Ambrose is far from offended at the response; his smile sharpens at its edges while he watches Magnus scoff and argue. He seems charmed, if anything, and perhaps it's just nice to hear the perspective of another immortal, someone not locked by whatever demon it is that fuels him and his uncanny brethren. A different perspective in the same theatre, maybe one could say?
It would be terribly cliché to say.
Especially with the fact in mind that it is in particular different from the knowledge and vantage of Leon's that Ambrose has only had to rely on. Now, Magnus may have his biases -- naturally -- but they are a foil to Leon's, and it's absolutely refreshing.
There's a twinge of something involuntarily disappointed, for but a moment, before there's a brisk breeze of relief to be warned from his low-beating craving. Ambrose is, above all of that, briefly bashful from being called out, but he knows it's a safe thing, playful as anything else. At least vampires can share blood, in special moments, and suffering the blood can be beneficial when necessary -- and incredibly intimate, but in excess, very dangerous.
One more teasing boundary to put between them, but Ambrose is content with this one. He hasn't the mettle to be a natural predator, yet a predator he has become, and there's a gratitude to finding a man not only so charming to him, but one he can't reasonably threaten. Not enough to break their balance, anyway.
But it doesn't push Ambrose away. His hand comes fully to wrap carefully around Macaire's wrist, fingertips slipping across skin where it is bare. It forces him to twist, lean, and face the other man more, as he clings admiringly. He would rather have him like this, really, far more than his blood.
At Magnus' words, Ambrose thinks, curls shifting like willow leaves as he angles his head and tilts into the werewolf's hand. France, Paris... His forefront concern had been the logistics of this tour, since Magnus had proposed it, but the vampire is caught now with a different thought, and his expression moves with his thinking like ripples in a very still pond.
"Would you remain here, if I were to go to France?" Immediately or not, Ambrose means at all. "I haven't been in years, and I will never again see its beautiful city bathed in sun."
Perhaps it's an obvious desire, perhaps it is far too much to ask of an acquaintance, and Ambrose thinks he ought to be ashamed for being so forward, alas -- Magnus is here in the heart of his home, streets they have both come to know so well. Ambrose seems wistful as he emulates it in reverse, only instead, by himself. "I imagine her streets are even darker without you there."
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It would be terribly cliché to say.
Especially with the fact in mind that it is in particular different from the knowledge and vantage of Leon's that Ambrose has only had to rely on. Now, Magnus may have his biases -- naturally -- but they are a foil to Leon's, and it's absolutely refreshing.
There's a twinge of something involuntarily disappointed, for but a moment, before there's a brisk breeze of relief to be warned from his low-beating craving. Ambrose is, above all of that, briefly bashful from being called out, but he knows it's a safe thing, playful as anything else. At least vampires can share blood, in special moments, and suffering the blood can be beneficial when necessary -- and incredibly intimate, but in excess, very dangerous.
One more teasing boundary to put between them, but Ambrose is content with this one. He hasn't the mettle to be a natural predator, yet a predator he has become, and there's a gratitude to finding a man not only so charming to him, but one he can't reasonably threaten. Not enough to break their balance, anyway.
But it doesn't push Ambrose away. His hand comes fully to wrap carefully around Macaire's wrist, fingertips slipping across skin where it is bare. It forces him to twist, lean, and face the other man more, as he clings admiringly. He would rather have him like this, really, far more than his blood.
At Magnus' words, Ambrose thinks, curls shifting like willow leaves as he angles his head and tilts into the werewolf's hand. France, Paris... His forefront concern had been the logistics of this tour, since Magnus had proposed it, but the vampire is caught now with a different thought, and his expression moves with his thinking like ripples in a very still pond.
"Would you remain here, if I were to go to France?" Immediately or not, Ambrose means at all. "I haven't been in years, and I will never again see its beautiful city bathed in sun."
Perhaps it's an obvious desire, perhaps it is far too much to ask of an acquaintance, and Ambrose thinks he ought to be ashamed for being so forward, alas -- Magnus is here in the heart of his home, streets they have both come to know so well. Ambrose seems wistful as he emulates it in reverse, only instead, by himself. "I imagine her streets are even darker without you there."