for such a popular
soiree ( opening night ) the place is
rather quiet, at present. most prefer to linger over a glass of wine and inane
conversation, peacocking about their expensively-cut clothes and even sharper
stones, amid laughter. ( the falsity of it glows in bright, golden hues at his
back, fracturing the night. Mycroft exhales against the dark skies and watches
his breath dance.
perhaps it’s the
whiplash of the wind. even the stars shiver in the distance. but most of them are
swallowed up by urban pollution ; all that remains is what is beneath them – a universe of monsters (
except that most people are neither monsters nor saints, but grains of sand
blown away by the wind or by someone else’s will. )
he misses the
countryside. at Christmas, perhaps… or for the first snowfall…
a voice cuts the thought short. the fact that the interruption is unwelcome slips between micro-expressions that vanish like watercolour in a full glass. Mycroft brings the
fag to his mouth, inhales slowly as he considers the stranger beneath lazy
eyelids and a look painted in a disinterest that runs contrary to his (
customary ) curiosity ( well, he never makes
a show of being interested in anything, not really ; most times, it is even true.
).
the stranger is handsome, yes, like a portrait stepped out
of its gilded frame and breathed into reality from a vision. but his presence
is like undiluted peppermint oil slipping down the throat. like a scalpel to
the throat. so sharp, so cool, it
burns ( it burns away the static in his mind, certainly, makes it recede to the
very corners of his mind until he’s once again –sleepless, boneless— in the
hour of the wolf. ) and he drags on and on and on, some invisible weight like
the perpetual curse of Sisyphus.
that interests him immediately. drags his attention from
the pointed inspection of the man’s body ( all the little tells in his clothes,
his skin, countenance and posture ) –––– lazily, if almost involuntarily, to the eyes. the barometer of another’s soul.
Mycroft
fixes him without blinking, his own gaze piercing, mind cool, heartbeat quite
as steady as it ever is.
does he? care ?
“ … I do care, ”
he concludes, tone as
mild as spring water, but opaque, offering no real indication of intent, but
inviting all interpretations. “ but
you may, if you so wish. ” he
produces a case, matte polished metal, clicks it open to offer him one of the Sherman classics within. “ I see it is not a common indulgence of yours. but, if you would like— ”
within the presence of others, louis was… brooding and muted, but embellished; pretty to look at but not to talk to. he was a work of art, remarked on by the highest (oldest) critics. lestat was constantly being either praised or criticized for his making. louis supposes it’s because, although picturesque, his manner remained far too human. beyond looks, his melancholy was merited- reaction to it was based on the eye of the beholder; was being ‘human’ a desirable trait? was his sadness beautiful? if yes, than it was a unusually lost trait that made louis desirable.
if not- then he was flawed. and louis finds himself wondering what he sees- the lonely man he’s speaking with now.
the dismissal, or what he first believes to be a dismissal, has him moving, curious but willing to slip away, to seek elsewhere. it’s a polite allowance given freely from a true predator; and he’s prepared to commit, but the observation (‘i see it is not a common indulgence of yours-,’) has him caught. louis does hope then, that the stranger notices his honest hesitance in turn. (i would have left you alone, had you wished it-) ❛ i don’t make a habit of interrupting. so, i’m sorry- if i’ve caught you unaware, ❜ but he does approach now, reascending the stone steps to thank him quietly, glossy claws reaching to take the offered cigarette.
what else would he notice?❛ i‘ll need a light, ❜ louis’ words are… gentle, playful, (with an ease that leaves him surprised, internally) and he finally offers a soft smile. he knows he’s telling the stranger something he already knows. it’s not a very human game, but it’s a familiar one. to louis, who does not know mycroft holmes, it’s a word-play based far more on ‘positioning’ rather than intelligence. he’s not used to navigating these waters with a human.
louis knows how he looks beneath the clouded night… he looks, as any vampire should look- like something dark, ethereal, and oddly paper-thin.
the hush of the theater is a comforting quiet, differing greatly from the deafening quiet that rings in his ears so often whilst existing alone. over time, the nights quelled together into one miserable existence.
glassy nails scrape at the ridges of the intricate carving traced into the arm rest of the vintage seat. comforting is the noise, the smell, the liveliness of the space. and, louis does suppose, the palate. dining in elegance- lestat’s worst trait… well, one of them. the act, for louis, had become much easier over time (fluent- he could coast through the motions), but his self-loathing remained. it sits heavy, bitter on his conscience as he leaves his seat, ghosting through the dark, victorian halls of the upper level, through the opulence of the foyer, and out into the chill fall air.
after descending nearly half of the stone steps leading up to the establishment, he turns, black hair fraying in the wind- as if the scent of cigarette smoke from the thin man standing under the building’s terrace had caught his notice and not the sound of his heartbeat moments earlier. louis’ unused voice is raspy when he finally speaks, ❛ do you care if i join you? ❜
they are encompassed, overtaken… glitzy rooftops and rusted, darkened brick setting the scene, their scene. it all lies just beyond that gauzy curtain, it’s hemmed, detailed lace brushing the decorated floor tiles, some begotten, wishes-it-was elegance from the mid-1800′s that his damned maker must have found to his fancy. they’re ugly, entirely black in the dusk that falls on the first three sets of inlaid octagons framed some god-awful gold and rouge accent and…
it’s the assumption he’s imposed, he’s certain. he’s… thighs straddle the armrest of the couch and he waits. by and by, lestat returns, and louis breaks his silence, speaking softly. ❛ i can’t believe you chose me, in all my fragility. ❜
