The Treveylan estate is a place of old money, and it looks it; the age part, that is. Anyone who has been there more then once knows its an intentional facade, that the mildly overgrown look, the peeling paint, are all kept that way for appearances sake. After all, a number of humans can be found in the lower floor, servants, associates and ... less then savory business taking place.
But, when one finds themselves upstairs, it transforms into a proper abode of an english gentleman. Everything is clean, well maintained and in proper taste; the hardwood that can be seen everywhere is polished, and the various works of art that have been collected are tasteful, appropriate.
After all, who would ever consider Greydon to do anything inappropriate...
The library finds the two vampiric residents at one of Hansl's sittings; he wishes, apparently, to have a go at painting his liege... This is, of course, the public library where nothing of real value or uniqueness is found, but it is here where guests are entertained.
"I was thinking of making something of a trip soon, to Spain; I have a volume that I have come into possession of, and there is someone there who may have interest in it."
"Ja?" He is distracted; distrait, en fin. He has multiple reasons for his distraction - his Art, which threatens to rise up and swallow him whole, on the one hand, and the present subject of his Art; which does much the same, much too often. It makes Hansl's response a little bit perfunctory, that combination. He has a canvas, now, no longer just the little charcoals and pen-and-ink drawings, though a number of those are on hand for reference. But he's set up an easel, and at present, he is examining a blank canvas.
Blank, but not for long; his wrist is raised to his mouth, fangs sliding elongated to tug against the skin, pressing and breaking the skin, penetrating the flesh to draw up blood to the surface (is this like vampiric masturbation?). Quickly, he takes up his brush in his other hand, dipping the tip into the crimson flow before it can spill too far down his wrist, licking the wound, sealing it shut. "...Spain is somewhere I have never been. But I have not traveled much at all, until recently."
Quickly, then, quickly, the paintbrush dances against the canvas, a seemingly random array of red marks in a pattern which only Hansl can recognise. It is warm in here. He has eschewed jacket in favour of dress shirt and trousers, collar rumpled, sleeves rolled up. Everything is as it ought to be, or mostly; blue eyes focused less on his subject and more on his canvas. "What sort of book is it?"
He is earnest, tonight. The artist, the farmer's son in evidence without nervousness, without the self-mortification of the soldier, the saint's son. Hansl drops his brush into the water, picking up a pastel, and begins for all intents and purposes to play connect the dots. In and out his lower lip goes, sucked in, scraped against his teeth with the lingering prickle of one still protruding fang, released to be tugged in again. He sits with legs slightly apart, slightly out, feet flattened against the floor. "...Would you wish me to accompany you?" A /much/ more pressing question, to him, and one which actually gets him to look up.
In blood, is life... And, with blood, is art? Greydon arches a brow slightly as he regards Hansl at his work, a faint smile dancing onto his lips, before a chuckle escapes. "You lay the foundation of your art with blood?" he inquires, bemused.
A hand lifts up, and traces through his hair, before settling back where he's reclining; the soft linen of his shirt exposing some of the powerful form beneath.. And well, plenty else is hinted at in pants which probably would make running somewhat difficult. Alas.
"An old manuscript, I can show you if you're interested; it lacks the beauty of the illumination, and I do not think you are quite so interested in ... mere words." He grins faintly, before offering another vague shrug, "As for accompanying me? Certainly. Besides, it may help to have an anchor to keep me from drowning in the Library. It is a nearly religious experience; or a sexual one. A bibliophile, you called me once-- yes?"
Yes, he wants Hansl to come along and find a way to distract him from trying to move in-- Hansl's obvious methods of distraction bringing a mischievous light to Treveylan's eyes...
There is a sound downstairs for ears that can pick such distant sounds out. The sound of an arrival -- perhaps that is not so strange a thing for this house...
"Only for the works which I truly care about. I want them to live, as I do - and so, I impart to them some of my essence, ja? Stolen though it is, even as inspiration is stolen from that which I paint." Hansl colours slightly, glancing up and looking down. "I ... words have their place, but I am not trained to appreciate them as easily or as well, nein. And ... ah, ja, you are a bibliophile."
He's blushing, suddenly, furiously. The rest - they give him ideas, ja, ideas which ...
He pauses. "Were you expecting company, my lord?"
There is something quite pleasing about a blushing German boy... Greydon takes in the sight, and has to laugh softly, though it is a fuller sound then it was before. A hand comes up and idly tugs open one more of his buttons, his shirt opening up a bit more, amusement dancing onto his face. "And yet, you seem quite taken with my words from time to time... They are as any art, but more, as well. Each book is a gem that captures knowledge, insight, life within its pages-- and through it time becomes meaningless, and nothing can not come to pass... The world unfolds through the pages, and Kings and Gods are at your fingertips, along with lovers and such hatred... They are alive, you know. Each book instilled with some of the life of its maker, as you are doing now. Oh, not with blood..."
And then he shrugs slightly, glancing over towards the hall, "I was not, no; but it is not unusual for people to come and go here. If it is of interest to us, someone will come and tell us." Except in the case of a vampiric visitor who is known-- who would need no escort.
There are steps, steps that do not need to be silent even if he is unexpected. Up the stairs, down the hall and then they stop as he appears in the doorway. He, Alire d'Avignon. He, the Prince of Poitiers.
Though he is French, he is French by way of Switzerland. So his great height (six feet and six inches of it) and his coloring give evidence to. The flaxen hair is cut short this century as style demands (it was not always so) and the sky blue eyes rimmed with cobalt are bright against any interior lighting like the eyes of the wolves that once freely roamed both Switzerland and France.
The prince is dressed as impeccably as ever. It is this Ventrue's trademark, being well-appointed. (As well as soft-spoken and celibate. At least... he used to be celibate -- far more than any pope.) Though it is heading into summer, English evenings are still cool. He wears a cream colored overcoat that is layered over a suit of the same -- both of all season crepe wool. The shoes cost more than the houses of some -- while he eschewed all other physical pleasures (until recently), he always made sure he had the best comfort for his feet. It is a Templar's special need, comfortable footwear. The tie is Hermes; sky blue gradient hues that pull out the color of the center of his eyes.
As he enters upon this scene, his pale complexion shows a blush. Yes, if there is one on this earth who blushes more than Hansl Arnaul it is Alire d'Avignon. "I am sorry," comes his French-borne English. "I am interrupting..." He glances from the painter to the subject. To the subject's ... current state of dress. "I should have called, Greydon..."
"Your words reflect who you are, and you are someone who captivates me completely," Hansl retorts without looking up from his canvas; he has his blush to sustain himself, to distract himself. "In you and in your words I am mired, lost, with no hope of returning. And no desire to find an egress. I -"
I am interrupted. I am very embarrassed. Is it possible to commit seppukku with a paintbrush? Hansl had been blushing, before; now he is scarlet in his mortification, rigid in his seat, a strangled, inarticulate sound in his throat. "...Ach du lieb. Ah - perhaps I should - I am out of vermillion, ja. I will go fetch more." He almost overturns his canvas as he stands bolt upright. Achtung!
Greydon Treveylan is not a man prone to blushing. He is, after all, a confidant man, full of vitality, life, drive, having no need for such things as shame or pettiness. He is honorable, and capable, and so what need have he to blush?
Perhaps the arrival of his mentor, a man of great faith, great will, who really isn't supposed to see him flirt.
He's sure that is in the rules, somewhere.
He rises to his feet, the faintest coloring touching his cheeks as he approaches the Prince and bows; of course, even if embarrassed, the movements are not awkward. He is an english lord, after all, and he can't embarrass himself by looking a fool. More.
"Alire." he murmurs, his voice full of respect, even fondness. More respect then he even shows to local Princes and foolish Primogen, certainly. He blinks a moment, and glances over to Hansl, lifting a hand, "No, you are not interrupting at all." A soft laugh and he shakes his head, "The very thought rings profoundly wrong. Come, welcome. My home is always open to you. May I introduce my guest, Hansl Arnaul." The Saint-Protector, he expects, needs no other naming to one as faithful as the templar there, then his last name.
"Hansl, his Highness Alire d'Avignon of Poitiers, whose wisdom I have had the honor of occasionally -- far too infrequently, for my tastes-- at least pretending to understand since I was younger than you."
And back to Alire, he shifts to the side and gesture the Prince in.. Take a seat, any seat.
Oh dear. That's the phrase you are looking for, Avignon. Oh dear.
The three-way blush-off between intruding Ventrue prince, flirting Brujah elder and Toreador near-ancilla is ended by the Prince. His own, quite red though it was upon his pale complexion, fades as he sighs an apology. "When they waved me upstairs, I figured they knew best. They know my name," he says to Hansl, a hand coming up to his chest -- this is my fault totally, young artist, "...I am sorry."
He comes in as he is gestured to. Alire keeps his gaze averted from the ... attire of his protege. Ah, the blush returns. He turns to Hansl as he is introduced. "Yes," he smiles, "I thought your face seemed familiar. You were at the art show in Scotland. William's. It is a pleasure. I knew your sire to be a very wise and thoughtful man. A brother," a Templar brother. When he removes his gloves, his own Templar ring is visible.
Alire turns his attention to Greydon, his smile slim as ever but true. As it could only be from his mouth. "Greydon, it is a pleasure to see you. It has been a long time. I do not leave Poitiers much," he takes in Hansl as he speaks. Along with being incredibly dressed, he is also incredibly polite. "But I have these... journeys that I must make. Usually however," he smiles through a blush, "...I remember to use my phone before dropping in on my friends."
"You have been well?" he asks Greydon as he takes a seat. Glancing to the interrupted scene, Alire blushes again. Reaching up to move the longer portions of his blond hair back, he smiles again. Yes, I see you have been well.
He bows in silence, speechless for introductions. A deep bow; he, who is nothing, once again cast into the midst of power, of Elders, of princes and their like.
It's enough to make a growing lad cry.
Hansl straightens, and almost immediately, at the mention of his sire, he bows again. "An honour, your highness," he murmurs in English that has grown thick with Germanic tones to it. "If it is desirable and needful, I shall steal away, and leave the two of you to speak." He straightens again, reaching for his supplies. Fold his tents, yes. Steal away, yes.
Ah, such embarrassment of riches...
Greydon, at least, is no longer blushing. This is his home, after all, and he had best be a proper host to an old and honored fiend, "Would you care for anything to drink? Tea, perhaps?" he offers, before idly plucking at his loose fitting shirt and letting it spill down over his waist. No, it isn't a very fancy way to dress, but at least it makes his pants not look like a second skin...
"I imagine the business of being a Prince keeps you quite busy; and so I shall have to take responsibility for being remiss in not visiting before now."
He glances over towards Hansl, and offers the boy a reassuring smile, a slight nod-- fond. But he allows the Prince to speak on the boy's presence, as is proper. "I am quite well, as well as I have been in a century, old friend. Especially now that you have come; will you be in London long?"
"Oh there is no need to leave on my account, Hansl Arnaul," Alire murmurs, smiling slightly as is his wont. "Please," he softly insists. "And tea would be lovely, thank you," he continues to Greydon with that self-same smile. "Poitiers is thankfully well settled. It allows me more flexibility than some have, certainly. And my other duties," on the Path, "... must have their due as well. I am finally learning how to balance them after five years." He has not been prince that long. The council of Poitiers was established formally only since then. Prior to that, William in his hereditary peerage was the rule of law.
Alire waves off any notion that Greydon is to blame. "Not at all, though you are always welcome in Poitiers. It is hard to find time amid all this business," he smiles pleasantly to Hansl, "...to take the moment for quiet conversation among friends. We are no more immune than mortals in that. But," he exhales a little, "...no, my stay in London will not be long. A few nights, and then I will be moving on. It is the season for pilgrimage," he smiles. "Just as in the Canterbury Tales." Blue eyes twinkle at that. Nothing changes.
He remains rigid for a moment, hesitating. Of a sudden, there is a return to his age-old stiffness (not, Greydon, not that one), and Hansl's knees stay locked. "Ja, of course, as you wish."
Well. It had to be said. But there is an advantage, of being an artist. Slowly, the youth sits; unlocks his knees and sinks downwards into his chair, picking up the charcoal again. He tries to find again the scattered pieces of his composure, a glance to his lover - one glance only, it's enough to make him blush again. And he focuses instead on canvas.
Fine grains of texture...
Greydon inclines his head slightly to Alire, chuckling softly, "The balance of duties is indeed a difficult thing; I don't think I've yet managed it. On the one hand, there are those tedious tasks set before me that I must do out of honor's sake if nothing else, and on the other, that quest which drives and demands deep within as nothing else." Of course, books. Learning, discovery.
He glances over at Hansl, his expression taking on a slightly guarded note. Alire is, after all, known for his virtue, "I met the young Hansl in Paris on a trip to acquire an item of particular beauty and note; an illuminated manuscript. The lifetime put into such works still astounds me. And I think he finds refuge in the request I have made of him here, to make a portrait worthy of old, dead lines.." A glance up and a nod to one such portrait on the wall; old Treveylan blood, the mortal lineage long lost.
Of course, he nods slightly then, "I'll return in a moment." He has to go fetch the tea, after all. Poor Hansl. All alone.
As Greydon unveils how he met Arnaul's last offspring, Alire looks to Hansl, a slight smile still on his features. If he suspects anything more than the most innocent of arrangements, he does not wear it on his expression. It is simply taken at its meaning.
"Paris is the place for beauty," Alire offers. "It is what it does best. Always has, always will." He pauses and, completely deadpan, adds: "... and eclairs." Alire... a sense of humor? If he seems much changed or ... even if not much changed, at least slightly more glowing, it is because he is, Trevelyan.
"If you are sure it is no bother," Alire notes as Greydon rises. Greydon's particular habit for lack of servants on the personal floor is one that Alire understands. In his home, he keeps no servants at all. A prince with no servants! Imagine that. He nods to Greydon's departure.
And now... there are only two. Both prone to blushing and over-apologizing. This should be fun.
"So you are to remain in London for a while? It is a good city for the young, even as old as it is. Paris is not as ... open. I suppose that is the word." He smiles a little.
"..." He freezes. He's been betrayed! Hansl gives Greydon's back a wildly accusing look for one brief moment, the merest flicker, really, before the soldierly resoluteness takes over again. Jawohl, offered resignedly, in the back of his own brain.
It is not the first time he has been alone with an elder. Even a prince. He has been charming before, damn it. He can do it again! He just has to remember how. And figure out why he has forgotten. His palms smooth down along his thighs, scrubbing at them as if to wipe off paint, though he hasn't yet begun painting.
"Ja, I ... have recently arrived." A direct question. That makes it simpler. "Here, in London. Lord Greydon has very kindly invited me; I am attempting to paint him." Hansl manages a small smile, though his gaze strays downwards, to the canvas, before jerking forcibly back upwards to the person to whom he speaks. "I - Paris is very beautiful, but I did not find it sympathetic to my ... to who I am."
What I am, perhaps. Who I am - not so very much, nein. "I have never tried the eclairs," Hansl says seriously, "though I am very fond of French brandy. Too fond, perhaps. I limit my exposure as much as I may. You have ... known Lord Greydon long, then."
Beyond, the terribly unfaithful creature that is Greydon wanders to light the flame, and seat the teapot upon it. The poor Hansl will have no reprieve for a few minutes, while the terrible Prince has his way with him....
"For many years," Alire notes with a slight chuckle. So slight, that it barely had any sound at all. It was simply visible upon his face. Bello Alire, as one calls him -- he is as handsome as he is pure. There seems to be nothing of the triple entendre of other French elders you have known. "We traveling scholars seem to keep to the same circles. It is a small world, that of letters and men."
Remembering he is wearing his overcoat, Alire rises (a golden tower) and removes it, setting it aside as he returns to his seat. "Portraits. I have never had one done. At least," a blush, "...not to my knowledge. I am not one who would have such things done." He almost grins. "I am too busy reading my books and pruning my plants. That is how I would have to be captured, I fear. Mid pruning."
He glances in the direction that Greydon left, perhaps signaling his return if sharp ears are hearing such. Or perhaps... merely looking for his return. Alire looks once more to the young vampire. "Paris is a hard place. I have spent time there, but only as an elder. When I was young, I found my path remained, as it does today, on the path of the holy. Once a Templar... always a Templar I suppose." It is a self-effacing smile he gives. "I understand. Well, I hope that London serves you well."
"I fear I am not much of a man of letters, though my sire did attempt to beat some lessons into my head." Hansl offers a quick quirk of a smile, then slowly picks up a pastel, turning it end over end between his fingers. "Lord Grey will perhaps have better luck. He is masterful with his words."
It's happening again. He's not even aware of it - he speaks, with utter sincerity, and though he is German, there are those layers of unintended double meanings appearing. Multiplying, like mushrooms. Well, mushrooms are something which happen in the dark with dampness, right?
Something said gets his attention, though, and Hansl blinks, looking up; first, over his shoulder at the door, then back over at Alire. "I would be more than honored to paint your portrait, if you are willing, once I have done my lord Greydon's to completion. However, I do not think he would take it kindly if I were to abandon this current project - when I have done with him, however, or if you wish I may focus my concentration upon you now, and see if I can procure studies enough of you. But only if my work would be of interest to you," he adds politely. "I do not wish to force myself and my Art upon the unwilling."
He lowers his gaze to his hands, a small frown, not of anger or annoyance but of something like confusion. "I ... do not know why, but Paris seemed dead to me," Hansl says finally. "The carnival of souls continues on, but I could never find my place in it. I fear that I have failed to follow where my sire would have led, though; holiness is not something I can manage, your highness. I am too wicked and too venal for that." Guilt, crushing guilt - it's like talking to a priest immediately after having had wild sex. He cringes inwardly.
"I hope that London serves me well, your highness. I hope though that I may serve well in my turn. Perhaps Lord Grey will find me useful. He has been kind enough to find my company not entirely unpleasant or undesirable, ja?" Hansl smiles doggedly, glancing back over his shoulder. Where is his betrayer, dammit.
"God does not expect perfection, only perfect attempt," Alire smiles gently. "Do not judge yourself too harshly, Hansl." He relaxes into the seat, hands folding at his stomach -- hands folding over layers of clothing that fold over one another.
The smile lifts at the mention of Greydon. "I should think you would know if your company were unpleasant." But Alire does not read other meanings into the conversation, nor does he assume some sort of relationship other than what he has heard -- artist and subject.
"Your path is your own, Hansl. Johannes would have said the same. Each man has his own path to walk, to know. I should think he would rather you discover your path and have the bravery and the fortitude to walk it, than to live the life he would have lived were he you."
Perfect attempt. Ah, so that's what I've been doing. Attempting to be perfect. Perfect at what, Hansl? Ah, let's not go there; not now. It can only compromise you.
He blushes at his own thoughts, the train of his thoughts which go - somewhere inappropriate. He's almost ready to sprout Faustian shoulder-selves. It could happen, you know. At any moment, it might. "My path takes me here," Hansl says simply, "because I have decided it. A man cannot stay in the shadow of his father forever, ja? But I wish that he were here, still, and not gone."
There. Simply put. And sincerely, at that. He glances over, sidelong. "...How did you and my lord Grey meet, if I may make so bold as to enquire?"
"I understand," Alire says softly and with the gentleness of compassion. "In a long life, one misses many one has known. It is never easier with the passing of Time. I wish it were. But that you may find his teachings within you, you keep him with you."
He smiles suddenly and exhales. "Can you tell I spent my youth among popes?" Alire blushes a bit, glancing to the door for the arrival of tea and a prop for his hand (nervous habit). Blond eyebrows lift in a humored arch.
"Hmmm... how did we meet. Not long after his embrace, he was perhaps fifty years into his new life. I was based in Provence, but I have always traveled -- until recently -- throughout Europe. Knightly paths always cross in pilgrimage. And war. Sometimes it is both at the same time," a corner of his mouth quirks, meaning the Crusades no doubt. "We had similar interests as I said. Knowledge, Honor, the pursuit of both. I being about the age he is now with you, I took an interest in helping.. in guiding where I could."
He does not give a lot of details. But the Stone of Chinon was never one for talking.
He feels a range of emotions at the thought of his sire. Of late, he has been letting go of guilt. But now and again, as some guilty sinner passing a cathedral, he feels it : guilt. As he feels it now. Ah, so this is the murderer's recollection, this is why Macbeth's lady wife scoured her hands. This is no fit thing to be feeling.
Resolutely, Hansl pushes all such emotion away to be examined later, when the castigation of self and scouring of the soul can be done without witnesses. Without witnesses other than God, of course. "He has much wisdom to share. I have enjoyed our discourse."
At least he did not use that other English word which means much the same but has other meanings...
Hansl sets down his stick of pastel, taking up a cloth and beginning meticulously to clean his hands, each fingertip of its brilliant colour. "We have known each other only a short time. But in that time, I have come to respect and admire Lord Trevelyan greatly. I hope that in some way, poor repayment though it is, my art will give something of value in return. Does business bring you through often, then? His surprise seemed great."
Ah, someone heard the last fragments of conversation on their way down the hall...
"Of course, what Alire does not say is that the similar interests that we may share were secondary in my mind, then. This new life was a difficult one; before, I was one of the elite in society.... Then, I was but a mere childe in an manlike body..."
Greydon wanders in, the tea and some cups set on a tray as he moves over to settle it on the table. "Before, I was of a proud bloodline; and then, I was the childe of a disreputable old fool. Everything was different, and I was quite rebellious and wrathful over it all.
"Alire helped me see how much of a fool I was acting."
And then, three cups of tea are poured, and he vaguely gestures; Help yourselves, gentlemen.
"I do not travel as much as I used to," Alire admits. "There are some princes who never leave their cities unless it is for an enclave. I seem to be away as much as I am in Poitiers. We will see in time what that means. Fortunately, I have been based in Poitiers for a century, so I am no stranger to those with whom I work."
Greydon arrives with his own editorial on his life, which is of course his to make. Alire smiles. "We have all been wretched at one time or another. He did not believe me, of course, few do when I speak of my own pride, my own rebellion and wrath. But Alire, they say, it does not count when you rebel by not cataloguing your books in logical order or water your plants for a week."
He has quite the sense of humor, quiet though it is, edged with purity though it may be. It is always, now and evermore, self-effacing to the end. He adds a little of the cream and one cube of sugar before lifting the cup in his large hands.
"I was an envoy of Pope Clement V... and emissary I have been most of my life. Fortunately, there were things that I could devise to help someone who was young in spirit do to... build character." He sips at his tea, sky eyes gleaming toward Greydon.
His eyes turn towards the returning lord, watching Greydon enter. An abortive move made towards helping with the tea, he settles again, then leans with cloth tucked in his pocket to take up a cup. No cream; no sugar. Abstention is good for the soul.
He listens without comment; what comment could he give? Hansl sips the tea without tasting it, looking from one elder to the other. He is feeling his youth; or at least, his lack of age. He smiles at the joke; Alire's own smile is the hint that yes, Hansl, this is a joke, you laugh here.
His posture by now, is quite erect. He takes it all in, but speaks not at all.
There is a low laugh, and Greydon shakes his head slightly, "Bah." he replies in mock-indignation, "When I rebelled, I took my fury out upon those who irritated me; be they human or vampire alike... But Alire here, the good man that he is, when he rebels, he takes it out on the poor, innocent plants."
He puts a touch of creme and sugar into his tea, ever the sensualist that he is, and then leans back and takes a sip. A hand lifts up as if to ward off the gleaming eyes, as Greydon chuckles, "Ahh, I think that my character has developed quite well enough for this century. Oh, unless your sights were on my guest here?"
Greydon casts Hansl a vaguely amused look. The last thing in the world he thinks the boy needs is more Templar-inspired character, "He is becoming that which will fulfill the potential of his blood, already, I think."
Besides, celibacy builds character, he's heard before. Note to self: never leave these two alone again.
Alire blushes at the notion, chuckling with flaxen eyebrows lifted in his own surprise. That caught him mid-swallow. He clears his throat with slightly widened eyes. "No...no," he chuckles then. "No...my ... mentoring nights are over. Now, I mentor a city..."
Of course, why are you blushing, d'Avignon? Always your mentorship with Greydon was the ultimate in platonic...
He sets the cup down, relaxing back in his chair. "I did not rebel," he looks to Hansl, since the young man doesn't know any of his stories, "... it was not in my nature. And difficult to do with Samuel ben David. Hard to argue with a Jewish mystic. They have answers for everything."
Only his eyes move, looking from Greydon to Alire and back again. The blush is noted, and his own cheeks colour uncomfortably. And he looks down to his teacup as if it might hold if not answers, then escape. How stiffly he sits. How proper. How Germanic.
He would sit, just the same, whether here or in residence at some child's tea party.
"I will do my utmost to fulfill what meager potential," Hansl says simply, "I might have." In another, it would be oleaginous, oily. In his mouth, it is basic truth, earnest. He has little ego to speak of.
And again his eyes dart back to Alire, with some flicker of discomfort. Is this a test? "An unusual combination, sir. Forgive, I am unfamiliar with the breed." A safe answer, if it is a test. Again, Hansl's gaze flickers to Greydon, then back to the one who speaks. His cup is set back on its saucer, the two held together properly, long legs stretched out in front of him.
The blush is noted, and Greydon quirks a brow slightly as he peers curiously at his old mentor, "Why do I doubt that, Alire? A city is a teeming mass, and though you may manage it-- it is the individuals who walk their respective paths through life, through those decisions of moral, ethical and political aims, and those individuals which must take guidance. I doubt your mentoring days are over, old friend."
He settles back comfortably, and takes another sip, and shakes his head bemusedly, "You are not the only one, Hansl. It sounds like it would have been a most fascinating experience; even if perhaps I would not like it so. I always rather enjoyed a good argument, and if one has all of the answers, it becomes very deflating."
"I am being facetious, of course. I have launched arguments at Samuel. But mostly, they were ...Socratic in nature." His coloring returns to its Swiss-born pallor. "I am lucky to have had such a sire. It could have gone much worse for me."
But that is getting too close to things that Alire Does Not Discuss.
Alire takes the next breath to speak -- he does not breathe for pretense among those of his own kind. The smile returns, the blushing gone. "We will see. I have other things to tend to now, but never say never. And besides," he says, turning toward Greydon, "... there is always you, yes? Or are we done?"
Another joke. What has gotten into Alire? He is not as ... reserved as he once was...
He listens, but without understanding, confusion plain for a moment before his features are hastily rearranged into polite nothingness. It's a good thing he's cute, because he's apparently not smart enough to keep up with this conversation...
Hansl sips his tea; an automatic lift, tilt, tilt back, down. Machines could wish for such grace and precision. Then cup and saucer are both placed down on the table, and as if he were at a tennis match, he sets his expectant gaze on Greydon. What will be said next? Will it be as incomprehensible as Sanskrit? Absently, he takes his cloth from his pocket, laying it across one knee, a fidgeting hand returning to pick up the stick of pastel without being entirely aware he's done so.
A swathe of grey is laid down upon the canvas by a hand that operates independently of the rest of him, one blue eye kept on the other two, the other upon the colour as it's laid down. It serves as an aid to comprehension - oh, so that is what he meant, I see it now. His interest is renewed, gaze focusing in on Greydon. Yes, what will be his answer? Are they done...
Or is there more...
"Done? Ahh, do you so cast me aside, Alire, now that I am old enough to be called elder now? Tut, tut.." replies Greydon, shaking his head slowly and chuckling, "I do not expect we will ever be done, though your counsel may not be needed as frequently since I appear to have grown up adequately well."
Greydon's eyes flicker over towards Hansl, and he offers the young man a small smile, warm and affectionate for what it is. A strange thing, really; and its enough to make Treveylan blink a moment and focus on his tea before taking another sip.
Really, now. The boy is cute, but you shouldn't be gawking at him when chatting with your old mentor and friend. Bad, Greydon.
"You are always welcome to call me. You know that." All teasing aside. Watching the look go back and forth, Alire smiles. It is an inward-beaming thing, turned to his thoughts, whatever they may be. Reflective.
Ah, but if he were not reflective... he would not be Alire...
"I should be going, I think. The night is getting late and I have interrupted your evening long enough." And besides, there is a rumor that he has his own... evening distractions lately. That is the talk from France. He has been spending time with someone. As of yet, no one knows whom.
Celibacy may indeed build character. But it perhaps has its limits...
Ah. Departures. This he knows what to do about. Hansl sets his pastel down, wiping his hand off in case it should be needed or wanted, and he rises to his feet with hands at his side. The smile Greydon offers is noticed, responded to with a sort of astonished gratitude that is allowed to climb into his eyes, glowing there, matched by the slight curve of his lips in answer, and a sudden rush of colour that rises in his cheeks. He tears his gaze away as he usually does : with difficulty.
"No interruption, in truth, sir, for my own part. When I am working, little can be said to interrupt, and it has been a pleasure to meet one whom my lord Grey calls friend." Hansl does a very credible drawing-room bow, one hand forward, the other back; one step forward, and then back. And he straightens, and returns to his seat though does not sit. There is a glance to Greydon - for approval? Acknowledgment? Something?
Perhaps it does have its limits.
Greydon has not yet heard these rumors... and when he does? He shall have to be suitably shocked, and send Alire some suitable gift that is sure to make him blush. Then again, that has never been much of a difficulty.
He rises, offering Hansl a faint nod and then turning his attention to Alire, smiling and approaching as he offers a hand, "You are never an interruption. I look forward to when we meet next; perhaps I shall have to make a trip to visit you sometime soon, and let us settle in and discuss something suitably esoteric that we may forget the sun is rising."
Especially after he hears these rumors; since just /who/ this is that has managed to capture Alire's interests, he'll definitely want to find out who.. But that is for later.
"Until then; have you any need, you know you have but to call upon me."
The hand is clasped, and then there is the much more familiar Continental farewell. "You are always welcome in Poitiers. I would be very pleased if you were to come for a visit. Perhaps before I leave in two nights we will have an opportunity to meet again."
A hand goes to his friend's shoulder and he prepares to leave. "Hansl Arnaul, it was a pleasure again. That same invitation goes also to you should you wish to visit. I wish you both the best with the continued artwork. I want to see the finished painting. Maybe I will commission something one night." He smiles, quite innocently.
What else?
Turning, Alire looks to Greydon. There is something that passes between them. Another handshake, but in it something else. With that, Alire heads down the hall.
Confusion. Will I always find these people so confusing?
At least they are not women...
Hansl reacts speechlessly, another Teutonic bow for the invitation. He only finds his voice after the bow. "Your highness, I would be honored." Gut nicht, susser Prinz. He straightens, folds his hands at the small of his back, taking up the position of a squire or knight in the presence of lords. He has been trained well.
Well. In everything but knowing what to say. He lets it be at that, watching, letting his confusion and flustered state reign onwards behind mirror-blue eyes.
If there is anything amiss with the second handshake, Greydon does not show it. He offers a smile to his old mentor, and says, "May your travels take you, as ever, safely with God." he murmurs, and then watches him on his way.
Hands slip down into his pockets, and he turns to regard Hansl with a faint smile, "Well, then. You have had an auspicious evening; it is not often that one gets the distinguished honor of painting me. Oh, and meeting a respected Prince, at the same time."
He chuckles, and extends a hand out to offer Hansl to come along over. Poor boy.
He watches, quizzical in his perplexity, then nods to the motion. Well, why not, after all? Now that there is no knightly prince to be shocked. "Auspicious, my lord?" Hansl murmurs. "I - suppose. It was, at least, not very much like Paris."
He did not realize how much he did not like Paris until he had left it. And yet, there are those who would give an arm to be where he had been. His eyebrows draw slightly together at the thought, and it is then dismissed; unworthy. Unnecessary. "I have not yet begun to /paint/ you," the German remarks in the mildest of tones. "But I have made notes on paper and on canvas, ja. It is very dull for you. It is as well that your old friend dropped in. It gives you something to think about, ja?"
Hansl crosses the distance to stand in front of Greydon, turning his head to look thoughtfully at the hallway - empty though it might now be. His thoughts are kept behind his forehead - only a handful of them, really, anyway. "I apologize if I interfered. Next time, I will withdraw so that you two may speak undisturbed."
What is this? Such a foolish boy, sometimes...
Greydon laughs softly, slipping an arm out to take hold of Hansl's waist and tug him closer, so that the arm may enfold and trap him there, "If I wished you to allow us to speak undisturbed, I would have asked. This is my home, you recall; I do not feel burdened to not have privacy with a guest when it suits me."
"London is like a different world, I think. But this was not a matter for places; the scene would be the same if it were even in Paris.. It is old friends, and such things transcend politics, borders, and the moods of cities..." His other arm comes up to idly trace over Hansl's neck, as he shakes his head slowly, offering a faint grin.
"It is not boring, to sit for you; but I can always keep a book and spend some time reading if it becomes so. That would give you as much time as you need to study my nose. Its a terribly unwieldy nose..."
Contact is welcomed, just now, even if there is still that hesitation; as if Alire might return for his umbrella, this being London, and catch them. In flagrante delicto. Though they are doing nothing profane...
"You should not have to ask." Hansl murmurs it, an arm sliding almost shyly around his lover's waist, his chin tipped down and eyes closed for the embrace, that light touch against his neck. "But I am glad that I did not offend."
His eyes open, and he looks up. "Your nose is not unwieldy." Hansl does not protest. He states it firmly. "Which one of us is the artist, mein herr? Your nose - I could go on at length about your nose. Look." One hand lifts, a fingertip tapped against Greydon's nose.
"It fits your face, and makes you who you are as much as any part. Noses are what is caricatured the most in art, and yet, if you change a person's nose, it so often leaves them looking incomplete. I deplore so much of what the modern world produces as 'handsome' or 'beautiful' because they seem to give everyone the same three or four noses. There is nothing of character or beauty in it; there is just a generic 'appearance'. You," and Hansl speaks with unusual firmness, "are handsome. Not in spite of your nose. Because of it, as much as any part of you. Study it? My lord ... there is not one inch of you which I will not study. And not one inch of you would I send away."
Never tease an artist...
Greydon has to laugh softly, shaking his head and lifting his lips up to brush them against the finger which was upon his nose, "Ah, you are bad for my ego, my young Hansl. I think you are right, though; I agree on much of what you are saying, of the modern-- empty-- plain-- normalization of all that was once beautiful, beautiful for what makes it unique, beautiful for the flaws that fit so perfectly together..."
He shakes his head slightly, "But to the question of my asking; on this we are in stark disagreement. I should have to ask; and I should be able to ask without fear that you will take offense. Of course, I do not fear this, but the point is: if you rush off just because someone is here, thinking I want you to be gone and not trusting that I will tell you if it is my wish, then that will not please me."
"It is my home, and I assure you, you need not guess at my wishes."
"Very well." He can accept this correction without displeasure or fear; he draws his finger down against the corner of your mouth, regarding you for a moment without further words. There is an assaying in that gaze; a weighing. A judgment, of sorts, however artistically inclined.
But it makes him restless, suddenly, and he moves to pull back, to pull away. "Would it bother you, if once I have completed your portrait, I were to take his highness up on his offer?" Hansl asks it curiously, nothing of goading in his tone. "It is, within my clan, something of an opportunity. And he would be interesting to paint."
He has art on the brain...
There is a smile lingering upon Greydon's lips, even as he is so studied, and even as the young man pulls away. He allows this, before giving a slight nod of his head, "I do not expect you will live here until the end of your days and do nothing but regard me; you have a life to live, to explore. Art is a fundamental part of it; and Alire is worthy of being seen, understood, and captured on canvas."
Greydon lifts a hand up and strokes knuckles against Hansl's cheek lightly, shaking his head, "In truth, I do not know if I would have survived were it not for him. He brought stability to my life in a time when the blood -- blood that calls out for violence and rage as yours seeks to beauty-- could have overwhelmed me."
"You will find him a worthy subject, if and when that time comes."
"But not now. And no time soon; unless you would leave me jealous and alone."
"Nein," Hansl says it quietly, voice softened where it should perhaps go rough. "I would not. If I were to have you jealous and alone, you would find someone to replace me." If it were someone else, the words would be coy, teasing. But he says it as if they were no more than simple truth. "And while I am not weak, I do not wish to be replaced. The thought makes me ache."
He stumbles over his words, trying to find them in one language or another, trying to bring them over to English. And ultimately, he fails, and gives up.
"Dans vous j'ai trouve quelque chose interessant avoir. Quelque chose d'arrangement ; peut-etre de l'esprit, mais de plus de l'ame. Je ne me feins pas la comprends moi-meme. Mais quand je suis avec vous, quand je pense a vous, je ne suis pas seul. Vous me rendez heureux, mon seigneur."
His voice is hushed as he finishes his little speech, and Hansl sighs; an exhaled breath followed by upturned eyes.
"I do not want princes. I want only you..."
Fortunately, Greydon does speak french.
Or is it unfortunately? Because he blinks a moment, looking moved by the words, speechless for a moment, before that hand comes up and cups Hansl's cheek, a thumb moving upon it.
"And you were the one who always spoke so highly of my words, claiming you were no poet; but your soul shows through in your words and denies that." He leans in, his lips touching to Hansl's own, "But, one day you will go and paint him or some other, I am sure. But there is no cause to fear such a thing."
"After all, it is only time-- and short, meaningless periods of time-- and I do mean what I say. You must grow, explore, become. You are astounding, but you are only the beginning of what you will be. I look forward to walking beside you and seeing what comes of you."
"It is the French which makes it sound profound," Hansl murmurs, self-effacing to the last. "I speak what is in me, that is all." He closes his eyes, brushing his lips forward against Greydon's own; touching. Tasting. Exploration made in miniature. And he tips his head back again, angled away by a few small degrees.
"Astounding? You flatter me. Maybe I will become so. I hope so. I would hope to be all that is within me to be. Because I wish to be with you, and you should have nothing less." His hand slides to find Greydon's, a light touch followed by the slide of his fingers to intertwine. He squeezes, then relaxes his grip, looking up and then away. "...Do you want me to conquer a small hamlet or village for you? I cannot give you the world, yet, I am not that strong nor that skilled, that capable, that competent. But I could start at the bottom and work my way up. Maybe I could terrorize a school club and take it from there."
Damned Germans. Wait a little while and they'll have to go conquer something.
At this, Greydon has to laugh, a full sound that shakes him. "I think I will lose my rights to all the best country clubs if it is discovered that the beautiful german boy that I invited in has decided to continue his nation's conquest of my homeland; No, my Hansl. As impressive as I find you, I would rather see you conquer yourself and anything that stands against you then begin building up my fiefdoms."
He bites lightly at Hansl's ear, then suckles at it as he murmurs there, "It is the meaning that makes it profound; never doubt this. It is true, some languages speak to certain thoughts better; some tongues resonate with feeling at the words. But it is the meaning, the ideas, the images-- these are what matter."
"I am pleased, that you met him." he murmurs as an aside, before laughing softly, "I have had lovers before, of course, and yet oddly, I feel like asking if he approves. He is more a sire to me then my own blood was."
"I am a better painter than I am a soldier, anyway." Hansl hisses softly at the nibble and soothing suck of lips to his skin, and he draws his hands slowly up against Greydon's chest. "I do not know if the self can ever truly be conquered. It will always rise up again."
Rather as you do make me do, mein englischer Teufel, so greedily, so willingly. And I in my greed, I give in to it, like straw gives in to fire.
"I do not wish to paint more tonight."
That was bluntly spoken. He has found his feet, it seems, and he turns, drawing Greydon's hand up to his lips, tracing them against a lordly finger, prickling with just the very tips of his fangs for a moment. "I give you leave to decide, good my lord, how we will spend the rest of our night. But I have set my designs upon your company and your flesh," Hansl murmurs. Bold. Brazen, even, lips parted and eyelids heavy as he looks up.
"I would court your standing-in-sire's approval, my Grey lord. But before any other's approval, I seek yours."
Oh, the options. To sit and be painted, or to make love...
Some decisions in life are so difficult. Some are not. Greydon's arm is about Hansl's waist, tightening there and pulling him firmly near, "Ahh, so your painting will be delayed, then, and I shall have another night to find refuge within you... I admit, the thought of delaying you does not bother me in the least..."
And then, he is bending down, arms sweeping up under Hansl to lift him into the air, "To bed, my beautiful one. There are two battles that can never be won, never be finished; the fight with self, and the the conquest that comes with true passion. Let us go and explore the latter."
Posted by rowan at April 06, 2006 08:43 PM
