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Revision as of 00:04, 25 September 2019

Dramatis Personae

Kyinha, Lucien


"I've never shied away from a little heat."


<HFC> Black Chamber - Third Floor

This sumptuously appointed guest suite is a sprawling wonder of monochrome interior decorating, predominantly deep, rich blacks starkly contrasted with gleaming white and softened skillfully here and there with grays and silvers. The entryway has a padded bench across from a long table on which the staff might leave meals, with a corner that blocks sightlines to the rest of the suite. Most of the space beyond is open, with sumi-e screens depicting living chessmen for visual relief. Tucked beside the entryway is a full kitchen, all granite counters and stainless steel, divided from the rest by the curving sweep of a marble bar.

On the other side of the bar is a conversation pit with buttery-soft leather sofas surrounding an oval obsidian coffee table with a hanging fireplace above it in gleaming tempered glass. The sleeping area is dominated by a huge four-poster king bed dressed in cool, silky satin and plenty of pillows and cushions, which can be fully hidden from view by heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains on a powered rail. Tall windows line the longest wall, and in the middle a set of french doors open onto a balcony which looks down over the club's courtyard, mirroring the White Chamber's balcony on the other side.

Double doors on the left side of the space lead to an office with a huge L-shaped desk, a top-of-the-line teleconferencing suite, a more selective bar, and its own, more formal, sitting area. On the other side, the bathroom is a luxurious expanse of heated black marble and tile, with a huge soaking tub and a rainwater shower, either of which can accommodate at least six people at once, and a massage nook.

The forlorn, intricate strains of violin from Ravel's /Tzigane/ fill the Black Chamber as though it possessed of a substance of its own. Kyinha stands beside the closed doors to the balcony, staring out into the fading light as it slants across the skyline. He's wearing a white dress shirt of fine linen, the top button undone, french cuffs turned up but left open, and pleated charcoal trousers, his arms crossed tight over his chest, a squat glass clutched in one hand. At a glance he is barely recognizable to those unfamiliar with his unpowered appearance. With his rich brown skin, soulful brown eyes, and thick black hair he is achingly beautiful, but a far cry from to most eyes from the uncanny flame-wreathed person-shaped black void that he /usually/ looks like. He lifts his tumbler for a slow sip, then presses the smooth glass against his forehead, his eyes closing.

The knock that comes at the door is soft and perfunctory; a mere formality, really, as Lucien doesn't wait for answer before slipping inside. Amid the predominantly black trappings of the room he is eye-catching, dressed in a pure white linen suit with peaked lapels and side vents, closely tailored to display his physique to excellent effect. With a white tab collar shirt beneath and all the trim and buttons also in white, the only visual breaks are his jet black cravat, black pocket square, and black-and-white saddle shoes. He rounds the corner of the entryway -- and stops short with a very slight widening to his eyes. "Oh -- goodness, forgive me, I oughtn't have just --" he begins, but then catches himself. His eyes sweep over Kyinha, slow, a quiet understanding gentling the contrition in his expression. "Kyinha." His voice has softened, now. "Forgive me, I hardly recognized you."

Kyinha turns at the knock, limed in the evening light, but stills when he sees his visitor, his breath catching briefly. He doesn't seem to understand the cause for Lucien's confusion at first, but then looks down at his hand and emits a very soft "Ah." He circles the conversation pit, his gait slow and his eyes steady. "No, it is I who should apologize." His voice is quiet but rough, his accent stronger than usual, as is often the case after he returns from some time in his native land. "I ought to have warned you -- it only occurs to me now you have perhaps never seen me like so. This has been...a long season. /Too/ long, and it is good to see you again." He sets his glass down on the bar and plucks up the bottle of Ardbeg 22-year. "Will you have a drink?"

"I ought not to have been surprised. I have seen pictures, I just --" Lucien gives a very small shake of his head as he crosses the room. "That would be lovely." It isn't the Scotch he gravitates to first but Kyinha, a hand dropping to the other man's waist as he leans in to touch a small kiss to Kyinha's cheek. The touch comes with a gentle flush that is both warm and revitalizing, a trickle of energy that takes an edge off of exhaustion. "I have followed some news from Brazil, but I am sure I haven't the slightest idea what demands it made of you there. Whatever its trials, I hope that -- for a time -- I might offer some distraction."

Kyinha's sigh of pleasure at the kiss is quiet, maybe not altogether conscious. "I appreciate your restraint. Most people wax amazed the first time they see my face as it is. I understand the impulse, of course." The 'but' is unspoken. To Lucien's senses, his metabolic processes are a dysregulated jumble beneath layers of exhaustion and stress, the unique pathways associated with his photosynethesis gamely struggling to return his body to its proper state of fire and darkness. "I left the politics to my father and went into the forest to help those being displaced, but --" He shakes his head. "Well. I hope that your summer has been less on fire, at least, if not less eventful." Pours a second glass and hands it to Lucien, then picks his own drink up and leans back against the bar. "I am sure that you will manage." His eyes roam over Lucien with undisguised appreciation, though his smile is small. "I'm distracted already."

Lucien's quirks up a slim dark eyebrow. "Are most people particularly restrained with their opinions when they see you in other seasons?" He leans one elbow against the bar beside Kyinha, takes the glass with a nod of thanks. The brush of his fingers with the transfer comes with another refreshing flutter. "My summer --" He hesitates, long lashes lowering to half-shade his eyes. He lifts his glass; takes a slow swallow. "Well. Only the metaphorical sort of fires, thankfully." His bright eyes lift again to meet Kyinha's dark ones, and he extends a hand, curling his fingers around Kyinha's free hand. This time the work of his mutation is quieter. Gently starting to unwind and smooth out some of those erratically struggling functions, clear up some of the physiological burden. The pleasure that creeps back in here is slow, but steadily more difficult to ignore. "Not near so much as you could be, I'll wager."

When Kyinha laughs, it's apparent that he has suffered some respiratory injury who source is not hard to guess at, though he is clearly accustomed by now to the raw ache at the back of his throat. Still, his voice is intentionally soft when he speaks again. "No, generally not! I was thinking of those who already knew me, and had gotten over the -- demonic hellbeast thing. Many seem to think that it should flatter me to hear how much lovelier they find this." He shakes his head. Studies Lucien closely, a new worry jangling around inside him. "I have heard enough to guess at some of it. Metaphorical fires can still burn." He lifts his glass for a long sip, the scotch smooth and easy on his palate, the strong peaty flavor not at all harsh. "I'd be foolish to take that wager," he points out, delighting in how his breath quickens. Then, his fingers twining tighter in Lucien's, "I do not mind making foolish wagers, though." There's something of his usual fire, after all, in the slant of his smile.

The next swallow of Scotch Lucien takes is longer, savored slow and in quiet while his companion speaks. His own eyes widen as Kyinha's breath quickens; there's an echo of desire that shivers back along their current connection. He sets the glass back down on the counter, stepping in closer to press Kyinha back against the counter. "Thankfully," his arm slides around the other man, grip firm as he leans in to press his mouth hard to Kyinha's, "I've never shied away from a little heat."