I don't hardly know you but I'd be willing to show you

[canceller]

[The call from downstairs comes about two minutes before the hour. It’s, in effect, precisely on time, though he’s been prepared for a while just in case this client turned out to be one of those early arrivers. Jeremiah’s had those types before, eager just for the extra time they’d happily proclaim they’d compensate for, but it would catch him off guard if he didn’t plan for it. Being made to wait too late after their appointed time would leave him irritable, too, particularly for a first meeting, but the promptness of this is reassuring. He thanks reception and has them send up the client, marking his place and setting his book on the shelf, sliding off the window seat to check himself in the full-length mirror.

He’s picked a white, airy shirt, cut in a mandarin collar and open to about mid-torso where the first of the row of buttons actually sits, the sleeves rolled up in neat folds. Tan slacks, tailored precisely enough that there’s no need for a hindering belt, and fortunately when he turns he finds no unsightly creases down his back and legs. His slip on shoes are embroidered, but far from his most garish pair, worn without socks and practical enough with the swell of heat marking the later days of spring. It’s made him turn to baring a little more skin than usual, save for the regulars who always have him in full dress, and the effect seems to draw the eye well enough. There’s a feverishness that comes over some people in the warmer months, and Jeremiah loves seeing what feeding that fire will do, not exactly immune to the feeling himself.

Curiosity still sits heavy in his mind, tinged only minorly with some reasonable doubt towards his choices. It’s a bit of a long shot with someone new, unsure of a person’s tastes before he meets them with only basic information. Their clientele base is exclusively upper crust, but there’s never any telling how proper or not their ideal image is. Predictably enough, the older end of his spectrum usually prefer formality, younger ones prefer casual dress, even though it’s far from a rule. He’s been booked with someone well on the young side, so flirty and light it is.

And even if it does end up being a miss, it won’t matter for very long. Jeremiah fixes his hair first, then his collar, debates a necklace that compliments the honey topaz studs in his lobes, decides against it. The trio of thin, open bangles on one wrist and a wide gold band on his pinky feel like balance enough. Villetta’s accused him of overdoing it lately, even though he most assuredly has not been, not like he used to. Besides, what is he to do with the tokens and gifts he’s collected over the years? Let them gather dust in a box?

Like clockwork, a knock comes and he turns away from his reflection, striding just a few steps closer to the doors as they swing inwards, pushed by a familiar face from their staff. His company for the evening, perhaps well into the night, steps in past them, the doors shutting not long after. Jeremiah smiles, taking him in and already liking what he sees.]

Good afternoon, Mr. Lamperouge. [Not much of a thought as to whether or not it’s his real surname. It often is, it often isn’t. It’s the name on the booking, and that’s all that matters.] Or would you prefer “Lelouch?”

Comments

[ludicrous]

[ Lelouch opts for situational irony: a schoolboy's uniform. Shoes that match the trousers and the jacket, identifiable at a mere glance. And an ego to match.

It's his first time setting foot in this place, which boasts of excess, teeming with it. Formally, it's a massage parlor that only entertains the elite. Colloquially, it's a whorehouse. His interests have piqued.

And despite his trepidation— the jitteriness and the nerves and how he breaks out in a sweat even before he enters the building in question— he's prepared to see this through to the end, having paid in full as opposed to putting down a deposit.

Led through the hall, the room he's led into is just as lavish as the rest of the place. Briefly, his gaze roves about his surroundings first, with an eye for the opulence.

Then he turns his gaze onto Jeremiah in an act vaguely reminiscent of undergoing vivisection: taken apart by the keenness of his gaze, bright and open, though Lelouch has always prided himself on discretion. ]

Afternoon. Lelouch will do.

[ The door swings shut behind him and he stands as if he seeks to command all the attention in the room, impertinent as any young man can be. ]

I'd like your real name as well.

[ The one he recognizes himself to be, not the one Lelouch was informed of by the receptionist. ]

[canceller]

[The uniform throws him for a complete loop, though there's little but a falter to his eyes. Brief, but there, skipping over his garments and all its detailing to confirm that it's what he suspects, just long enough to be caught in a gaze as sharp as Lelouch's. His smile never falters even though he guesses he's already been read, and the narrowing of his eyes actually bleeds quite easily into genuine intrigue a moment later.

It's recognizable from passerby on the streets, typically in the nicer parts of the city, sometimes the not-so-nice entertainment districts. The name of the school evades him, though it doesn't matter when the prestige speaks for itself. Overheard conversations and names tell him enough, children of the nobility or simply considerable wealth, often carefree and vivacious and privileged. This one would appear to be the same by admission into the building alone, but the way he carries himself speaks to more.

He used to do the same, if with a different disposition. But his relationship with the family name is complicated, and his pride became his own to carry as he sees fit, which looks very, very different now.]

Jeremiah, at your service. [Positioning his hand at his breast, he tips at the waist the smallest a bit, not breaking eye contact. It's about a measure of his propriety, rather than the connotation and innuendo, though he's quite well aware of it by now. Still, if it takes as such in Lelouch's mind, he won't complain.

With the initial surprise out of the way, he can assess more objectively. Slight, a graceful fall to his hair, his height decent. Lelouch's features are stunning, though he couldn't pass for a day over twenty, a generous estimate maybe just from the demeanor. The information on his sheet read eighteen and Jeremiah can believe it, if the young man is a high school senior, not that he's the first his age to come to him, if the first to present as he has.

Or maybe he just has a fetish. Jeremiah can understand that, it's not foreign to him.]

[ludicrous]

[ It's as much of a fetish as it is a manifesto of his arrogance that he's made himself so accessible. Watching to see if Jeremiah will lower or raise his guard, the means by which he'll offer himself to him, a mere student. But Lelouch won't claim what he needs if he waits; he needs to steel his nerves even more. His world can only move if he moves it first.

Lelouch steps forward, taking that hand over Jeremiah's heart for his appraisal. He could do so many things; pretend compassion, martyr himself like a suffering schoolboy, let what's in him loose. That he's dissatisfied with everyone who's come before; that he's still so immature, that so much of what Lelouch says and does is premeditated.

Instead, he presses his mouth over Jeremiah's knuckles, unrepentant, in the novelty of bowing before the one he'll solicit. ]

I was told you were experienced, Jeremiah. I can believe that, so I sought you out specifically. ... You could say I wanted you.

[ Even before they met. Lelouch releases his hand, the severity intrinsic to his cheekbones absent. Nothing's amiss in that remark. It's a true answer: he's a pleasure-obsessed hedonist and Jeremiah is the one he's placed all of his bets upon.

Or he's just a young man seeking guidance. ]

Would you teach me? Regrettably, it's my first time with services like these.

[ Lelouch has to look up to meet his gaze, but it's not as if he's lowered himself; if anything he's that more intense staring up at him, as he's always kept his eyes trained upward on a sight that's just outside of his grasp. Always looking toward his day in the sun, when he can shed subterfuge entirely. ]

[canceller]

[Forward, then. He'll admit the effect is powerful, his own eyes wider as he takes in his approach, the brush of lips to the back of his skin unexpected. It's not just charm, it's intent, strong words and a heavy stare and total openness that makes Jeremiah keen to return it. What a curious young man.]

I would be honored to. [His mouth curls with a smile, intrigue still clear in his eyes. The bold types rarely fail to catch his genuine interest, often keen as he is for a challenge in one way or another.] Certainly, I hope, to your expectations.

[As if his tone isn't laced with some boastfulness, knowing full well that he can. Jeremiah finally lowers his freed hand, leaning the faintest bit closer to observe in pieces, looking for any tell, straying eyes, impatience, nerves, whatever it may be. There's always things that come to the surface with enough time, no matter how someone impresses themselves upon him at first, and he's really not sure what he's going to find this time around.]

We can begin at your leisure, Lelouch. [He gestures to the rounded table near him, seated for two.] If you'd like, we can take tea first, or I can ready the massage table.

[They do offer it after all, by virtue of the establishment, and Jeremiah does enjoy working with his hands. His eyes narrow the slightest.]

Or we needn't spend time on that at all. It's up to you.

[ludicrous]

[ Jeremiah towers over him, commanding all attention in the room onto himself, daring both his ire and enticement. Strange, how badly he's entranced in turn. His research had Lelouch come to expect to be greeted by a shrinking violet or a man inured to the work of seduction, and therefore absent of the ability to surprise. Disappointment would have been rote.

Instead, Jeremiah's words come back to him as a pendulum; no matter how much force Lelouch exerts, it swings back to stop him dead in his tracks. ]

You won't take charge? I may lead us astray if I guide. I'm inexperienced...

[ And unbearably shy besides, though he hides it well. But his heart's always burning itself for a new thrill, when he fits a hand to Jeremiah's cheekbone so it slides over the side of his face. Half of it pressed into his palm, cradling him.

Rather than rising to combat the height disparity or lowering those who might look down upon him, Lelouch compromises, up on his heels even as he urges Jeremiah to dip his head and face him properly. ]

I think I'll have tea first.

[ Lelouch kisses him. Upon seizing those lips, he receives direct confirmation: only moments before, Jeremiah was drinking tea. The taste is still in his mouth, and Lelouch chases the saccharinity of it into his own. ]