tips were made of). 

“So what’ll it be, mate? Do I need to cut ya off? Or should I call in the slutty dancers to put on a show for ya?” He tips his head, shrugs. “Gotta warn ya though, the dancers would consist of me, part of one, ‘cause that ain’t in the budget.” He winks. 

The glass in his hands is empty after all, so he pushes it off to one side so he can rest his elbows on the bartop and lean a little closer. “What a difficult choice,” he drawls, resting his chin in one hand. “Though this place not having the budget for a couple scantily-clad dancers I find hard to believe.” A smirk is firmly (and lopsidedly) planted on his face by now, taking most of the sting out of his words. Leaning in a little closer he has to take a moment to appreciate the well-balanced sturdiness of these stools; his general disregard for gravity (or lack of balance) has overpowered more than one bar’s choice of seating in the past. “Don’t let my skepticism stop you, though. Consider me a captive audience.”

Tonight is one of those nights. Working for Isaiah, and being around the club pretty frequently because of it (and on his own will, too, as places like this are familiar to him, and remind him a little bit of his life before moving here), means that he knows the staff, and he knows more or less the ins and outs of how it’s run. 

And tonight, he’d decided to swing by just for the fuck of it, mostly to get out, to be submerged in the bass of the raging music, to feel lost in the flashing lights, comforted by their familiar glare. But the bartenders had been swamped, totally understaffed, due to a call-in probably, and Chase had popped behind the bar to help them out. He’d spent about half a year or so bartending back home, when he’d tried to trick himself into thinking he was going to get out of the hustling business. He didn’t. 

Nonetheless, it was a skill he had fun with, and he’d made a pretty good one, at that. In fact, he’d even do a shift every so often at the agency. He had the personality for it, they said. Reined in the tips like nobody’s business. 

It’s finally slowing down now, enough so for Chase to start helping with the tidy after the rush, and it’s then that he notices the bloke at the end of the bar having a staring contest with his drink.

Chase pulls up across from him, leaning the heels of his hands on the bar, long, tattooed arms propped straight and narrow as he tilts his head, watching him. 

“Alright there, mate? If yer looking for the bottom of it, I think you drank it. About five rounds ago.” He smirks. 

It takes a mildly interesting moment for his eyes to wend their way up those arms to the face attached to it, and he makes a note to ask about the tattoos later--when he’ll actually remember the answers. The other’s words make him glance down at the glass in his hands, then back up. He shrugs. “’Alright’ is relative. This,” he pauses to lift the glass with a indicative little shake, “certainly helps, though.”