ringing in the new year

[beastkeeper]

For the most part, the beginning of every new year on the block is the same. There's the party, held down in the common room (barely distinguishable from the lobby, but hey, who cares), and the reminders that go up in the week prior, telling people to bring food to share (not that everyone does — the witch provides more than enough, anyhow). There are, of course, smaller parties, held in the apartments upstairs or on the grounds, and the combinations of creatures always rotates (more or less), but the overall air remains the same. The end of one year and the ushering in of another is cause to celebrate.

Comments

[howlings]

[ There are a million different possibilities when it comes to endings. It's something that Hollis understands all too well. (His namesake here, after all, comes along with a certain amount of baggage. A telling and a re-telling and a cycle that goes on and on but has distinct entries within it, nonetheless.) The party's just a party, to him; as for the new year, he doesn't particularly care. It's just another year on the block, and if the months and years blend together, then there's nothing doing. Leave, and die. Stay, and live.

It's with purposefully heavy footfall that he announces his presence upon the front steps, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, the other hand fumbling in one of his pockets for a moment before he produces a lighter.

(He and Betina aren't a good combination under any circumstances. But that's the fun part, isn't it?

There's no way he'd rather start the year, anyway.) ]

Need a light, gingersnap?

[hysterics]

[ Gingersnap. There's a pun there she's certain, and more than just one, buried beneath layer after layer of obviousness. (Her hair, his namesake, his two rows of very white teeth. What's a wolf without some red and Betina has plenty, both inside and out.)

It should be insulting, the way that he talks to her — that fondness, that familiarity, that infantilization. But that's point of their terrible alchemy, isn't it? The way something can be so wholly appealing and so undeniably self-destructive at the time. There's no better way to ring in the new year for her either. He knows it because it's in the way she smiles at those stairs and the street that lays beyond. Even if this isn't her year, there are still quality ways to pass the time.

Turning, the corners of her mouth still curved, Betina leans against the middle railing to look at Hollis, her smile shadowed by the lip of upturned collar. ]

These things will kill me, Hollis, if I'm not careful.

[ Which is the point. ]

[howlings]

Sure they will, [ is his response, offered as he bends down to place the glass he's holding upon the ground. When he straightens up, the lighter is held open and lit, his other hand cupping the flame. His eyes are focused upon her, eyebrows slightly arched in silent offering. ] But they'll kill you slow. [ Slower than some other things is what he means. There's no such thing as slow, with them; just fast and faster.

Their powers don't really allow for anything else, let alone their temperaments. ]

Now, come on. Don't rob me of the pleasure of lighting a pretty woman's cigarette.

[hysterics]

I'd be a very pretty but very stupid woman, [ Betina says, her voice a lulling singsong, ] To think of robbing you of anything. [ A beat and Betina's eyes crinkle at the edges knowingly. She's tried in the past, if only to inspire his ire. Her body still bears proof of it, things she wouldn't let the Novotny boy fix up. ] Especially pleasure.

[ Her hand comes up over the top of his as if to steady the lighter's flame despite it being steady already. Any excuse to touch him, really, to get her skin on his so that her particular brand of compulsion can readily take. He'll feel good for a moment, but that feeling — like everything else in this world — will pass. And when it does what remains in its place will be terrible, indeed.

(It's not really necessary for her to goad him, she encourages him enough already. But Betina is bright and clever and has never once enjoyed doing things by halves.)

She watches him as she inhales off the end of her cigarette, the flame dancing in her eyes, their wetness catching the light. The tobacco catches but she doesn't move away, just puckers her lips around the filter to exhale smoke between them a moment later. ]

[howlings]

[ It's a funny thing — his eyes almost look yellow in the dim light. ]

And the devil knows you always were a clever gal.

[ As soon as her hand alights upon his, he can feel that familiar poison spread in his veins — the laugh of the hyena, euphoric but frantic at the same time. (He could fall in love with a laugh like that.) His voice begins to change, too, not immediately perceptibly, but by the minutest increments, shifting into the voice of the wolf, leading from the beaten path, a steady burn and warmth in the blood. ]

Happy new year, Bets.

[hysterics]

[ Betina's smile sharpens and she almost laughs, smoke hissing out from between her teeth as she barely manages to curtail a bark to an exhale. Give her time — and hour, maybe more, maybe less — and she won't even bother to curb her laughing; it'll come, as terrible and harsh as ever, as crazed and delirious as her namesake. (Tiger wolf. Hyena. Laugh laugh laugh.) ]

What else does the devil know, I wonder.

[ Hollis doesn't need to use his voice on her and they both know it terribly well. Unlike so many of the others that have come and gone and fallen around them, Betina needs no help in straying far and wide from the path. But, oh, how sweet a smolder it makes her feel and eagerly she looks to match it, that hand of hers sliding down and around to grasp him firmly by the wrist, tugging him forward to her jackal mouth as it continues to seep smoke. ]

Out with the old, in with the new has always reeked of rubbish to me, Hollis. I rather like our game as it is.

[ The suggestion of her nails begins to manifest itself against his skin, or is that just the flush of her powers prickling on their way in. ] But happy new year all the same.

[howlings]

[ Hollis laughs, then, although it's just a low rumble of a sound, echoing from the back of his throat as his lips curl back to reveal two rows of white (sharp) teeth. There's smoke in his mouth, in his nose, in his eyes, but hell if he cares. He yields when she pulls him closer, the muscles of his arm tensing once as he does, weight shifting from foot to foot.

His gaze flickers once, from her eyes to her lips and then back.

(He's got a weakness, he has, for pretty girls and sharp smiles and red, red, red.) ]

You got anyone else on your dance card tonight, sweets? Or am I allowed to take the first kiss of the year?

[hysterics]

[ (She's got a weakness, she does, for low laughs and white teeth and red, red, red. All at her expense, of course, or else the exchange doesn't take.)

Betina seems to revel in the path that his eyes take, in the tingle that's begun to spread both over and under her own skin. There'll be hell to pay for it later (the sweeter the sowing, the more bitter the crop) but that's the best part of this terrible equation and Hollis is nothing but reliable when it comes to certain strands of cause and effect. ]

I have places to be later, [ she hums and perhaps it's a lie meant to do nothing but incite and goad. There was always Jack, of course, though Betina holds his name in reserve. ] But I'm fairly certain I could be convinced to open up a dance up front.

For old time's sake.

[howlings]

For old time's sake, hmm?

[ It's his turn to pull her closer, this time, his free hand finding her waist as his head tips to one side, careful to avoid the cigarette. (There's fire in his veins already, that lovely laugh spreading through every inch of him, still heady but, he knows, going to give way to the worst of him in the end.) ]

That's awful generous of you.

[ There's always hell to pay, always, whenever either one of them is involved in any equation and even more so when they both are. They both know it, and that's what keeps them coming back. ]

[hysterics]

[ Betina turns her head to one side if only to pull deliberately on her cigarette. She considers the end of it as she does so, holding the smoke in her mouth, turning the acrid taste of it over and over on her tongue as if willing that bitterness to linger long after (a gift that she'll give him, along with all the rest). It's tempting, that smoldering tip, the burn that it promises (oh how he'd yell).

In the end she abandons the thought (uncreative, obvious) and turns back to him, her lips parting just far enough to let that smoke seep from the very corners, where her mouth is reddest, rouged crimson by lipstick and wine. ]

Call me a sentimentalist, dear. You know how my heart bleeds for the classics.

[howlings]

Moby Dick, maybe, [ Hollis hums, watching the smoke exhaled from her lips dissolve into the night air. ] but, if you insist, sentimentalist it is.

[ Another laugh, then, just as low as the first. ] I never could refuse you anything. [ He shifts, tugging once against the hold she has on his wrist. He can feel her powers working already, like the whistle of a kettle, growing higher and higher in pitch in his head, through his whole frame. ]

So, what'll it be, Becks?

[hysterics]

[ His laugh is low and heady, but Betina knows she can wring a few heckles from him if she puts her mind to it. ]

I think we should paint the town red tonight, Hollis. [ Betina grins a jackal grin and then abandons her cigarette, flicking it off carelessly with the end of a nail. One hand comes up to move across the broad expanse of his shoulders, his wrist still tightly gripped in the other. She laughs one last time; she makes his nerves sing. ] Let's start with me, shall we?