[ The theater is a gorgeous, old place, or at least old by the standards of the society that's laid most recent claim to it. Which is to say it's about seventy years old, give or take, with enough renovations to hitch it up to looking a lot younger.
But that does put it at a younger age than many of the current workers. And owner, as it happens.
Blanc's been hired by a lycan who's employed there, a tough older woman with no obvious signs of dog-related heritage in her when she gives him the initial rundown.
'That's wonderful, Miss Natalia, but I must ask the others about last week. Alone, if you'd let me. It's imperative I get to talk to them each face to face. While it's all still fresh.'
It's the backstage areas that he's just been allowed access to; a series of corridors that smell like powdered makeup and pleather and a certain musk - one that Blanc hasn't decided whether to label as a scent unique to theaters across the country or that's specific to this particular menagerie of dietary needs.
That is to say, it smells an awful lot like old blood.
But he comes close to the door he was directed to. And as he does, a woman comes out of the joining hallway. Soft steps, a softer-looking bathrobe, and strong enough shoulders that when they collide before he can stop, Blanc doesn't quite send her reeling. ] I am very sorry miss, I didn't see you in time-- Are you all right?
He I was, trying to make as little nuisance of myself as possible, and I'm knocking young women over in the hall. [ He's reached out, warm but professional in helping to sturdy her and in trying to get a good look at her face, because he's still ultimately curious about whoever it is he's bumped into. ]
It's a short term of agreement, even to go so far as to call the content relatable to the viewer, which is why the word 'mood' is used.
And, 'af' is short for 'as fuck'... It's just for emphasis on the point. { Ambrose remembers a time when he played the part of naïveté, eyes round and glittering with a teetering confusion gilded in an unbalanced hopefulness, asking one of his theatre colleagues this very same question. to have the tables turned, to be the teacher in matters of modern day culture, is otherworldly. }
Are you haunting my social media platforms this evening, mon cœur?
[ Armand, on the other hand, has shifted his role throughout the years many times, but never his core - he is doomed or perhaps enlightened into being a perpetual student. Ever-seeking a teacher, he has latched onto an unlikely person for one reason and then found many to follow; Ambrose is a multifaceted young vampire, a creature born more out of hope than fear.
And, it seems, a creature imbued with the particular knowledge of twenty-first century acronyms. }
So they're letting you know that they agree with you. With your artful photos and your sublimely inhuman form and voice, all of which you share for free on that platform. [ Is it clear enough that Armand is new to the concept of getting an Instagram set up? He looks feral and suspicious on a site so modern; but so far not many have harassed the account following Ambrose Sinclair called armandlarusse and whose description reads only 'private account, do not request for access'.
Maybe some other day, he'll master the selfie. ]
I am, in the absence of haunting you in person. I am learning your Internet habits. You use many of those colorful pre-existing images that phones all seem to share. They look cheap but artistic with your intent behind them.
I think the image of yours that I feel most mood af about is the one of you trying on your new work costume. You continuously surprise me with your forays into cross-dressing. [ He's...trying. ]
{ haunted Ambrose is then, and in a manner that feels like sunlight from a previous life — weighty and warm, but immaterial and distant. that warmth might be how jubilant he feels at reading his nightbound cohort attempting to adapt the phrase 'mood af' in earnest into their conversation. }
I am a house long abandoned, and you're the spirit that fills my hollow veins.
I'm very excited to be delving into this art form and sharing it as I go, I'm sure the progress will be traceable. Would you like to see me dressed as this, in person?
I have found, however, that 'cross-dressing' refers specifically to heterosexual men who like to dress themselves femininely.
You're familiar with Shakespeare; then you may recognize the phrase 'drag' in this purpose, and you might be satisfied to know it's the key term of use for this kind of artistry. { despite the centuries of time, some things never change. Billy S gave us wonders such as 'drag' and 'vomit'; could this be an ancestor to the popular modern day phrase, 'sickening'? is Shakespeare a progenitor of modern gay culture? ...probably not, or not intentionally, but it sure is nice to connect the dots. }
I would do much more to fill your hollow veins, if you would but let me. [ But that's the beginning of a known argument; of Ambrose's refusal to embrace his nature, and perhaps of Armand's refusal to embrace his earlier interpretation of it.
He's grown too used to himself as he is now, but that's why he seeks out Ambrose now, isn't it? ]
And you are a homosexual man who likes to dress himself femininely?
Drag, yes, I saw that tag on your posts as well. I know the term but didn't realize it was what you call it as an art. Perhaps you can tell me more when I see you dressed as that, in person, as you suggest? Whether by your voice or by your expression when I meet you.
{ Ambrose can hardly lift his head up from the floor, laid out on the rug before the fireplace where the dogs have piled onto him. really, he doesn't need to look far — Will has granted his allowance to Ambrose's game, leaving him to smile in contemplative silence for a minute, before finally offering: }
I was vegetarian during my childhood.
I performed my talents before the newly-helmed Queen Victoria.
My first infatuation was for a man of the cloth.
{ two truths, one lie; Will seems himself tonight, will he sense the discrepancy in Ambrose's claims? }
[ The fireplace hadn't worked since Will moved in. Turned out that adding more natural sources of light for evenings that were suddenly a lot longer was an adequate motivator to get it fixed.
Will's just at the edge of the warmth, in an armchair. He's also smiling before he frowns in considering silence before he guesses. ]
I thought Italy was where you got more notoriety. Not England. [ That's a guess for number two, so far. ]
{ if Ambrose is lucky, his guilty little wince can be blamed on Toast bumping her nose against his chin at this moment.
and then he really looks up to Will, nearly upside down from his position against a dog bed and a throw pillow, because the realization hits him: a moment where someone recites a piece of Ambrose's own past back to him, demonstrating the dedication to memory that it would require. he needs to pace the intensity of his look; that alone might give him away completely. }
Astute as I expect you to be. { about other things, at least, and Will has now proven that Ambrose isn't safe from Will's cutting eye. somehow, it doesn't feel like a dangerous place to be. } Although, I wasn't necessarily given many lead roles back home.
Not until Leon gained the privilege of making those decisions, of course. { said with a wandering gaze, hands idly scratching behind one set of ears, and at the back of another's neck. }
You're correct — I have never performed before any queen — at least...not to my knowledge.
I'm assuming that opera was like any other field, and you had to know people to get anywhere. Even if you had-- talent. [ Will's very okay with being snarky, but paying real compliments gives him a moment of pause. Learning the depth of Ambrose's singing voice has been hypnotic and humbling; it's surreal with his new powers, yes, but there's real talent in there that can't just be the magic of his species.
And it's always just a little deeper than Will's expecting, too. ]
Thought so. [ That he was right. There's a brief shadow of a smile before it fades back to thoughtfulness. Will watches Ambrose scratch at Buster's ear, feeling it thaw something in him. When it shifts enough, he manages to ask a question of his own. ] I'm going to guess you kept that last truth between yourself and god.
{ the slow climb to reclaiming his voice has been an endeavor of weeks, spent yards away from the house out in the darkness and untamed grass behind the house; now, Ambrose can exercise in a casual melody within the walls without feeling ashamed of the fractured quality, though he's still slowly resculpting what he has left of this talent.
a talent that, true enough, still needed vetting, and for an impossible price. }
I see the performance arts have not changed at their core. { Ambrose wants to be surprised, two centuries gone and all, but...he cannot find it in himself to express it.
Ambrose shifts to look at Will, tilting his back and neck now to settle a proper gaze on the living man, thoughtful — but also feeling a smidge caught. }
Until tonight. { he settles into this new position, Buster noticing the shifts and compensating with an adamant crawl up onto his shoulder. } Of course, I was perhaps...thirteen at the time, and he had more than twice my lifetime upon him.
But he was a pleasant, mild man whom I found great comfort in when I took more time with his church. I lead the singing during sermons, you see.
{ a man that lead him and his father through the loss of his mother, a man that...also recognized Ambrose's talent. his stare goes a little distant as he sees parallels aligning that he had never seen at before. }
[ Will's the first person Ambrose has told. That truth rings through him like he's been struck; and he has. Each time Will's reminded of Ambrose's loneliness prior to being awoken into this century, he feels an ache renewed. ]
Comfort. [ Will repeats it and finds his voice is a little weaker. He clears his throat and suddenly is aware of the way he looms over Ambrose's more casual form, supine on his floor. Will shifts at the edge of his couch and then, slow more for the moment than for his joints, he lowers himself to join the small crowd of vampire and dogs. ] It sounds like - out of all the things you didn't have a lot of back then - that might be what you had the least.
I can't blame you for it turning into desire. [ A soft scoff. ] Especially at thirteen.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ready for some kfc? (kentucky fried cisunderstanding)
But that does put it at a younger age than many of the current workers. And owner, as it happens.
Blanc's been hired by a lycan who's employed there, a tough older woman with no obvious signs of dog-related heritage in her when she gives him the initial rundown.
'That's wonderful, Miss Natalia, but I must ask the others about last week. Alone, if you'd let me. It's imperative I get to talk to them each face to face. While it's all still fresh.'
It's the backstage areas that he's just been allowed access to; a series of corridors that smell like powdered makeup and pleather and a certain musk - one that Blanc hasn't decided whether to label as a scent unique to theaters across the country or that's specific to this particular menagerie of dietary needs.
That is to say, it smells an awful lot like old blood.
But he comes close to the door he was directed to. And as he does, a woman comes out of the joining hallway. Soft steps, a softer-looking bathrobe, and strong enough shoulders that when they collide before he can stop, Blanc doesn't quite send her reeling. ] I am very sorry miss, I didn't see you in time-- Are you all right?
He I was, trying to make as little nuisance of myself as possible, and I'm knocking young women over in the hall. [ He's reached out, warm but professional in helping to sturdy her and in trying to get a good look at her face, because he's still ultimately curious about whoever it is he's bumped into. ]
late night texting with the vampires
mood af
And, 'af' is short for 'as fuck'... It's just for emphasis on the point. { Ambrose remembers a time when he played the part of naïveté, eyes round and glittering with a teetering confusion gilded in an unbalanced hopefulness, asking one of his theatre colleagues this very same question. to have the tables turned, to be the teacher in matters of modern day culture, is otherworldly. }
Are you haunting my social media platforms this evening, mon cœur?
no subject
And, it seems, a creature imbued with the particular knowledge of twenty-first century acronyms. }
So they're letting you know that they agree with you. With your artful photos and your sublimely inhuman form and voice, all of which you share for free on that platform. [ Is it clear enough that Armand is new to the concept of getting an Instagram set up? He looks feral and suspicious on a site so modern; but so far not many have harassed the account following Ambrose Sinclair called armandlarusse and whose description reads only 'private account, do not request for access'.
Maybe some other day, he'll master the selfie. ]
I am, in the absence of haunting you in person. I am learning your Internet habits. You use many of those colorful pre-existing images that phones all seem to share. They look cheap but artistic with your intent behind them.
I think the image of yours that I feel most mood af about is the one of you trying on your new work costume. You continuously surprise me with your forays into cross-dressing. [ He's...trying. ]
no subject
I am a house long abandoned, and you're the spirit that fills my hollow veins.
I'm very excited to be delving into this art form and sharing it as I go, I'm sure the progress will be traceable. Would you like to see me dressed as this, in person?
I have found, however, that 'cross-dressing' refers specifically to heterosexual men who like to dress themselves femininely.
You're familiar with Shakespeare; then you may recognize the phrase 'drag' in this purpose, and you might be satisfied to know it's the key term of use for this kind of artistry. { despite the centuries of time, some things never change. Billy S gave us wonders such as 'drag' and 'vomit'; could this be an ancestor to the popular modern day phrase, 'sickening'? is Shakespeare a progenitor of modern gay culture? ...probably not, or not intentionally, but it sure is nice to connect the dots. }
no subject
He's grown too used to himself as he is now, but that's why he seeks out Ambrose now, isn't it? ]
And you are a homosexual man who likes to dress himself femininely?
Drag, yes, I saw that tag on your posts as well. I know the term but didn't realize it was what you call it as an art. Perhaps you can tell me more when I see you dressed as that, in person, as you suggest? Whether by your voice or by your expression when I meet you.
for — wontgraham
I was vegetarian during my childhood.
I performed my talents before the newly-helmed Queen Victoria.
My first infatuation was for a man of the cloth.
{ two truths, one lie; Will seems himself tonight, will he sense the discrepancy in Ambrose's claims? }
no subject
Will's just at the edge of the warmth, in an armchair. He's also smiling before he frowns in considering silence before he guesses. ]
I thought Italy was where you got more notoriety. Not England. [ That's a guess for number two, so far. ]
no subject
and then he really looks up to Will, nearly upside down from his position against a dog bed and a throw pillow, because the realization hits him: a moment where someone recites a piece of Ambrose's own past back to him, demonstrating the dedication to memory that it would require. he needs to pace the intensity of his look; that alone might give him away completely. }
Astute as I expect you to be. { about other things, at least, and Will has now proven that Ambrose isn't safe from Will's cutting eye. somehow, it doesn't feel like a dangerous place to be. } Although, I wasn't necessarily given many lead roles back home.
Not until Leon gained the privilege of making those decisions, of course. { said with a wandering gaze, hands idly scratching behind one set of ears, and at the back of another's neck. }
You're correct — I have never performed before any queen — at least...not to my knowledge.
no subject
And it's always just a little deeper than Will's expecting, too. ]
Thought so. [ That he was right. There's a brief shadow of a smile before it fades back to thoughtfulness. Will watches Ambrose scratch at Buster's ear, feeling it thaw something in him. When it shifts enough, he manages to ask a question of his own. ] I'm going to guess you kept that last truth between yourself and god.
no subject
a talent that, true enough, still needed vetting, and for an impossible price. }
I see the performance arts have not changed at their core. { Ambrose wants to be surprised, two centuries gone and all, but...he cannot find it in himself to express it.
Ambrose shifts to look at Will, tilting his back and neck now to settle a proper gaze on the living man, thoughtful — but also feeling a smidge caught. }
Until tonight. { he settles into this new position, Buster noticing the shifts and compensating with an adamant crawl up onto his shoulder. } Of course, I was perhaps...thirteen at the time, and he had more than twice my lifetime upon him.
But he was a pleasant, mild man whom I found great comfort in when I took more time with his church. I lead the singing during sermons, you see.
{ a man that lead him and his father through the loss of his mother, a man that...also recognized Ambrose's talent. his stare goes a little distant as he sees parallels aligning that he had never seen at before. }
no subject
Comfort. [ Will repeats it and finds his voice is a little weaker. He clears his throat and suddenly is aware of the way he looms over Ambrose's more casual form, supine on his floor. Will shifts at the edge of his couch and then, slow more for the moment than for his joints, he lowers himself to join the small crowd of vampire and dogs. ] It sounds like - out of all the things you didn't have a lot of back then - that might be what you had the least.
I can't blame you for it turning into desire. [ A soft scoff. ] Especially at thirteen.