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static_abyss) wrote2025-06-21 01:34 pm
static_abyss) wrote2025-06-21 01:34 pm
LJ Idol 2025: Week 1
The music is loud and the bar is crowded, dark except for the fluorescent purple and pink lights along the perimeters of the place. In the middle of the dancefloor, there's a single twirling ball that illuminates the paint on the people dancing. The crowd moves to the gentle music, swaying as one while the lights pass over them, their soul marks standing stark against their skin, shimmering with luminescent paint.
Armando watches their movements, the way people pair off into couples, how they reach for the marks on each other. He can almost hear their whispers, the soft, hesitant way they'd say each other's words, waiting, hoping. He rubs at his chest without thinking, surprised still that all he feels is smooth skin. He always thought faded soul marks should leave a scar, some sign that his soulmate existed once, that his words burned on Armando's chest. That they'd once loved each other, even if they didn't now.
He exhales, reaching for the drink on the small wooden table in front of him. Rafa shifts next to him and Armando turns to look at him. The whiskey in the glass goes down easy, the liquid hitting his chest and heating it up for a moment. Armando feels Rafa's eyes on him as he reaches down to smooth down the fabric of his red suit. And it's on purpose that he lets the lights catch on his ring, lets the family crest draw Rafa's attention.
"We should keep moving," Rafa says at last.
Armando looks at him. "Where's the car?" he asks.
Rafa doesn't say anything. They both know where it is, ten streets down by the intersection where Don's men caught up with them. It's only Armando and two of his bodyguards at this bar now, and Rafa knows better than to suggest they leave before the others find them.
Besides, Armando's had a long day and he can still taste the metallic tang of blood in the back of his throat. He wants to sit for a moment, watching the way the people in the bar find one another, the exchanges between the bartenders and their customers, wants to watch one bartender in particular.
The man is taller than all the other bartenders, his dark brown skin catching the purple lights beautifully. He lights up everytime he smiles, his face molding into his joy, as he leans over the counter to bring his face close to the women who are asking for drinks. He lets them whisper into his ear, lets their fingers trail down the undone buttons on his black uniform. He's practically glowing under all the attention he's receiving from the women, a little wild, a lot focused.
Armando hasn't been able to look away from the sharpness in his eyes, that quick, calculating assessment he runs on everyone who comes up to the bar. How much time he spends on any one customer depends on where they fall on whatever scale the bartender is using to measure their worth. The criteria being money and looks, if Armando were to guess. The more money and the prettier the customer is, the longer the bartender spends on them, the more he allows them into his space. Armando can see the exchange of bills, the way women will run their hands down the bartenders chest to tuck their bills into his shirt pockets as they pick up their drinks.
He wonders how far the bartender would let him get, if he knew how much Armando was worth.
Far enough, Armando thinks, as he watches the bartender ease out of the hands of a beautiful woman to turn to the man next to her.
The difference between the two customers is startling. The man is dripping money, wearing a tailored jacket, expensive shoes, and an air of boredom characteristic of the upper class. The woman's shoes are not quite as shiny, and her personality is not as obviously disinterested. Armando stares at all of them, at the way the bartender has turned his whole body toward the rich man.
Armando smiles.
He stands.
After a moment, he heads for the bar.
Armando watches their movements, the way people pair off into couples, how they reach for the marks on each other. He can almost hear their whispers, the soft, hesitant way they'd say each other's words, waiting, hoping. He rubs at his chest without thinking, surprised still that all he feels is smooth skin. He always thought faded soul marks should leave a scar, some sign that his soulmate existed once, that his words burned on Armando's chest. That they'd once loved each other, even if they didn't now.
He exhales, reaching for the drink on the small wooden table in front of him. Rafa shifts next to him and Armando turns to look at him. The whiskey in the glass goes down easy, the liquid hitting his chest and heating it up for a moment. Armando feels Rafa's eyes on him as he reaches down to smooth down the fabric of his red suit. And it's on purpose that he lets the lights catch on his ring, lets the family crest draw Rafa's attention.
"We should keep moving," Rafa says at last.
Armando looks at him. "Where's the car?" he asks.
Rafa doesn't say anything. They both know where it is, ten streets down by the intersection where Don's men caught up with them. It's only Armando and two of his bodyguards at this bar now, and Rafa knows better than to suggest they leave before the others find them.
Besides, Armando's had a long day and he can still taste the metallic tang of blood in the back of his throat. He wants to sit for a moment, watching the way the people in the bar find one another, the exchanges between the bartenders and their customers, wants to watch one bartender in particular.
The man is taller than all the other bartenders, his dark brown skin catching the purple lights beautifully. He lights up everytime he smiles, his face molding into his joy, as he leans over the counter to bring his face close to the women who are asking for drinks. He lets them whisper into his ear, lets their fingers trail down the undone buttons on his black uniform. He's practically glowing under all the attention he's receiving from the women, a little wild, a lot focused.
Armando hasn't been able to look away from the sharpness in his eyes, that quick, calculating assessment he runs on everyone who comes up to the bar. How much time he spends on any one customer depends on where they fall on whatever scale the bartender is using to measure their worth. The criteria being money and looks, if Armando were to guess. The more money and the prettier the customer is, the longer the bartender spends on them, the more he allows them into his space. Armando can see the exchange of bills, the way women will run their hands down the bartenders chest to tuck their bills into his shirt pockets as they pick up their drinks.
He wonders how far the bartender would let him get, if he knew how much Armando was worth.
Far enough, Armando thinks, as he watches the bartender ease out of the hands of a beautiful woman to turn to the man next to her.
The difference between the two customers is startling. The man is dripping money, wearing a tailored jacket, expensive shoes, and an air of boredom characteristic of the upper class. The woman's shoes are not quite as shiny, and her personality is not as obviously disinterested. Armando stares at all of them, at the way the bartender has turned his whole body toward the rich man.
Armando smiles.
He stands.
After a moment, he heads for the bar.