milliways_bar | (no subject)

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There is in Milliways an immortal who is busy looking over papers and setting the affairs contained on them in order for an absence of his; at his elbow there's a large mug of coffee, brewed strong and black, but he's not drinking it.

No, on the contrary it has cinnamon sticks, black peppercorns, cloves and cumin powder in it, and while the smell is very aromatic, the taste isn't very good at all. But it serves its purpose as he's mixing henna dye paste, testing the mix every few minutes to see how easily and darkly it dyes. Depending on when you come by, he may be in progress of a tattoo on one hand up to the wrist.

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"I think you'll discover something about me," he says slowly, still working on a series of evenly-spaced dots along the edge of a curve, "That I can be exceedingly thorough when I want to be."

He runs one hand up the inside of the Brucolac's thigh, still clothed and not entirely suggestive, but the gentle touch shouldn't go unnoticed.

"So can I," he says with a smile.

It feels good--it feels comfortable, like this. He is comfortable with him, and that is a strange feeling. To be so used to someone, so quickly... well, he could be afraid, he could be wary. It could lead to trouble.

But he's never been the fearful type, and he is happy.

"As you'll see, when it's my turn."

"I can hear it in your voice when you smile," he murmurs, bending to kiss the undecorated shoulder in front of him. "I don't know if you'll find all of them."

"I might have ways," he says. "There might be vampir powers or Armadan magic that finds these things out--very specific magic. It could happen."

Well, there are folk-magics there from all over the world. It's unlikely, but possible, he supposes.

"Or I could wait until you've forgotten about this conversation, and invite you for a bath and a massage."

"Still doesn't guarantee you'd find them," Ganymede laughs. "You're devious. I like that."

He finishes the design, setting aside the two empty papers that had been cones full of the dye paste, blowing on the spray of dark lines and waves now decorating his lover's back down to his tailbone. "But since you're not dry, I have you captive for a while yet."

"Captive," he whispers. "That sounds... ominous. What are you planning to do with me, while you have me? I've never been captive, not really. I don't know how I'll react to that."

He would turn his head to look at him, but he doesn't want to risk smudging the paint on his neck.

"Oh, nothing harmful," he responds airily, obviously fighting a laugh as he comes to sit by the arm of the couch, looking up at the Brucolac's face and cupping his hand over one cheek. "Perhaps just explore you a little."

He doesn't make a point of asking permission, knowing the man could stop him as easily as blinking if he did something unpleasant, though he doesn't plan to. "You're very beautiful, you know," he adds, softer.

"Is there much left of me to explore?" he asks. "I would think that you've seen what there is to see--but then, only by moonlight. Maybe it's different, in other lights."

He knows he's not unattractive; he hasn't particularly cultivated his appearance to be beautiful, but rather just appropriate for a man in his position, commanding and dark. It's nice to be complimented.

"Always. There's always more to explore of someone," he says, fingers toying with the ends of his locks as Ganymede takes one of the Brucolac's hands, mapping out the contours as if he's committing them to memory. "You have long fingers," he murmurs, holding his hand up to compare the sizes.

"I've never really looked at them like that," he says, studying Ganymede's hands in turn. "It just comes of being tall, I suppose. They do the things I need them to do."

And they are very graceful. He is graceful all over, and was even before being turned.

He takes the hand and brings the vampir's palm to his lips gently. "I suppose it's because you're still new to me that I notice those things," he says, tracing the tendons in his wrist and the outlines of the lithe muscles that go up to his elbow.

"Everything about you is so graceful, like you were built to be a dancer. Something where you could show off your body," he murmurs. It's not a coincidence that he didn't paint the Brucolac like he was a warrior; the designs he's wearing are far too flowing for that, not nearly the right kind of thick, bold lines that could be seen from across a battlefield.

"You should've seen me when I was young," he whispers. "Climbing the rigging. I suppose if I'd had to retire from the sea, I could've made a good living as an acrobat; those are the muscles and skills that I have. You have to know your body, you have to depend on it in ways that people whose work keeps them on solid ground never do."

"Not all of us. I've tried to get used to the feeling of having nothing solid under my feet," Ganymede says softly, turning his hand over and working his way up his arm, fingers tracing the strange branching patterns of veins and muscles and tendons. "It find it...discomfitting at best, but I can stand it, in small doses."

He still hates it. "There's a way to move, that you learn when your existence depends on pleasing someone else. It's...like a dance. You know where your body is, and has been, and is going."

"I'm used to it," he says. "I grew up aboard a ship, and was climbing not long after I could walk. The most solid ground I generally have, still moves. And I like it that way."

Yeah, so being raised on a ship by a bunch of sailors and no women might have had its risks. He turned out fine.

"I like the way you move."

"I don't mind the ground moving--that, I can handle." Docks move, after all, and he's more than comfortable on those. Sand moves.

"I wish it was from a more pleasant source. I wish I could see you climb the way you talk about it."

"...surely there are things in your world that one can climb," he says with a small smile.

"It doesn't even have to be rigging; I can climb anything."

He hasn't had reason to, lately, but it's one of those skills you never really lose.

"Oh, there are," he says, grinning. "Trees, walls. All kinds of things."

"I haven't climbed buildings since... well, since before Armada. But I can do it. You'd be surprised how many footholds there are on the average building."

The better to use when hunting, either to find a meal or to make a discreet escape afterward.

"Would I? Would you show me, so I won't be ignorant in the future?"

He finds the conversation so alien that he has to ask questions, but it's new. Delightfully so, that's the entertaining part. Catching glimpses of his lover's world, the way he has to live, is endlessly enthralling.

"...well, architecture might be different where you're from," he says. "Or in better repair. Rundown buildings are the easiest to climb; parts of bricks have fallen away, or there are brackets for things that are no longer there. I've seen towns with ornamental woodwork on their houses, and those are quite simple also. And anything with a drainpipe. I've got excellent balance, and a very strong grip, so I can almost always find something to dig my fingers into."

"I've never tried climbing buildings. Not even the rundown ones, though there aren't so many here in that condition. Perhaps we should start with trees," he murmurs, tracing the pads of the vampir's fingers and touching his lips to each to punctuate his words.

"I'm terrible at it, I suspect."

"Trees are easy," he says. "I've climbed the trees outside here; if you go some ways up into the mountains, you can find some that are quite tall. In the moonlight, it's quite something."

It's not bad just by starlight, either, but harder to make things out. It gets dark here at night.

"We should find one," he says. "To climb up. Both of us, if you'll help me." He's used to the dark--that he likes.

"I'd like that," he says. "We can look out over the grounds, and no one else will even know we're there."

He likes that--a sort of isolation, being alone together.

He chuckles. "Well. Until one of us starts making noise, yes," he says. "And I think we will, sooner or later."