[HE'S A KILLJOY. He also knows better than to really believe Sypha's words, because there have been too many uncomfortable murmurs begining to churn. All the same, he can't help but want to believe that statement, so he pretends that it's entirely correct.]
I know.
[Friday is easy. They leave the estate at eight, because Fashionably Late is the directive for the night. It's a warm night but with precious little humidity, and Alucard is all linen and softer colors because what else can one wear in the summer? (Autumnal is better suited for his own color tastes, he thinks privately.) But more than that is walking in on Sypha's left side, and the thrill of disapproving glares for it. He's not a teenager with the ability to rebel, so this is (plus being entwined with a Belmont) shall be as close as he can ever get to acting out.
They linger for an hour and a half. Next party. Same routine. Last party, same, and then home and there is a bed not meant for sleeping in at all. There has never been a question of how very fine Sypha looks in a suit, only a question of how long until hands wander from either one of them to try and find the right way to undo her clothes and not. (There is also Alucard muttering about dry cleaning in the morning, because the cleaners are absolutely starting to notice things.)
Saturday sees a little more of a somber color scheme, if vest and tie that's closer to Speaker blues can be called somber. (There are cufflinks, they're set with a ruby as red as what is on the Belmont crest.) Then there is the car flying through the city streets and then out beyond, because there's a general rule for any large parties: outside, because New Orleans can accept a certain amount of weird, but you can't push it.
They're there at ten in the evening, because that's the right time to arrive. (It is a science, these things.) And once inside (Trevor's on his left tonight when they walk in, Sypha on the right), there is nothing but wild abandon. The venue is one of those old, venerable houses that has stood since the 1700s, white columns and beautiful deep green shutters, the inside meant for food and the backyard expanded for everything else. Dance floors are there made from a mage's will, the bar serves real alcohol imported from Europe rather than the fucking poison America's bootleggers have tried to pass off, and there's just enough of a slow in the festivities when the three walk in that it doesn't feel like overkill.
Immediately there's about five people Alucard's pulled into Required Conversation with. He can't run off either, because these are some of the people who've heard more tell about what darkness is threatening to creep into the city, and thus it's actually important. There's only a chance for a quick farewell to them both, and the promise he'll find them the minute he's freed.]
no subject
I know.
[Friday is easy. They leave the estate at eight, because Fashionably Late is the directive for the night. It's a warm night but with precious little humidity, and Alucard is all linen and softer colors because what else can one wear in the summer? (Autumnal is better suited for his own color tastes, he thinks privately.) But more than that is walking in on Sypha's left side, and the thrill of disapproving glares for it. He's not a teenager with the ability to rebel, so this is (plus being entwined with a Belmont) shall be as close as he can ever get to acting out.
They linger for an hour and a half. Next party. Same routine. Last party, same, and then home and there is a bed not meant for sleeping in at all. There has never been a question of how very fine Sypha looks in a suit, only a question of how long until hands wander from either one of them to try and find the right way to undo her clothes and not. (There is also Alucard muttering about dry cleaning in the morning, because the cleaners are absolutely starting to notice things.)
Saturday sees a little more of a somber color scheme, if vest and tie that's closer to Speaker blues can be called somber. (There are cufflinks, they're set with a ruby as red as what is on the Belmont crest.) Then there is the car flying through the city streets and then out beyond, because there's a general rule for any large parties: outside, because New Orleans can accept a certain amount of weird, but you can't push it.
They're there at ten in the evening, because that's the right time to arrive. (It is a science, these things.) And once inside (Trevor's on his left tonight when they walk in, Sypha on the right), there is nothing but wild abandon. The venue is one of those old, venerable houses that has stood since the 1700s, white columns and beautiful deep green shutters, the inside meant for food and the backyard expanded for everything else. Dance floors are there made from a mage's will, the bar serves real alcohol imported from Europe rather than the fucking poison America's bootleggers have tried to pass off, and there's just enough of a slow in the festivities when the three walk in that it doesn't feel like overkill.
Immediately there's about five people Alucard's pulled into Required Conversation with. He can't run off either, because these are some of the people who've heard more tell about what darkness is threatening to creep into the city, and thus it's actually important. There's only a chance for a quick farewell to them both, and the promise he'll find them the minute he's freed.]