ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ sᴇᴇ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʟɪᴠᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏ sᴏᴍᴇ ᴏɴᴇ's ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴs

[interpersonally]

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IL SANGRE

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[rehandle]

[ He's about to argue further, fight to clarify, but there's something about the follow-up that renders the rest temporarily unimportant. ]

I barely saved it. I don't know that it's Malbec-worthy work.

[ It was. But the waters need testing, a little idle flirtation like a skipped stone to see where he stands. ]

[interpersonally]

By your definition of barely, either my father exaggerated, and he didn't mince his words, ( Guiseppe wasn't one to exaggerate. Hyperbole, perhaps. But always with an air of truth to it. He knows about his brother's challenges that remain to this day. ) or you're being modest, and you are. Better to cut right to it and accept the invitation.

( he didn't think about it like that, not about such things, but crushes existed outside of his dynastic expectance of his and katherine's connection. outside of klaus.

stephen may have been the first example (or what he thought) of a functioning adult, one who might actually be someone to admire.

to further illustrate his point, he sends a picture of the bottle on his bureau, airing out. it's indeed vintage. from the 80's if he zoomed in. and behind the bottle, in the mirror, stands Stefan in his black robe with gold accents, a half buttoned black shirt (1/3 buttoned, let's be generous) and matching black briefs. is this a deliberate choice, who's to say?

what, it's 10 something in the morning.

he also has a bloody mary in his other hand. safe to say it will be finished by the time dr. strange takes him up on his offer. )

[rehandle]

[ Oh. A moment to take that in, make a note of all the things Stefan's left for him to see. To come to a conclusion. ]

Give me a half hour.

[ A half hour to shower away a lazy morning. To agonise over whether to take some pills and ultimately opt for performance over pain relief, leaving them un-taken, counting on the wine and the company to fill in the gaps.

Half hour to dress and groom, to make his way out of his room and ask a passing staff member where Stefan Salvatore's been put, following their directions until he's standing outside the door in rolled shirtsleeves and easy slacks.

Instead of a knock, Stefan gets another message. ]

I'm here.

[interpersonally]

Not many make me wait. Half hour it is.

( He likes that he finds him. Doesn't ask for his room number like a normal person, that he doesn't even knock like a normal person.

And, in kind, he doesn't answer the message, just answers the door. It's been half an hour, so he found pants. His shirt is buttoned up to his navel. He's presentable.

He gives him a long, lingering up and down before stepping aside. )

Join me.

[rehandle]

[ It's been a while since he's had eyes on him quite like this. Even here, in this place, it's possible to spend weeks, months living a self-contained existence. In the stretches between parties and the bustling of guests, the house is just a house - if you don't seek a certain kind of company, it doesn't have to find you.

Then again, maybe the same can be said now. He did reach out to Stefano, even if this isn't where he thought he'd end up.

Stephen's hands are in his pockets when he strolls past him. He keeps his confidence that way, long enough to cast a heavy sidelong glance at his host when they're on a level, lopsided smirk disappearing from view as he enters into the room beyond. ]

Hm. They gave you a good one.

[ There are very few not good ones, words for the sake of words. He comes to a halt looking across into the mirror where Stefano had taken a picture a short half hour before. The Malbec waiting for them. ]

[interpersonally]

( He did, didn't he. A curious choice at a curious time.

Stefano doesn't need to deconstruct why Stephen reached out, or even why he's at Saltburn. He's a man of deliberate moments. And if they feel good - or right - and they don't take anything from the business, then why not indulge.

He closes the door, turning back and following him into the room. The bottle sits, untouched, by the mirror. A tray of desserts sits ona glass table by a chaise in the corner. It's terribly luxurious, much more Katherine's style, but Stefano has always enjoyed the lap of luxury. He was born into it. )

Bottle or room?

( He strides past Stephen, killing the two glasses. ) The Salvatore's have always been -- what's that American term, six degrees of separation? We're always connected. And the Balfours like connection. We're not royalty, but, we have roots.

( Turning, he hands Stephen one glass. )

It's been a long time.

[rehandle]

It has.

[ The earnest pinch of a smile, something warm about shared history. Something bemusing about the passage of time.

A scarred hand peels out of his pocket to accept the glass from Stefano. It tremors lightly in his hold, the slightest ripples across the wine's surface when a muscle leaps as he overcorrects in his effort to keep as still as he can manage. Always hyper-aware in certain company of all the ways he's changed - this one most of all.

Rather than let himself obsess, he lifts the glass for a sip— and his brow folds in approval when he swallows, holding the wine away from him to appraise it for a moment. ]

This is good. [ He'd meant the room, but the bottle's winning now. ] Did you bring this with you?

[ Playfully indignant. If the Balfours are keeping all the best wine for the Salvatores and their connections, he's filing a formal complaint. The divorce may have technically expunged him from the family whose own connections afforded it to him, but he too is used to a certain kind of living. ]

[interpersonally]

I'd make a joke about pilfering from the wine cellar, but, I don't need rumors starting. ( The Balfours do take great stock in talk. ) I do bring my own bottles. The Balfours stock Il Sangre, but variety is the spice of life.

( And he, like Stephen, he bets, enjoys a fine bottle of red. And good company. )

And there's nothing wrong with inviting someone back and impressing them with your good taste. ( And, it's what do they call it? A "throwback" bottle. Vintage. Like them. He steps forward, a smirk forming as he lightly clinks his glass against Stephen's. ) My good taste.

[rehandle]

[ The ring of met glasses and the evocation of taste, and Stephen tips his head in acknowledgement, mouth tugging at its corner as a little skitter of pride wraps around the thrill of closeness and implication and bursts bright somewhere deep and vital.

He lets those last words and the answering tension hang in the air for a moment before he turns his head and lifts his glass for another sip. ]

It's a fine vintage.

[ One more hesitation, a lingering cut of his gaze back to Stefano— and he tips his glass again, swallowing down the contents in a few smooth draws, leaving his glass with nothing but the sluggish red stain of the dregs as he surfaces with a sharp exhale and draws a fresh breath.

He'd intended to take this respectably slowly, see what happened as it happened - conversation, empty glasses refilled and emptied again. But he's not sure that he can stand to reminisce, play catch up with the intervening years. Some moments just need to be taken in hand before you can think better of them. ]

I'd like to try another.

[ Vintage. He hopes it's fairly evident he's no longer talking about the wine. ]

[interpersonally]

( Stefano knows better than to refill a glass tipped back just-so. He prides himself on knowing the edges of every situation. He knows why he invited Stephen. There was very little pretense behind it. Get a load of his picture. Stephen bit the hook he dangled. He expected nothing less.

What he needs today is an escape from disappointing his son, angering his ex-wife, inexplicably saying the wrong thing to his brother again.

Stefan takes the glass from him, and his own, filled glass, and sets them aside. They clang lightly against the bureau. He takes the time to cork the bottle as well, preserve anything he can. Perhaps, they'll have a drink after.

Untucking his barely buttoned shirt, he smirks at Stephen, finding his eyes in the mirror. He turns, nibbling his lower lip, eyelids barely raising as he takes steps back to plant himself in front of him once again. )

Are you saying I've aged like fine wine, Stephen?

[rehandle]

[ Stefano takes the cue, collects his glass and peels away to set it down, to take care of the wine so Stephen's haste doesn't waste it, and he watches him every step of the way. Catches his gaze in the mirrored glass, drops his own to catch the flash of extra skin as Stefano's shirt escapes its confines. Then he's back, and Stephen swallows around nerves and want and the swell of his ego, and tilts his head, smile wry.

That is exactly what he'd been saying, but for the sake of play - ]

I'm saying you've aged. I'd like a tasting.

[ Maybe the wine metaphors need to stop, but he's committed now. He pairs it with a light step in, swallowing up what's left of the scant space between them.

He's out of his depth here. Status and power hover, static bright when he's so rarely needed to notice them before, used to his own being a match for or surpassing the rest of the room. He can't rely on his money or his age or his gender or his wife to guarantee for him how this encounter's going to go, and it's both invigorating and terrifying to be so exposed, so in the dark. Gaze drops to Stefano's lips, lifts to catch his eye again. ]

Then I'll let you know how fine you are.

[ And back down to his mouth, unsteady hand reaching to slide up under Stefano's pulled loose, barely buttoned shirt, his first touch of warm skin over taut muscle smoothing up over abs and sinking to settle and root him at the hip as Stephen leans close, lights the kindling they've laid down with the nudge of his nose to a cheekbone and the gentle flirt of an opening kiss. ]