[Jarod Nightingale] Most sane graduate students didn't do things like go out clubbing on a Monday night. Most sane parents of young children didn't do that either. Perhaps this was grounds to make a case that Jarod Nightingale was not entirely sane. Chances were, he didn't particularly care. He often did exactly what he wanted to do, and tonight, that thing was to go dancing - and more specifically, to pretend for a few hours that his life hadn't become laden with responsibilities. (And since he had both a high capacity for operating-while-sleep-deprived and a very, very good babysitter, he could do this now and then without suffering any notably serious consequences.)
In any case, no one who knew him would be surprised to find him in a club tonight. Which was exactly where he was - out on the floor dancing with a pretty dark-haired college girl. She wasn't one of his students (thankfully they didn't even go to the same University.) That was about all he'd managed to find out from her (that and her name - Lisa) before they'd ended up out where the music was too loud for them to hear each other speak. Here there was only the heat and press of bodies, and the deep pulse of music that hummed through the air.
They were near the outer edge of the group, so anyone who looked over at the right moment might see and recognize him. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a torso-hugging black t-shirt, with leather bracelets on each wrist. Simple but stylish, and most importantly - easy to dance in.
[Jacques-Marcel] Doesn't matter what night it is, they all blur. Jacques is out because he is. He spends more time away from his apartment than living in it. He pays a mortgage for his furniture. Back in Chicago after the work circuit, in which he learned this model on the floor has decided he's too old for the gig, which isn't a bad way to go as far as Jacques is concerned, Jacques has a drink in hand and is watching the crowd.
He's entirely bored. This isn't unusual. He's completely intoxicated, this is slightly less usual, at least to this degree. That he doesn't give a shit about ignoring his so called rehabilitation is about on course for what's normal for him, too. Life goes like that. Nothing good ever lasts, not in this world. It's too dark and full of temptations.
He takes a drink from his glass, strolling through the bump and knock of moving bodies that traffic from dance floor to the bar. Dressed in a buttoned down shirt and some black pants, he looks a little more classy compared to the regulars, but that's generally what he wears. Rare is it the t.shirt and jeans. He's spotted Jarod, at least he thinks he has, but doesn't approach him getting his groove on with the girl.
Ugh. Girl.
[Jarod Nightingale] These particular jeans had cost more than an entire suit might at a more reasonably priced store. Ashley could never fathom why Jarod would pay multiple hundreds of dollars for casual clothes. She probably had a point, but to his credit, they did look very, very good on him.
Not that Jacques didn't look just as good in his clothes. That was the thing about models. They could generally be counted upon to look appealing when it suited them. Except... Jarod wasn't a model any longer. Maybe some day in the future he'd stop caring so much about his appearance (unlikely) but that day wasn't today. He hadn't spotted Jacques yet, which wasn't too surprising given the flashing lights and smoky ambiance of the dance floor - as well as the fact that he was clearly distracted.
But then the girl he was dancing with suddenly stopped dancing and looked over Jarod's shoulder at the face of a man who was heading toward them with an angry look on his face. Something passed between the two - a quick apology shouted in Jarod's ear - then she slipped through the crowd to meet the unknown stranger (who was clearly not unknown to her.)
Jarod... seemed amused by this. He stopped dancing for a moment and watched her go. When he looked back... he noticed the tall blond standing there watching him. There was a grin, and then a beckoning gesture. As if to silently say: want to join me?
[Jacques-Marcel] He caught the little girl and the angry lover, which made him smirk behind his glass. It was amusing and happened all the time. When he found himself looking back to Jarod, he had an invite, and without really thinking twice, he made his way through the crowd, drink in hand, to stand before the other man.
"Nice work," he says, low, under the music.
Dancing doesn't come right away, instead he takes another drink from his glass, holding it loosely and more by the top rim than around the middle as one should in a place like this. He's drinking scotch or something like it, with a rattle of ice cubes. They're about the same height. Jacques is just a little taller, which leaves them eye level. Jarods dark to Jacques light, from eye colour to hair colour.
He takes a moment to actually listen to the music and not the buzzing in the back of his brain, offering a half curled smile, and looks down the front of the others body, taking in the shirt and the well fitted jeans. More so the way that Jarod is or isn't moving.
Jacques smells like cologne, cigarettes and booze. In that order.
[Jarod Nightingale] [In theory we're supposed to be a good dancer. Do the dice agree?]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 6, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Jarod Nightingale] Jarod hated the way that cigarettes smelled (like his sense of touch, his sense of smell was more sensitive than most,) but he'd gotten used to it years ago. A lot of models smoked. It was one of those things one learned to ignore. The cologne, at least, smelled nice. Jarod wasn't wearing cologne. He smelled like clean sweat (from dancing) and lemongrass shampoo. In that order. The hair along his scalp-line was slightly damp, and he pushed a bit of it back and away from his forehead absently.
"I guess they've got some issues," he responded with a laugh, loud enough to be heard over the music. He didn't seem to care that he'd lost his dance partner, or that she may have been intending to cheat on her boyfriend. Any interest he may have had for her hadn't gone past superficial, and in any case... it would appear that he had a replacement for her. Though Jacques had a drink in hand and may or may not have been interested in actually dancing. At the moment, Jarod didn't particularly care. He just leaned forward and spoke into the other man's ear.
"You look fucking hot. I think you should put the drink down and dance with me."
Whether he did or not, Jarod resumed his own dancing, moving into Jacques' space teasingly as he did so, but being careful not to spill the man's drink. He had a cat-like way of moving, and was usually good about things like that.
[Jacques-Marcel] "I am hot," he had said back, "it's why I need a drink." Lifting his glass for emphasis, it doesn't take him long to drain it. A practiced tilt of his head and swallow, leaves ice cubes clattering in the base, and one tucked into his back teeth. He looks away from Jarods smooth dance moves, even when it's invading his space, to look for somewhere for his glass to go. Not being bothered to walk the distance, he keeps it in his hand, but holds it down by the side of his thigh.
By the time he looks back to Jarod, he's met by the pleasant way the others body moves. It's a lovely distraction, and Jacques finds the mans waist and hip soon enough. He doesn't have half as much grace, not natural, nor learned. No two left feet had he, but he wasn't putting in some effort either, far more interested in the others teasing moves and the way fine muscles played against his fingertips.
[Jarod Nightingale] It was clear from the wry and self-assured smile that played across Jarod's lips that this was precisely the kind of reaction he'd been looking for. Not surprisingly, he was more than aware that he was good looking, and that he had an instinctive sense of how to use his body (Jacques had already experienced that much once, in a different-but-similar situation) that most people found attractive. Some days his ego could be a little much, but tonight it wasn't overbearing - expressing itself as laid-back confidence rather than smug arrogance.
And he was in good form after the rigorous diet and exercise routine he'd undertaken in preparation for Fashion Week, so a little showing off was probably to be expected. When Jacques' hands found his waist, he'd feel the smooth ripple of abdominal muscles under his fingers. (He'd seen those before too, but it didn't hurt to be reminded.)
Jarod reached out and grabbed hold of the other man's belt buckle, pulling him closer so that their hips touched. Somehow his other hand worked its way underneath the man's shirt, to find warm skin and the firm contours of his own muscles.
