there are many paths to tread
”It seems I was waiting for you,” the antlered man tells him, and a smile curls, slow and sharp, across his lips.
”That’s perfect then,” he says as he takes the seat on the other side, watching his greens eyes carefully from across the table. And when the other man’s glass arrives, a dark, dark red that reminds him of his brother’s silk scarves, gestures to the waiter for another. The man nods, hurrying off back to the bar, and Toulouse leans back into the soft silk of his seat.
And while Lysander drinks of his wine, slow and languidly, Toulouse drinks in his features. His antlers, his eyes, his honey-rich skin, the confident way he holds the glass before him as if he’s done so a hundred times before - he sees it all, illuminated in the soft light of the den.
He sets his glass back down at the same time the waiter returns, bringing with him an identical glass filled with the same strain of wine. Toulouse pulls it near to him, but he does not drink, not yet. He can smell the spice rising from it like steam, the fruit calling his name like a plea. ”It’s easy to feel at home here. I think you may feel the same, with time.” It’s more than a suggestion; more like an offer.
Lysander tips his head, pointing his bone-white antlers at him; Toulouse has to resist the urge to do the same, to let their horns meet from across the table, one reaching, one shielding. Instead he laughs, and the sounds is as smooth as the wine that he lifts to drink from. ”Oh no,” he says when he returns the glass to the table, and his eyes smile at Lysander. ”There are not many rules here to break. I think you’ll be safe.”
He swirls his glass slowly, the ridges of the glass catching the low lighting. ”Do you like what you see so far?” he asks with a smile, and it’s unclear if he’s referring to the den of the Scarab - or himself.
@lysander <3
