It had not been a particularly good few days by anyone's standards. Much of the world still remained an utter mystery to the man even despite Samantha's continued attempts to assist him to adjust to a century he has no true desire to adjust to. He had, at last, come to accept that Samantha did not own the entire building, more so she owned only one room within it and that by the will of Fate or God or whatever vindictive deity that lingered above he was forced to share it with her. Their arguments over to whom the bed belonged continued on a nightly basis, Dorian having come to loath the sofa rather quickly, the terrible contraption seeming to be in possession of a bar of sorts that stuck into his back most night- his feet content to hang off the end in a manner he is sure is unacceptable by most standards and yet that the girl had nothing else save the floor to provide him with was a lesson truly difficult to learn. He is used to opulence. To bed's near the size of her entire kitchen, pillows as soft as clouds and sheets of silk or satin or the finest of woven cottons. Polyester, he thinks, is a sin upon the earth and yet Samantha seemed continually amused by his complaints over it. For a Princess she seemed very- blasé to his mind and yet perhaps the rules of the kingdom were simply different. He would learn them in time, he was determined to achieve at least that. Dorian had always been praised by his tutors for his sharp intelligence and as such the man is assured, one way or another, he would learn to navigate this ridiculous kingdom.

Samantha had, for tonight, gone to the place she called work. Where this place is he hardly knows and why she is gone so long he also fails to understand. How long could it possibly take to find the green paper she brings home each night and declares her pay? It's didn't look like any money he had ever seen, nor did it seem nearly enough for the hours she was gone. He would be less begrudging of this 'work' he supposed, were he not left alone in these hours. He is fond of the girl on some level, has come to both accept and enjoy her company and as such he is loath to have her leave. Were he back home he would simply summon another companion, perhaps the sort of one to entertain him for the evening in far more intimate ways and yet Samantha seems to lack even one consort to share with him. It was only after several hours spent attempting to work out exactly where the water from the faucet came from that Dorian had finally seen fit to go outside. He rarely went far, not after his first experience with the police and the Dark Hunters and The Bicycle. He had however, over the past few days, become bold enough to move beyond the steps of his new-found home- though never beyond the corner of the street, until tonight. The rise of smoke and the smell of fire had seen fit to lure the man a little further down the street then before, stormy grey eyes drawn towards the rising flames. For several moments at least Dorian lingers upon the edge of the crowd, the majority of them seeming fairly mesmerized by it. If this was supposed to be some sort of ritual burning else some kind of harvest festival it seemed decidedly dull, the fae momentarily scanning the crowd in some effort to understand what the supposed allure of this activity was before a demonically noise truck arose.

The attempts of the men dressed in terribly ugly clothing to put out the fire is as baffling to him as the fire itself. Someone had clearly gone to the trouble of lighting it and now they were attempting to flood it? A sudden explosion from within sees the man step back slightly once more, eternally youthful features frowning lightly at the entire spectacle before a voice from beside him seeks to ensnare his attention. For several silent moments the fae is content to allow the storm-cloud grey of his gaze to travel the length of the man standing beside him, making no effort to hide the rather deliberate evaluation of his form. It is merely a habit really, a facet of his royal upbringing that still clings to him, though where once such a gesture may have been a deliberate move to remind someone lesser of their place- this time it is more an act of curiosity. This man, at least, does not appear to be wearing anything made of polyester. His lip quirks upward at last into a near impish grin, gaze lifted now to meet the other man's own.

"Truthfully I anticipated that this was the event, not that something else had merely happened to cause it. Considering there is apparently no witch burning to be had, nothing to be roasted and it would appear no one is going to take anything off to dance around it, I find the entire walk here a wasted effort- mostly."

His words are accented, though his own specific dialect of French and Italian had long since faded from history- as Dorian surely should have, fae as old as himself were a true rarity, one even he does not anticipate as of yet as his attention continues to linger upon the man beside him. He was easily one of the more pleasing ones to look at and yet there was a...sensation of sorts about him, an instinct that tugged within Dorian himself. There is a moment of wariness within those grey eyes before the fae Prince merely steps rather abruptly closer- forwardness, after all, had never been outside his capabilities, even the gathered crowd hardly seeming to curtail him.

"Pardonnez-moi un instant." (Forgive me a moment.)

The softly spoken French lyrics barely pass his own lips before one hand reaches out to rest softly beneath the other mans chin, his thumb lifted smoothly to brush near feather-light across the very top of Sebastian's upper lip. He may not understand this world, but there is little that he truly believes has changed in regards to some facets of it- some games are played entirely the same. Dorian is sure. Perhaps this one is simply a little more dangerous, yet the youthful fae hardly seems concerned. Lips are sensitive things, on men just as they are women, Dorian having had more than enjoyed his fair share of both over the years, knowing full well the delicate nerves just below the surface would cause the other man's lip to twitch upward in response to that delicate, languid touch, coaxing it to lift up a little- and if that didn't then the scent of him passing so close beneath the man's nose surely would. The moment Sebastian's lip merely lifts upward it affords Dorian a view of entirely what he is looking for- that decidedly pointed canine. His instinct then- had been correct. The softest of chuckles rises within his throat, the fae stepping suddenly back and out of any immediate reach of the vampire, the teasing softness of his touch taken with him. Arms folding smoothly now across his chest.

"You are the third of your kind in as many days to find me, pray tell, do you intend as they did? It would be a great shame I think- you are easily the prettiest of them so far."