bakerstreet | Hidden Relationship

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Hidden Relationship

hidden relationship;

The fact that you're in a relationship with this person isn't public knowledge. Actually, no one knows about it except for the people involved. Maybe you guys are just private like that; on the other hand, it may be a necessity to keep things a secret from others. Maybe you're both team mates, and others on the team would give you grief, or you're not supposed to be dating, or you're not the type to usually date and you're only testing the waters. Perhaps it's the combination of you two, possibly an odd couple, that would bring some controversy or some teasing. Or, you know, you could not want to deal with friends and relatives being busybodies. Your reasons are your own.

Are you content with stealing moments to be together as a couple? Do you want to make your relationship known and the fact that you can't drives you batty? Remember, there are lots of benefits to dating in secret. You can be yourselves completely, away from prying eyes, and get to know each other better as potential longterm romantic partners. In a way, it's ideal.

...still, do you ever wish you could scream from the rooftops how much you care for your significant other?

how to play.

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Play out stolen moments (◡‿◡✿), secret dates (◕‿◕✿), secret handholding (⊙‿⊙✿), and secret kissing ( /)w(\✿)!

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{ absolutely would love stolen moments and meeting in secret; either with a mortal who cannot be open being with a vampire, or Ambrose having to hide the relationship from his sire for reasons (werewolves, other vampires, other supernaturals)! assumed cr fine (if you want to pm to establish relationship, totally fine!), modern timeline or 19th century around the time he was turned are both on the table. }

There are a great many ways to hide a thing like this. Magnus, over the years, has practised many of them. But the one he returns to, over and over again, is fear. There's a little bit of bribery, of course, but that just greases wheels. He's a knight of the realm, he has fingers in so many pies, and he's a werewolf to boot. Upsetting him causes too many possible repercussions. Therefore, when he politely requests the use of a private box after the performance, the theatre manager agrees without any hesitation. When Magnus says he does not want to be disturbed he is sure that he will not be. Woe-betide the simpleton that does.

The performance is just as he expected: the audience is rapt, enthralled by the vampires on the stage. They would be even if the actors were mortals no doubt, but vampires have a certain magnetism. Half-way through the last act, Magnus has the box attendant go fetch an armful of flowers for the charming lead. It takes a moment to put together in his mind something fitting: Nutmeg-scented geranium, some pale pink Peruvian lilies, maidenhair, tucked together amongst bright blooms celebrating the success of the play.

No doubt that the pretty young man will have many admirers. It's only natural. But they have met before, he's certain that of all the requests for company Ambrose will receive, his will be the one that is answered. After all, he has offered to sponsor a little tour in Paris, and isn't that what the little company of players wants? Another step forward on their Italian tour.

He lounges back, watching the audience file out after the last curtain call, lighting a cigarette. The theatre is dark, the hint of light on gold and thick, luxurious red fabric. There's something otherworldly about it, the magic of the stories seeping out into the rest of the building. It's the sort of place a vampire and a werewolf should have a clandestine meeting. Better than in a carriage or a damp alleyway, that's for certain.

Edited 2018-06-13 21:55 (UTC)

There had been hardly enough time to slip the card into his pocket when Leon entered Ambrose's dressing room -- all of the things found within more extravagant than the younger vampire had ever desired. Sounds complimentary enough, though it all by and large went primarily ignored, aside from what he immediately required -- the rest of it held a sourness that he wouldn't know how to readily admit to anyone.

Nothing, however, could take away from the bouquet sat at the vanity, beautiful cascading maidenhair framing white and pink blooms that speak immediately to those who can listen, the honey and spice perfume almost stifling in the room. They certainly didn't escape Leon, even if its message did.

A tense remark of awareness, before a query concerning their origin, one that he had to force to sound blasé. 'God only knows,' Ambrose mused softly, still looking at them, over his sire, in part because he knew such a phrase perturbed him. As much as Leon might want to, he could not penetrate Ambrose's mind for any truth other than the one his own fledgling promised him.

Ambrose's skin still sings with the fire of adrenaline, a chemical phenomenon that does not march to a war drum in his veins, but simply flows freely with intensity of speed and force that varies. He found luck on his side when he refused Leon to agree and meet with anyone tonight, because when has he ever indulged such requests? They were once rare, until he had been pushed into taking this leading role, a choice not of his own making.

He snuffs out his ire with something incredibly cold, his hand pressing against the small card in his pocket, indicating a particular opera box. The geraniums requested they meet, the fern sprays insisted discretion -- the lilies, kindly, proclaimed prosperity and friendship with blushing hue and spiraling leaves. A playful intention.

He believes he knows who it is that has summoned him; the inclination for secrecy has Ambrose feeling certain.

A cautious rapping on the door precedes his entrance, low light mixing with the ambiance of the opera box's interior, disrupting none of the ambiance. There is an equal mixture of surprise and expectation at seeing Sir Magnus seated here in comfortable seclusion, and any semblance of frost at the edges of Ambrose's vision melt at the immediate awareness of the other man. The air is thick up here, smoky and warm, immediately dream-like. Ambrose smiles kindly, silent until he knows the door is shut, securing their privacy.

"Such beautiful flowers, monsieur; I could hardly believe they were meant for me." His voice, while perfectly tangible in its tone, is nearly a breath; perhaps from singing, or could it be an instinct, to avoid being overheard? Ambrose wouldn't be able to tell for himself.

There's a hint, a taint if you will, in the air. It's not the young bloods, because decay has not yet set into their existence, nor does their smell permeate so strongly even to his acute senses. But of course the sire would be here, taking charge of his protégés. Magnus has not had the pleasure of meeting the vampire, but that is probably for the best. There's something about the older vampires that sets his teeth on edge and sets the fur on his heckles rising if it's own accord, even if the full moon is several nights away.

The pup, for lack of a better word or vampiric term, does nothing of the sort. Too fresh, too new, still human in so many little ways. That is, Magnus suspects, why he finds the smell of the young man so inexcusably tempting.

As the door clicks open, Magnus stands and turns to face his guest, a small pleased smile spreading across his features. He bows his head in greeting, a low nod that's a great deal more than any knight would ever publically grant an actor, and a great deal more than a werewolf would ever give a vampire.

"After such a wonderful performance, I thought it only proper I sent something to show my appreciation." He replies, stepping away from the front of the box and into the darker interior. "I did not want you to think that I did not enjoy every moment."

He'd like to reach out, to run a hand over that elegant pale jaw, to see if the boy's skin is really as cool to the touch as he imagines it must be, but that's hardly called for presently. He does not need to appear as forward as all that. Not unless he wants Ambrose to think the wolf rules the man, and not the other way around.

"Come and sit with me a moment."

Something about praise seems to wither Ambrose like a bloom in the high summer, when it comes along so vibrantly. As animated dead, he has the benefit of not being betrayed by his own pallor, no matter how alarmed or embarrassed he may become now -- such is his life now, the lead, words he never envisioned for himself before, and has difficulty stomaching still.

He looks over to the curtained stage, solemn to him now like an old, slumbering animal, unable to see it as a tiered display for talent. He sees it for what it is: a level playing field, the backdrop to a scene, the framing of a crucial moment to share with onlookers. These days, he thinks this makes him a rare breed of artist.

"Proper, yet paradoxically, almost scandalous," Ambrose muses, but as gentle as one observes a painting, dissecting while working to be anything but invasive. On paper, the fledgling's words seem ungrateful, but the near-breathlessness in his voice sounds reverent. Flirting with scandal -- Ambrose thinks he has seen enough of the monsieur to suspect he would indulge in such a thing happily, anytime.

"But you flatter me deeply by even so much as appearing tonight." Ambrose moves with the lycanthrope to some seats nestled back and away from the balcony side, and well enough away from the door to be heard through, though the thick layers of fabrics cocoon them well enough. The presence of smoke lingers like a haze, forcing the low light around them to glow with a dreamlike suspension. Beside the monsieur, Ambrose sits against the plush pillowy shapes, the slopes of his posture pulled into thoughtful bowing, almost melancholy -- but his eyes are bright on the other man's face.

"What is it that you've summoned me to you for, my friend? Not just to sing praises to the lowly likes of me, I pray God." Through his low-purring voice, Ambrose manages a laugh, one that emphasizes his hope, more than it seems to suggest that he speaks facetiously. Genuinely, Ambrose could more comfortably handle being asked a favor than he can stand hearing throwaway flattery. Though, he thinks, he could not accurately recall ever sensing Sir Magnus being disingenuous to him before...

The slight chagrin that Ambrose feels at the fact his consummate skill has been pushed to the fore is nothing short of endearing. He might not blush, he might not feel his dead heart beat any faster, but Magnus has dealt with people in all their forms for a great many years, and he is certain he can read those minute signs correctly.

At the words almost scanalous, the werewolf lets a flicker of amusement cross his face, mouth forming a broad smile, although he's not so crass as he show his teeth. That at least was one of the few things vampires and his own kind agreed on.

"In that case, I shall endeavour to achieve true scandal some other way." He says, breathing through the cigarette before pushing it into one of the brass stands filled with sand. "Perhaps I should approach your sire to act as our chaperone?"

He is going to do no such thing, but the idea does tickle him. What madman would dare approach a sire to steal away one of his, and a werewolf to boot? It would cause talk amongst their own, no doubt. But Magnus is not one to create an unnecessary scandal, and certainly not about himself. His actions may sometimes be considered speculative, not without an element of risk, but without risk, there is no reward. In this instance, reward could be two-fold, but that would involve careful playing of the game.

"My dear Ambrose, you'll never become an ancient if you continue with such humility." He says, the instruction gentle as he settles in the seat, turned a little to face the pale young man and those bewitching eyes. "There is nothing lowly about you, as you well know. I certainly do not think such a thing. You must accept that, my dear, or tell me how I am to prove it to you."

But Magnus seems to decide that further kind words would not be prudent, lest they cause his young companion more embarrassment.

"You told me at our first meeting, your little troupe was destined to tour Europe. You are doing so well in London, and your play is already showing to be a success, it seems to me that you should forestall such a tour, do you not think?"

Well, scandal sure is correct. Ambrose flickers with shock, a comet sparking across his face, at the playful suggestion; Macaire toys with a sharp instrument that makes Ambrose cautious, despite his knowing it all really is just for show.

Alas, he laughs, low but not quite so quiet, for having nothing more sensible to respond with -- but the monsieur is quite infectious with his wit, and Ambrose finds it like sunlight that he surprises to see doesn't burn him. Something he must settle into, despite how comfortable it becomes. "Then I wouldn't know what flowers to suggest you might send him, unfortunately."

It is still a tense reminder of the precarious stage they choose to play upon. Then again -- Ambrose has had to live much of his life secretly, long before Leon had ever taken his life to exchange it for wickedness. This much, and closer to repercussion than ever before, in truth, doesn't scare him...it's all much more complicated than simple fear for his own happiness.

Yet, Ambrose doesn't seem to shift a fraction of any measurement of space as Sir Magnus speaks of ancients; not as if unfazed with ignorance, in fact he appears perfectly aware of what he says, then. Is it that he has not lived long enough to conceptualize what that means for him? Hardly; constellations of immortals in the night sky have been his guiding force, their stories his personal reprieve since childhood, when the Bible grew to be too heavy a tome to carry within. Immortality was very much a legible clause in this exchange of living; it's the knowing how lonely that will come to be, how much it already has, now that he can see it all through new eyes, that hardens him.

Macaire is either strikingly strategic, or it is his impeccable timing -- but his arrangement of remarks makes his charitable assurances feel less like anyone else's pandering. Ambrose still loses track of the wolf in his gaze, eyes tracking down to the patterned carpet beneath their feet, but he is never resistant when he senses something genuine being brought. He would not be so insulting, in particular, not to Macaire, tonight.

Thus begins business; not that Ambrose minds, not at all. His renewed focus has him watching the man again, open with a mild but present attention.

"Does it seem so?" Ambrose latches onto that curiosity, of Sir Magnus's easily offered opinion, more than the fanfare of detail before it. Ambrose nods, thoughtful, gaze bowing like a heavy branch as it settles over the man's shoulder. "Leon is keen on it, now, certainly. He has his eyes set for Italy, ultimately. It really is so audacious, I cannot predict if it would crumble in our hands, or succeed on pure force of will."

Without question, that ethereal, cherubic sire of his is out tonight for benefactors, seeking money, seeking blood, anything to secure a protected and legendary return home. Ambrose knows there is something more -- shadows, only, without knowing who it is that casts their fleeting darkness.

What is an eternal life if not a game? Like chess but with real people as the pieces, real Kings and Queens to take. It there is no element of chance, no possibility of loss then what excitement is there? He has no real fear of any vampire. They can not hurt him nor can he hurt them, at least not physically. It's far more fun to take from them the things they covert.

"A bouquet of red dahlia? Columbine? Some fennel?" He should not mock the boy's sire so. It's a very poor show to do it while the leech isn't here to defend himself. So Magnus will wave his own comments away. "But I would do no such thing. Such a bouquet would be ghastly in appearance."

Besides, Magnus is too good at this game. He wouldn't do something so foolish as to alert Leon to their meetings. Everything he has planned relies on the fact remaining secret for as long as possible. Neither does he want Ambrose to suffer for this dalliance. In truth, the boy has no reason to be loyal. A change brought through lies and deceit negates all fidelity although that is not often how it works in practice. Besides, Magnus knows that is own affection and attention is not pure: but what man pursuing such a pretty young thing can possibly claim purity? But he has not stolen from Ambrose what Leon has.

He reaches out, and lets his knuckles ghost along the boy's high cheek. He really is quite delicious, even with the ivory-white flesh of a vampire. But he can't allow himself to be too distracted: keeping tight hold of the reigns is the key to success in all matters, especially when one plays with matters of the heart.

"I should think in the morning, the papers and the gossip columns will be full of praise." In fact, he can ensure it with a missive to a well-placed editor. "Enough to warrant extending the run. Please don't think it too forward, but I would be most disappointed if you went off to Europe before we were fully acquainted, and it is cruel to force you all to give up on your own ambition so he can rush through the countryside like a frightened hare."

He pauses, just for a moment, letting his eyes move along the boy's jaw, down his throat, so carefully hidden with a well-tied cravat.

"Would you want to stay in London a little longer, if it was up to you?"

Thank the heavens that Leon is not so concerned about flower language as some others -- columbine and fennel as Ambrose chuckling into the back of his hand, fangs flashing under pale pink lips, just briefly, though his smile lingers. Really, they would look quite dreadful together -- then again, don't they both together, in his opera box, make an odd sight themselves? If their natures were aesthetics, they would be a god-awful clashing of hues. Then again...what makes them so complimentary?

Ambrose feels the radiant heat of skin before the monsieur's knuckles draw across his cheek; he moves, though not out of the way, but with more sudden of a motion than he has made all night. His head turns back to the lycan, eyes rounded with awe at the display of audacity. It only presses him further into the hand, unbelievably warm and hovering toward him, yet Ambrose finds his attention latch onto where Sir Magnus is conducting his own attention, across his face.

The vampire doesn't hide his internal conflict. Brows angling in and pressing soft creases between them, he sinks easily into a thoughtful state, his gaze set on the other's face. "I couldn't be decided one way or another...the opportunity is thrilling, yet I wish it could come under..."

As if suddenly concerned about being overheard, Ambrose pauses, slipping into a sharp silence, looking back across the opera box. He hears nothing -- doesn't sense his own sire, doesn't hear a pulse, save for the one beside him.

"...Different circumstances." A desire that begs for the freedom to be truly just that -- not something he feels indebted to do. Leon has been risking his security in staying here, securing his prestige and his coven. They would only be leaving for him. It used to be a delight to consider, and Ambrose has travelled before, but this time...he doesn't know that he would be able to return, not for a dreadfully long time.

Curious, now, and still just as clear across the fledgling's face as the light that cuts across his even pallor as he looks at Sir Magnus once again. "What is it that you consider to be fully acquainted?" Ambrose never asks such challenging prompts -- and it feels strange, his own voice echoing back in his mind with the same lilting cadence of his sire's. Is it an instinct? Is he playing off of Magnus's playful essence? Or is it that he sees this set up clearly, sees the path this other man's intention must be forging -- and wants to know if it's worth the suggestion of contradicting what they both know the future will present? "And what would you do with such a thing, once you had it?"

Ambrose knows what he would want for himself, and he had learned a hard lesson: everyone has their own agendas. Leon has been an effective teacher to that, if nothing else in this existence.

The turn of phrase most fitting seems to be the enemy of my enemy is my friend, but Magnus keeps that to himself. Leon is not an enemy, just a rival, and Magnus is normally on good terms with many of his rivals. Werewolves and Vampires are age-old enemies, but that's simply because back in the bad old days they were competing for food. Nowadays there's far too many humans to worry about that being scarce, and werewolves tend to stick to more acceptable meals, like very rare steak.

His hand does not pull away when Ambrose moves, they only remain against his cool flesh, enjoying the slight surprise in the young man's expression. It is very forward, but there's no one here to shock, and despite Magnus' own reputation as a very proper gentleman, a knight of the realm, Ambrose knows his true nature. Vampires have always considered werewolves only slightly better than animals, why not act like it?

"There is nothing wrong with seeing the world." He says softly, the words a gentle confirmation. "You will in time, I have no doubt of that. I can not pretend I've spent my entire existence here." No, even London is not that exciting. But a fledgeling is hardly free to choose his own path in such matters. He needs to either break from his sire, or persuade his sire to remain. The latter is most certainly easier than the former.

There is, to Magnus' mind, an unnatural hurry to all of Leon's plans. London is not a plague town that one rushes through if it can't be avoided completely. If he plans to travel via France than he should take a good hundred or so years to do so. There is nothing pressing in Italy, at least not that Magnus knows of at this stage.

He wants to ask, to find out what drives Leon on, but it is too early for him to dig. At present, he will accept the guise of the theatre troupe funding their grande tournée.

"Is that not something that should be decided by us both?" Magnus replies, letting his knuckles slip from Ambrose's cheek to the sharp line of his jaw. "My desire for your acquaintance is nothing if you are not like minded. And it is not something so easily discarded." Not between creatures that could live, theoretically, forever.

"I do not want to put a beautiful thing in a cage and watch it wither, Ambrose, that is not my way. Instead, I would rather like it fly and soar, in the knowledge it takes my love with it, and it will return when it wishes."

'Still so woefully human,' Leon has sighed here and there ever since. Ambrose hears the alarm, borderlining on contempt, and knows what the intention there is, that he's supposed to feel cowed and embarrassed. He can't manage it. Still a human form, still a human assembly, only modified -- what would stop him from being so? He thinks that time is what does it, kills that humanity; not time spent in a monster's body, but time at a length that humans are not meant to exist for. Time hardens the mountains, the trees, the earth, and humans are meant to be pliant.

Ambrose hasn't lived long enough find those stifling weeds of contempt in his garden, even with all the seeds Leon has left for him. Even for this opposing predator, this natural rival to him, it's too early to harbor those clawlike tendrils so ready to ensnare any opposition. Ambrose finds more and new instincts and capabilities by the fortnight, and yet, the discovery of more and differing preternatural beings and metahumans like himself has been some sort of comfort -- not a threat. He knows that not everything Leon says is unworthy of regarding. He knows his caution and defensiveness are traits of self-preservation. It's unfortunate that Ambrose tries now to practice some of his sire's gospel, but for drastically different reasons.

It's nice to be assured something no one has ever put to words: the world isn't going anywhere, not without Ambrose. It will change, but in time, and he can afford to be as patient as he would like. For someone like Ambrose, though he doesn't see this himself quite yet, patience will probably be his most proficient tool.

"You must forgive me," Ambrose breathes, eyes flicking to watch Magnus' hand drifting down lower along his face, his expression petal soft. "I've learned that those with strong opinions often have an agenda of their own that they are working on." And that those with strong opinions toward Ambrose, in particular, are strictly serving themselves.

He scoffs gently, breath brushing at the other man's coat sleeve, smiling through a thorn Ambrose has placed into his own rib. "Make no mistake, monsieur, because I can nearly hear you saying it in my own mind already: everyone has their agendas, of course."

That is certainly no crime. Ambrose no longer has a mortal's heart to skip and stumble and fret in these moments, he no longer lives breathless with fear. Even with the most thrill, there's a chilly calmness. Perhaps it emboldens him, to the very point of action, the culprit behind him lifting a hand of his own, his curled first finger grazing along the man's hand, the warm expanse of the bottom of his palm.

"It's been some time since I've had to consider my own. My utmost concern is reconciling myself. What kind of monster I intend to be." It's been half a year now, all the growing pains over, the mourning done, the body finally gone cold. "I don't imagine my memories would be kind to look back on if I were to leave London prematurely." London can house the painful ones; for Ambrose, these cobblestones on the streets could count for each day of longing or agony, the path that carries him as he traverses his home. He doesn't think he could stand it being anywhere else. "If I were to leave..." A sentiment he can't finish, staring at Magnus now. Too much, far too much weight to put upon another, an acquaintance like this. Ambrose is self aware this time, as he leans himself over the cliff's edge, threatening to repeat his first mistake a second time, and somehow, it's harder this time to have the new vantage on himself.

Perhaps it boils down to what one truly believes to be monstrous. True, vampires are predators, they prey on humans far more than werewolves. Werewolves can find other prey and other entertainment, their options are not so limited. But humans, for all their short years upon the earth are not innocent. There are plenty of humans far worse than many so-called monsters. The women who run baby farms, the man in the paper last week who drowned his wives in the bathtub. There are enough humans who are monstrous to quite assure Magnus that he is not. And for what it is worth, those few humans that Ambrose may have dispatched in his short time as a vampire will hardly outway those the British have killed in the colonies in the last day.

But he does not both the boy with such insight. Ambrose is young, both young in human years and in vampire terms. He will have the scales pulled from his eyes soon enough, he will make his own mind up on the nature of things, whatever Magnus or Leon say.

"I don't think you require forgiveness for that." Magnus says, the note of amusement evident in his voice and his expression. "That is true of everyone, Ambrose. Everyone has their own motives in almost all things. It might only be to look after them and theirs, but that is motive enough, is it not?" He asks, although it does not necessarily need an answer.

"I will let you in on something of a secret, Ambrose. You are an extremely attractive young man, you have a... there is a sense of the alive about you." Perhaps because of his love of acting, perhaps there was something in his soul, some brighter spark. Magnus could not put his finger on it exactly. "And the longer we exist, the more we seek out those that can make us feel a little more alive."

It's such a very improper thing to say, but Ambrose is no fool, and Magnus will not treat him as such. The boy is certainly part of something larger, but aren't they all? Wasn't he something larger as soon as Leon had his fangs in him?

Ambrose's words are heavy, full of potent regret, although in them Magnus feels his own regrets and his own memories, long laid to rest. He does not try to push them away, they are too distant now to be recalled and for that he's grateful.

"Then stay a little while, mon cheri. Stay and make a better set of memories before you go on." That is hardly too much to ask, is it? It is not wrong to encourage the young vampire to linger here if it would be best for them both. It almost certainly would be better for Ambrose, especially if he ever wishes to return to London.

Magnus doesn't require an answer, for the understanding is nearly palpable. Ambrose has had to face the possibility, more and more as of late, that he may have some lessons to learn from Leon yet -- lessons neither he nor his sire could have predicted. Ambrose can fathom the idea of necessary self-interest -- really, he would call it selfishness, because what else is it? -- and the disregard of lecherous others...he can absolutely conceptualize it. Taking it up as a weapon to defend himself with, however, is still so foreign to him. Foreign, but not completely unfamiliar...and therefore, somewhat dreadful, with past experiences to loom in the shadows as guilty reminders.

Magnus seems resolute and sure that he will make Ambrose come to enjoy such flattery, doesn't he? Ambrose's face pinches in briefly over a flashing smile, still so certain such things are a joke, if not empty pandering. Yet the man continues with something poetic and assuring, a secret that proclaims more longing than he thinks he's ever heard Sir Magnus admit to to date. His glow of surprise darkens quickly as he thinks -- recalls something Leon had said to him a few times, before luring him into the pit of the damned along with him. Something that sounded like praise, until it became disparaging.

Ambrose doesn't sound wry often, but his low chuckle sounds brittle at its edges. "I was given the impression that such a thing is not befitting of the dead." There's always a bit of whiplash in talks like these, where this vampire reaffirms his experience with such simple but effective language. The changes have been vast and great, but his mind is still so much the same -- he truly does forget what he is. Dead, in some unarguable way.

But it is a small gift that Ambrose finds he glows in awe for, and he wonders if such things to say come to Magnus so easily. He would never dare ask, never dissect him like that. The parameters he follows for their dialogue are his friend's, playful and challenging. Ambrose isn't so desperate to find assurances, just a certainty of intention.

It's also hard to question him like this -- soft conversations basked in low light, hand on his face, skin against his jaw...it makes Ambrose's teeth ache mildly with want, and there's a small rush in both that, and knowing he does have agency over his own demon.

"I would," Ambrose begins, looking into the werewolf's eyes, seeing him as well as through him, fingertips drifting over his wrist -- a small artery there. "I imagine Leon would be absolutely thrilled that the lead of the show would be abandoning the tour, for absolutely no discernible reason." There is no souring inflection, or tone of voice -- no, only a melancholy flatness to it. He knows he's being guided here, and while the sense of being lured makes the vampire cautious... Agendas, Ambrose. More than wondering what Magnus' might be, could Ambrose decide what his own should be?

Magnus makes a sharp noise, almost a bark of dismissal. "Vampires, perhaps. Vampires are aloof, beauty in death, they have no desire for base things. We do not fall victim to such expectations." The we of course, means werewolves. They are beasts, animals, who lust and desire as mortal men. Let a vampire into a sleeping lady's boudoir and all they're interested in is her throat. It's not true, of course. Vampires have desires too. But the myth prevails that its werewolves alone amongst the undead who feel passion. From Ambrose's bitter words, Magnus wonders exactly what has passed between the young man and his sire, if anything. But it is not something to ask, it is not really something he does desire to know.

He lets his attention linger on Ambrose for a moment, on the way the young man's jaw moves, only slightly, and perhaps a human would not see it, would not feel the way Ambrose's fingers drift over his wrist, over the pulse so slow as to be almost non-existent.

"You won't like it, my dear." He breathes. He's heard the recently turned hunger more often, but if Ambrose did try to sink his teeth into the werewolf's arm, the blood would be as foul and tainted as his own, borrowed and dead. He used to carry a flask, in his inner pocket, for when he was peckish, but those times are past. Perhaps he should start to do so again, if only for Ambrose's relief.

He does, after all, like the boy. It isn't just his beauty, but the sharpness of his wit and the brightness of his eyes. There is still something so very alive there, and near him, Magnus feels it in himself. Which only makes being away from him all the more unpleasant.

"No no, Ambrose. You should not abandon your tour. I know you would not want to do that." He knows that too well, Ambrose likes his acting, even if the lead role is somewhat out of his comfort zone. He would not wish the young man to do something as drastic as giving it up. "I think you should just increase your run here. A week or two more, perhaps at one of the largest Theatres. You would have a little more time here, a little more coin in your pockets before you moved on to France and gay Paris."

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."

To having opposing views presented to him is no doubt a good thing. Ambrose is young, and hopefully he will exist for a very very long time, see all he wishes to see, do everything he hopes to do. He will find his own truths, and perhaps without the bias his sire would otherwise have filled him with. Very few vampires, and for that matter, very few werewolves spend any time outside of their sire or pack for a decade or so. Maybe that is the real source and continuation of so much hate.

But, Magnus muses, isn't it interesting that his blood will do nothing to sustain a vampire, and the flesh of vampires is ash in the mouths of werewolves. Of course vampires still bite werewolves, werewolves still tear chunks from the leeches, but that is simply a prefered method of fighting, tired and tested since the ancient times. If it works, why change it?

There's a slow grin that spreads on his face as Ambrose shifts, moving so that Magnus supports his head. It's a very intimate gesture, while not actually being extremely inappropriate. It's hardly as if the boy's head rests upon his knee. But even if it did, who would be here to see?

He lets his fingers stroke, gentle and careful, reassuring, even as he chuckles.

"Are you so sure I hail from there, mon chaton?" He asks, voice low as he smiles at Ambrose. But perhaps this is something they share, that both of them, in another life, knew that city. Magnus pauses his words for another moment, fingers still moving, ever attentive.

"I imagine her streets were never so dark as when I was there, if we must speak the truth." Not by Magnus' hand and not so very long ago, when the blood of kings and princes mixed with mud and excrement and the city burned with hellfire. It had been a cruel time, a horrible time: a decade of terror and fear. If the like ever came to Paris again, how could she survive?

"I would... like to see if she has recovered. And I do have possible business interests there."

Is Ambrose so sure? He gives a small, easy laugh. No he isn't, but he didn't accuse!

"I suspect you've at least been to Paris, if nothing else," Ambrose admits, conceding to what he senses is a soft loss of a game he didn't realize was being played. Guessing games, assumptions. He will take losing gracefully in any game; losses are opportunity to learn.

And learning more about Magnus is always his keenest hope, when they see each other like this. Ambrose seems politely curious at that insinuation, though he doesn't smell regret or guilt in the air around the wolf. His hand cradles the back of the other man's, holding him with fondness. It's the most pressing he will let himself be; he has no interest in forcing anything from another's hold. One of a number of differences between his sire, and himself...

What he receives is something else, but just as important to him. He learns now the potential that Macaire might indulge him, and it brushes a pleased glow across his pale lips. "I forget, mon chevalier...were we meant to convince me to postpone these travels? You're only making me eager for it all, now." Ambrose possesses the patience of a saint; here, Magnus has found right where to twist him that such yearning bleeds forth.

It's a tease, and he doesn't dare conceal it. "I suppose we must get well acquainted before then, as you said."

Before then...but Leon is quickly on track for seeing it happen, and soon. Collecting the eyes and hearts of backers at best -- possibly robbing his richest of victims, in the worst case. The mode of consideration shades over the vampire's expression. "I doubt I could convince Leon on my own...to delay his own hungry plans. He's an immovable force once his mind is made up." His eyes hold Magnus' own; he came here to speak with him, this was his forefront concern. Was it merely to proclaim a desire, or provide an idea? Ambrose doesn't utter anything more, but the question writes itself across his face. He so ever does hate putting others on the spot, for better, and certainly, for worse.

Magnus will fix his little vampire with a look. He didn't accuse, that's true, but he said his words in such a way that Magnus took it to be an assumption, a gentle probe. But it's of no matter. He doesn't mind, he's hardly shared anything detrimental or that could harm him. If they do make it to Paris then Ambrose will soon learn that Magnus is intimately familiar with the city, the changes in the last few decades since the end of the Revolution are minimal.

He shakes his head, good-naturedly. Ambrose does want to know more, he can see the attention in his eyes, the way his quick mind picks up on details and then he keeps them close. He can understand why, but Magnus is by nature a very inward creature. Information is power, and the more power someone holds over him, the less sway he has. He does not think Ambrose is out to harm him, but if Leon discovers this, how much information can he compel Ambrose to share?

But of course, if Leon finds out about them, does he not already have all the information he needs to twist a knife in Magnus' heart?

"I was trying to, dear, but I think I am facing an uphill battle." He replies, unable to feel a flutter in the slow beat of his heart at the open, innocent way Ambrose looks up at him. He is supposed to remain separate from all these feelings, distanced from them so he can go about his game and remove a rival player from the board. But he is fast realising that this time things will not be so easy. Yet he regrets nothing.

"I do not expect you to raise such a thing with him, Ambrose. It would be very unwise for him to suspect you did not want to go. He holds some power over you, and I will not have him... it is best you leave such things to me." Magnus' words are careful, trying not to phrase things in a way that makes Ambrose clear that this is not something he should meddle in. It's not a game without risk.

Ambrose knows that look. Not too dissimilar from the look Leon shoots him with every so often, enough to wither some of the other fledglings when leveled upon him. Some -- not him. Ambrose has never managed to be more afraid of him than in the moment that he became is death.

Yes, an uphill battle...but one being fought together, and against themselves. Ambrose has to laugh; even death, life is so poetic and typical. Little roaming gods with their own vices; he wouldn't have it any other way.

"You make yourself so convincing to me; I might believe you could accomplish most anything." Said not to make assumptions that Magnus couldn't, far from that. A level higher on the tier, in fact. He wouldn't put so much responsibility in another if it concerned his affairs, or primarily, anything involving Leon...but their agendas align. If Ambrose really didn't think Magnus could handle his own against Leon, he would insist otherwise. It absolutely makes him wonder, wonder what the wolf will do to accomplish such a thing for them -- and it makes him uneasy to not know, unable to assist. There's a looming, impossible potential of guilt to be stomached, should it fail, and Ambrose was kept so far away from affecting anything.

Alas, trust. If that is all he can do, then it is all that he must do. "Then it benefits us that I am at least a halfway acceptable actor." And easier to fool another vampire than it used to be. Leon is not so literally blind, but Ambrose no longer has the pitfall of having the tells he once had as a mortal. Leon could always peer into his mind -- naturally, given the power these creatures have above mortals -- and sense his fear without fail. The sire holds none of this over him now, now that he has made Ambrose the same; not quite as if Ambrose was the only one giving something up, in the transaction.

Ambrose lifts his head up, not away from Magnus' hand, which drifts now to the side of his throat, and considers the monsieur with renewed attention, though hardly with any criticism. One could mistake the way Ambrose looks at him with how he would regard a statue in a gallery, or a night-blooming flower in the garden. "How long has it been? Since you've seen France." The vampire is as transparent as he can be; nothing behind a veil, no secret question. To Magnus, it may succeed as disarmingly simple, or cause suspect, and Ambrose cannot control that. He simply wishes to envision it for himself, some shard of truth to let shine in their darkness.

It may not even be that much of a battle. Ambrose clearly wants to go and as much as Magnus is uncertain, he will go. He will go to make sure Ambrose is safe from Leon, safe from whatever dangers the young vampire might find, and to a much lesser degree, to sacrifice his own curiosity. How much more about Ambrose can he learn there, will the young man feel better for being in his homeland? For that matter, would Magnus? It has been a long time since he was there, and he has not even thought about the place until the soft undertone of an accent in Ambrose's voice had sent him back.

"You flatter me, ange." Magnus breathes, but it is truly a compliment especially from one so young, from someone who does not know his reputation or the rumours. There are plenty, after all, amongst humans who have no idea why his honorific was awarded, or where he came from, or why he can afford a townhouse and such comfort. He prefers not to have those details well know, he prefers to have some element of mystery.

That next comment earns Ambrose a chuckle, "More than half-way acceptable, as well you know." He points out, although he knows very well that Ambrose will resist the correction, brushing it aside as idle praise.

The question makes Magnus frown. Not because of any undue sadness, not because of any regret or pain. He really does have to think about the answer. Years pass in the blink of an eye and he really has to fight to remember what year it is now.

"Just after the Bastille fell. The summer of 1789." That was it, that had been when it had become too dangerous. It hadn't only been the rich and aristocratic that had been hunted down. Madame Guillotine's blade had been made of silver, a stake driven through each corpse. "Seventy years, I should think, a few more perhaps."

Ambrose might note that the remark is off-hand, as if it means nothing at all, that France, the events that caused Magnus to leave, all of that past kept a closely guarded secret, that none of it is even important. Ambrose is beginning to learn a great deal of Magnus' mannerisms, his tells. Of course there is a lot he's holding back, so much of his life from before then, before England.

'Ange', so simple and kind, perhaps not really anything warranting much surprise by most. He never uttered such a word to his sire, yet Leon always knew it was the image in his mind. Ambrose has looked up to others and seen goodness and grace, strength and conviction, from his happy place on the grassy earth. Looking within now, the sight to be seen appears darker and raw, something scorched that has gone cold. He sees something of demonic ilk, unsettling and wrathful, because he has nothing else to put to it. Then again...Lucifer was an angel once too, was he not?

It doesn't feel condescending, or cruelly incorrect... Ambrose might be naive enough to mistake it for forgiveness, a pardoning of what sins of his had grasped him and pulled him under. He wonders what it is -- a recognition of familiar monsters, or is Ambrose really not so lost as to be damned? He doesn't need to be seen as angelic, omnipotent, to feel assured, but even such a small word strokes him with a strange, even if difficult, relief.

It seems that his ask was not an invasive one. Ambrose watches with an admiring eagerness to his curiosity, fingers strolling lazily along the shapes and skin on the back of Magnus' hand as it rests against the side of his throat. He's given something, context of some kind, a piece of some past. His eyes grow round with keen attention at the mention of the Bastille alone, but the confirmation of the year is perhaps more staggering. It sounds so easy, as if remembering something from simpler, younger years. Ambrose isn't startled, for he knew Magnus was just like he is, long-lived as long as no fatal harm comes to either of them. Through time and illness, they will remain.

The expression on the pale face is full of awe. "I see," he breathes, though not completely racked with shock. Leon is centuries old, has recalled events from ages ago with the touch of seeing them occur first hand, but he has been the only long-lived immortal in his life, until recently. And until now, Ambrose could only guess at the scope of Magnus' life.

"Then France may well be a new home for you to return to," he begins, tone hopeful, almost asking. Ambrose travelled briefly, but years ago -- not that many years, alas! -- and not extensively. "Something we may discover together."

Are they really sure the tour must be forestalled? Slowly a smile sinks into his lips. It makes him want to ask so much more, he can virtually feel his head buzzing with all kinds of questions. Not too many, not too soon. This knight is protective...and Ambrose understands the need quite deeply. He mustn't be ungrateful; the promise to be there with him is alone is a gift, and the assurance to keep seeing the wolf until then will fuel Ambrose for the months ahead -- indeterminate time, as it stands.

"Is it not too much to ask? Your interference with the tour...whatever it is you have in mind." Magnus did offer, but Ambrose can hardly fathom that simply sharing time is an equal outcome to the effort.

Isn't it strange? Magnus attended, from birth, the same chapel services as Ambrose: despite the difference in their ages, the Catholic faith's traditions are unchanged over centuries. The Macaire's had a specially reserved place at the front of the chapel, they took communion before the rest of the congregation, the priests stood closest to them, knew them all by name. They had personally attended his mother when she felt unable to go to chapel because of the chill weather, or for fear of rain. And yet, Magnus has no fear of the Almighty and no concerns over the state of his soul. To be likened to a divine creature causes Ambrose mild anxiety, but Magnus says it and means it without batting an eyelid.

Perhaps it is something to do with the length of their existence. Maybe it has much more to do with their class. The Macaire's were not peasants, their place in society almost guarenteed a place in heaven, whether it was deserved or not.

But Magnus knows nothing of Ambrose's thoughts, so he can not try to philosophise. That is probably for the best.

He looks at Ambrose a moment longer, expression serious as he recalls the events that swept through Paris, and then he shrugs, as if it is of very little importance.

"I doubt I have a place in the Deuxième Empire." He does not think France is as enlightened as all that, despite what the fashionable ladies tell him. He has no real desire to call it home again, but he will go, because there is an eagerness in Ambrose that he knows he can not dissuade, and to do so would be cruel. He will not manipulate the young vampire like that, not when he wishes, truly wishes, for something.

"But I am sure there will be many things to discover anew. If the stage can spare you for a few evenings." That is teasing, his hand moving to stroke Ambrose's cheek again, to emphasise the endearment in the words. "There is a great deal more to Paris than there is to London. But I am sure you will see that for yourself."

He still must delay their journey there. He has no desires for Leon to continue to have any sway over Ambrose, and while he has no solid confirmation on who pursues the ancient one, he has some ideas. It would be terrible for those shadows to catch up with him, but only for Leon. Ambrose and the others would surely get over it. But the timing must be right. If they have left England already than it may be too difficult to follow, and if they are already in France but Magnus has not yet joined them, how can he be sure that Ambrose will not get even more entangled? No, it is best to delay, just a little.

"What is it that worries you so, Ambrose? It is all in hand, all arranged. The public will clamour for another two nights, maybe three. That would be enough. And a play that has proved so popular in London will be even more so in Paris."

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.

What Ambrose does not know cannot hurt him. It's a falsehood, but in some respects, keeping Ambrose as far away from the truth and far away from Leon is the best idea. But he can see, very clearly, that the titbits of information he has given Ambrose aren't enough. There are questions, silently weighing down Ambrose's tongue and he is swallowing them back. It leaves Magnus torn. He wants Ambrose safe. But if he tells Ambrose, he increases the likelihood of Leon finding out what is planned, and furthermore, he might believe Ambrose is part of that plot.

He isn't. He may well be an accessory, as the police would say, but that does not mean he would not be punished, possibly fatally. That is not what Magnus intends.

But there's a thin line. As much as Ambrose seems to trust him, how long can he ask for the young man to do so? How long with Ambrose accept that he is being brushed off? Not long. And Magnus does not like the fact he could probably be compared to Leon now: keeping Ambrose in the dark until it is too late. That... that is what really makes him think again, what makes him pull his hand back from Ambrose and reach for a cigarette case from his inner pocket. It gives his hands something to do as he speaks, taking out one and tapping it against the smooth black surface.

"Your sire has... caused a lot of people a great deal of grief." He says, words soft, too soft to carry beyond the pair of them. "I don't think that comes as a surprise to you, does it?"

No, it does not. Magnus is prepared to bet on that much. Ambrose is not happy, he has not come into this existence excited, in love. He has been cheated and discarded, used and forgotten while Leon ensures his own comfort and safety. The hives of London will not have that. Besides, there are mutterings, ghosts in the air from beyond London's smog that make even Magnus lock his windows at night. Leon is a plague amongst all of them, he'll have the mortals murdering them all and Magnus never wants to see a revolution again. He need to go, he must be dealt with.

"I would not lie to you Ambrose, I do not wish you to think this about you, or the others he has turned. There is more to this then you know."

Ambrose wishes he could be more demanding, more headstrong in these matters, when things don't suit well. It isn't a question of self worth or avoiding conflict -- it's a matter of instinct. If someone won't give up something, then it's not his for the taking. It keeps from disrupting the shared balance, but only up to a very specific point.

He thinks that point could be reached some day, with Leon. He finds himself a step closer every so often, and ever more quickly traveling as of late. It's a path that has lead Ambrose to Magnus, not away from him, not even now as the werewolf steps off his path so randomly. It's merely a fear that the monsieur won't come back to traverse by his side. Ambrose thought that his heart could break by losing Leon, which lead him to being wed in blood, but he wasn't ever really his to begin with.

Losing Magnus, on the other hand...could very well ruin the vampire.

He breaks away, palm sliding from Ambrose's face, and he watches with open attention as he fiddles with his lacquered cigarette case. The tone of voice he hears chills him, softer than Ambrose thinks he has ever heard from the other, but the words are what make him tremble gently. No surprise, no, not what Magnus states. That's been difficult to learn, to abide by, a fledgling dedicated to his sire, with a consciousness that won't be remolded. It's the very words themselves -- someone has said them to him recently, almost verbatim.

Lies, concealment -- what is the difference? Plenty. Concealing the truth can be deceptive, but Ambrose knows much better than to think the two are mutually exclusive. He sees a fault line here and wants to peer in. There is more to this, that much is admitted. Dare he?

"Magnus." It is not often that Ambrose addresses his secret companion this way, but it isn't said with any force -- low, even. "Other vampires have been restless about a supposed...impending event, of some sort. Leon is trying to arrange that we leave though he insists it's unrelated, that it's paranoia passing through other hives." But it's undeniable. Ambrose really does think Leon isn't certain what it is -- and that's why he's lying. If he was certain, he would be using that to fight, as opposed to simply running away.

But Magnus seems to know, know at least something. Ambrose reaches a hand out to settle on his arm, not to stop him from lighting a cigarette, but simply a silent request. "It isn't unrelated, then, isn't it?" Leon is seeking escape. From what? Ambrose can only guess -- other vampires have sneered in his sire's direction, and he can only guess who else out in the world has been crossed by his deceptively cherubic sire. There are plenty more forces in the world than demons and wolves in the bodies of men.

Hidden Relationship

Ambrose Sinclair | original (vampire) | m/m

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/stares deadeyed with horror at all this nonsense of mine.....

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