i used to rule the world

seas would rise when i gave the word

The Dark Hunter had heard much of the young man that now stood before him. He had heard of the excitement of his conception to those woes of being denied the ability to be that father figure Matteo had so yearned to be. He had heard of how the King had so looked down upon the fae boy and how his siblings had picked on him for his far gentler nature. He knew of that curse that kept the young prince locked away behind unreachable walls and of the death of his mother and eventual transcendence to King. He knew far more of that man that stood before him than he doubted Dorian knew at all of himself. Just as he too knew the extents the Frenchman, and, on occasion, himself, had gone through to so get that Italian Monarch here. Though he knew well of what made up Dorian, he knew particularly little of the man himself - of who he had so come to be. It was that near wealth of insight into the young man's life that saw the Macedonian King regard him with such a judgemental look to those sea-colored eyes. He was aware, acutely so, of the way the boy had shifted quite abruptly into those old habits of civility - that action alone a clear show of the man's age and upbringing in those courts and yet, such hardly altered that hard stare Alexander so regarded him with.

He was entirely aware of that brief crack within that charm, the boy clearly quite bewildered by such a casual comment of his age, much less blatant lack of concern for the man's title of royalty. How rulers had changed over the centuries - from the whore mongering conquerors of his age to the perfectly preened of this one. A small shrug crossed his shoulders at Dorian inquiry on exactly where his father had disappeared to, the man entirely unconcerned with the 'where' as much as the 'when'. After all, with such an ability to be instantly anywhere in the entirety of that world, what did 'where' he was matter? "He was it would return in half an hour. That's all I would concern yourself with." The Dark Hunter stated quite bluntly, entirely side stepping that inquiry altogether. Rather, he inquired briefly if Dorian might want a beverage, such a decidedly small gesture of hospitality, however, was near overshadowed in that wake of suspicion, inquiring as to whether or not he was required to host a vampire as well. Their species alone was perhaps one of the few Alexander found himself particularly disliking, the man never quite adjusting to the feeling of their fangs piercing his skin or their teeth attempting to rip out of veins. Still, he watched in silence as the man across from him so inattentively toyed with that golden band upon his ring finger, the simple presence of it entirely capturing the Dark Hunter's attention.

He had wondered many a times before why Matteo had so eagerly embraced that relationship between his son and that Englishman and yet, in that simple moment, with a single touch and a glimpse of those familiar eyes, Alexander found himself near understanding. Perhaps, to that Italian King, that Consort was akin to his Hephaestion. They were lucky, truly, to be given an era where they might find some sort of acceptance within that relationship. His thoughts momentarily shifted, so falling back to those centuries upon centuries past - to the sands of Egypt and the coolness of the desert moon, to those flapping canvases of his tent in that gentle breeze and that warmth of his dearest companion's body against his. His beloved Hephaestion.

It was the sound of his name upon the boy's lips that caused his thoughts to shift back to the present, that simple inquiry met with the smallest of grunts before Dorian mentioned that he had, indeed, heard of his existence for the past five hundred years. He rolled his eyes at the sheer idea of those stories Matteo must have once hinted at. "And I've heard of you far longer. You were all he spoke of for two years after you were born." He commented, his own gaze still decidedly deadpan. How much he'd heard in those early years of both joy and immense woe - and all of it was still perfectly recalled within that ancient memory. His gaze fluttered towards that outstretched hand, simply considering it for several moments before, slowly, he fitted his own calloused fingers within those silken smooth ones of Dorian's. That simple touch was all that was necessary to provide him that insight into his companion, the man aware, of some degree, to that knowledge the fellow Monarch had gleamed of what he was, even if either failed to voice any sort of acknowledgement upon it. Rather, Dorian seemed keen to accept that offer of a beverage, that mention of that old Italian drink only saw his head bob as his hand returned to his side.

He moved around towards that bar, flicking on several switches as the machine began to warm. He plucked several bottles from that fridge, including one of homemade whipped cream. Deftly, Alexander poured those coffee grounds into that espresso machine, his gaze fluttered upwards as Dorian began to speak of that toy he'd once made him all those centuries ago. His attention fluttered back down towards that machine as he plucked those filters from their spot, listening to that warm chuckle that left Dorian's lips before the Hunter felt inclined to reply. "We were stuck in the Congo for nearly a year with far too much time on our hands. You'd be surprised how difficult it is to find proper hair in the jungle." Oh he remembered that gift well - and that mission that had confined him and several of his kind there when he had still been an active participant in curbing the supernatural life. How long ago that had been. His head shook ever so slightly as he busied himself with pouring that espresso and topping it with that cold, foaming cream. It hardly took long at all before he placed that cup upon the counter in front of Dorian, the man leaning against those granite countertops as he watched the fae's intrigue in those sweets.

That question, however, prompted the hunter to shake his head. "I don't make them, one of the were girls who works here does. Nor am I a baker or a barista. Matteo beat me at Texas-Hold-Em and condemned me to four years of 'being a servant'." He rolled his eyes at it, his features entirely void of any hint of amusement. "It'll be fun, he said." Alexander could hardly help that scowl, the conqueror surely not meant to be caged to a single cafe for so long, much less forced to abstain from those wars that still fraught the world - fights which so very called to him. "I took Chambord from him when he was drunk on tequila as retribution." He was determined to keep that French palace until he was relinquished from that position as mere barista, even if he knew well neither would back down from that challenge that had been placed before them. It all came back down to those cards - those games of chance and luck one of the few that neither men were capable of cheating at. It certainly kept things interesting, to say the least.