The card is taken, slipped into the inside pocket of his jacket. He will examine it later, perhaps. Perhaps he shall merely keep it. "I was never really called to abstract. Perhaps it is... that I am from an Age that did not conceive of such a thing. Even the realism of the Renaissance took some getting used to for the world. I tend to work in realism. It is life that interests me. Fantasy that interests me. Iconography... interests me. Not religious," a smile leaps in his eyes, "...but how each of us has become iconic. The modern world and its modern... saints. If you will..."
     Surprisingly, William is an intellectual. It is not something he has been known for being. Not only is he bright, he is actually intelligent. Contemplative. Philosophical. If one catches him in the mood for such. On some nights, he simply cannot be troubled with thought. Sometimes... Thought is a burden...
     As you take paper in hand, your fingers moving over your items, taking finally a pencil, William rises. He does not step away from the sofa, but he stands there, removing his jacket, the fine Italian wool crepe blend, something for the transition of seasons, in this case spring to summer. Even the removal of the jacket is a revelation. But he is not stopping there. His eyes on you, his hands unbutton his cuffs. And then the center of his torso.
     "Ah, the accademia," when he says it, though he is French, for a moment he seems of the country further south. "I have long been thinking that I should teach what I have learned to others, it is another form of patronage. I have fostered artists," a smile to you, "...over time, as I was once fostered. It is... a giving back to the form what I have been given. A gift that is not shared is wasted. My schedule... there are so many buildings, so many restoration projects... I do not know when I could establish such. But I have been considering it. Perhaps in Britain...Edinburgh..."
     The white shirt is opened and it is not a guess you have to make now. The musculature is there, it is on display, and it is perfection. He removes it, and twisting he sets it upon the sofa. It is the physique of a knight taken into this immortal world in his prime. A man no more than twenty-five but who had seen more battles than he had years, in sun and in rain combatting, in heavy mail, with heavy swords and heavier lances. War made his definition. Broad chest, tapered waist, the muscles of his stomach. Nothing wasted.
     You did not ask, but he gives all the same. He does not grin at it. William is comfortable in his skin, quite clearly, in his partial (or one may stipulate, his complete) nakedness. He takes a seat, sitting forward upon the edge of the sofa, his arms resting on his knees. Now, there is a smile. There, just tilting upon that mouth.
     Now, not only with that face but with that form...
     Shifting, William leans over, hand fishing into his nearby jacket and removing the cigarettes and lighter. His gaze is direct, but warm. It can be incisive, keen, fiery. But there is openness, and the constant roiling smolder of the eyes belonging to an intense man.
     "I should like to make the time. I hope to in the coming years." He pauses to light his cigarette. He smokes as he looks at you.

     The fair head is bent over the paper, making small notations - it is not the sort of pad where one must rip out the pages, Hansl dislikes such waste. Instead, it is something akin to an amalgam of a binder and a clipboard, where the paper is slid into place and then worked with, held fast by minute plastic teeth.
     "I have seen abstract, I have worked with it, but ... something in me does not like it. It is ... wrong," Hansl says finally, glancing up for a moment and then back down. One foot works the other foot's boot off, and then the first foot is similarly debooted. His socks are prosaic things - white cotton, disappearing into the black trousers. "Not for others, perhaps, but for me. I do not look at a man and see blobs. I see a man. Handsome, ugly, tall, short - that does not matter. The essence may be put down, but I believe it belongs with the form." On this, he is not diffident, whether due to brandy and plum liqueur or due to confidence. He is at ease on this...
     "The representation of what is or may be... I like to use things which make one feel from the stomach, from the base. I am not sure I have accomplished that. I am just beginning to find a way to reach that, but it is ... still not enough." The lips twist, pouting, grimacing, frustration for a moment allowed - his stoicism has been sent away for now. You see him as he once was, as he can only be in unguarded moments. "Someday, perhaps."
     He listens with interest, quiet again as you speak of academia, of scholastic pursuits, ears catching the slight sound of the jacket's removal. Well, it is warm in here - or so he finds it; nothing to be remarked upon in it. "I would say that the idea of such a school would be welcomed - or should be, if it is not. I would wish to attend. I am sure that many would. You would find artists flocking to your halls, wherever you put it." Artists, and others...
     He glances up in the midst of a line, and there's a queer, faint sound in the back of his throat. If he had the pulse for it, he might go suddenly and deeply red, but there is only the slight flush of colour of the recently fed, spurred on by it. His eyes widen, fingers tightening convulsively on the pencil, and he freezes, face still turned towards you, eyebrows still put up in nonplussed surprise. Abruptly, he realizes - you're staring, Hansl - and his chin ducks back down towards the paper, pencil lifted so as not to ruin the drawing in progress.
     "Ja, well. They say that if there is one thing we have got, it is time," Hansl mumbles, half-swallowing the words as he lifts the sheet off and puts another into place. He shifts, no longer crosslegged now, one knee bent and the pad upon his thigh while the other leg is against the floor at an angle, weight turned towards that hip. He leans forward over the paper, a hand coming up quickly to sweep his hair back, then falling with a meaty slap against his thigh before rising to grip the edge of the pad. The pencil scritches for a moment, then returns to softer strokes. "You ... seem to travel much. How goes the reconstruction?"
     His shoulders tense slightly, and he shifts again, pulling his weight up and forward, curving over the pad as if a farmboy were trying to turn into a gargoyle, to decorate the Parisian night...

     That does not look comfortable. William watches you, smoking... reaching over and taking a magazine, not one of your sketches, something else upon which to capture the ash that needs to fall. But the mouth keeps something of that smile, an indication of his own enjoyment, perhaps, at your reaction.
     "Paint what is in your gut, what comes from your base, and you will find that it is there," William speaks, still in French but slowly. As if it could be anything else. The accent tugs. While he speaks the Parisian, it is not his native tongue. There is a lilt, a heat to the cadence of it, like sunlight on limestone. "Do not try... connect with yourself. You will stir others. Yourself."
     Smoke curls from his mouth, his lips giving up the ghost of opium and herbs. William sits back, comfortably, another position. None of it is posed. "I am sure it would be embraced. The question truly is...when will I have time for such... partnerships, such things. It will have to wait until the Della Salute is finished with me. Hmm... it has not yet begun. We are still negotiating. This is the business behind the art. Everyone has a piece, hmm? Or wants a piece. So, there are contracts to be negotiated. It will take the expertise of three of my teams, the aid of the clans, and the prayers of the Venetians. They should pray for the whole city. I will finish it, just in time for the great flood." He chuckles a little. "Well, who is to say. Mother Nature and Father Heaven may spare us a catastrophe..."
     William leans forward again. It is like Leonardo's studies on the male form, if you have seen those. Michelangelo's sublimity in dealing with male beauty. It is all there for you to study, to capture, and ...yes... even to stare upon. He does not seem to mind. He is likely used to such.
     "That does not look comfortable," William finally speaks what his mind first thought. "Would you ...have a better space ...to work," of course, "...on the sofa?" An eyebrow lifts and that mouth of his pulls to a slant, then pulls against the body of the brown cigarette.

     Germans are fun to taunt, aren't they? Perhaps because it is so easy to see them react. That retreat, that slide into incomprehension. He may be wearing something like an SS uniform, but it is not a commander nor even a soldier that sits there now, head bent with ponderous deliberation as his fingers manipulate the pencil. He leans back again, reaches for an eraser; it passes over the paper, the pencil is picked back up. Another sheet is then set aside, a new sheet set up, and he takes up a pen in its stead, black ink and a drawing nib.
     Ink is less forgiving, perhaps it will keep his mind on Art instead of - other topics which you inspire...
     "It is unfortunate that so much stands in the way of the Effort," Hansl says quietly. It is a very Germanic way of saying it. One could almost image him, nearing a century ago, stolidly answering bad news from the front - the Americans are at Normandy. There is the same resolute certainty - or hope - of success in the end, the same crystalline determination in those blue eyes. But it is not 1940. And he is an artist right now, not a soldier...
     "Eh?" Hansl jumps slightly, looking up from the paper as if caught by surprise. The sofa? I have a sofa? "I ... am not uncomfortable, mein herr." It is a lie; and he slips back into formality for the lie, and ducks his head again a moment later. "Perhaps you are correct. I, ja. I will move." He drops pen and pencil back into the box, using the opportunity to turn away, closing the box so that it can be lifted, rising and carrying box and work together - the former to be placed on the end table and opened, the latter held low until he seats himself, nestling back in where the arm and back of the sofa join. One leg comes up slightly, the pad planted firmly against it. Ah, sweet subterfuge.
     He does not look directly at you, now, but looks and glances away, glance skewing from you to the paper. Ink. It is less forgiving. It will distract him - he hopes. For all that you do not seem to mind, he seems to mind for you. Perhaps it is ironic, that his subterfuge is in concealing his reaction, rather than in gaining your revelation...

     William turns his head, he looks to you as you take a seat. The smoke is released not in your direction but to the room at-large. Another round of ash upon the magazine, and he sits back. The sofa shifts, and now you are able to feel it. Power. Intensity.
     "That which does not kill us," comes the intonation of his voice, deep, quiet. It issues upon the smooth pull of a smile. Elbow to the surface of the sofa's back cushion, William props his head on his hand, his eyes upon you again. "When you are capturing a form... how much of you is within it? Or do you focus on your object, tonight this is me," c'est moi, he says with a smile, "... and more get into the lines of it. Do you seek to capture the Form," a capital term that, Plato would be pleased, "...or the intent or energy behind the Form." And Aristotle would be pleased with that.
     An eyebrow lifts as the punctuation to his question. Funny... he is the one interviewing, not the artist. He smiles at it. And at you. Legs stretch out, thighs lying wide, he is relaxed. As if you were in his home, in his studio, and not vice versa.
     A lean carries him forward, the ash tapped away. William makes an extra lean, it does not require much motion for him to lean, to grin, to try to take a peek, his hand holding the cigarette away. "Ink... brave..." William remarks. Interesting.

     "It - depends upon the form." Hansl is very serious now, trying to answer with that seriousness rather than let his mind wander. "Sometimes, it is the one, sometimes, it is the other. I prefer to capture, as you say, that intent and energy. But sometimes - there is nothing there. Which is why I have not been working with models very much."
     He has found the energy of the courtiers to be wanting, lacking, and it has kept him restless, moving, prowling along rivers and streets and clubs...
     Hansl is hunched again - not completely, but he has wedged himself into that corner, drawing his knees up to an almost gangly length, pen quibbling at details on the paper, knees parting so that the pad is braced on the edge and side of one thigh. You lean forward, he blinks as you speak, he jerks upright, then slides back down again, relaxing ruffled feathers with an exhalation of silent laughter.
     I am a fool, jumping at nothing. Think of other things, Hansl. Puppies. Children. Cartwheels. Something. Anything. No, not that - over here. Redirect yourself...
     "I like to use ink sometimes, to help me focus," Hansl murmurs, changing the angle of the sketchpad. You can still see the paper. It is what is beneath the paper that is being hidden, discreetly pushed away. There are half a dozen sides of You on the paper, roughly taken form but recognizable. An angle here, an angle there, profile, portrait, shape - standing, walking, sitting. They are notations rather than outright portraits of you - here, he has circled the rise of your shoulder, as a note to himself of what to remember; there, an arrow to the jut and lift of your chin. It is a Study.
     He holds the pen off the paper so that you can look, work paused like clockwork. "The pencils are... something else," Hansl murmurs. He's lowered his voice, as if not to wake up the images on the paper. "I like to work in more than one medium. It tells me how the paint will go."

     The laughter is warm, rich. It is true, that laughter, not hidden in layers of politik, subterfuge. He settles back against the body of the sofa, giving himself to it. The cigarette is grasped by his mouth, held there, breathed in without use of his hands. A dexterous mouth is a blessing. Ah, the unexpected gifts of war.
     It frees his hands for other positions. His left arm lies long against the back of the sofa, his other hand resting on his upper thigh. He occupies one corner now, you the other. "I do not know what sort of model I make. I am rarely on this side of the ...camera..." a term. He smiles, both eyebrows lifting. "Perhaps you can tell me, mais oui?" An exhale of smoke. The hand on the sofa moves, coming up to capture the cigarette, to allow him free range of speech.
     "I have not used ink. Perhaps I should try it. If it is not oil, paint... I tend to have charcoal. Or a chisel," when he switches to stone. "But I should not limit myself." Indigo eyes flicker, their dark color shifting to the bar, to the glass that waits for more liquid. William rises, remainder of cigarette in his mouth as he crosses the room with languid motion but vampiric speed. "Would you care for a drink?" William twists where he stands, at your bar, the selection, turning to look at you.

     He glances to you, and for a moment, he forgets to look away; until finally he does, blinking and turning his face down to the sheet. He is a prolific sketcher; it is time for another sheet already. The space between you and him will do for the occupied pages...
     "Ink is very unforgiving - it does not have patience. Is very bad for indecision - when you have laid a line, you must stay with it, it can only be softened, not erased. Better for the paper - it makes you get it right at once." He makes a fist of his empty hand, lifting it into the air on 'at once', as if conducting an orchestra. "I do not use ink always, nein. But sometimes, it is useful. It is ... concentrated."
     But he is not - he is having trouble focusing, and you can see that slight struggle with himself. The art is being produced, but doggedly he slaps away the crowding, clouding, buzzing other ideas, putting it all into the ink, into the pen. Well - almost all...
     "You have vigor, mein herr. You have a strength which is easy to distinguish - I have found that those who usually wish to model, they are flat. They think themselves champagne, but instead," the fist clenches again, then releases, punctuation, "their champagne ran out long ago. Not," he hurries to add, "that you are champagne. It is a bad analogy. You do not ... fizz."
     Now he is uncomfortable; his words have twisted round and tricked him, and he stiffens up a bit, too sober, perhaps, to immediately push past it. The offer of a drink, thus, is greeted with a certain alacrity - an exit from his prison. "Ja, if it would not put you out, I would appreciate one. Bitte." Not in the arms of Morpheus but in the arms of Bacchus he may lie most satisfied for now.

     There is a grin. It would be trademark if you understood it. It is him, quintessentially. "I sometimes fizz," there is a chuckle held in his throat and in his chest. "It depends on the company, mais oui." Ah, funny, William. He picks up a bottle. "Someone has given you a very nice bottle of brandy. Admirers of the court?" he wonders but he knows the answer.
     He opens the bottle of brandy and pours two glasses. Generous portions. For him it is the same as drinking water, perhaps. "I have been told I am more like ...Bordeaux than champagne. I am not... light." The smile appears again. He shrugs. No... he is not... light. In any connotation of the word.
     The glass appears before you, even as he does. The nearest he has been all night, his eyes scanning the studies. "The ink suits me, I think... hard to control, difficult, dark, impatient, and even unforgiving." He is amused at the imagery. "Your drink..."

     "Ja, someone I met - once, maybe twice. In passing, really." He had to look at the cards to remember who it was who sent which. Even with that reminder, it is a little vague - someone who hoped for a sitting, a painting - as you have been asked to sit, so he has been asked to paint, with ulterior motives. He has sensed the ulterior motive without being sure of it; is it another bedroom ruse, is it something more ... overtly political, he does not know.
     But it is greeted with distrust, and so while the rigidly formal courtesies have been kept, the bottle has remained unopened. Until now...
     "All of it, they were gifts." Hansl glances up to you as you pour, permitting himself the luxury of watching as you pour - studying motion, not the mover! Another lie, but told to himself, with a brief grimace. He knows he is lying. "I cannot refuse them without giving offense, but if I were to open them, they would likely go to waste. Once opened, it does not keep well. So I confine my drinking to when I go out. When I am not working, I do go out, often," out to dinner, really, "but I prefer not to drink alone."
     The pen is set aside in favour of a stick of pastel - his luxury, as he's admitted to you, the things that shine, gleam, glisten. His hands are busy now, blurring at the edges as he lays down on new paper a mat of colour, eyes half-closed in the effort, lips slightly pursed as he bites his tongue. It is only a sketch, a framework onto which more may be added later, and he looks up as you approach with the drink.
     "Bitte," Hansl murmurs, setting pastels aside in favour of the brandy. "I would not say that you are champagne," he agrees, very seriously. "Burgundy, perhaps. Though the Maestro claims Kahlua, I think you could be absinthe - or," he shrugs - why not? "Grand Marnier, maybe," he murmurs with a twist of a smile. As long as we are making comparisons to liqueurs, keep the French with the French...
     Hansl lifts the glass to his lips, and it is as it was at the private table : the moments of sensory exploration, pad draped loosely and allowed now to slide on his thighs as he leans back, fingers sensitive to the temperature and texture of the glass, lips touching the rim. The slight flare of his nostrils expanding to catch the scent, eyelashes going to golden half-mast as the first taste of it hits his tongue and is held.
     "You are right. It is very good brandy." Thick words for a moment, pushed past from somewhere else; he blinks, glances up with a quirked smile, then slides down against the back of the sofa with that soundless laugh. "You should not be serving me. Thank you," merci, "for the drink."

     "Absinthe," William remarks with some surprise and amusement. "Now that is something I haven't had in a while. Hallucinogenic. Intoxicating. Aphrodisiacal." A quick grin. "For some... deadly... hmmm." He considers it with the hint of a grin remaining as he remains standing for a time. "No... to Burgundy. I do not have that flavor. I was born in a different region, that belonging to the cabernet franc, to the best of the Bordeaux region, the earth that gave birth to Mine." His family. Himself.
     "But brandy will also do," he grins, tipping the glass to you in gesture and he wanders your flat. The glass is held by such strength with such delicacy, such care. The hand of an artist, first the hand of a knight. It has known passion, war, rape and murder these hands. Battle, love, and art. Does it show?
     His wandering, his conversation brings him back to you, back to the sofa. William takes a seat, his great form spreading out in a lordly, comfortable sprawl. The cigarette was extinguished in a tray near the bar. Will they be left behind as reminders? His hand balances the glass on his thigh. "Hmm...mais oui... I do not drink alone. I do not recommend it. It is a slippery slope for the artistic temperament. Hmm, I should talk. I smoke opium alone. Do not listen to me," he chuckles softly. "...when I talk of excesses. I speak nothing," a smirk at himself. "I am not a good role model for the straight," grin, "...or narrow path. Why should I not serve you? Because I am the guest? Or because you wish your model to remain still, mais oui?" Was that his foot? A little nudge. "You are welcome, Hansl. I promise, I will be still..."
     I am thinking of you, Ian. Of course, always of you. But I am also thinking of this young artist. Of his blood in my mouth instead of this brandy. I am terrible, I know. Mais oui, so terrible. "What would your drink be, I wonder," William murmurs thoughtfully. "You like the brandy, but I do not know that you... are brandy." He makes a sound in his throat, some... consideration. Lifting the glass, he takes a swallow of the brandy and then leans in, setting the glass on the table, an empty portion of the table. He reaches for his jacket, the pack of cigarettes and lighter again.
     He seems in no hurry to get dressed... to end this audience...

     The four walls of the living room are not so large, not so spacious. It is as it came with - furnished spartanly, with the only extra being what he has brought : art supplies. Clothing. Some few personal effects. It is a bit spartan...
     But it is not spartan with the note of self-punishment. The bed is comfortable, if simple; the couch, very comfortable. The lines of the place are attractive, the place well-kept. If you peer into the bathroom, you will find soft towels, not sandpaper, you will find salon shampoos and soaps. He has picked up one or two vices, here in Paris, after all.
     Hansl watches you wander, though he's 'resting' for the moment, drinking brandy and musing over it as he listens to you, observes you. The pad has slid, held loosely - at a convenient angle nonetheless, but without quite so much tension. When you walk, you give him a little space to discreetly adjust himself, both physically and mentally. And brandy - brandy helps.
     "I tend to be alone," Hansl says it simply. "In Saarbrucken, we did not entertain very much. My father and I - it was usually only us, and his personal servants. I would spend many nights seeing only him, sometimes not even him, alone with my art. Paris has been," there is that faint grin, the soundless laughter, "difficult to grow accustomed to... especially when first I arrived."
     There is the wild bacchanalia of the unfinished drawing - the carnival, the circus of excess into which he was thrust (and, no doubt, where he was thrust into) and the strange waters in which he has been struggling to swim. "I think I do not mix very well, here, but I have remained. Truthfully, I do not know that I have leave to go, so," Hansl shrugs, "I remain. But a little bit apart, ja? Which has surprised some."
     No doubt there are many who would do much to gain private chambers in the midst of the carnival...
     The brandy is sipped, swallowed, sipped again. Half has gone steadily, and he sets the other half aside to take up the pad, glancing at you swiftly when you nudge, eyes widening as he is suddenly made alert. "You do not need to be still if you do not wish. I know your time is valuable - I am making notes. Composites. I can then take my leisure for painting - I have left letters for myself. I only hope that I can do you well enough." Hansl smiles suddenly, interrupting himself with the laugh of the farmboy, shaking his head and leaning back, taking up the brandy for another long swallow. "I mean, the painting, of course - your skin, your hair. I have made notes for myself. I hope I will be able to do something more than provide a shallow impression."
     A moment of curiosity stirs him to look at you, setting the brandy aside as he asks with clear blue eyes, "I agree, I do not think that I am brandy, ja. I do not know what I would be. Do you?" It is bold, for him, but a moment later, other meanings crowd in to make him flustered, and he turns his head to his box. He covers his sudden confusion, his sudden embarrassment by reaching for a pencil. And the pad, again, is endlessly rearranged.

     His gaze is keen, unwavering, upon you. It absorbs, licks, swallows and chews without touching. It holds all of the things he has seen, heard, tasted, smelled of you. "I would have to taste you to know," comes the reply, measured, quiet, studious, and quite serious. "I do not yet know what speaks of you. What your taste would be, the burn would be, even the intoxication. You are not sweet and cloying, therefore you are not schnapps." A pause and he considers you again. "Your eyes... a glacier blue. Perhaps you are vodka. There is a purity of flavor, I should think..."
     But there is only one way to find out...
     It is not a quick motion. It is the languid unfolding of his form that your vampire eyes may watch, each moment of that motion ticking by. He rises. A half-stride carries him to your side of the sofa, and his hand reaches down. There are the ghosts of calluses on his fingertips, the presence of the duke there, the knight that is forever him, no matter the century. The gentle touch leads your gaze to him, off of the paper and the images of him, to the reality. And to the reality of his mouth.
     The mouth that you have witnessed. The mouth that has smoked in your house, drank your drinks, laughed at your jokes, that has driven most to madness even in delight, brushes against your mouth. The warmth, living. It is no mere pantomime, that living warmth.
     That turns to heat with the tasting of a drop of your blood.
     "Yes," William murmurs, straightening, "... I think vodka..." That mouth slides into a smile, smooth, slight. He wonders to himself: shall he leap off the sofa? Will he stop hiding himself, his lap he so closely guards. He is wise to guard it. "Do me," such a phrase, "... as you see me. Me...as I am through your eyes. Do that," William murmurs, "... and you will find what is essential. Do that, and it will be a living thing, no copy." His hand withdraws.
     But he does not...
     He remains where he is. You have a close view of how those muscles work, how defined he is. How... well.... his pants fit. William smiles, the air warm from it. It hums between you. Ah, when majesty is attractive and not repellant, what powerful stuff it is. "I think it is good for you to be out of such a sheltered environment. Life... is not found in a bubble, hmm? You have to live it, Hansl. A little ... carnival now and then," his mouth pulls to the side, "... is good for the soul. At least it is... good for one's sense of humor. As any court... is..."

     That an answer actually comes is a surprise; that it is a serious answer, instead of light beguilement of passing time is something more akin to shock. But it is almost the least of the shocks that are coming...
     The pencil is held but not carried, hovered over its home in its box until your presence is directly over him, until your hand comes down; and then it is dropped, falling with a quiet sound that is echoed in the back of his throat. This was not what he planned nor what he expected, and his surprise is telegraphed to you in his frame. If he were living, you would be able to hear the leap of blood in his veins as his pulse sped. But there are other signs there to be read by a knowledgeable eye. And how many eyes are more knowledgeable than yours?
     Hansl sits rigid as if sitting at attention - but it is not the soldier, it is the farmboy. Your mouth comes close to his, his chin lifts slightly, a fraction - what are you doing? The eyelashes do not come down. He does not close his eyes, though his lips part as if for the asking of the question, of some question, then hold in place. The tightness of his body is all centered around his hips, now...
     This, he does not know what to do, he does not know how to react. It isn't panic, though if he were a woman, it might be, if he were a virgin, it might be. It is confusion of a very Teutonic sort. Your hand withdraws, but you do not. And his first reaction is to blink. By now, he needs to blink. He has been staring.
     He does not leap over the back of the sofa. That would be graceless. It would be tactless. It would be impolitic. But where before Hansl had a lack of focus, now not all of the ink pens in Paris will draw his concentration back to his drawing board. His focus has not been disrupted. It has been shattered. You may find shards of it everywhere you look. His hand moves away from pencil and directly to brandy, and without taking his gaze off of you, he lifts the glass to his lips, tilts it back, draining the contents to the very dregs.
     It is a compliment, of sorts...
     The pad slides in his lap, his free hand slapping down on it as it slips along his legs towards the sofa cushions. "I ... do not know what to say to that." He is honest. It comes out in German first, and then in French. "I do not know what to say to that. I apologize. I - you have the advantage of me." In so many ways. He blinks, but he does not ask 'why did you do that?' or 'what is it that you wish of me?' or any of the other questions that a naif might ask. But neither does he seem to assume that it is more than what it was. His puzzlement is plain for you to see, his effort to decide upon a reaction, words, deeds. It is without pretense. It is not Hansl as the court, the carnival has seen him, even when he has been drunk...
     "I think that may be why I was given to Paris." Given. Not brought. Not taken. Given; handed over to Villon coolly as a set of keys, as a wrapped package. And that is how he was received, much to his own surprise, his own shock and dismay. He has recovered from that, but still, he is not comfortable trying to be a part of the circus. "It has been ... eye-opening," his own eyes shift, down, widen, up, and he leans back just a trifle. There is a flair of respect there, and he leans forward again, propping his elbow on the sofa cushion, rubbing his ear self-consciously. "I think you are the only man in Paris who knows I have a sense of humour, mein herr. Guillaume."
     The moment has not passed. But he cannot keep calling you Guillaume when you have, quite against all expectation, tasted him. Farmer's son, artist, he cannot easily be Arnaul's squire with so much brandy in him, and so much of your presence over, around him. Hansl looks down at his knees, at the sketchpad which is not doing a very good job of staying where he had it, and soundlessly, he laughs at himself. "I will try to do my best. As ... much as I can. I am," he gestures faintly, "at your command, of course, as to ... disposition." Of painting... or himself... it is open to interpretation, this time, perhaps deliberately...

     Again, Plantagenet, you are at the crossroads between You in the Former and You in the Present. In the Former, you would kiss this boy again. You would take the pad from his lap. You would show him a world he has but barely scratched the surface of. You would ruin him for other men. And then you would walk out, as carefree as the wind, leaving the destruction from your hurricane behind.
     But the Present you is changed. How and why, you know. It was for the other blonde, the one who has been caught in your wake for centuries. You changed, Plantagenet. You changed for him.
     There is sympathy for your confusion, for your stiffness, your discomfort, even your perplexed delight. "It is best to say nothing," William says, his mouth, that mouth you now know, smoothing into a smile. He takes a seat upon the other side of the sofa, head resting against his hand, fingers lightly resting at his temple.
     I should be going. I will be going. I had better be going. Black eyebrows quirk upward to punctuate his own thoughts. "Artists are supposed to... observe the world around them, hmm? I pay attention." I also spoonfed you very expensive brandy. Mon Dieu, as if I should seduce you. Really, Guillaume. "You will have to include it when you send a portfolio..." He reaches into his jacket, which rests upon the sofa. From it, he takes a card and a pen, black ink upon a white card. His hand is scripted, artistic in its meandering. Not bad for someone who learned to write late. Upon it the name 'The Abbey' and a London address, its phone number. "This is the gallery. I would like to see some paintings, the sketches are one thing but I want to see what you do with these ideas when they hit the canvas."
     The card is placed upon the table with the thud of his finger, the pen replaced in his jacket. "And when you have finished the one of me," he grins, "... send me a picture of it. I am ... looking forward to seeing what you saw of me..."
     One last cigarette. He lights it, settling back to look at you. "Given to Paris..." William exhales smoke, his indigo eyes keen on you, focusing. "I do not know this story. Do you mean you were literally given?" It happens of course, sires ...donating their childer to cities. "It is not so unusual a practice. It is much like the ...fosterage of the Middle Ages, sending sons to other households for continued education. It is a form of ... apprenticeship. Part of the right of passage."

     Blink. The world has changed again. Again, he is surprised - what is this game? What is desired of him? Is this politics? How does one answer such switches - on, off, back, forth? Hansl slowly pulls the sketchpad back into his lap, shifting with a discomfort that is primarily physical as he lifts off the top sheet and sets it with the others, tidying them without noticing that it is that which his hands are doing. But he follows your advice. He says nothing.
     After all, what could he say? He is confused. You know that; he is intelligent enough to suspect that you know it as well. He may be more at ease than usual for himself, but not at ease to argue, to question, to probe. That would be something for - someone else. Someone who is not, as you, ancient and terrible and powerful, even if right now you seem so benign. Hansl has made it his business to survive things, not by luck or happenstance but by a conscious decision.
     I prefer to live...
     "I will do so," Hansl murmurs, "once it is done. If you wish, I will also photograph it in its various stages, so that you can see how it will have progressed." Future past imperfect. How very appropriate.
     He leans forward, glancing to the card, then up without leaning back. It is more discreet, this; he can look up at you without feeling as exposed. "Oh. Ja." A hand comes up, swiping absently at the back of his neck, and now he looks back down. No matter how things have worked out, it is not one of his favourite memories to call up before the mind's eye.
     "A long story, mein herr. I ... displeased my father. He did not speak to me of it; told me to prepare myself for a visit to Paris." Hansl shrugs, rolling his shoulders inside his shirt. "When we arrived, I was presented to the Prince." Literally. As if on a silver platter. Delicately dressed, gift-wrapped, if you will... "That was when I discovered that I would not be leaving Paris."
     There is a faint, unamused quirk of reluctant amusement - unamused and amused at the same time, wincing for the memory but aware of how he must have looked in that one moment before stoicism set in. "It was - is - an opportunity, I know. I ... fear I do not know how to best make use of it. So instead," he shrugs, "I paint." And that is what it is, is it not? Painting. Why you are here - in practice, even if not in theory. Why he invited you. What has been discussed between you. It is what he knows. Not the carnival...

     "If it is any consolation," smoke curls upward from his lips with just the hint of a smile. "I used to infuriate mine. I still do." Can you imagine it? An elder with an even-elder? And still in contact. Hmmm... contact. Not as frequently as he would like but when it is there, it is ...amazing...
     "I do not normally dispense advise," and then William smiles at himself. "I should not lie. I am a Ventrue, giving advice without solicitation is the hallmark of my clan," a slight roll of his eyes, "... but I will tell you this. Whatever brought you to Paris, whatever fate or even fortune, it is yours to make, your opportunity. He is gone," he knew him. Of course, who did not it seems. "The way now is yours. It is a myth," he smiles around the body of the cigarette as he pulls fire and smoke from it, "...that you are at the mercy of hidden elders. You are ever only at your own mercy. Of course, you must watch the agenda of others, mais oui. I have wrestled legacy of a sire and a mortal existence, and the ghosts of my Past. You will, also. That is the point, I think."
     He sits forward again, meeting your gaze, knocking ash from the end of his cigarette. "You are in one of the grand cities of the world. It is dangerous, beautiful, ugly and remarkable. You know what gives you solace, your work. It is a better start than some. Make use of it."
     "You have enough?" William says, he stands, his smile is broad, warmth emitting from it. He pulls on his shirt, but does not button it. Such a look that makes. Bending with a balanced sweep, William crushes out his cigarette, his indigo eyes lifting to you. "I thank you for showing me your work. I will wait to see the finished pieces." Yes, he is preparing to go. "And... if I start an accademia in Britain, you will be contacted. This was ... an unexpected, good evening, Hansl. I have... enjoyed it."
     And he is as surprised as anyone...even you...
     "I should go," he murmurs. He takes up the jacket, shrugging and settling it onto broad shoulders. Blue-violet eyes rest their gaze upon you. "Put your strength and your faith into yourself, your passions, your work. And the rest will follow, Hansl..."

     "It is a ghost to be laid to rest," Hansl says slowly, "but I do not think that it is as heavy as it used to be." He has had to fight it. He has had to fight that Hamlet tendency - though his ghost does not tell him to slay his uncles or bring things to ruin. His ghost remains stubbornly silent - which is both blessing and curse.
     To your talk of advice there is a slight smile. Lord, how very drunk he still is, to be smiling. "The past is never very far away for us. To be able to conquer it - I do not think it can be conquered. But truce can be achieved." He drags his hand over his hair in that self-conscious, silent laughter again, then looks up at you, meeting your gaze for a moment.
     "I will make it be enough," he agrees. It does have more than one meaning, that. It is an acknowledgment, half-hidden. "Thank you for your time. I am glad you have enjoyed it - I have, as well. Of course." You knew that, and he knows you knew it. It is formality - politeness that prompts him to admit it. "I hope," Hansl adds, "that you do start such a school. There is much which is called art out there. Less which actually is."
     When McDonald's golden arches are seen in countries around the world nestled in with stately architecture and the tread of history...
     Hansl rises a bit stiffly, turning to pick up his jacket from where he'd draped it over the back of the furniture. He drapes it over his arm, bringing it in close to his body. "I will do my best to be a credit to my kind," he says slowly, "and to, of course, the service of art." It is said in that order. It is meant in the other order. "And I will submit a portfolio to the address you have given. I look forward to anything you have to say, mein herr."

     "We will continue this conversation another time..."
     Perhaps it will be like this. You meet on the street, you have drinks, you talk of art. Perhaps this is the beginning of a Socratic Dialogue of sorts, that shall go back and forth over years, maybe even decades.
     William looks at you for a moment, through the buttoning of his shirt, his hands loosening the trousers and tucking the shirt in. He will look put together when he arrives at court. And then he will ... give himself over to it, choosing to torment them rather than you. To take advantage of those who wish to be used, who know nothing else, without preying on such a one as you.
     No, he is Guillaume of the Present. Not William of the Past...
     He settles the jacket, buttoning it as well and removing his gloves from his pocket. He glances from the ring to your face, a smile smoothening across his features. It beautifies him, as if he needed it. There is nothing else said, nothing but that smile. That smile from that mouth that you have known. He turns and folds the space to the door.
     William turns there, briefly. The smile is the parting phrase. A look given to you. Yes... a look that measures what he has seen. And what he has tasted. The door closes and William Plantagenet is gone.
     For now...
     Relieved?

     The door closes behind you, leaving Hansl to his confusion. It is as if he holds a remote control in a room empty save for himself and a screen, the remote control pointed at that screen to rewind events back to their beginning, playing through them from that point forward. What did I say? What - happened, exactly...
     He is not relieved - not as much as he might have expected himself to be, perhaps. You are, after all, a Power. And he is an artist, a recovering soldier, and, in his own mind, little else. So that lack of relief surprises him the more, is examined the more. Disappointed? A little, perhaps. But that is less, too, than he might have expected. The images are rewound, replayed - back, forth, forward and rewound again as he stands there with fingertips on the door as if sensing the deadness in the once-tree.
     I did nothing wrong.
     That is the conclusion, ultimately, that he comes to. He did not offend you. If you had been offended, there would have been some sign of it. There was none. There was no sense nor sign of a deeper game behind it; no real profit to be picked up from it. He is not one of Villon's inner circle. He is just another artist - promising, perhaps, and with perhaps a mildly unusual background, sire, nationality. But nothing which would seem to bring this into perspective.
     With a slight, Germanic shrug, Hansl glances down at himself with an element of rueful amusement. He is drunk. He is - frustrated, certainly, but that is a condition with which he has been familiar before. He moves into the room, collecting sketches and cards with an absentminded effortlessness, the air of someone who has been trained relentlessly to such tidiness that he no longer notices that he does it. The sketches are taken into the studio, put up in place at various angles, the pastels put under a light - they are the colour samples, the colour of your skin, your hair, your eyes. Each, meticulously annotated; each, meticulously placed down for later scrutiny. His eye and his memory are both excellent, but he does not trust to them alone.
     And then Hansl pulls out a slim cellphone, settling on his chair and leaning back. "Ja? Ja, I will be in Paris for another several weeks. I have a painting, some other business. But then I will be traveling to Venice once these are finished. Nein - nein, nothing is wrong. I am just ... inspired, let us say. Ja, I will make sure to stop in and pay my respects before I have left." The eternal nod to politics. Hansl settles back with a quiet groan. "Nein, I dine tomorrow," he tells the telephone. "Hm? I am alone, ja. I will make an appearance tomorrow night, very well. But brief. I have work to do..."

Posted by rowan at January 29, 2005 10:22 PM