#* amatorial .

"cou-cou, raglan."

marcel greets in a cheerful tone, hovering over the man's shoulder in an attempt to surprise him. it was a pleasant sight, finding raglan james in paris during a time in which most tourists migrated to warmer parts of the world. some people would have called this a happy coincidence. marcel would have agreed with the first half.

the frenchman glanced around the lobby of the gallery. plenty of sharp-dressed people had showed up to the event to get a good look of the new space, maybe ogle at some subpar modern art, sip on some free champagne...but his fellow agent held no alcohol in his hand. and marcel could not help but notice that dear raglan's attention had not been captured by any of the canvases hanging on the walls. he widened his eyes as he patted the other man on the back. "but what a surprise to find you here! you should have called, i'd have booked us a table somewhere." his excitement and following disappointment appear genuine.

but it is an act. the reason marcel had been sent there was due to the suspicion that a certain vampire with capitalist tendencies which often guided him towards art investments, would be there that evening. the paris motherhouse was interested in observing whether his presence there would attract others of his kind whose intentions might prove to be malicious --- and marcel suspected that might be the same reason raglan james had crossed the english channel.

"newsflash, raglan: nobody ever gets what they want."

the way molloy pronounces the agent's name is meant as an insult. he actually thinks it fits the guy quite nicely; raglan james does have the charisma of a wet rag from hell and, whenever he materialises next to him, it's usually with the sole intention of dampening the mood and, therefore, ruining whatever glimpse of magic and wonder his new condition might have bestowed upon the old journalist.

he takes a sip of his beer and, though he can feel the cold liquid going down his throat, it doesn't quite taste the same. louis should have warned him this would happen. nah, it wasn't his responsibility to teach daniel about the staleness of food and booze. someone else should have been there. his mind echoes the same name out into the ether. the same name he has been calling for the night before and the night before that and the many nights before that;

armand, armand, giant-insect-looking-asshole, armand.

"that lousy yankee --- noddin' off mid my monologue, can you believe it?" santiago without acknowledging dear eglee. his ego was too wounded for him to consider the emotions and thoughts of others. all his bright green eyes could see was louis de pointe du lac, strolling out of the theatre through the backdoor, hands deep in his pockets and a song on his lips. off to meet the maître no doubt, for another one of their nightly escapades ; OH , HOW HE DESPISED HIM . "decades of stage work all over europe and in comes mr. star spangled banner with his swagger 'n' southern insensitivities to have a cheeky lil' nap during my big scene?" he shook his head and clenched his jaw. if looks could kill, their american guest would be dead and buried a hundred times over.