Prince of Wales' Lounge -- Claridge's Hotel, London
     The decor in this room differs slightly from the rest of this floor. The royal blue has been switched for a deep burgundy. Gold patterns still spiral around the room, however. Victorian-style furniture litters the room, sitting in clusters for the purpose of socializing. Tall-standing cigar ashtrays are found in abundance in this room, and a glass cigar case rests against the far wall.
     To the left of the doors is a small bar, manned regularly by bartenders hired by the hotel. When the bar itself is closed, all liquor is locked up in cabinets, to ensure that it is safe from under-aged visitors. But, ultimately, this room never closes, considering the nature of a hotel. Guest sign in at all hours of the day and night, so this luxury is offered to all people at all times. The bar is the only thing that closes regularly in this room.

     Not that he cares mind you.
     Sebastian deRancey sits at his favorite chair in the Prince of Wales' lounge at Claridge's, where he often holds mock court. At least that's the running joke about it. Tonight, he's dressed somberly, trying to convince a young man that in fact, no, he didn't eye him to try and pick him up.
     Christ, people. Can't a stunning, high-charisma man, dressed in navy slacks and white ribbed shirt, have a drink, stare at people, and fantasize about doing things to them without the subjects getting up and offering themselves?
     You would think mortals could read minds.
     But he's polite, Sebastian is. Not that anyone would truly challenge the tall and broad blonde. Mr. Media Central even flirts with the man, while he tells him...not tonight.
     Finally, the guy smiles and takes a hint. Cards are exchanged.
     And now I can go back to my drink. Thank God.

     There is no subtly left. No art to it at all. The artifice itself has become outdated, and now no one even bothers with the semblance of tact, taste, seduction and 'the body politic'. It is like when an author of a story steps out of the narrative to show you that he is clever enough to know that it all means nothing and that plot is irrelevant. This is what we have come to in the modern world...
     The young man in his attendance at this night's festivities has been sent home. His company, while delightful, was ultimately empty and so, unfulfilled, William Plantagenet meets his appointment. More or less on the appointed hour.
     You know he is here, and you can begin to see the ripples of others becoming aware of it. How he moves upon the world, ah, you know it more profoundly than most. You move upon the world in similar ways, do you not deRancey? It begins with pinpricks, it would end in fire.
     As the young man steps away, he may begin to understand -- or more to the point, think he understands -- upon the arrival of dark-clad William. He, the picture of current British fashion. The turtleneck that covers the crusader's frame. The jacket, the trousers that have to be made for his own measurements and with the crispness that comes with hand-tailored, custom vestments. The face... what one may say to that? But that stunning to stunning always attract...
     Languid, something past fluid, are his motions as he arrives at your court. And upon that mouth, the first tug of a smile. Indigo eyes trail after the one departing, appraisal given, as much as if it were wine. When dark eyes return to you, the smile is spreading. "A room with a view," he murmurs, his French almost unnaturally smooth. And modern.

      "Absolutely," Sebastian stands, a strong-jawed counterpart. "Save, when you're trying to stare out of the window," he adds, "...you find that the subjects are looking back in." He laughs, pumping your hand and retaking his seat. "They have no fear anymore, really," Sebastian observes, crossing his leg and looking around the room. "None at all. Not of anything. Not even of dying." He looks at you and smiles, "I'm not sure whether or this is a good thing, yet..."

     "Why should they fear death?" There is a moment when he settles, and it takes a moment as you know. He like you being both tall and broad. When French mountains strode upon the earth. Soft and deep the laughter than holds at his throat, resonates in his chest. "There is no God, mais oui? No consequence." William grins, "...no sin, no fear." Indigo flickers with a wink. "I need a drink, if I'm going to be this Augustine. How are you, it has been ..." Eyes narrow, but he gives up on the math.
     A waitron approaches -- you know why -- and William turns, "Brandy," he murmurs, and the young man pivots toward Sebastian.
     "And you, sir?"

     "Same," he sighs, tossing his gin glass aside. Time for something different. "Don't do the numbers," he waves, "I tried earlier. I came up with six-hundred and fifty years ago. I figured that was...fucked." He laughs and sits back, pruriently interested in the motions and actions of mortals. A bad habit of his.
     "It was good running into you at the opening," Sebastian notes, fishing into the navy jacket pocket nearby. He pulls out a case with cigarettes inside, offering one to you as he takes one for himself. "Not sure why I went -- I think I was bored," he laughs.

     The waitron nods and steps aside.
     The coltishness of mortals... I shall never tire of it. Look how he moves, so certain of his reality but equally certain in that nothing is certain. His smile strays distracted for a moment, until he hears the calculation. Black eyebrows leap upward and the smile slants, "Jesus, that can't be right," he mutters. Fingers pluck a cigarette, a nod to you, a whisper of "Merci" and his hand reaches in his jacket for his own lighter. Such fluid celerity. The flame ignited, extinguished and first exhale of smoke. "I think it's closer to three," a pause for an inhale, "...maybe three-fifty. Let's not depress one another," William says of the math.
     He does not sit cross-legged, as you -- that is far too dignified, and for him unnatural. He sits in a languid, lordly half-sprawl. Behind the veil of smoke, the smile is haunting beautiful. Fullness half-spread. "I was surprised to see you there. You must have been bored. I did not find it that ... interesting. And it is my business to find it interesting." William chuckles smoke, and sits forward, flicking dead ash into the waiting tray. He shrugs thereafter, his eyes trailing briefly. Marking what is remaining of mortality in the Prince's lounge. Indigo eyes cut aslant to you and the grin smoothens. "It was a nice enough distraction. I have heard that the dust has settled here ...somewhat... I never know what I'm going to find when I come to London. I suppose that's the fascination with it."
     And the brandy arrives...

     "So true," Sebastian agrees, looking at the waiter, "Thanks, mate. Cheers -- wait. Um, you busy later?" Eyes look between the waiter and you William. "My friend and I are just curious."
     Sebastian lights his cigarette, waiting for some response. As if he's expecting a series of rants about how you can't just hit on random people in a lounge, trying to do their jobs...

     Bi-curious, isn't that the saying?
     William plays the game to the hilt, as you knew, perhaps, he would, and the eyebrows lift and past the veil of smoke -- his latest exhalation -- the smile, that deadly mouth, spreads into a grin.
     The waitron is, for his part, shocked. I mean, he wasn't expecting that. It stops him dead in his tracks, open mouthed. A moment later he's stammering. "Ah... well... ah," how does one answer that? Particularly being English, rather wretchedly so. Though, a cute boy all the same. "I'm ... engaged..." is all he can think to say.
     "We don't mind," comes the bland reply, the accent heavily Loire. "In fact, we prefer it that way..." Indigo flickers to you, and there's a wink in there for you Sebastian.
     "Ah..." clearing of throat, "...I'll have to pass, sir." But... he was flattered.
     "Of course," William murmurs. Then there is a pause. A perfect pause. "You can bring her along if you like..."

     "Indeed," Sebastian nods, talking though looking down at his cupped hands around his lighter and cigarette. "Do bring her along. We don't mind, it's not a problem." Click. The lighter is put away, and now he looks up at the waiter too, grinning while dangling a cigarette from his lips.
     "Though, I understand if you're busy here and want to put it off a night. We'll see how you feel another time." The grin remains, hand extending to pick up the brandy.
     Do feel free to go on now.

     Flushed, warm, embarrassed, and secretly intrigued, the young man heads off. Quickly.
     Very quickly...
     "If you called him now," William murmurs, leaning in, flicking another section of ash away, "...he would say 'yes'. Once he swallows it whole," when he settles back, he takes his brandy with him, "...he will realize the opportunity that has passed him by. You have just given him the Unanswerable Question of his life. What would it have been like had I gone with them instead of running and cowering in the kitchens." A wink, and William laughs. Amused.
     "I haven't toyed with mortality in quite some time," he murmurs seriously. And as he lifts the brandy to his mouth, his eyebrows cock up. Quite some time, William old bean. When was the last time you were with a mortal... period?

     Sebastian grins. However, when he does, it's much more like the Rogue from Hell, than a Prince or even a Royal. Early Norman gone wrong. "Yeah, I know," he smirks, "...that's why I asked. Oh well," he laments, not even sure whether or not he himself was truly interested. "So," he sits back, "I hear...that the bloke you brought to the opening...belongs to Meurelle?" He nods. "Didn't know he cared, but hey, life gets boring on one side of the fence. And if you have to go bad," he laughs, "...might as well have it be something like that." Ah, more tossed bones for you to pick up. It's like watching a bad tabloid show.

     "I do not know that I would use the word belong..."
     Oh, how that sounds. How those words have been spoken in the past, when he was in possession -- or took possession -- of something that... well, didn't belong to him. He was ever the King of Qualification, ne c'est pas?
     He says nothing of what you do or do not know, what is to comment on that. Nor does he take the bait per se. But, the smile strays across his mouth. "A worthy date, if only a stand-in. No replacement," for Dunross. Doesn't even come close. "Myself," eyes slide toward you from his brandy and the grin flashes, "I prefer a world without fences," comes the warm Plantagenet quip. And he himself has to chuckle at that one.
     As Davydd would say: riot!

     Not belong? Sebastian grins as you run through your own situation. "Too much information, William," he grins, hands up, brandy in one. "I prefer to give the tidbits, not to have them sent dashing back at me," Sebastian clarifies. He chuckles and takes a long drink from his brandy, closing his eyes in the process.
     "God, that's good," he whispers, licking his bottom lip as he tilts his head to look at the glass. "How long are you going to be in town? And...where is Ian?" he asks, comfortable with that name. Nice boy that. He was then, he is now. "Convinced him to stay at home while you borrow someone else's pastureland?" Ah, tacky that. Sounded it too. Heh. "Just kidding," Sebastian hurries and adds, "...just...is he doing well? I will presume so." He's been up to much of late, as have you.

     Amusement rides high in the smile, echoes in the warmth of the chuckle. Throat-held, it resonates in the broad chest. He lifts the brandy again, another swallow taken. Held. Known. Swallowed.
     It is a good thing he swallowed, for the pastureland comment would have made him spray it...
     "Ian is at Chinon, which is where I shall be in three more nights. I left him in care of my vineyards. He trusts me not to scorch the plains of England." Fingers revolve the crystal bowl of the snifter in his grasp, and he grins for the metaphors. "I like it this way." The last swallow and then he is back to his cigarette. "He is doing excellently," William continues, but this time in earnest. Quietly borne. When he speaks of Ian, William Plantagenet ...changes. "I will tell him you asked of him. It is turning out to be a relaxing year. Despite the last few weeks," he smirks, a chuckle chasing the sentiment. "He is enjoying France more than I at the moment."

     Brows arch blondly. "Relaxing?" Sebastian chirps. "Now there's a word." He pulls on his cigarette, following it up with a drink. Smoke filters around his face as he drops his jaw to let the fumes out. "I'm not going to find you a new word," he swallows, "I'll repeat that to the rest of the clan when I talk to them." He knows they'll flip at the word. He's just the messenger. But he grins all the same -- not a man afraid of trouble.
     "Maybe I should visit France," name said with the accent he was born with. "But then I think...I hate that place. It totally sucks cow arse." A shrug, arch of brows, and shake of Sebastian's blonde mane. What was I thinking? "See, it comes, it goes."

     At your side, William, your phone silently vibrates...
     "You will have to call me and tell me what they say," comes the smooth intonation of the baritone in reply. "Or better yet, pay the Loire a visit. I want the visual." To your words of France, there is only the noncommittal shrug of the Long Dead Duc du Poitou et Normandie. "Were I not in good keeping in the Loire, I would not be long for France myself. My acerage is livable." He will not speak for the rest. "Spain... I could spend serious time in Spain..."
     And didn't he, recently, do something serious in Spain? Well, that was just a rumor...
     He pulls a breath of fire and smoke, holding it a moment, then smoke comes from his nose, the corner of his mouth. Like a grand serpent. But then he is distracted. Looking down, an eyebrow cocked up, William fishes for his phone. Who's calling me?
     "Pardon," he murmurs, and with the cigarette moving away with the motion of one hand, his other brings up the phone, a nimble finger flipping it open. "Bonjour..." Even though it's something like midnight...

     Sebastian nods, leaving you to your phone. He slumps more into his chair, smoking and drinking as he grins at the poor waiter at the counter.

     "Busy?" comes Ian's voice, a little breathy. "If you are, you can call me back later, when you are less...busy," humor lilting through the phone.

     "God, it'd be so easy..." he narrows his eyes at the waiter, as if practicing some great magical spell at him. "Come to me," he murmurs, knowing it won't work. Well, not at least that way. "Come, do my bidding..." he says in bad Transylvanian accent. Well, some random Central European one. "I vant to drink your blood..." lips smacking.
     Nope. Not that either. Sebastian sighs and drinks more, bored out of his skull.

     "Non," William says, sudden French coupled with a sudden grin. Indigo eyes flicker to Sebastian, then return to the phone. "I am sitting with Sebastian deRancey, watching as he performs the worst Christopher Lee impersonation, oui, worse than mine. I am boring him, so he will be glad for the holiday. How are you?" there is warmth there that Sebastian could not possibly miss. "Ah, he was asking about you. You felt you ears burning all the way to Chinon?" And then he grins. Damnable. Wretched. Beautiful.
     "So... what is happening where you are..."

     "DeRancey?" Ian chirps. A blast from the past. "Asking about me? Well," Ian seems charmed. "Tell him greetings and it has been a very long time." Enough of that. "Nothing is happening here. Our bed is cold on one side, it has been several nights and you are not here. I cannot bear to go get one of the boys from the stable...I keep wanting to call them William. So..." he's bored too. Perhaps it's just a boring night. "I decided to call you and see if you were in bed yet..."

     What? Did someone speak my name?
     "Hi, Ian!" comes the voice, though Sebastian doesn't move. He swallows the last of his brandy with barely a motion of his throat. Open and slide. The cigarette slips back between his lips, and hand raises the glass and swings it around for another.

     "He says he is going to tell the clan we are relaxing. I told him to go ahead," William grins, "did you hear him? I'll tell him that for you in a bit. Well..." an exhale of smoke, the last of it. "I am finished with the art. I suppose Jezebel could come see me for a change. Long drive. You'd be asleep." A pause. "Not as if that has stopped me before..."
     In his car, the way he drives... it'd be something four...
     "I am not in bed yet, non, though... I do think Sebastian was propositioning me earlier. Trying to convince a young waiter to take us both on. Cruel, non? We are all bored. It is sad. I haven't ruined a single life tonight," William quips. "Hmmm... amours... I should go now, but... I will call you from the palace, hmm? Tomorrow, you will see me..."

     Ian laughs at the idea of relaxing and you being propositioned. By deRancey, of all people. "Maybe you should ruin a few lives an then call me from the palace once you've gotten...into things? Does this mean you're coming back early, Gui?" Ah, that name...

     Sebastian winces, as if on cue. "Ew...he's horny?" Then he blinks. "Well, of course I can fuckin' hear him," he says to you even before you comment. Christ. I am a vampire. "Take it outside," he snickers, grinning up as the brandy approaches.

     There is only a chuckle for that. "Oui... that is what it means. I will be back tomorrow." Gui. You know what that does to him. You don't even have to see it. The smile spreads, the eyes darken, and what happens beneath the wool no one needs to know about. "I will call you from the palace... give me an hour... and wouldn't you be," he quips to Sebastian. "Don't answer that...." And to Ian again, leaning back, "He was not really propositioning me. I do not think. I am in denial. But I will find one or two lives to ruin," a wink, a glance to you deRancey. "Maybe the waiter he keeps looking at or the gentleman he was flirting with when I came in..."

     Denial makes him laugh. "Alright, an hour," Ian cheers. "And tomorrow." He's quiet a second, then says, "I'll talk to you from...your room." And the phone disconnects.

     DeRancey's face twists. He has to think about that. You. Ian. Ian. Well, that gets a quirk. "Yeah, maybe," he confesses, looking up, left, right. Down into his drink. A nod. "Oui, I think your Ian would not be a bad way to spend a few hours," he teases, hoping it'd get a comment.
     "But you have to know," DeRancey adds, "I am known for my strict distaste for the dead." A shudder. "Christ, who wants to screw the dead?" As if anyone needed to ask.

     He doesn't have time to say goodbye -- but then it is not truly goodbye. It is more like...talk to you in a bit. See you later. Hmm... maybe the video phone. Modern technology makes perverts of us all...
     The comment gets a smirk, a knowing look, absolute understanding, and something approaching smug. "You are protesting too much, Sebastian," William murmurs. "You do not have to convince me, hmm?" Convince him of what? That you do... or you do not? The phone is placed back in his jacket and the smile transforms into a quiet, throat-held chuckle. Wicked. Knowing. "There's nothing dead about it," he murmurs and then he rises. "Too bad you will not know," and the mouth forms a grin. Know about Ian, or him, or both, or what? He has his enigmatic Norman face on tonight it seems...

     DeRancey smiles, settling into his more usual expression. Less than obviously mischievious. "Go home," Sebastian grins. "No need to stay out in the cold and wet with us...lonely..." he shouts at the bar, "...dead people." A deep sigh. "I will content myself with drink and spurned offers, until someone, before daylight, decides to take me home with them."
     "Or, I'll go to my office and do more work, laboring away at thankless jobs that no one respects."
     "Or, I'll lie in my coffin alone, dreaming of what it's like to be you and Ian," eyes settling on you, head dropping to his shoulder. Yawn. As if.

     "Melodrama, at your age," he murmurs, shrugging his jacket into place, smirking. "As if anyone should pity you." As if you pity yourself. William gets the joke. Out comes the hand, not to take yours in a shake but upon your shoulder as he starts to move past. "It was good seeing you. If you are so unfortunate as to find yourself arse deep in France, give me a call. We will have a room ready. And perhaps more amusing mortal eye candy. Maybe you need a change of venue," he adds in a hush. And then the large hand falls away, hands then going into his coat.
     You are not interested in him, but there is no arguing that the man is amazing. And you were with his great-great-grandfather, were you not? When you came over on the boat to Hastings. Is that how the story went? Three kings later, and there he was. The world is strange that you should both be in it...

     Sebastian smiles as you go by, hands filled with drink and cigarette at the moment. "If I'm deep in France," he adds, "...I doubt I'd be able to call..." he grins, waving as you go...
     Strange. It goes away. But, for an instant, Sebastian DeRancey thought was talking to a man he once knew.

Posted by rowan at June 21, 2003 09:43 PM