roses are falling.

The generally hasty pace of life that London thrives on, Guilherme long ago made adopted. Even so, the speed with which he traverses the corridor is impressive. Fitting, he supposes, for the environment — but do journalists actually run to and fro like the blockbuster productions make it seem? He wouldn't know, but that particular sidetrack his thought takes is abandoned the moment he reaches the viscount's door.

The only reason Guilherme foregoes using his full title even in his thoughts, is simply because he can't ( or won't ) memorise it. He tried, and then gave up. Time is precious, after all.

Owning a paper isn't really a job - at least not in the traditional sense. He would never admit it, of course, but Alec contributes nothing of substance to the day-to-day running of the Daily Mail. He has no degree in journalism, nor any particular talent with a camera, and would never lower himself to making copies or handing out cups of tea to the actual employees of this office. Still, his position as owner and apparent financier entitle him to sit in on meetings with the senior members of staff, which is where the young man finds him this evening.

Ordinarily Alec would've taken umbrage at the disturbance and ordered him away, but after a moment, he realises that he recognises the intruder, however vaguely. The man works for Viktor (Alec's sure of that, at least), and it's enough to give him pause - something must be wrong. "Well, consider me stolen," his tone is dangerously pleasant, brokering no arguments as he rises from his seat and smooths his suit in one fluid motion, "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen."

“I think this is where I say I don't hope for an altercation, and that it’d be fucked up to want chaos when I should be maintaining the peace of the casino or whatever.” Because that is technically what Gabriel is supposed to say, according to the various training modules he’s been subjected to as a bouncer, complete with several minutes of how he’s supposed to deescalate conflict instead of engage in it with violence. For the most part, he does his job correctly.

The sudden shift in energy, paired with Alec’s surprise, makes him chuckle. “Nah, never played. I mean, I get the basic fucking premise of it. Hit balls with a stick, hope they land in the right hole.” There's a joke to be made there, however he doesn't debase himself with it—thank God. “Avoid knocking one of the balls into said hole, right?” This time, he sounds a little more uncertain, and it's really starting to dawn on him that he knows even less about pool than he initially thought.

The rote response inspires a knowing laugh. "Top marks. Which I suppose means this is the part where I tell you, in turn, how much safer I feel for your enduring presence, and thank you emphatically for your professionalism." It's farcical, but if it came down to it and some incident were to occur, Alec would be entirely reliant on the intervention of the bouncers he typically ignores - he's a gentleman, after all, and decidedly ill-equipped for a fistfight.

"Amazing, isn't it, how many pastimes can be boiled down to 'hitting balls with a stick and hoping they land in the right hole'," Alec replies, talking around the obvious joke while clearly invoking its presence. He nods at the man's basic description of the rules, then quickly steps in to elaborate, "Well, it's two really - there's the eight ball, to which I assume you're referring, but you don't want to pocket the cue ball either. That would be a foul for your opponent."

Leaning against the edge of the table, Viktor waits patiently for Alec to re-tip the cue and break the rack. He can forgive the jab at his age for the time being, if only because Alec is an infamously sore loser, and Viktor has long learned that it’s easier going to appease his friend’s ego rather than challenge it.

"You are cruel," Alec complains, though it's clear from the glint in his eye that it doesn't really bother him - in fact, it's good. Alec may be a terrible loser, and usually hates to be reminded of his shortcomings but, to his mind, this exchange seems indicative of a return to normalcy. How sweet it is to be free from the yoke of Hector Garcia's influence at last.

The comment gives him pause, and he glances at Viktor as he sets the chalk back down, his eyebrow ticking upwards in amusement even as something treacherous stirs inside his chest. It's likely that it means nothing, words spoken idly amongst old friends, but... it invites the fantasy that Viktor has been thinking of him. "That's a dirty trick," he scolds in a quiet voice, smirking all the while, "But my days of rolling over for you are long past, and you won't distract me from securing my victory with reminiscing." Which is not to say that he won't end up obsessing over it later, when the night has ended and he's gone back to Chelsea alone.

"I suppose I could make better use of a favour than another drink," Alec muses as he moves around the table, languid movements betraying his expertise as he bends to line up his shot, "I'll have to start thinking about what I'm going to ask you for, when I win." It's fighting talk, and he's rewarded for it when he splits the pack and immediately deposits one of the yellow balls neatly into the back-left pocket. He quickly goes to take another shot, and though it doesn't go in, its position blocks the path of an easy red that he's certain Viktor would've otherwise taken.

Lottie laughs, glancing over at the disturbance in her dressing room doorway. “Wouldn’t matter anyway, you’ve never fully appreciated how immaculate my tits are.” She teases, quickly pulling the last of the pins from her hair before she stands up and quickly sheds her robe, pulling a dress over her head. “Boo, if you really loved me you wouldn’t make me choose where to go.” Charlotte turns back towards Alec with a tiny pout, leaning over to tug on her heels.

"Half the men in London have seen and admired your tits, my dear, I hardly think you need any more validation from me," Alec answers drily, though his eyes remain warm with affection for her. When she complains about being made to choose the restaurant, he tuts, easily falling into the familiar rhythm of teasing, "Charlotte, I'm surprised at you, I thought you were a modern woman! But in the interest of sitting down to dinner before I starve to death, I suggest we find ourselves a table at the Connaught." No reservation, but it won't be a problem. Not for them.

He shakes his head at Charlotte's assessment of her performance, unwilling to hear her disparage herself. "You were spectacular. And, quite honestly, I think any ill-feelings you may have had can be laid at the feet of your partner - the way he galumphed across the stage was positively criminal." Alec doesn't bother to lower his voice. If the male lead is still here, let him hear his critiques - he'll doubtless be reading similar in the Guardian tomorrow morning anyway. "You know who I miss? Sergei. He made a charming Prince Siegfried when you danced Swan Lake together - terrible shame he got deported."

Ansel looks him over slowly, as casually as he can to try and cover for the way he'd been bored out of his mind all fuckin evening and internally jumping at the chance to do something with his hands like an overexited puppy. Tailing people and scoutign missions were always the Worst part of contracts, especially in Jabberwock territory where has to 'play nice'. He sighs, badly downplaying a smile. "Sure, sure... how much are you're asking me to spend on drinks? I know a shark when I see one."

Of course he's American. Alec might've guessed, the man's loud voice and louder outfit painting a very clear picture of everything he loathes about their classless stateside cousins. Still, at least he won't have to feel guilty when he runs up a healthy tab at his expense (not that Alec ever feels guilty for that). "I am," he answers with an agreeable smile, "Viscount Esher. How do you do?" Not Alec. Not even Alexander. Not for this man.

"A shark!" He repeats with a bark of laughter, "A man could take offense to that, you know." But there is truth to his assessment, and Alec doesn't dispute it - he can see the smile that the other man is trying to hide, and he suspects he's found a willing opponent, in spite of it all.

“Technically yes, but you’d be surprised to learn just how much standing around that involves.” A lot. It’s a lot of standing around and watching, and essentially waiting for someone to fuck up so he can diffuse the situation. Gabriel naively expected more action in his job as a bouncer only to find himself bored and disappointed on many evenings.

Which is why he’s, more or less, standing around right now. He’s supposed to be on his break right now, having intended to step outside and chain-smoke until it was over, however Alec had offered up a losing game before he could.

"Gosh, well, rather you than me - it sounds frightfully dull." It probably wouldn't surprise anyone to learn that Alec doesn't really think about the bouncers when he's visiting the casino. Waiters and bartenders he at least has cause to interact with, but their surly, black-clad counterparts might as well be a selection of potted plants - part of the furniture, and easily forgotten. "I suppose you must spend half your time hoping for some sort of altercation, just for something to do."

He cocks his head to one side, a slight smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he hums his assent, "Mm. I can be, when the mood takes me." The smile is quick to drop, however, replaced with a look of genuine surprise when the bouncer tells him that he doesn't actually know how to play the game. "Sorry, you don't know how to play pool?" Alec asks incredulously, "How long have you worked here?" It occurs to him that it might be a trick, to give him a taste of his own medicine or some-such nonsense, but he's more than confident that he'll still come out on top if that does end up being the case.

"Not even an introduction, love?" Val asks first. "Normally I get a name or a compliment before I'm being wagered." They can just barely see the blur of the green table and can set their drink down on the lacquered wooden edge. "I'm Val. And no, I think I've got a handle on it." The cue is in their hand and they have just enough of a view to be able to get it into a convincing position. To look, for a second or two more, like they know what they're doing. They lean down, bend - messy curls frame their face, mock concentration...

The cue goes to the side and the blunt point instead hits the wooden edge, hard. Hard enough to make a SMACK that has a few people looking up from their card games. Val gasps in mock surprise. "Oh christ, I forgot, I'm legally blind!" They drop the cue onto the pool table and it makes the balls scatter. "What a fuckhead, I absolutely should've mentioned that. There's no way I could've beaten you... I suppose I'll have to buy the nice man a drink, won't I?" Their pale eyes are shining in mischief as they face the other as best they can, smirking. "What're you drinkin' then, angel?"

"Impatient," Alec admonishes, a teasing cast to the tilt of his mouth as he tuts his disapproval, "There's plenty of time to get to know each other - that is, unless you were planning on going somewhere?" He graciously moves to one side as Val starts to line up their shot, perching on the edge of the unoccupied table beside them to wait for his turn.

The sudden thump of the cue hitting the table is enough to make Alec jump, wrong-footed by the unexpected disturbance. For a moment Val's explanation hangs in the air, a tense second where its unclear how he's going to react as the balls scatter to the four winds... and then he starts to laugh. Really laugh. The whole thing is absurd.