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Post by George Boleyn on May 27, 2009 15:11:21 GMT -5
George raised an eyebrow at him- at this sudden change of mood- but slowly responded, as if to pass over it, for there was no reason to point it out. Although, George did wonder what differentiated him from Nicolas' patrons.
"And what did you write plays about?" Were George at a table, he'd have put his chin in his hands and glanced over at Nicolas out of the corner of his eye; as it was, he lounged against the cushions in a most careless manner. "Posh, you say, and so you mean...?" George knew many a writer man. The only thing was, most of them were courtiers, and their writings light-hearted love poetry, for a courtier was to be well-rounded and well-educated in all things, and so while George knew there were surely men who made their entire lives as authors he'd never met a single one. He'd even tried his own hand at it, but he really had no desire to pen poems for his queens and, already unhappily married, needed to attract no maid.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on May 27, 2009 15:17:18 GMT -5
Nicolas leaned back with a small smile still playing over his lips. He knew the answer would not quite please George, although he didn't think it would quite shock him, either.
"The court, of course. The monarchy," he said in reply. "In all its glory." The twinkle in his eyes - how many times had he said he'd been a Revolutionary? - gave the answer out right away. "And, beyond that, naturally - ghosts, loups-garou, these things I like," he added dismissively with a wave of his hand.
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Post by George Boleyn on May 27, 2009 15:36:47 GMT -5
After a startled moment in which George was uncertain whether to be disapproving or amused, the amusement won out. He laughed, nothing like the full-throated laughter of the bell tower, but rather a light little breath of air, barely dispelled. "Of course." He couldn't decide whether to read one of Nicolas plays would be all the merrier for the grain of truth in the (he imagined) satire and mockery, or- here was the smallest worry- whether he'd be discomforted at recognizing himself in one of the players. "What a sneaky troupe you must have been. Something like that would never be allowed in England." And to show ghosts, loups-garou- here George mouthed the word at Nicolas questioningly, obviously it was some type of monster or legend?- those did not sound like very light-hearted things either.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on May 27, 2009 15:42:49 GMT -5
Nicolas' smile began to be slightly unnerving, a bit dark, a little less than comfortable. He was recalling those dark days, and they weren't pretty little satires, petty little horror stories. They had been frightening at times, uncomfortable.
"It was rather clever. Would you like me to...?"
He cut himself off. That would probably not do. He did not want to relate the story of one of the plays to George and find him cold to him, cut-off. It was the hunger, that was making him vicious, affectionate but vicious. Sooner or later he'd feel the bite of George's polite disinterest, detachment. Or worse, George would feel the bite of...
"Forgive me. You make me want to do all kinds of things I shouldn't," and that smile was back to simple teasing, not so dark outside of how dark he naturally was, and just a bit suggestive.
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Post by George Boleyn on May 27, 2009 15:59:42 GMT -5
George gave him a disbelieving smile, pleased that Nicolas had steered himself away from proffering scripts that George would have to refuse. The games the courtiers played under an unstable king were dark enough without being reminded of them so unkindly, although it was not until George had seen Nicolas' smile turn strange had he known for certain that they were unkindly. But the tone in his voice before had seemed to relish it, to promise it, and George was grateful and approving of Nicolas' intuition for the suggestively worded apology to keep things from becoming too heavy. (And what if they were only clever little satires? But would Nicolas have cut himself off so had that been the case? It didn't seem likely.)
"Oh, of course- here, let me take allllll the blame for your reckless urges."
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on May 27, 2009 18:18:12 GMT -5
He tried resisting, but couldn't seem to stop himself; he slid closer in the seat to George, reaching out to trace his fingers over his lips.
"How generous. Why don't you."
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Post by George Boleyn on May 27, 2009 20:54:21 GMT -5
George bowed his head, acquiescing, it seemed, although his lowered eyes glittered with his good humor. "I am always the gentleman, I fear," he said, his lips barely moving under Nicolas' fingers. "It is a dreadful affliction to be so well-mannered."
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on May 28, 2009 15:39:11 GMT -5
Nicolas was still smiling brightly at him, sharing the same wonderful humor, when he tilted his head - they were of the same height, precisely, which was unnerving but very pleasant in its own way; even their limbs were more or less the same length, and their proportions the same, so that they matched up in an unnervingly perfect manner - and leaned closer. His nose brushed against George's, and his hand fell away, George's dark hair slipping through his fingers a bit like silk, although whether that was because his vampiric skin was soft as silk or because George's hair was, he wasn't certain. The smile was gone now; it had faded away into seriousness. The attraction was very real. Nicolas was taking it more somberly than George was.
"George - " he said, very softly - "may I...?"
Asking was the only way - talking was the only way - of keeping his mouth from simply taking, simply doing it. He so wanted to.
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Post by George Boleyn on May 28, 2009 21:47:22 GMT -5
Nicolas was so close that it seemed ridiculous to even ask. George closed the scant inch or so with a small huff of amusement, which was more or less his answer.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on May 29, 2009 16:32:02 GMT -5
George's breath was warm; comparatively, hot, even. Nicolas had not had the chance to deepen the kiss at the cathedral, which was really quite fortunate in its way, and so did then, taking his time nonetheless. He could feel, against the dull pulse in his wrist, the hot and quicker pace of George's pulse in his throat. His skin was soft, very soft. Nicolas slipped his hand around to cradle the back of his neck, the other hesitantly falling on his lapel. It was not passionate, not exactly, not yet. He was being so cautious.
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Post by George Boleyn on May 31, 2009 17:59:17 GMT -5
As Nicolas noted to himself, they had not had the time to deepen the kiss at the cathedral; George had pulled away after only a moment. It had not been like this, without the clamor of bells, unrushed. Now George noticed how cool his mouth was, tasteless and nearly unpleasant for the strangeness of it. Were kisses not supposed to be hot? Hesitation was too obvious, and very crass when it came to things like this unless one could pass it off as timidity, modesty, things which George did not possess. Nicolas did not know him well enough to recognize that he was being careful too, and what it meant that the Boleyn was not forcing passion upon him. Nicolas' skin was like silk, though, poreless, clean as though he'd recently bathed and scrubbed well. He did not smell much of anything, except perhaps a little musty, he didn't stink, and he was very beautiful.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on May 31, 2009 18:40:35 GMT -5
What was an overly-eerie chill in Nicolas - although it lessened a bit after a moment, Nicki naturally growing hotter in proximity to him and in light of the action he was performing, which caused his blood to quicken and warm him - was, in opposite, a great heat in George. Nicolas pulled him, in measured time, closer, unconsciously hungering for him, for this fragrant throat, this quickened pulse, this smooth skin...
And things might have ended in impulsive, rash rapture for Nicki - although not much of a future budding romance, it can be said - if the carriage had not come to a stop. Nicolas hadn't even noticed it had been slowing. He heard the driver call back to them and pulled back from George in faint confusion, brows knotting, such a very human and sort of preoccupied, besotted reaction as to be nearly endearing.
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Post by George Boleyn on May 31, 2009 18:46:41 GMT -5
Human enough to make George laugh, besotted enough to make him smirk as he cuffed Nicolas sharply on the upper arm, as if to wake him up, a teasing rebuke before he swung open the door and leapt lightly to the ground.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on May 31, 2009 18:50:17 GMT -5
Nicolas looked after him and brushed hair from his eyes as he followed. Now that they were apart he was able to recognize the desire to reach for him and pull him closer and begin - kissing - but not quite that, no, that wasn't all he wanted, was it?
They needed to get in. He needed to know George was sitting and drinking merrily so that he could slip out and feed. So that he wouldn't be cold; so that he wouldn't be dangerous.
Well - he thought, as they entered in, and he gazed at the fine hair behind his ear, the soft skin becoming again apparent before the collar covered it - not as dangerous.
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Post by George Boleyn on May 31, 2009 18:56:52 GMT -5
"Table or bar?" George asked idly, turning his head to gaze back at Nicolas with a questioning quirk to his eyebrows. This place was comfortably full but not quite crowded, dimly lit as many pubs, not too grimy, as though George would not have drank in a grimy or crowded bar. A good choice, altogether.
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