Love's Labor Day Lost.
[Tarvek awakes to find himself gazing up at a cieling that isn't his own. He's memorized the plaster of his quite well already, having spent enough nights staring up at it, trying to ignore the presence of The Betty, and later of Luka. 'E's a gennemun, 'e is, an' not one to take advannage of a laidy, after all.]
[His first realization is that he's choking. Yes, indeed, he is. His hand shoots up and finds a knot around his neck -- a bow tie. A squiffy, spiffy, far too cute bow tie. Mayfield is messing with his wardrobe again. His hands then quickly shoot up to his face, even as his nerves tell him to relax: he's wearing his returned pince nez (backpost to come), not his horn rims... though he quickly finds the hornrims tucked into his breast pocket. He's a boy who makes plans, and that includes making sure he's got spare glasses with him.]
[Only then does he really recognize that there is someone in bed beside him. Sitting abruptly, he stares down.]
[Ah, such a pity he's not yet seen Rocky Horror over at Quin's -- or the original King Kong. If he had, he'd know to start humming on cue, "Whatever happened to Fay Wray, that beautiful, satin-draped frame? As it clung to her thighs how I wanted to sigh..." The woman sprawled in a twist on the mattress, face turned from him, is wrapped in a dress so elegant and form-fitting that it's bringing out little bits of fabric-engineer spark in him...]
[It's a trim number, bias cut, the natural diagonal flex of the fabric allowing it to demonstrate an elasticity not matched until technology did indeed start weaving elastic into threads, and knit spandex took over. But knit spandex never matched the sleek, silken drape of bais cut, or allowed the lush, graceful sweep of bais panels flaring from narrow to broad, tucking in at the waist, scrolling out over breast and hip, then swirling in shimmering folds as they spread to form a skirt that encompases far more than a circle -- a double circle pouring around shins and stopping just short of Ilsa's ankles...]
[And, yes. It does slowly enter Tarvek's brain that this is Ilsa -- his tall, rangy, lushly womanly Mayfield beloved, dressed to raise temperatures. Tarvek has now seen Blue Skies, and can hum "Havin' a Heat Wave." She's beautiful...]
[But, let's be honest: he's thought that all along. Having her melted across a mattress in a costume he would cut his wrists to have designed? Only adds a touch of romance. The room he's in, however? Not so much. If he knew the culture better, he'd mutter about 50s trashy hotel rooms. As it is, he echoes still another movie, and mutters, "What a dump," before lightly shaking Ilsa's shoulder.]
Ilsa? Liebchen? Wake up, strudel. Mayfield's playing games again. But this one looks like it might be fun. Maybe. If it stays this dreamy.
[His first realization is that he's choking. Yes, indeed, he is. His hand shoots up and finds a knot around his neck -- a bow tie. A squiffy, spiffy, far too cute bow tie. Mayfield is messing with his wardrobe again. His hands then quickly shoot up to his face, even as his nerves tell him to relax: he's wearing his returned pince nez (backpost to come), not his horn rims... though he quickly finds the hornrims tucked into his breast pocket. He's a boy who makes plans, and that includes making sure he's got spare glasses with him.]
[Only then does he really recognize that there is someone in bed beside him. Sitting abruptly, he stares down.]
[Ah, such a pity he's not yet seen Rocky Horror over at Quin's -- or the original King Kong. If he had, he'd know to start humming on cue, "Whatever happened to Fay Wray, that beautiful, satin-draped frame? As it clung to her thighs how I wanted to sigh..." The woman sprawled in a twist on the mattress, face turned from him, is wrapped in a dress so elegant and form-fitting that it's bringing out little bits of fabric-engineer spark in him...]
[It's a trim number, bias cut, the natural diagonal flex of the fabric allowing it to demonstrate an elasticity not matched until technology did indeed start weaving elastic into threads, and knit spandex took over. But knit spandex never matched the sleek, silken drape of bais cut, or allowed the lush, graceful sweep of bais panels flaring from narrow to broad, tucking in at the waist, scrolling out over breast and hip, then swirling in shimmering folds as they spread to form a skirt that encompases far more than a circle -- a double circle pouring around shins and stopping just short of Ilsa's ankles...]
[And, yes. It does slowly enter Tarvek's brain that this is Ilsa -- his tall, rangy, lushly womanly Mayfield beloved, dressed to raise temperatures. Tarvek has now seen Blue Skies, and can hum "Havin' a Heat Wave." She's beautiful...]
[But, let's be honest: he's thought that all along. Having her melted across a mattress in a costume he would cut his wrists to have designed? Only adds a touch of romance. The room he's in, however? Not so much. If he knew the culture better, he'd mutter about 50s trashy hotel rooms. As it is, he echoes still another movie, and mutters, "What a dump," before lightly shaking Ilsa's shoulder.]
Ilsa? Liebchen? Wake up, strudel. Mayfield's playing games again. But this one looks like it might be fun. Maybe. If it stays this dreamy.