Before they left, Vrenille went over to close the air intakes on the woodburning stove, making sure that the small fire would soon burn itself safely out.
Then he stepped over to Remus, this time standing directly before him, face to face, and slid his hand into the younger man's, lacing their fingers together. It was a rather more intimate way of completing the gesture than it needed to be, strictly speaking. But Vrenille had his reasons.
He was inclined to be rather mercenary about his sexuality for one thing: he liked Remus, and he had always courted men he liked to be his patrons if he could. But it was more than that (and not even that, really, since Remus obviously had nothing like the financial means to pay Vrenille either for one night or many).
Although Remus was clothed now, Vrenille had seen the full tableau of his bare skin earlier--the network of scars, deep and old and unfading. He'd kept his own council on that bodily script, deliberately not saying a word, but oh he had most definitely noticed. Just like he noticed the telltale signs of old aches and injuries complaining. Just like he'd noticed the shadow of all those scars haunting Remus's eyes, ghosts of troubles and wrongs done (or done to him).
That latter distinction, Vrenille felt, hardly mattered.
He no longer needed to be told that Remus was an outcast, nor that the wolf he'd seen him as last night was the reason why. And for Vrenille, whose first and most constant clients were soldiers of the Ebon Vanguard (men whose lives were spent up on the wall or scouting patrols to sneak supplies past the siege lines, who were scarred by charr claws and teeth or by blades and munitions), who'd spent more nights than he could count being a source of their comfort, rough or soft, a source of their release, their relief--for him it was precisely a body marked by old wounds that made for something familiar and secure. This, Vrenille felt, was a thing that he knew. Something constant that linked the experiences of a foreign land to the old confidence of home.
The smile he gave Remus passed its warmth under a roguish disguise. "What's that saying?" he asked, referring to the obvious momentary unpleasantness of Apparation he knew he'd have to endure, "Eye on the prize? I mean, breakfast." He didn't really mean breakfast at all.
no subject
Then he stepped over to Remus, this time standing directly before him, face to face, and slid his hand into the younger man's, lacing their fingers together. It was a rather more intimate way of completing the gesture than it needed to be, strictly speaking. But Vrenille had his reasons.
He was inclined to be rather mercenary about his sexuality for one thing: he liked Remus, and he had always courted men he liked to be his patrons if he could. But it was more than that (and not even that, really, since Remus obviously had nothing like the financial means to pay Vrenille either for one night or many).
Although Remus was clothed now, Vrenille had seen the full tableau of his bare skin earlier--the network of scars, deep and old and unfading. He'd kept his own council on that bodily script, deliberately not saying a word, but oh he had most definitely noticed. Just like he noticed the telltale signs of old aches and injuries complaining. Just like he'd noticed the shadow of all those scars haunting Remus's eyes, ghosts of troubles and wrongs done (or done to him).
That latter distinction, Vrenille felt, hardly mattered.
He no longer needed to be told that Remus was an outcast, nor that the wolf he'd seen him as last night was the reason why. And for Vrenille, whose first and most constant clients were soldiers of the Ebon Vanguard (men whose lives were spent up on the wall or scouting patrols to sneak supplies past the siege lines, who were scarred by charr claws and teeth or by blades and munitions), who'd spent more nights than he could count being a source of their comfort, rough or soft, a source of their release, their relief--for him it was precisely a body marked by old wounds that made for something familiar and secure. This, Vrenille felt, was a thing that he knew. Something constant that linked the experiences of a foreign land to the old confidence of home.
The smile he gave Remus passed its warmth under a roguish disguise. "What's that saying?" he asked, referring to the obvious momentary unpleasantness of Apparation he knew he'd have to endure, "Eye on the prize? I mean, breakfast." He didn't really mean breakfast at all.