▌│█║▌║▌║ ғelιcιυм ║▌║▌║█│▌
Oct. 31st, 2015 12:19 am (UTC)
Carrick had been pursuing Alcuin for months. He attended every open evening hosted at the young man's salon, his visiting card with a short but (hopefully) enticing message penned on the back, dropped without fail into the crystal bowl outside Alcuin's private study where potential patrons asked for his attentions. He sent gifts before and after every fet - bouquets of hothouse flowers, rare books, flasks of perfume in exquisite cut glass bottles - but though they were warmly received with gracious if somewhat cool notes of thanks, no private invitations were forthcoming.
It might be simply that his success as one of the most prominent courtesans of the city allowed Alcuin to be choosy about his patrons, Carrick thought, but he suspected there was more to it. Ever since the night he had engaged Alcuin's favourite young adept and introduced her to pleasures that might have been refused by even the most experienced and pain-hungry adepts of Valerian House, the master of the salon had been icily distant.
Carrick wanted the boy. He burned at the thought of tasting that exquisite mouth, of burying his hands in the thick, pale hair and holding his head immobile in brutally hard kisses before tumbling him into the dark sheets of his bed. If he was ever going to persuade the beautiful young courtesan into his embrace, he'd have to think creatively.
Alcuin evidently enjoyed the patronage of the richest aristocrats of Terre D'Ange, decadent men and women who could toss away priceless baubles and laugh about the cost. Further expensive gifts would do nothing for his cause. Instead, Carrick thought of the traditions of his homeland and the lovelorn behaviour expected of a man wooing a new eromenos. In the world of the Hellenes, a well brought up boy was expected to be modest and reticent, to hold back his favours until his older lover had proven his devotion. Carrick smiled to himself a little. When caught up in the hunt, he was nothing if not devoted.
The following morning, a wooden crate was delivered to the front door of Alcuin's salon. As the sun peeped over the eastern horizon, the peace of the morning - and that of many of the buildings' inhabitants - was broken by a loud crow. Carrick's latest gift was already making its presence known.
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