#ofstage

for some unknowable reason the buffoon insists on breaking him from one world into the next; crudely dragging him from the pages before him into the theatre he tries to slip away from, when he’s forced requested to come around, watch rehearsals of plays he knows inside and out. marcel aymé, heartlessly abandoned, eyes that don’t blink and are far too bright fixed on the platinum blond upon the stage, while the golden blond wanders just behind, an illusion with hands folded neatly at his back, a smile curling, amused, dangerous. already waiting for louis to unravel, to lose the calm he feigns so well.

“oh, i seen the greats.” fucked the greatest, though none of the damned under this roof can ever know. it’s enough, too much, that their maître knows. the book closes slowly in louis's lap. the smile blooms slower, in spite of the cold in his eyes. for better or worse, dragged from opera house to playhouse by lestat, he does have his preferences, however grudgingly maintained.

“you? decidedly middle o’ the road.”

or : lucky for you there’s only one vampire-friendly theater in town. no mortal one with standards would take you on.

one eyebrow lifts at santiago’s response. “a gradient?” he parrots, as though the word in itself has confused him, “are you wholly incapable of giving straight answers, man?” another thing tom likely shouldn’t be wondering out loud, but that happen to slip past his lips more often than not. somehow restraint fails him whenever the blond man starts talking. it turning into quite the character flaw. tom turns towards him as much as their walking allows, “here i was trying to have a real conversation with you.” 

he doesn’t want people to start paying attention to them. it’ll make their hunt so much more complicated if they cause a scene in the middle of the street. he bites back some of his anger and opts to merely roll his eyes at santiago, swallowing the bile in the back of his throat. “if that is some vague jab at me, i think it’s probably better for you that i don’t get it.” it would be a threat, but tom damn well knows he doesn’t have the upper hand. he’ll wipe away that grin and it’ll be replaced by something worse. 

it is a rainy night. cool and sticky. giulio dislikes the way humanity crowds the dark corners of the earth, faceless cattle drawing forward for the farmer's hand—he stays behind when the bloody spectacle is done, to enjoy the renewed quietness and the thick, syrupy stench of iron that tingles in the back of his throat. it was a mediocre show. nothing as rewarding as rows of wooden crosses hoisted along a cobbled road, meat sizzling where the iron nail enters, crows plucking at the soft edges. this is wasteful. his body responds all the same.

so much blood spilled. it sends his hunger soaring, dark as a roar. his nails dig into the fold of his palm.

‘yet you sound guilty.’

giulio drags, a flame springing from a quick snap of his fingers that licks the unlit end of his cigarette. smoke blooms. he inhales sharply, before blowing it in santiago's face. his judgment blurs for a moment—guilty does not mean repentant, and santiago wears that guilt well, with a mischievous flair. it is a mask. all actors wear one, and giulio does not hide his contemptuous smile as it flashes fleetingly across his face. the night will soon be over, and he will disappear in the glowing daybreak... no less a human, in santiago's eyes, than any other that have visited the theatre tonight. he does not mind him, or anyone, believing it. they all have their lures.

‘if you are not the one who invited me, i must presume it was a mistake.’   a pause. another drag. ‘was it?’ 

santiago's polished shoe keeps the door from closing right in his face. the corridor behind him seems relatively quiet and that is the only reason he opens the door a little wider. “do you know you’ll get me fucking evicted?” he huffily mutters when the blond insists on being let in. he briefly checks the time on his wristwatch; it is too late in the evening to pass off as a polite visit and still far too early for a discrete tete-a-tete. “it’s late. someone will have seen you come here.” tom points, at last letting him over the threshold and into his flat. he watches him move, coolly, battling the impulse to reach out and tow him through faster. 

tom shuts the door and leans his back against it. “i don’t bring people here. i make the people here nervous enough as it is. i don’t want to give them an excuse to have me evicted or arrested.” looking at santiago, rendered entirely different now against the backdrop of his home, he realizes that his onset of nerves has little to do with the scrutiny of his neighbors and everything to do with not being able to recall ever giving away his address. black holes in his memory are nothing new, but they are usually gaping and vast. he remembers most of his encounter with santiago in vivid detail, but not letting his full name or address slip. blond brows knit together inquisitively,  “but since you are here - and i don’t want you making a scene in the hallway - what do you want?”

even in the dimly lit room santiago’s eyes are unnaturally viridescent. the look in them is unintelligible, bruising, and still it feels like they are beckoning him. it is more obvious here in this light than it had been at the bar that he has never seen eyes quite like his. tom steps away from the door and into santiago’s personal space. he places a hand near the buttons of his coat and offers him something resembling a polite smile (although not entirely authentic). “if you are intending on staying, i need you to take off your coat and shoes.”