#dantelius

[vampiresuns]

Fine Arts and Equally Fine People

1,845 words. In which Cadenza and Dante decide to have a little competition to woo Amparo Cassano, but Dante’s attention is taken away by someone else. Anatole flexes his language abilities for someone, and Milenko runs after a certain Countess.

Cadenza and Dante belong to @arcanecadenza​.

Dante and Cadenza looked at the poster announcing the play they came to see in Vesuvia’s Community Theatre. A painted poster depicting a scene with the characters of the Operetta, announcing “La Cassano'' as the main character above the name of the play. 

“That’s her,” Dante said, Cadenza still silently looking at the poster, her eyes tracing the lines of Amparo’s smile.

“It is. Let’s get in.”

The siblings got inside, showing the tickets they had already purchased, in the standing Yard. Cadenza would’ve preferred to be sitting in one of the galleries, but they had been told by the cast of the play (and Amparo herself) that many of the acts and intermissions were interactive, so a Yard position might be more fun, if they desired to experience the play in full. Besides, the play had already been going for some time, so it wouldn’t be as packed as it was during the first weeks of it. 

“Did you bring her anything?” Dante asked as they handed their coats in the coat check. “I wasn’t really sure of what the exact Vesuvian custom is, and then I thought everyone must bring her flowers, then I didn’t know who to ask and books were not very illustrative on the matter—”

“So?”

“So I brought her a self-refilling pen. Actors need to mark scripts all the time, don’t they?”

Cadenza hummed as she gave a coin to an usher in exchange for a program for the play. “I brought her tea. Asra said she always asked him to brew her some tea when she was over?”

Dante gave her a betrayed look. 

“What? He’s a friend of hers.”

“That’s cheating.”

“I would’ve brought her tea anyway.” 

“That’s still cheating.”

Cadenza decided to focus on the program, which explained the basic argument of the play, had a list of the dramatis personae and the name of whom they were played by, as well as other tidbits here and there. It was useful to take her away from her nerves. Cadenza didn’t exactly know what she was doing, even if she was confident enough in herself. It felt almost like a date without being a date (and with her brother there), not to mention gift-giving had never been her forte. She had been too busy to compose something for Amparo, but she had wanted to. Maybe she would be able to later. 

She hoped she was. She had been beautiful and so sure of herself in her flowing dress; her lips were defined and always curving up slightly, her hands soft as they had brushed with Cadenza’s, telling her how she wished she could make it to the play, not just for herself but for the play’s sake. 

“But I do hope I’m reason enough,” she had added, clearly flirting. Cadenza had told her she would be better company than her brother in a streak of competitiveness, making Amparo laugh. 

Cadenza found herself playing with the corners of the program, dog earring them; she frowned at it and offered it to her brother. 

Her brother didn’t respond. 

“Dante? Dante. Dante.” She rolled her eyes, leaning her shoulder against her brother’s. 

“Uh? Oh, I wasn’t looking.”

A blush began to bloom on Dante’s cheeks, Cadenza giving him a funny look as he began fidgeting, throwing one last glance in the general direction he had been looking, before taking the program out of Cadenza’s hands. Cadenza followed the direction of her brother’s gaze and finally saw him, recognition dawning on her. He was as blond as ever, animatedly talking to a man with dark, bronze brown curls, dressed in black. 

She couldn’t help but to give a curious look to her brother. “I didn’t know you knew Anatole.”

“You know him too?”

“Dante, I’m pretty sure half of Vesuvia knows who he is, but yes, we have tea together sometimes. Well, I have tea, I’ve only ever seen him drink coffee. He’s a friend.” She paused, in the background the orchestra still played. “Where do you know him from?” 

“The palace library,” the program was now completely forgotten in Dante’s hands. “I run into him from time to time, but we never visit the same sections. We talk sometimes, he’s, hm, very charming.”

The play began not very long after, the siblings dropping the subject altogether, even if Dante still seemed to steal looks towards the box Anatole was sitting in. The play was everything it promised to be and more: Amparo had been right, standing on the yard was never tedious, tiring. Something was always happening that took your attention away from standing on your feet — an actor would run through, someone would begin in an Aria in the middle of the crowd, leaving you to wonder when they got there. 

Amparo herself was stunning. Her voice was clear and melodic, capable of softness and drama; when she danced, the stage moved with her, the lights dancing to her lead. She transformed on stage, and Cadenza felt herself be transformed with it.

The crowd clapped, the siblings joining the ovation, and eventually the theatre began being evacuated. The siblings did as Amparo had told them too: they went backstage, announcing themselves. One of the lyricists of the Opera volunteered to go let Amparo know, and as soon as she cleared them, the lyricist came back to guide them through the hecticness which was the backstage of Vesuvia’s community theatre, asking them their opinion on the play. 

“We don’t really have private changing rooms but this is La Cassano, she’s too delightful not to let her get away with a little of this. Not that I need to tell you two, hm?” She said, cheeky. 

Amparo emerged from beyond a curtain. “Zinovia, don’t torment my guests! Only I can do that.” As a hello she winked to the siblings, holding the curtain open for them to come in. “I’m so glad you too could make it! Please, make yourself comfortable.”

The changing room, which was really just a space separated by dividers and colourful curtains, was not very personalised. Zinovia had been right when she said this wasn’t Amparo’s own changing room and in fact had space for more people. It was still cozy, if a little messy, with puffs to sit as well as a patched up armchair. 

Amparo sat in the chair of one of the vanities in the room, wearing a well loved, dark blue robe. 

“I do have my own changing room in the other theatre, so I hope you’re not put off by people announcing themselves in and out. If you’d prefer more privacy, we could always grab drinks afterward, I think I know just the place.”

With the mention of drinks, Cadenza mentioned the tea, saying it was inside the pockets of her coat. Amparo, lightly touching her arm, told her not to worry, she could send someone to retrieve the coats. “It’s nothing, I promise.” 

Before she could do anything, a voice came from beyond the robe. It was Anatole’s. “Are you decent and are you available, Lele?” 

Amparo snorted. “I’m not decent, but I’m wearing clothes, if that’s what you’re wondering.” She opened the curtain with one swift motion. “And almost always available for you two. Cadenza, Dante, these are Anatole and Milenko — my cousins.” 

“Oh, I do know both of you,” Anatole added with a smile.

“I don’t!” Milenko said cheerily. “Hi!”

While Milenko gave Amparo a quick kiss on her temple, congratulating her for the performance, Anatole gave Cadenza a friendly wave, but, to the latter’s amusement, focused on her brother. “Non sapevo che fosse tuo fratello, Cadenza. Dante, è un piacere, come sempre,” he took Dante’s hand to bring his knuckles to his lips. “I also didn’t know you two liked Opera, what a delightful coincidence. Amparo, Lenko, should we all go to get something to drink afterwards.”

Milenko had his head poking outside of the curtains, and was yelling a thank you back at someone. “I have to run.”

Anatole raised his eyebrows at him. Amparo gave him a quizzical, yet amused look “Because...?” She said.

“Apparently the Countess was discreetly watching the play with one of her sisters, and they’re leaving, so I have to go like, right now, I’m going, I’m gone.” 

Amparo’s and Anatole’s attention was taken away from the Alighieri siblings, as they encouraged Milenko and wished him luck, telling him to run fast and to go already, watching him get through the backstage crowd as he turned to yell back at his cousins that Nadia was what beauty itself should look like. Amparo laughed, and Anatole rolled his eyes.

“So,” Cadenza began, sitting on the armchair and straightening the nonexisting wrinkles in her dress, “you talk sometimes.”

“We’ve only talked, Cadenza.” 

“I win then?”

Dante paused. He looked at his sister, then at Anatole, who was talking about something he couldn’t make out with Amparo. “Okay, fine you win.”

“I did say she would find I’m better company.”

Dante didn’t have a chance to argue, because Amparo and Anatole had their attention back on them, asking them if they would like to go for drinks with them afterwards. Neither Cadenza nor Dante found a reason to complain. 

Soon enough their coats were retrieved. Dante took out the self-refilling pen, but Amparo politely declined. “I do mark up my scripts all the time, but I am sure Anatole will find that a little more useful. He collects quills after all.”

“You do?”

“I do,” his smile was inviting, bright, his eyes curious, looking between Dante’s face and his hands.

“Take it then, it’s yours.” 

With Dante’s attention otherwise occupied, Amparo took her chance to sit closer to Cadenza. She played with her own hair, taking it to the side so it fell over her shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said, leaning forward, resting her chin on her hand, her arm propped over her knee. “The tea smells fantastic. Did you enjoy the play?”

“Very much, your singing is stunning.”

Amparo smiled, her playful intensity folding over and away, a quiet kind coming in its replacement as her dark, green eyes scanned Cadenza’s face. “Thank you,” her tongue poked out between her lips when she said ‘thanks’. “I like it very much that you could come. Let me finish changing, and we’ll be on our way, is that alright?”

“Alright.”

“Alright,” Amparo repeated as she stood up, a smile reserved only for Cadenza on her face. 

In the background, the sounds of the backstage crowd of technics, direction and actors blended with Dante’s impassioned conversation with Anatole about the principles of transmutation. Cadenza was sure she had heard Anatole say before that alchemy is nothing he is very versed at, yet he seemed to be holding the conversation just fine. Perhaps she’d ask the next time she saw him, perhaps she’d forget to. Right now, following Amparo as she got behind a divider to get dressed and talk about the play and the rest of their night with her seemed like a much better prospect. 

[vampiresuns]

The Way You Speak | Dante x Anatole

✴︎ THE WAY YOU SPEAK ✴︎

1.2k words. Dante spends the night with Anatole, and his curiosity gets the best of him. This fic explores Anatole’s magic, but I don’t make an overly detailed exposition of what it entails, if you want to read more about his magic, you can read it here, and here.

Dante belongs to @arcanecadenza​

Washed, clean and cosy, Anatole and him cuddled naked on the latter’s bed, mismatched parentheses as Dante used Anatole’s chest as a pillow, his heart beating steadily under his Amor Vincit Omnia tattoo. Anatole’s fingers played over his spine like his bones were the keys of an invisible piano.

Dante would’ve tried to figure out the tune, or if it was a song Anatole was making up or a song they both knew, if there wasn’t such a present, growing question in his mind. Sex aside, he hadn’t forgotten about Anatole mentioning his magic. 

“Nana?”

“Yes, Dante?” His voice was muffled against Dante’s hair, where he had his nose buried.

“How does your magic work?”

Anatole tensed in Dante’s arms.

“Why would you like to know?”

“You mentioned it earlier. You almost never do, but we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Anatole felt his thoughts start to race in his mind, but eventually forced himself to relax, sitting up against the pillows of his bed, forcing Dante to move too. 

“I don’t mind telling you?” The hesitation in his voice was palpable. “You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust you… alright I will tell you, but you have to promise me one thing, Dante.”

He wasn’t expecting such solemnity, but he promised anyway. “I’ll do my best.”

“Promise me that if I tell you you won’t: tell other people, I would not like it to fall into the ears of people who do not understand it, and therefore affect the credibility I need to have in my job and in front of the City — Nadia knows, by the way, so don’t worry about that.”

Dante was thrown off for a moment, not meaning to interrupt Anatole when he thought out loud. “You’re on a first name basis with the Countess?”

“Given how I’m bound to become her right hand, I am. She’s also surprisingly calm about these things, once she trusts you. Anyway, Dante, there’s something else. You have to promise me that, if you trust me, and I tell you that there’s certain things I can do that I don’t and would never do to you, you will honour that trust and you will believe me.”

The weight of the promise was heavy. The way Anatole spoke about it was enough to set up a cautious alarm, but the earnest, candid honesty in Anatole’s words and the plea in his eyes made him nod in agreement. Anatole was a private man, and Anatole was a proud man, despite his non-boisterous nature, and his honest belief in not having any sort of inherent superiority. The pride, Dante had learnt, came from knowing who he was — what he was worth, and what he could do. 

Anatole didn’t share who he was, Anatole didn’t invite you into his life, unless he thought you could appreciate it. He had the passion of youth, and the determination of someone who didn’t do anything by halves; lively and clever, and disarmingly debonair, seeing more of him had also come with the realisation that Anatole carried things, secrets, sorrows and responsibilities other would never know about, unless Anatole let them know.

Anatole leaving him guessing was only reserved for their flirting, and even then Dante had learnt he always showed or said what he meant. He had learnt to recognise many of his silent moments as offerings. He would be lying if his curiosity didn’t urge him to accept this one too.

Dante leaned forward to kiss Anatole’s cheek. “Whenever you’re ready.”

So Anatole told him. He told him about how it began manifesting, he spoke about light and languages and the things he could do with both. He spoke about how learning languages faster and better than most was only the surface level, and sometimes, even more shallow than surface: a mist that hit your face as you walked on the shore. He spoke of creation and light refraction, glyphs and incantations and being able to not support his magic on written symbols at all. He spoke about what he was currently studying, about his studying abroad, and how accidental things had taken him to realise some of the most important things about his magic. 

He checked on Dante’s reaction as he explained periodically, but he only found genuine interest in him, which propelled him to talk, and talk and talk about it, finding himself feeling safe and comfortable to do so. The relief he felt as he was able to laugh and gesticulate and demonstrate things for Dante was akin to the mirth of a child during his dream birthday party. 

In that moment, Dante couldn’t think about any other reaction anyone would have to Anatole speaking and practicing his magic, this source of inexplicable power he had so lovingly and dedicatedly worked on, as anything other than charming. 

It hit him later. He woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, Anatole’s words churning in his half-awake, half-asleep brain. Entirely out of accident — like all great discoveries in life, he thought — it came to him as he watched him dead asleep in his own bed. If Anatole wanted, he could create things out of thin air. If Anatole wanted, he could put any intention in his words, to the point of no longer believing what was real or not in his own speech, to his own convenience. Had Anatole been more selfish, more manipulative, more domineering in his general way of being, having a forceful personality instead of a strong one, he could cause severe damage with his words. 

He thought about different religions and mythologies around the world, of entities which create things which take different shapes and forms, as his eyes trace Anatole’s back, and suddenly understand why his credibility depends on people who also work in diplomacy and politics not to know this, unless they absolutely need to know. 

He didn’t doubt he used the most advantageous, strategic parts of his magic in his job all the time, even if he didn’t use them maliciously — Anatole was not a bad man, but he wasn’t a fool — but as he throws an arm over his waist and buries his face in the base of Anatole’s neck, he thought about that Anatole which doesn’t exist, creating illusions and misunderstandings on purpose, for his own gain, and of the Anatole he knows now, the one who does exist.

He who instead must feel all the burnout of miscommunication, he who knows when people are lying to him and how he still decides to put his faith in people. Dante realised Anatole feels every break and failure in communication, without being able to tell the reason why, and wondered how it didn’t drive him crazy. How it still made him believe in people. 

Maybe this is why Anatole always insisted he believed in everything he said, otherwise, there was little point in saying it. It didn’t that he literally believed in everything that came out of his mouth, or only said solemn things, but that he always meant the intention behind his words. Dante didn’t fully understand it, but he appreciated it all the same.

As he drifts off to sleep he thought existing in such a way must be lonely sometimes. He thought about all the nights he himself spent alone in the middle of nowhere, having left so much behind, an uncertain future ahead, and wondered if him and Anatole weren’t so different after all.