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? ❜
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— ”
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