[zapdragon555]

The song ended, as did another, and yet another, and before Serge knew the night had flown by and come to a close and the sound of applause was drowned out by the confusion raging through his mind. It was fear that quickly replaced confusion. Had the blonde boy just been a guest star after all? Did something happen to him? Did Serge just imagine the boy?

Horrified by his thoughts, and not allowing himself to think rationally about the situation, or even consider the song that had been cut from the performance, Serge got up from his seat and darted into the crowd, trying to find Watts. He finally located the large man standing up and clapping near the side of the room, and he almost ran straight into him, catching himself on Watts' arm with a gasp that cut through the applause.

"Ho, boy!" Watts exclaimed, startled, his words ending in a laugh as he clapped his hand over Serge's smaller one. "Hello, Battour! You did positively wunderbar, my boy! Absolutely--"

"Thank you, yes, th-thank you sir, but, I need to ask you something," Serge said frantically, his hair disheveled and eyes wild to give him the appearance of a madman for just a moment, before he caught himself and let out a steadying breath. Watts looked a bit alarmed, and that was the last thing Serge wanted. "Um, I... a-actually, never mind," Serge quickly said, shaking his head and offering a nervous smile. "I'll ask you later."

"Eh... well, okay, herr Battour..." Watts echoed after a quickly retreating Serge, and he frowned slightly, a little perturbed. He watched as Serge went back towards the piano to sit down, and he shrugged slightly, turning back to talk to a man beside him.

Serge stared at the piano key cover for a long moment, his hands tight on the edge of the bench. What was he thinking? He couldn't just ask a question like that for no reason. 'Hey, do you know where that pretty blonde dancer went?' Serge blushed in shame at the very thought of Watts knowing he... Serge swallowed roughly, and was the furthest thing from prepared for the arm that wrapped around his neck in a friendly but somehow menacing fashion.



"You learn music fast, my schnell braun Fuchs," a rough voice attempting to sound smooth grated against Serge's ear, and the smell of smoke followed it, making Serge cough. The lanky, older boy let out a delighted cackle, and his hand hooked under Serge's collar, thumbing it gently. "Oh, you don't like cigars? And here I thought I'd had a chance..."

"Wh-who... stop that!" Serge snapped, slapping the boy's arm away and standing up, all on alert. "Do I know you, sir?!" Serge trailed off, blinking as he realized the boy was one of the dancers, and he straightened up, eyes widening. "Oh, god, I'm terribly sorry for hitting you," he stammered. If this got back to Watts... it could mean his job. But the boy just laughed, cutting Serge a sly side-eyed glance from his almost black irises.

"Jack Dren, charmed," the boy, Jack, introduced himself with a bow, then straightened up with a loose smirk on his face. "And forgive me, Fuchs, but you couldn't hurt me if you tried. Not with that getup. A waistcoat? In this temperature? Has the heat gone to your head?" Jack chuckled, sauntering closer and reaching out to take Serge's tie in his hands, playing with it just roughly enough to make Serge frown. "You ought to step out of some of that..."

"I'm not interested," Serge quickly said, pushing Jack's hand away with a bit more care this time, and Jack gave him a bored look, then sighed through his nose and shrugged.

"Very well, very well, little Fuchs. You deny me a great pleasure; I've never had a gypsy before." Serge frowned at the word, and he glanced away, before meeting Jack's eyes with a challenging look, his fists clenching and shoulders squaring in indigence.

"And you won't have one. Not until you buy a better brand of cigars," Serge added with a snort, and Jack's eyes went wide with delight.

"Aha! Ahaha, oh, what a playful thing! I like you, Fuchs--"

"It's Serge, herr Dren. Serge Battour is my name."

"I don't care. You look like a fox, you know? Fuchs it is. Regardless, if you're our new pianist, I may just have to dance a little closer to the stage, hm?" Jack said, leaning closer to Serge and grinning, and Serge offered a smile of strict politeness. The smell of cheap smoke was getting to him, and this boy was easily a few years his elder, and at least a head taller. Intimidated and a little disgusted, it gave Serge time to realize that he could use this to his own favor.

[zapdragon555]

"I have a question," Serge said, folding his arms over his chest, protecting his tie from any more fiddling with on Jack's part. Like an overgrown tomcat, the boy was, Serge thought. "One of your dancers, a small, young-looking blonde who sang a solo last night. Where is he, tonight?"

Jack looked a little surprised at that, and something unintelligable flashed behind his eyes before a sigh hissed out his nose and slid a grin onto his face. "Ohhh... so that's how it is, hm... Gilbert's around, alright," Jack said, shifting his weight with an intimidating smile.
"What's he to you, Fuchs?"

Serge's eyes widened, a rush of relief and worry colliding together in his chest. Gilbert... Gilbert was his name. "He's nothing to me, herr Dren," Serge said truthfully, his voice cracking slightly as his heart picked up the pace, and he wished to God that it would quiet. "I simply wondered..."

"Oh, no, I think it's different than that," Jack mused, fiddling with a lock of long brunette hair almost boredly as he looked down at Serge with a knowing smile. Serge bristled without meaning to, his blood running hot to his face and making him flush.

"What are you suggesting, herr Dren?" Serge barked, his voice rising in volume, and it was only when his voice echoed back to him that he realized the room was largely empty, that most of the crowd had stumbled home and into the chilly night. Serge's breath caught in his throat, and he turned back to Jack, who smirked smugly at him.

"I'm not suggesting anything, dear," he purred, then chuckled. "And I'm also not telling you anything until you do me a favor. Quid pro quo, schnell braun Fuchs--" That nickname was going to get very old, very fast, but Serge hardly noticed under the terror that leapt into this throat as Jack loomed over him. "I do hope you aren't as quick in bed..."

"Dren, that is enough."



Jack stiffened, the smirk falling off of his face, his eyes filling with dread. He hunched slightly and turned his face to stare at the tall man behind him, meeting those steely green eyes for only a moment before he quickly turned his eyes to the ground. "I'm sorry, herr August," he murmured. The imposing man made no reply, and Serge watched in wonder as the cocky boy slinked away backstage like a hound with its tail between its legs. Serge found a small smile worming onto his face as he watched Jack leave, until he noticed August's eyes were on him, and he stiffened.

"Um..." he dithered, meeting August's steely gaze before quickly glancing away. "Th-thank you very much, herr... um, herr August?" he ventured, hoping that was right. Wait... August... the August boys... "Oh! You're--"

"Are you the new pianist?" August asked, barely tilting his head at Serge, taking a step closer to look him over, and Serge stood at attention his skin crawling slightly as the man's gaze dragged over every inch of him. It felt strange. Too strange, and he didn't like it at all, but this was a man to be respected, for sure. "You were magnificent tonight. Was it your first time?"

Serge smiled, a little nervously, nodding his head and quickly bringing his hands up to rebutton his shirt collar and tighten his tie, feeling the need to look presentable. "Ja, that's correct, herr August, sir... Thank you, very much," he said, giving a bow to the man, who raised an eyebrow, a smirk barely touching his lips.

"There's no need to bow in such a way. It's unbecoming," August murmured, reaching out to tap Serge on the underside of the chin with a finger, and Serge straightened up, his eyes widening a little. "And don't let the dancers bully you, either. As a member of the band, your status is higher than that of the dancers, so treat them as such, ja?"

"J-ja..." Serge murmured automatically, watching as August walked a slow circle around Serge, the back of his neck prickling slightly. He blinked, realizing what had been said, and he stiffened, looking at August over his shoulder. "W-wait, what? No, that's... um, sir?"

August paused, then turned to meet Serge's eyes, his own eyes fixed in a lidded, snakelike expression. Intelligent, sharp, and just a bit dangerous, Serge thought to himself, and guessed to pin the man at late thirties, perhaps early forties. His jaded green eyes certainly did not match his slender body. He looked like a dancer himself, really, and Serge realized August was taking a long time to answer.

"You're of mixed race," he observed, finally speaking after what felt like a very long time. "Roma...?"

Serge blinked, a little taken aback, then nodded his head slowly. "Th-that's correct, sir... my father, Aslan Battour--" Here, August's eyebrows twitched up, the faintest hint of surprise, before it was gone again. "--was a French viscount... my mother was a coquette that he fell in love with when he was young..." Serge trailed off, suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of self revelation around such a man as this, and he swallowed, raising his voice.
"Herr August, I have a question I want to ask."

[zapdragon555]

Emerald eyes locked on Serge's face as the words hung in the air for a moment, until August finally nodded slowly, his expression expectant and even a bit open. "I wasn't aware you were related to Battour. It's a pleasure," he murmured in a voice that Serge could only describe as silky. Not unpleasantly so, like Jack's had been, but rather inviting, and warm, but holding a strictness to it that he was sure all of the dancers respected.

Of course, Serge was beginning to find it a bit strange that his father had apparently been so well known. His expression grew scrutinizing for a moment, tempted to ask how this man knew his father, but he put that question aside for the time being and instead focused on his current, pressing curiosity. "I wanted to ask about one of your dancers, herr August."

The older man's eyes raised slightly at that, and he tilted his head, considering Serge with a new attitude of quiet interest. "One of my dancers? Is there a problem, Fuchs Battour?"

Serge stared at August for a moment, then flushed in irritation. "My name isn't Fuchs, herr August, it's Serge. Serge Battour, and I ask that you call me as such," Serge stated, his voice raised slightly to get his point across. August stared at him owlishly for a few moments, steely eyes turned surprised, before a small chuckle suddenly shook out of him,
a hand going to cover his smile.

"Oh, gracious. Forgive me, herr Serge Battour. I heard Dren calling you that and thought it was your real name. That was too presumptuous of me, especially when Dren is involved," August tried to explain through his soft laughter, and Serge blinked, the irate veil lifting off his heart and making him a bit giggly himself. "Ah, but yes. I'm very sorry, truly I am. Why don't we talk about this in my office?" August suggested, a tilted smile now fixed on his thin lips. "I feel the need to make the embarrassment up to you with a drink."

"Oh, that would be a fine thing, thank you sir," Serge said before he could really weigh his options. Perhaps now he could truly know about this blonde dancer, and his whereabouts. And besides, making good relationships with the higher ups of the cabaret was a valuable thing, if he was to be working there from now on.

Serge walked backstage with the tall man, staying far away enough that the man's shadow didn't fall on him, deciding it was a fair distance. He blinked as August went straight to that faded green door that he'd seen the blonde disappear into, and Serge's nerves jumped in surprise. "Oh!" he said out loud, causing August to stop with a question on his lips, turning to glance at Serge. "Oh... I mean... this--this is your office?"

August blinked slowly, fixing Serge with a curious stare. "Ja, that's correct, Battour," he murmured, clearly bemused by Serge's outburst. There was a short silence that hung in the air, until August made a soft noise that may have signified a shrug as he went to unlock the door and step back to allow Serge in. "After you, my boy," he said with a small nod, and Serge hoped his smile didn't come off as too nervous as he quickly was ushered inside.

[zapdragon555]

Before Serge knew it he was sitting on a very nicely-upholstered short sofa with a wineglass in his hand, watching the white wine slide into the glass from the bottle in August's hands. "Danke, herr August, sir," Serge murmured with a small nod, then barely winced and smiled as it filled up a bit higher than he would've liked. Still, it would be rude not to drink all of it.

"So tell me, Battour," August began, pouring himself a shorter glass of the stuff and sitting down at an oaken coffee table in a plush chair, smiling over his glass at Serge. It was not exactly what Serge would call a smile that invited anything but silence, but Serge tried to put himself at ease regardless. It wasn't as if the office was uncomfortable; it had a certain kind of rich, simple warmth to it that contrasted the man's pale complexion and manner of dress. "What business do you have here in Germany? Or have you been here your whole life? I can't imagine you came just to be a piano player in a cabaret."

Serge swallowed the small sip of wine he'd taken and smiled, shaking his head. "Oh, no, nothing like that, I'm afraid... though this is a very nice cabaret," he added, laughing lightly, albeit awkwardly. "Um... no, see, a few high school friends of mine and I decided it would be nice to study abroad in Germany. We arrived about a month early to enjoy ourselves, though, and get used to the atmosphere..." Serge paused, realizing he was rambling, and quickly busied his mouth with a longer sip of wine, blinking as August chuckled.

"So you are not from here. Well, I imagine that's fine. I hope the city is treating you well," August murmured with a small nod, simply holding the glass of wine in his hand, not drinking it. "You have a place to stay, and all?"

"Mmhm," Serge murmured in response, nodding and lowering the glass down to his lap, holding it there. "I'm staying in a tenant house not far from here... ah, the woman running it is very kind..." Serge rambled on, watching August carefully, then relaxed as August raised his own glass to his lips to take a sip. Seeing this as an invitation, Serge did so as well, surprised at the quality of the wine. "This is very good, herr August. Thank you for sharing it with me."

August waved Serge's thanks away with a hand, a thin smile on his pale face. "Not at all. I'm glad to welcome you; not many places will, these days, if I'm honest," he said with an air of perfect indifference, neither sympathy nor condescension. Even so, Serge's brows seemed to barely knit at the man's words, and he nodded, keeping a careful reign on his facial expression.

"Ja, that is true, herr August. It... was a bit difficult to find a place that would take my friends and I in without a few glares. Even so, it isn't terrible. Most people are very kind here," Serge said, smiling pleasantly at August as he sipped at his wine, finding his tense emotions were starting to unwind with the aid of the alcohol. There was something he was forgetting... ah, that's right, that's right... "But... herr August, I wanted to ask you..."

"Oh, yes, about one of my dancers, yes. Have some more wine," August continued, tipping the bottle into the glass in Serge's hands, ignoring the small noise of protest from Serge, and set the bottle back on the coffee table. Serge blinked owlishly, then sipped at his refilled glass, more out of pleasantries than really wanting any more of the rich wine. "I can assure you, Battour, that if one of my dancers has misbehaved, he or she will be punished accordingly."

Serge looked taken aback for a moment, caught halfway between a drink of wine and breathing, and he inadvertently coughed, swallowing and covering his mouth with a fist as he tried to free up his lungs again. "Oh--" he tried to speak, setting his wineglass down. "No, sir--nothing like that," he managed, clearing his throat a few times and rubbing at his neck.

"Ah. Really," August's voice took on a different tone, holding less of the soft politeness from before and more of a flat disinterest. He filled up his own wineglass a bit more, then promptly replaced the cork in the bottle and set it aside. "Well, then... what is it you want to ask?"

Serge swallowed, sensing the change in atmosphere, and he shifted in his seat, staring at his wineglass. "Well... there's... there's a dancer I was looking for. Gilbert? I-I believe?" Serge froze when he heard August barely draw in a sharp breath, and Serge's dark eyes locked with August's for a moment before a slow, humorless smile spread over August's face.

"And what business do you have with Gilbert?"

[zapdragon555]

The tension of the air around them had changed so drastically that Serge felt as though he'd said something horribly offensive to the man, and he shrank back on instinct, though the wine was making his brain a bit fuzzy. "Business?" Serge echoed August dumbly, dithering as he set his half empty wineglass down. "No, no business, herr August, I..."

"You'd be wise to keep away from him," August murmured, his expression unchanging, that cold smile making Serge lapse into nervous silence. Serge must have looked quite spooked after that, for August's expression finally softened, and he leaned back, allowing a more casual air to drift between them. "He's ill, right now."

Serge blinked, a soft 'ah' escaping him before he could stop it. That... certainly was less ominous than he'd thought. Serge relaxed a bit as well, then slowly reached for his wineglass, curiosity still prickling at the back of his mind as he took a sip of the sweet, white wine. Why had Gilbert gone into August's office...? Serge frowned at himself slightly. There was no need to be suspicious of something like that. Gilbert was a dancer, and August his instructor. It's only natural he might visit the man from time to time to talk. At least Serge figured that was the case.

"It... isn't contagious though," August continued, almost cautiously as he watched Serge's face very carefully. "But he was too under the weather to perform tonight, as you probably noticed." Serge blinked at the small note of pride in August's voice; Serge supposed Gilbert must be one of their main attractions, and for someone to notice that Gilbert alone was gone out of a whole crowd of handsome boys, well... that was saying something. Serge nodded slowly, lowering the glass from his lips.

"I was a little worried about him," Serge admitted, his words flowing a little more freely as the wine began to taste more and more sickly sweet. "He looks like a girl, or a child... how old is he?"

"His eighteenth birthday was in the summer," August murmured. "He's my youngest performer, though. I try to avoid employing children here." Serge made a sound of agreement, staring at the residue on the glass from where the wine had tilted back towards his mouth, not entirely listening to August anymore. He was lost in his own thoughts, silently cataloging this new information. Gilbert was eighteen, just a year and a half younger than Serge. He was the youngest performer, and right then, he was sick with some noncontagious illness. "As for his femininity, well... androgyny is what you might call popular nowadays. It's the air of mystery."

Serge was silent, and August barely cleared his throat, bringing Serge out of his thoughts. "Well, herr Battour, it was a pleasure talking with you. I hope the wine was to your liking?" August asked as he stood and extended a hand to Serge. Serge blinked, his dark eyes sliding to the bottom of the wineglass, which he noticed was empty. He'd drank that rather quickly...

"Yes, herr August--thank you, thank you for letting me take so much of your time," Serge said, standing and reaching to shake August's hand, but he missed, his fingertips brushing the man's wrist before his hand finally found its place. He was woozy, for sure. "And thank you for being patient with my questions. I hope Gilbert gets better soon..."

"Mm," was August's noncommittal response, and he let go of Serge's hand to move towards the door, Serge following behind like a duckling. "It's very late, true. You should be getting home."

"Yes... yes, home... you're right..."

The trip back to Miss Boehler's house was hazy in Serge's mind, even as he reached the front door and fumbled around for his key. He mumbled a curse under his breath as he dropped it in the thin layer of snow at his feet, and he bent down to pick it up, muttering something about how alcohol could only bring trouble. After what seemed like an unnecessary amount of figuring, Serge let himself inside and found his stomach was doing flips; the stairwell looked like far too daunting a task, right then.

Serge managed to slip out of his shoes and overcoat, and stumbled over to the couch in the living room, where cinders from that evening's fire still glowed in the hearth. A loose smile quirked up on his flushed face, and Serge sighed heavily, flopping onto the couch and immediately falling unconscious, one arm and one leg hanging over the side.