Julian:
quadtxch (continued from here)
Julian smiles impishly, his pale blue eyes batting ever so innocently. He’d suggested this prank in jest, but Martin had been so tickled by the idea. There’d been no way to refuse the disciple’s insistence, nor the impossible smile that came with it, before they’d left for the gala together. Julian has to admit his own amusement, albeit privately, as he continues to feign a foreign tongue.
“Martin a dit peu de choses sur vous. Je suppose qu'il est inquiet , il va ruiner votre mystique,” he gives a light laugh, “Est- ce pas ridicule?”
It’s a bit of an exaggeration to say that Sander can’t speak any French. It’s functional, barely-conversational, and purely for emergencies when he can’t tote around a cute French boy through Paris to play translator. Which was exceedingly rare when he used to be able to go to Paris...
“Je ne suis pas très mystérieux une fois que vous arrivez à me connaître.” Sander answers calmly, though he can feel that pressure along his left temple that warms him of another migraine coming on.

















