Logs:Not All You Wanted
Not All You Wanted
|Characters:||Buster and Lance|
|Summary:||Lance wants Buster and what he can teach him about Magick. For once, Lance isn't take out.|
<text> Lance to Buster: It's my birthday tomorrow. I want to see you.
<text> Buster to Lance: I'll bring you a cupcake, cupcake.
<text> Lance to Buster: <dots of typing, dots of erasing, dots of typing> If I get a room somewhere, will you meet me?
<text> Buster to Lance: Sure.
<text> Lance to Buster: My classes finish at 3. How about 3:30? <By the Hour Motel>?
<text> Buster to Lance: Ok. I'll be there.
3:30 has come and gone. The pay-by-the-hour motel not too far for the determined to get there on foot from Tulane is hardly the nicest place for a person to end up unexpectedly spending their time. There are text messages of course, that start reasonable and become less so as time passes. It starts with a nice easy, "I'm here," and moves on to the expected, "Where are you?" and the unintentionally comical, "You alive, dude?" Eventually, even, "Tired of waiting, man."
And yet, when the sun finally goes down, Lance is sitting sideways on a bench outside the office where they happily accept cash for as little information as possible, his nose not quite literally tucked in a book. His legs are drawn up onto the bench and a grey hoodie obscures the mane of blonde hair, but it's certainly the swimmer still sitting there, even after he said he was tired of waiting. The book? A pocket dictionary of medical terminology. Nerd.
It's about forty-five minutes after sundown when Buster finally shows up, dressed comfortably in soft-sneakers, t-shirt, and track pants, as if he was going for a stroll to get some beer. "Hey." He says, before giving Lance a thoughtful look. "...Been here awhile?" He raises an eyebrow. "Sorry I was late, I overslept."
"No classes this afternoon?" Lance asks after a moment of pause, dropping the tie from his hoodie from where he was worrying it with his teeth while he read. The book is lowered and with one glance back for the page number closed before he's sliding off the bench to stand and stretch as one who has, indeed, been waiting quite a while. "A while, yeah. Didn't you get my texts?" His phone is not in evidence, but it must be on his person.
"I kinda hungry now, wanna get something to eat before we get a room?" For all that his demeanor is making a try for casual, there's something about the way that his eyes are tracing all the lines on Buster's face, taking in his body, not quite biting his lower lip that more than hints he's not nearly so calm as he appears. All that, even if Buster couldn't hear the way his pulse picked up when Lance saw him, the way his breathing subtly changed and attention focused.
"I'm not a student." Buster says, with a grin. But then he says, "And I'm not hungry, but I can order you a pizza." He says, before he shrugs, and casually pays for the room. He glances back over to Lance and then shrugs once, and turns and walks out, as if it's no big deal at all, and this is just a casual meeting.
Blonde brows drift down in puzzlement as Lance looks at Buster again. "Oh." Obviously that's giving the student something to chew over. He watches the other man pay for the room, frowning slightly... but not objecting. He turns, a moment late, to follow Buster in the direction of the room. "Do you work? Or is what you do all tied up in that stuff?" Something about that prospect has the blonde looking at the vampire in a different light, his interest for the Cult perhaps finally hooked in a way that isn't just about Buster himself.
By the time they reach the room, the jock is aiming to be standing close, looming even, for all that he's hardly the dominant predator here. What he doesn't know could only kill him. "I wanted to see you sooner." But. There's definitely one of those that isn't said. Buster might be able to guess that it has something to do with the lack of evidence of doing what Buster asked him to do with Brad (fucking Brad).
"I'm a little older than I look. I moisturize, man." Buster strolls along, amiably, and then unlocks the room, before he turns to glance at Lance up and down, and then he says, "No you didn't. Or you would've." He walks over to the bed and sits on it, leaning back onto his hands, as he studies Lance with a thoughtful air.
"You have something you want to say to me." That's not phrased as a question.
"It's complicated," is not actually admission of a lie, nor really clarification of the truth, just more obfuscation, but maybe Lance doesn't have more clarity to offer as he follows Buster into the room, closing the door and sliding the locks into place in a way that seems like habit. He flicks on the lights and moves to close the curtains in a way that seem likewise automatic. Only then does he turn to look at Buster.
To Lance's credit, he doesn't appear scared. There's tension in his frame that speaks of the nerves at work. "Brad's a bad choice. You can have your car back or you can pick somebody else, but I don't want him." Who does Lance want? Well, that's probably obvious but he doesn't actually move toward the object of his desire, yet.
Buster considers that, and then he crosses his feet at the ankles. "Well okay." He says, "Who would you pick instead?" He continues to watch Lance, with a thoughtful gaze, but he's not making any moves on him yet, nor is he being especially... sexualized or predatory. He's just watching him, his fingers absently twitching into the coverlet.
The corner of his mouth turns up. "What, did you think I'm trying to get rid of you?" He asks, laughing. "Is that what you thought that was about?"
The hood slides off as Lance's hand go up and push through his hair, some of that bound up energy escaping in the gesture that is some kind of agitated. "I don't know. Maybe. I was--" His eyes dart away from Buster and back, "-clingy and shit." Those text messages earlier... were they that? Still? Maybe a little. "But it's about..." The blonde tails off and then he's abruptly coming to sit beside Buster on the bed, hands shoving into the pocket on his hoodie where the book vanished to.
"I'm shit with people, Buster. I look good and if I keep my mouth shut, chicks like to fuck me. But getting people to do things they don't wanna do... I mean, I'd have to drug him." Obviously Lance has through this through. "There's no saying whether it would even work or how I'd even control that for as long as it might take to--" He stops, his eyes on the wall, chewing his lip like he might bite through it if it would help him think through this problem.
"You really think that about yourself?" Buster says. Then he says, "I don't own you. If you don't want to do something, then don't fucking do it."
He shrugs his shoulders and says, "I'm not boyfriend material. You're a fun guy, and I like you, and unless you tell me to stop I intend to keep fooling around with you. I think you have the potential to go far -- if you stop trying to be so fucking meek all the time. I told you to do it because I wanted to see if you'd do it. That's all. The car's yours." He starts to get up. "It didn't come with any strings attached. I'm not going to take it back."
Unless Buster really wants to get up, Lance isn't really done with him. His body twists and he's pressing a hand flat to Buster's chest when he starts to move. "If I was as fucking meek as you seem to think, I'd've just drugged the asshole and done it because you asked me to." There are a few things Lance simply is not. He's not smooth; he doesn't know the right words to make a blunt truth sound pretty or appealing. "I don't want a boyfriend. I want to fuck." There's more of those A+ word choices at work. It probably explains why he's then aiming to move to straddle the vampire, if that keeps him on the bed.
"I can tell you how people are put together. I can bore you with details about ligaments and tendons, veins and arteries and all that dumb shit." That's easy for him. One hand reaches up to push into Buster's hair, "When it comes to what's going on up here, in you or anyone else, I haven't got a clue." It doesn't sound like self-pity though, just fact. "You want me to make good on whatever potential you see in me, then you take a minute and teach me." The word 'asshole' isn't said, but there's some hint of frustration there. "Teach me how to convince people they want what they think they don't want. You made me want you. And I want you." At least he's not on with his mantra and finally seems to be taking some ownership of it. "Let's fuck, Buster," he leans in to murmur it in the man's ear. If nothing else, it's not meek?
Buster reaches up, and puts his finger over Lance's mouth. "...You know what?" He says, "I'm going to delay that gratification awhile longer." He runs his finger down Lance's chin, down his chest, over one nipple, and down his belly. The corner of his mouth turns up. "Maybe you could jerk off for me though... and I don't think that was all you wanted, boy."
If Lance shivers at the trail of the finger, one may well blame Buster. Those familiar little butterflies that inexplicably came to the blonde not even the last time they were together but the time before are still knocking about in his chest (somewhere butterflies do not, anatomically, belong). His lips turn down slightly in a frown. His Adam's apple bobs as Lance gives Buster the room to slip out from under him and he shifts from knees to rump.
There's a brief study of the other man, as if Lance is wishing he could trace thought patterns as easily as veins. But there it is. He sighs, but he doesn't press the issue because, as it turns out there is more. "I want in, Buster. For real, in. I've been doing some reading about all the hinky, weird-ass shit that goes on here that no one can explain. And some of it's good luck and some of it's shit, but I could do with some good luck right about now. So... this stuff." Give him a second, he can say the word that sounds currently so silly to him, "Magick. How does it work? Where do I start?"
Buster tilts his head, and says, "That's a funny question. Generally speaking?" He says, "Right here. There's a lot of reading, and a lot of practice."
He studies Lance, carefully. "But I will say this -- Magick is something decent people shouldn't want anything to do with." He gives a slow, liquid blink. "Are you a decent person, Lance?"
"I know Latin," Lance sighs, admitting the answer to a question posed long ago. He shifts a little more so he can draw his feet up to a cross-legged position on the bed, elbows finding knees and chin finding his fists. "I'm good at studying." He shrugs. "And practicing. Show me where to start."
Does that answer Buster's question? Blue eyes close briefly, maybe even doing some real soul searching. "No. I'm not. Not really. Sometimes I want to be. There are some lines I don't want to cross... but some of those I will if the price is right." He lifts his chin from his hands and lets one move to go through his hair again. Everything has a price, right?
Buster considers that for a time, and then says, "Well, all right. We'll get started." he doesn't seem to be approaching with the malicious glee of someone who's lured someone to certain doom, not at all. "It's not something we can just begin tonight. I'm going to text you a list of books, some might be in the library, some you'll have to buy. It's not zero to sorcerer in ten seconds." He gives Lance a glance, and then he reaches out one hand to slowly run it through his hair. "You've got big appetites."
For all that Lance leans onto the touch of Buster's fingers in his hair, there's something guarded in the young man's face when he turns it toward Buster. "I have reasons to want more. Just like anybody." Is anyone content with their lot in life? "I'll find the books and study up. Anything else I'm going to need? A lightning scar?" He thinks he's funny. This is what he means (among other things) when he says he's not good with people. "A tragic backstory?" Judging by the fleeting look in his eyes, he probably wouldn't have to make that one up or could draw from personal experience, at any rate.
Buster shakes his head. "...No. No to any of it." He says. "You just have to have--" He thinks, "A hungry mind." He stretches out, slowly, and gets up. "You're not a piece of meat, Lance. And you should be wary of guys that treat you like one." He moves to open the door to the motel room. "G'night."
--Lance's slide off the bed is more elegant than a scramble, but only just. He watches Buster, expression shifting to something slightly disgruntled. "Maybe I wouldn't mind being treated like one if I go laid!" He calls after Buster, but at least he sounds only half-disappointed that delayed gratification really means delayed, and half like he's making a joke with any other dude. At least, for once, he's not ending his encounter with Buster telling himself about how he's straight. That's probably progress?