there had been a time, about a hundred years ago or so, when santiago would've sworn up and down that he'd never return to england, let alone london. initially, it'd begun as necessity, as him having to escape perhaps being recognised by someone and on a lesser scale, the grief of the friends he'd had there after his alleged funeral. but he doesn't now want to think about life in paris, or worse, like all those decades before paris. london was convenient now, with a thriving theatre scene and some of the more luxurious of venues to attend, so he'd made himself comfortable. for now.
the interior of veine is all too familiar by now, he even greets the doorman by name as he slips in, toting his little lamb of a friend behind him as usual. the second they're inside, he mutters something to caterina without his voice before watching her, sightless, melt into the groups of people -- she'd be making herself right out back, he was sure, but not before batting her little eyes at someone to follow her, to stick themselves in a donation chair. he rolls his shoulders and makes his own way past people, ignoring most of the humans, greeting other vampires and then.. he reaches his destination (one of them, of course) and his hand stretches out to touch the waist of the other man, a human yes but - well, one that had some use. "theo." he greets with a smile, dazzling as usual he's sure, "here i was thinking you'd be tucked away in some little corner, it's like you knew i was coming." @premleague
