#virbea

Murmuration

They'd decided to have Dinner at The Crow tonight. Mendell's special on offer was a stew with lamb, and Bradley doesn't eat lamb. With his other fare not up to Virgil's snuff, they'd offered to instead have Mendell's special eggtoast for breakfast in the morning. Bradley had been adamant to insist on paying for Beatrice's meal, and the compromise since they took their business elsewhere for the evening, supplimenting with Mendell's cooking for breakfast instead.

After dinner, Bradley had taken Beatrice by the hand, hauling her out to the middle of the dance floor, and Virgil watched them from his perch at their table off to the side as they bounced and bobbed, roaring with laughter at missteps taken with drink-clumsy feet.

Jealousy, at least in the romantic sense, was headless. He's never felt it rear for anyone he knew Bradley to have been entangled with. He rather treasures the joy brought out in his Starling. And while it's sweeter getting to be the driving force of his joy, taking a better vantage point can offer him something he may covet even more.

It was his preference even in their youth to be as a fly on the wall to Bradley with his arms around the backs of their fellow cadets-turned-privates, though they weren't so much dancing as jumping around, boisterously shouting along to bawdy lyrics. Until he left to spend the rest of his night with Virgil, observing from afar.

That was the special thing about starlings; in large flocks, they exhibit a behaviour known as murmuration. Their movements may seem erratic; moving in a confusing swarm without rhyme or reason, but it is an instinctual tactic to survive, utilizing strength in number. Bradley deserved to thrive amongst his birds of a feather. Two, or three, counting himself, does not make a flock, though, and Beatrice is no starling. Neither is Virgil, for that matter.

Though Bradley treats her much the same as those comrades he had, most of which, if rumours were to have it, he'd had at some time or another. But not for as long as he carried on with Dumanski. They had amicably parted before that night, and he'd politely declined the invitation out, as Bradley reported. None of them remained to this day, though.

And maybe he's not as heavy-handed with the roughhousing. He also has given to easygoing affection, a cheek kiss here, or a lingering touch there. It's warm, what that brings about in him, and soft instead of the pain described by some.

The song ends, and Bradley dashes over to their table with Beatrice in tow, grabbing for his glass to quench his thirst. He's sweating profusely, and Virgil swallows with a dry throat as he watches a bead roll down beneath his collar, wishing to capture it between his lips. He takes a sip of his wine to hide the fact, and to take his mind from his forbidden desire, like he would normally do. Then his head cocks to the side with the realization that he needn't do so, and repentance for his sin remains unrequired, for the time being.

"Come here," he beckons Bradley with a hand outstretched, and Bradley takes it in his, then follows his direction, bending to deliver him a quick peck on the lips. Virgil lingers, moving to cup the back of Bradley's neck, and kisses down the column of his throat in the path that his sweat took, tasting the salt on his skin.

"We're in public, Dearest," Bradley is inquiring more than admonishing of him.

"Forgive me my boldness, for taking liberties in what I wish the moment I want it," Virgil begs, adding quieter, "whilst I still can."

"You must come dance with us, Mr. Z!" Beatrice beckons, simpering sweetly. "Let's see if you're still as spry as your Starling has proven to be." She nudges Bradley with a shoulder, scrunching her face as she pokes out her tongue between her teeth, reaching over to rest a hand on his bicep.

"My husband is ever the wallflower, Bea," Bradley purports. The music kicks up into a familiar folk dance song with set steps, and Bradley's eye alights with recognition, then angles a brow up with a question. "But I know you must remember this song. You could dance to this in your sleep, Dearest."

"Ah, but it involves clapping, if I recall correctly," Virgil excuses, "and I'm rather ill-equipped for executing that particular move, I'm afraid."

"You have never let that stop you before," Bradley calls him out, the look he aims at Virgil, a wagging finger. "I've seen you work quite effectively around your limits far too often to let you off with that."

"Twisting my arm?" Virgil accuses, joining Bradley's game of back and forth, and with a smirk he can't hide says, "you know I have only the one."

Bradley's mouth hangs open in a cocked grin as he scoffs at Virgil's insistent play of his only card.

"Oh, Please?" Beatrice begs with a false agony in her melodramatic frustration.

"Yeah, he likes that," Bradley remarks to her snidely, and compliments her, "good idea actually." Then he employs the same method, imploring Virgil with a matching energy. "Please will you join the fun, Dearest? We're so very lonely out there without you." He adds a pout for good measure, crumbling Virgil's resolve to ruins.

"Was that so hard to ask nicely, Starling?" Virgil asks with all his smoldering charisma, and Bradley shivers. "Alright, colour me convinced."

Bradley and Beatrice celebrate amongst themselves, and take an arm each, leading him along into the throng of bodies already in motion. Virgil's the one to set them on the right track, effortlessly bringing them into the fold with his surety in the correct movements. The dance is traditionally done with just one partner, but there is room to add a second, and even switch between multiple partners, if they would chose to.

Virgil compromises, substituting the high-to-low claps to the right and left in turn with snaps of his fingers. Bradley and Beatrice compensate for the times they have to take his left hand with grabbing his shoulder or wrist, as well as each other's hands, taking turns on each of his left and right sides as they swap positions, twirling around him in the middle like a midsummer pole, his arms acting as the ribbons.

When the song draws to a close, he draws them in beneath his wingspan, even his left arm extending out without so much as a twitch in protest, and they connect in a triangular huddle of heaving breaths, sharing increasingly stale air. The blood roaring in his ears alive with the sound of life returning to a self he thought he'd lost touch with, if not buried six feet deep within himself. His carefree self.