It is strange how quickly he has become comfortable in London. Having a lover is nice, certainly, particularly when it provides him with an introduction at court and salvages him a bit of trouble. And he has even been getting sucked back into his painting, something he had feared he was beginning to lose.
     Now the ice-eyed German is in a slightly seedier district - where the warehouses and clubs have given rise to a number of other businesses. Novelties. Fetish gear. Tailors and seamstresses and restaurants. It is a tailor's, however, that Hansl has been visiting (put those thoughts out of mind)...
     He's been having this little problem, and as a result, the young man (such as he is), is just now ducking out of Neville & Rowe's Men's Tailoring with a folded slip of paper; a receipt, slid away inside the breast pocket of his current - and only remaining - suit. Pale blond hair has recently been trimmed, rakishly long in front to cover one eyebrow. A pale orange shirt lends a hint of warmth, paired with a dark gold coat and pressed black trousers with his usual black riding boots. His tie weaves black, rust and faint hints of blue through it; he has to have some blue to bring out the ice of his eyes, after all.
     Paper is exchanged for cellphone, and he pauses under a doorway, looking for messages. "Bitte," Hansl murmurs, shifting out of the way of someone coming down the sidewalk on a skateboard. He's gentle tonight; he doesn't bring his foot down hard on the back of the skateboard as the rider passes.

     Hansl may be here for the fine tailors, but the two shadows wrangling in other shadows aren't here for alterations. Having spilled out of one of the surrounding warehouse clubs, the two figures are pressed against the brick of the alley you are passing...
     ...The alleys of London create a second city, though some contend it is the original and primary city. There are many ways in, and only a few ways out...
     Hansl has felt that energy before. It is there, insinuating itself between the mortar of the bricks, in the body and limbs of the city itself (this part of it) as the source of that energy is pressed to the alley wall beneath an even greater force than himself.
     Valan chuckles quietly, the sound only slightly muffled between the pressing of mouths. "Someone's coming," he whispers, amused. His hands disappear in the darkness of his companion's black clothing. It is difficult to discern where shadows end and Edward Meurelle begins...

     There's a quirk of Edward's head as he shrugs his shoulders in quickly following succession. He stands upright after an instance, deciding attention is far better than discretion, and that neither has anything to do with valor. Mortals do not deserve such care, it is true, and Edward removes Valan's hands from his clothing, adjusting his jacket in the process. He turns in the direction of interest, anticipating.
     "I'm telling you," Edward laments, plucking his bottom lip with two fingers, "...there's too many in London." Undead, that is. He sighs, shaking his head at the state and shape of things.

     Something ... familiar? Hansl frowns a little, phone slid back into his coat pocket as he turns to try and identify some recognizable element. "Wer is dort?" The words are muttered to himself; he hesitates, wary of plunging into shadows. He is far too meticulous for such, too wary. Lovers in shadow? No concern of his.
     The skateboarder makes a rude gesture, shouting his defiance to the world at large without bothering to actually speak. Plastic wheels whirl against cement as the teenager flips from side to side, cranking the board until it bounces enough for him to slide it along a railing.
     The German has no real interest in the skateboarder, though. He's recognized a face. Maybe even two. He remains where he is; uncertain, perhaps, without his self-appointed protector. Not quite socially inept, but then, this isn't a socially apt setting.

     "Hansl Arnaul," Valan drawls out in his shadows, his hands removed from Edward's body. He straightens, pushing slightly away from the brick to look at the blond on the sidewalk. With a grin, his hand slips into darkness again, fingers hooking somewhere in Edward's black clothing.
     "Enjoying your evening?" The words are English, the accent is still decidedly (if not defiantly) French. I know I am, says the look as it travels from Hansl to Edward. "Too many... are you saying you want to move to the suburbs," he teases quietly.
     And that energy remains, hovering on the air just around Valan. Though Edward may feel it more than Hansl, standing closer to him as he is.

     Edward shakes his head negatively and smiles, though there is a clear assessment transpiring. The Arnaul name gets an energy shift, as if a slight realization passes through the alley. But still...
     There's no interruption. Edward waits patiently on the conversation to find a moment to say anything.

     He is a bit uncertain. Unfamiliar ground which for some reason sparks a nerve, although Hansl offers a polite smile which tugs at the white mark that mars one cheek. "I have been enjoying my evening, ja," he answers carefully. Will I still be enjoying it in five minutes, that is something else I cannot yet answer.
     His eyebrows don't quite lift, but they have - something to them, as if they are just now perpetually on the edge of being lifted. A hand comes up to brush his hair back from the eye where it hovers (his left), and he offers Edward a courteous nod of his very own. He looks between the two Brujah.
     I feel as if, were this America and a hundred and fifty years ago, I might be expected to 'draw, partner'...
     His posture is perfect, his hands remaining in view at all times. "I hope you both have been as well. I do not believe I have made your acquaintance, mein herr," a slight bow towards Edward, though the heels don't quite click. "Although I do recall you, Herr Montague." Of course. One would not forget that impromptu encounter, would one.

     "Edward...this is Hansl Arnaul of Saarbrucken. He has moved to London... you remember him from the Paris court? I think we saw him there once. I think he was at William's show...?" A glance to Hansl. Am I remembering that correctly? "Ships passing in the night. Even Venice, I think."
     Valan looks between the two of you, then grins to Edward. "He is a ...friend of a friend of yours, I believe. Lord Greydon Trevalyan?" He cannot help the slipping, errant hand. Or rather, he can, but he doesn't.
     "No Lord Trevalyan tonight?" Valan wonders.

     "Hansl," Edward nods once, twice. "I do know Greydon," he affirms, extending a hand towards Hansl. "Sorry you do too," he adds, chuckling a little. "You'll get over it," Edward remarks off-handedly, using his other hand to fish in a pocket inside his jacket. "Sprayin' works," he notes for the record.

     Witness, gentlemen, a look of true and utter incomprehension. Not aimed at Valan but at Edward. Spraying? You can almost see him thumbing his way through his German-To-French-To-English lexicon. Du ist? Valan, at least, he understands, even if he is not entirely comfortable...
     "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Hansl answers Edward politely, shaking the offered hand and retrieving his own as soon as reasonable. "I apologize. I do not understand what ... marking one's territory ... with Lord Trevelyan?"
     He gives Valan a rather lost look for just a moment. The eyebrows vanish behind his hair. Help me out here, that look says briefly, and then he is again the polite and picture-perfect model of youthful attentiveness. Heil.

     It is similar to the look that Valan is wearing, as he thumbs through his Edward-to-English lexicon. Sprayin'... Sprayin'...
     He gives up with a laugh and turns that amusement to Hansl. "Don't worry about it...I have a better idea than sprayin'," a glance to Edward, really ami, "...at any rate. A drink, and you will join us." And not many say 'No' to Valan. Perhaps because he gives no opportunity for that to be entertained. Of course you will come to have a drink.
     Even if you say 'No', he will likely not accept it as a reasonable answer...
     Hooking a finger into Edward's trousers he gives a tug. You too, ami. "There is a club, there," he points, sticking his head out of the alley. His hand gestures to one of many nondescript doors. No sign, no nothing, no telling what you're in for.

     Edward looks to each in turn, then shakes his head. Whatever. Youth is often slow. Edward goes about the mundane detail of opening a case of some sort, which reveals itself soon enough to be filled with cigarettes. Odd, that. He lingers to let another lead, in no particular rush to move anywhere.
     There's little more important than the silver case, and Edward's fingers nimbly lift one from its pinnings. In a moment faster than most's comprehension, a lighter rolls upon the back of his knuckles, landing in his suddenly open hand. The flame comes on, it's lifted to his lips, and the case is closed by the hand holding it.
     "I only have time for one," he states to no one, likely Valan, then narrows his eyes at his wrist to a watch there. The case vanishes back into his leather jacket, and with both hands open, he can hold the door for his companions to enter.

     His look of perplexity fades slightly, but there's still an edge of it there, a flicker of uncertainty to flavour the air. "A ... I suppose, though, I too am low on time," Hansl murmurs deferentially. "I would not wish to interrupt the two of you and intervene upon your time, if it is so short."
     Excuses, excuses. The German reaches into his jacket, pulling out a phone; he glances at the time and replaces it, looking up. "It appears I do have a little time, however," he concedes. "If ... you are certain that this is what you wish."

     Both of you receive an eyeroll, well practiced and learned from the King of Eyerolls, who happens to be glancing at his watch. It is hard being the only Bon Vivant in a group. Montague sighs, peering in the air as he reaches into his own jacket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. The pack is from Morocco. A gift from William. Those damned cinnamon-laced unfiltered cigarettes from hell.
     "Oh, yes, by all means," smoke issues from his throat on that purred voice, "...let us all go out at once. You both make it sound so appealing. On second thought... perhaps another time, Hansl? When you...and Edward are both... more free." A golden look to Edward. No free man wears a watch, ami. He makes himself the ticking of Time.
     Or not...
     Valan puts away his pack and lighter. "It was good seeing you," he nods to the German. "And you...I will see you later?" he wonders of Edward. And it is a question. He never knows. "I will be home in a while... maybe then..."

     Edward pauses and turns to see Valan, not impressed with the eyeroll. "What's with you?" he asks, holding the door open. "What's this here then? Me holding the fuckin' door, I think," he launches at his companion. "I didn't say I was takin' off this minnit," Edward's voice clips, he still holding the door.
     "Come on," he growls, waiting.
     Who cares if spats are public?

     And the German becomes even more uncomfortable, but he swallows it well. One wonders if he has become more accustomed to such, with his present lover; if that is the case, there is no immediate sign. "I apologize if I have offended," Hansl murmurs, giving Valan that frankly bewildered look again. This, then, he is uncertain of; uncertain about. "I would be delighted."
     So easily swayed by social circumstance, this one. Well. Not always, perhaps. But he is off guard. "It is very kind of you," he repeats the English words as if parroting them, then ducks his head as if to vanish behind that fringe, sliding forward. "After you," he tells Edward and Valan both politely. "I would not wish to presume."
     I keep repeating these words. One day I really must learn something new to say in these situations.

     I am out of the mood...
     You look at your watch, you snap your fingers (you may as well have snapped your fingers), and I am to go to you, why? And be your boy in an instant. Ruled. But then, you are old and I am young. You are you and I am me and you open a door and I have to walk through it.
     Valan Montague saunters his way to the door his lover holds open. He looks to Edward, disposing of his cigarette after so recently lighting it. "I don't like it when you look at your watch with me," he quietly speaks as he passes.
     "No offense, Hansl... I just don't like drinks with obligations. It reminds me of being with my family. Everything an obligation...I should rather have time to savor friendships and conversation. Not rattle through them like trading machine gun fire..."

     There's nothing from Edward, save a look ahead at the door. "After you," he finally says to Hansl, clearly frustrated now with a purse of his lips. "Go on," he motions inside. The cigarette removed from his mouth and the ash dropped to the side. Smoke floats around his head, and he waits on Hansl to decide to join in or not.
     To be encouraging, Edward gives a sunny little smile.

     It's always awkward, being present at a family fight. The sunny smile does nothing to disperse that, although Hansl offers a duck of his head, heading through the doorway as if feeling a bull's eye centered between his shoulderblades.
     He's a German, recently of Paris. He's not unused to this feeling.
     It still doesn't make him homesick for la belle Francais...
     "I have only recently begun to imagine a life with something less of obligation," Hansl murmurs, letting the words float back towards the Brujah. He eyes the interior of the club with wary, stiffened attention even as he is entering. "But my life has until recently, been given to matters military..."

     "Then the two of you should get on like a house on fire," Valan Montague drawls, that French riding heavily on his tongue to drag the English to a near-halt. "I am L'Enfant Terrible. The very idle son of the not so idle rich. I have barely worked in my entire... hmm... thirty-three years of life." That counts the six immortal years.
     The club is about half-capacity. Folks are either at the bar or on the floor. Montague heads to a nearby booth -- after all, neither of you have much time to drink, why go to the back of the club? Slipping into the both, he takes out cigarette pack and lighter once more. The beautiful L'Enfant Terrible tips back his head as he lights the cigarette. Likely when you both leave, he will take out his own...frustrations on those dancing here...
     "I have never served in the military, worked ...truly. So... hmm... I suppose I do not understand those who do, or have... or still do." Valan looks to Edward as he speaks, lashes lowering in a downward sweep of golden apology.

     Edward's paused slightly to talk to someone at the door, but it is not a long linger. The cigarette's worn already, sucked near its life expectancy. He follows behind and slides into the booth near Valan. The apology is unheard, or missed as such, and already Edward begins to fish into his pocket for the case again.
     "So, what are you doin' with Trevelyan," Edward wonders aloud.

     He is poised, paused, to answer the younger of the two Brujah. "It is ... not necessary to understand, always. I seek an understanding of some things," Hansl tells Valan, so seriously, always so serious he is. "But ... it is what one comes to know. There is a struggle, perhaps, ja? But it becomes accepted. A part of one. And duty, responsibility are part of that. As is, always, a ... an awareness of time..."
     Time to go on duty... time to do this. Time, it slips away, through one's fingers, and is gone, lost. When is there ever enough time? His expression goes briefly blank, until Edward's conversation interrupts that line of thought.
     "I met him in Paris," Hansl answers, truthful enough, that; although how lacking in flavour, in detail. "He invited me to visit, to paint him. I am attempting to do so. There have been many interruptions, however." Some of them which would bring colour to his face, cause him to blush if he were to think about it. Others...
     Interrogations, followed by corpses to be disposed of...
     No, those do not make him blush. "He interests me as a subject," Hansl murmurs, glancing around as if suddenly realizing - he's in a club, isn't he? Where are the drinks? "I only hope that I am able to render justice to the work."

     Valan smiles through a haze of Moroccan smoke. "There are novels written about such things. Chance meetings in Paris. An artist and his subject." He glances to Edward. What, you did not bring drinks? Ami, really.
     Sitting up, half standing, Valan motions to the nearby bar. Someone will come. Eventually.
     "I met him myself the other night... I don't know when," he makes a motion with his cigarette. "We already know that I do not keep up with time," he smirks, "...it could have been yesterday for all I know. But ...anyway..." flick of ash in the ashtray, "... I met him. He is ... interesting."

     Greydon? If you say so. Edward smiles enigmatically, glancing to see how effective Valan's call may be. "Well, good luck with that," he offers to Hansl. "It's becoming hard to tell soldiers from artists," Edward laughs, looking down into his cigarette case he's opened once more. Well, that's not so true, but...
     "Interesting...is a word," he adds, glancing at his companion beside him.

     "I don't really understand what he says," Valan interjects, "...but he seems to be having fun saying it..."
     And here comes a waitress...

     Blue eyes move from one to the other. He is trying to keep up; his English simply is not so good, as has already been established. "Novels? Maybe. He rescued me from an over-amorous girl in a club when I was ... finished with my dinner," Hansl explains cautiously. "We talked. He was interested in my art. A few nights later," two, "he saw my art. And," he tints slightly, leaning back in his side of the booth and then forward, a brief rock to attention, "he saw my portraiture."
     It is embarrassing. There is no wish to reveal. No intent to innuendo. He is simply earnest and unfortunate.
     "He has been both kind and gracious to me, and I do not find his hospitality or his companionship lacking. I do not think our story very interesting, but all things are difficult to express in English." A shrug is rolled briefly, abruptly, in semblance of apology. Edward gets another one of those confused looks. "Ja, mein herr? Why do you say so? I am not a soldier anymore. Whatever I was. Ah - would either of you mind," he gestures slightly, hand coming up to absently sweep pale hair from pale eyes, "if we were to speak in French instead?"

     Edward shakes his head negatively, not minding. "I get by," in the language, cigarette coming to his lips as he expects more of the tale.
     Yet, in English, "At least he's nice," smirk there. Such a word for undead. Nice.

     "Pour ne pas parler anglais? J'essayerai de retenir ma," Valan chuckles, turning his head. "Bourbon please, for me," he says to the waitress.
     In French, he says, his words floating on scented smoke. "He seems quite gracious. This could be a good thing for you? I hope," he offers genuinely. He looks to his companion, his smile curling. "You get by. Mais oui. But you are not nice, ami. No one would say this of you." Never fear.
     He looks to Hansl. "But after your painting? You will remain in London, do you think?"

     "Ce n'est pas ma premiere ou deuxieme langue. Je suis desole." Hansl relaxes, just a little, although it is so small an amount as to be almost unnoticeable. He is still proper; not quite at attention, not quite rigid. That he left behind in Paris. "I spoke German, first; then French, then Italian. I find when I speak English, I must try to correspond words from one to another before finally settling into English, and it slows me down. Sometimes," he shrugs, "inevitable, but if you both are so willing..."
     Long-fingered hands reach into his jacket, take out the phone again, and he glances at it and replaces it once more. Not yet, it seems. "Lord Trevelyan is not 'nice', I do not think, but he is clever, intelligent, talented and quick. I do not think that people such as we have much need of niceness. I know that I do not. But perhaps I speak too in haste; I imagine that as you are his neighbors, so to speak, as well as in a sense relatives, you would know better than I."
     The words are candid, without bitterness or judgment or politics. He has known Greydon Trevelyan a short time. Presumably other Brujah would know him well. "After the painting? I may; I do not know. I intend to make London my ... base of operations, but I have been offered another commission once this one has been complete, one which I would very much like to do. But it will depend on many things; the target of the portrait, for one. I have not set things in stone." Hansl smiles a little; an unbending. "It is peculiar to me to have things this flexible. But what of yourselves?"
     He is not so very interesting, is he? "Do you both remain in London, then?"

     Edward was rather placid until the notion of relatives. His brows arch as he puffs on his cigarette, and his lips sound as he presses them together when the cigarette is removed. He won't say, 'Um, we live here and have for centuries, since we apparently know Greydon.' For some reason, there's a streak of polite this night.
     Or perhaps because his companion is more eloquent and politic.
     Edward taps his cigarette beneath the table, letting the ash drop to the floor.
     "It's alright," Edward only says, eyes sliding to Valan as if expecting further explanation.

     Valan smiles through the smoke of his cigarette, his hand balancing both the cigarette and his glass of bourbon. He shares a glance with Edward. "London is our home. We are here... for now. Maybe one night our home will be some place else. But Edward has been here for many years. I have been here now for six years... can it be six?" He asks incredulously to Edward.
     At least his humor seems improved. Tsk, temper temper.
     "It is a city for the young ... or the young at heart," another glance to Edward. You are so very far from young, ami. "So, who is the other commission if I might be nosy?" The French curls feline from his throat after a swallow of bourbon. Valan taps the ash from his cigarette.
     His free hand comes up, then disappears behind Edward's head. Fingers trace along his lover's nape and disappear in his short dark hair.

     He offers a wry smile and a downwards tilt of his head for a moment, examining his glass and tapping a finger against it, watching the vodka in it swirl. "My home has changed a few times in the past couple of years. I hope to find a little more ... stability, here." A very Germanic desire, isn't it? Unless, of course, his interest is in stability through conquest.
     But there seems no violence in him, or not tonight. Hansl looks up, from Edward to Valan. "It has been discussed, but I do not know that it will happen." So many things fall through, ja? "It is in any case immaterial until I finish painting Lord Trevelyan; however, Alire d'Avignon of Poitiers has expressed an interest." There is a respectful nod for the mention; no titles mentioned here, where other ears might seize upon a misspoken word.
     He is not without his pride. He seems pleased and a trifle embarrassed as he speaks of it. "I admit," Hansl adds, "that I would find him an interesting individual to paint. He stopped by my lord's, which is where he did inquire of me."

     The first smile of the night. Alire's name is mentioned, and Edward grins to himself. The cigarette's almost done, but he sets it on the edge of the table regardless.
     "You should do His Excellency well," Edward comments, his French a quick trill of syllables. He won't mention surprise at the notion of being painted, but even Alire's now a prince.
     Sitting back, Edward looks across the room intently, as if he had not noticed the rest of the place before. He scans the crowd in quiet, letting the conversation go forward.

     "Alire is very... pure," he says after a moment's pause. "Very real. It is as if he should not be one of us at all. Some... unfortunate mix-up." Valan looks from Edward to Hansl as he speaks, his voice resonating with knowledge.
     A person looking at his aura would notice the subtle curling of the black veins that run throughout it. As if his soul recoils at the very notion of Alire's described purity. He remains even of expression, however.
     "I find him dear," Valan nods, "...and honorable." Ash finds its way into the waiting tray. He takes another swallow of his bourbon. "Not like me," comes the smooth intonation upon a wicked curving smile. "I am not dear. Or honorable. Or pure."

     "I will do my best," Hansl tells Edward gravely. It is almost as if it is a sacred trust, to him. Something close to it. "To paint someone is to know them. It is difficult, to know someone and then ... not put it there for the world to see. To censor oneself - which is necessary." Especially when the subject is a prince.
     Valan gets a curious glance, wariness moving in Hansl's eyes. Shadows under ice. "I do not pretend to know him yet," he says with a certain simplicity. "But there is something in him which I recognise. A likeness, though not equivalence, to my father. In moments; not in all things. Something ... it is a movement of spirit, I suppose. I do not know."
     He shakes his head a little, as if to dismiss the thought - an Etch-A-Sketch of the brain. "I do not know that you would much wish to be painted," Hansl tells Valan lightly. "You might grow bored with it."

     Edward returns to the conversation, his eyes looking between the two of you. "Valan, painted," he says softly, stamping out his cigarette and leaning to retrieve another. "A novel idea," he nods slowly.

     "I have been painted. Against my wishes... but... I have grown accustomed to the paintings. They are quite beautiful." Valan glances to Edward. He winks at his lover and then looks to Hansl. "Maybe I will sit some day. I do not know. My friend Astrid in Paris... she was ...is ... a professional photographer. She has had numerous photoshoots with French Vogue. I let her shoot me. I think I prefer photography to portraiture. But those paintings William did from those photographs. They were ...quite amazing. I suppose he did have my permission, since I am the one who gave him the pictures..."
     I am so hard on your friend, Eduard. Why is this? Am I jealous of him, I wonder...
     Valan makes a shrug, stamping out the cigarette and exhaling the last of the smoke. "I will think of it some more. I do make a good model. And have no problem working in the nude."

     He colours slightly at that, looking down into his drink. Ah. He is still easily embarrassed. "I would not wish to impose," Hansl murmurs stolidly, "but if you should be interested, I would, of course, be delighted." It is the correct thing to say. And it is not that he is not interested.
     But how much of a potential minefield is this? Nudity mentioned in front of the lover. Having to be explained, should it come to pass, to his own lover. He is not entirely insensate to such shadings, such correlations. He tightens his hand unconsciously on the vodka.
     "I believe you have my card?" Hansl adds cautiously. Ah, precipices are such fun to dance next to.

     The cigarette becomes visible as Edward pours himself out of the seat. Leather rustles as his lighter comes out, and Edward adjust his jacket accordingly.
     "Nice to meet you," Edward says to Hansl, in English, as he fishes a few quid out of his pocket. It'll cover the drinks. With that, he turns to head off, Valan ignored.

     "Ah, I have pissed him off. Well," shrug. It can't be helped. Valan exhales and finishes his bourbon. "There will be no catching up to him and do not worry, it wasn't you." Has he caught onto your self-blaming trigger finger so quickly?
     "But I should be going. I am likely late to my own funeral. Such is my way. Hansl... it was good seeing you again. I believe I have your information, yes." Valan begins unfolding himself from the booth. I need to go kill something. That man, he makes me crazy.

     He isn't entirely sure which aspect of what pissed off which, and so, he stays quiet - mumchance at the sideboard, like the 29th of February. Pale blue eyes move from one man to the other, and finally Hansl offers a polite, "And likewise to yourself, sir," to Edward. Valan receives an almost owlish blink.
     It wasn't me? Well - that's good to know, I suppose. Am I so transparent? It seems I am. Should I do anything about it? Probably not...
     "Good evening to you as well," and the German rises politely, hands to his sides, glass down, thighs together. His bow is not military. But it is nonetheless correct. "I hope we will have, ah, the opportunity to chat sometime again. Under ... better conditions..."
     If such exist for two such as you...

Posted by rowan at May 13, 2006 06:12 PM