Ambrose's face pinches in with a briefly fluttering intent for question, brows twitching inward as the expression shudders past. Doors shut upon his approach. What truths live within? What is it that can't be trusted in his gaze?
As reliably as always, Magnus' charm is a gentle guiding force back away from such doors, coaxing into different directions. It's comfortable for a while to be guided where he ought to be, but when done completely blind, Ambrose doesn't know how to reconcile the whiplash he's finding it affords him, more and more, as he encounters it.
All arranged, already, before Magnus had even come to Ambrose tonight. Was the werewolf really so confident in this discussion before it could even occur? Something deep in the pit of the fledgling's chest shifts, sleepy but stirring, beginning a slow-building coil inward -- not fully suspicious yet, but something much younger, curiosity, possibly concern.
"Not worried, mon cher," Ambrose assures softly, but maybe a little flatter than he would have liked. "You've put a lot of thought into all of this."
Something that Ambrose thinks he my have to do for himself, as well. He is resolute in his feelings for Macaire, that is of no question, and they would be hard-pressed to fall under re-evaluation. In Ambrose's heart, his beau is safe. Alas, this all rings dreadfully similar to a tune the vampire has heard before, and the air carries an unmistakable tension, thick and strained, a summer afternoon swelling until the atmosphere finally breaks, and all of heaven's wrath comes loose.
Overthinking it, perhaps. Ambrose draws comfort out of Magnus' touch upon his face, turns into it and plants a kiss on the heel of his palm. He hungers, and feels the fatigue from it, but he doesn't seek that here. "All this effort, just for us...I will have to see to it that it was all worth your while." Ambrose remains gentle, no weight carried in his eyes or his tone to suggest any scandalous intent, nothing more than a promise of devotion to their plot. Whatever it is that independently-inclined Magnus prefers to play, Ambrose can at least offer an idea of them working together, as much as they are their own movable pieces in this mechanism.
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As reliably as always, Magnus' charm is a gentle guiding force back away from such doors, coaxing into different directions. It's comfortable for a while to be guided where he ought to be, but when done completely blind, Ambrose doesn't know how to reconcile the whiplash he's finding it affords him, more and more, as he encounters it.
All arranged, already, before Magnus had even come to Ambrose tonight. Was the werewolf really so confident in this discussion before it could even occur? Something deep in the pit of the fledgling's chest shifts, sleepy but stirring, beginning a slow-building coil inward -- not fully suspicious yet, but something much younger, curiosity, possibly concern.
"Not worried, mon cher," Ambrose assures softly, but maybe a little flatter than he would have liked. "You've put a lot of thought into all of this."
Something that Ambrose thinks he my have to do for himself, as well. He is resolute in his feelings for Macaire, that is of no question, and they would be hard-pressed to fall under re-evaluation. In Ambrose's heart, his beau is safe. Alas, this all rings dreadfully similar to a tune the vampire has heard before, and the air carries an unmistakable tension, thick and strained, a summer afternoon swelling until the atmosphere finally breaks, and all of heaven's wrath comes loose.
Overthinking it, perhaps. Ambrose draws comfort out of Magnus' touch upon his face, turns into it and plants a kiss on the heel of his palm. He hungers, and feels the fatigue from it, but he doesn't seek that here. "All this effort, just for us...I will have to see to it that it was all worth your while." Ambrose remains gentle, no weight carried in his eyes or his tone to suggest any scandalous intent, nothing more than a promise of devotion to their plot. Whatever it is that independently-inclined Magnus prefers to play, Ambrose can at least offer an idea of them working together, as much as they are their own movable pieces in this mechanism.