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.
“ … 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.
