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Summary
Paris, 1967.
A free-spirited French bohemian meets a young, wealthy aristocrat.
The first thing that Sebasitan noticed about him was that he looked like he didn't belong here.
Too proper. Too prim. Clad not in the dark uniform of the bohemian intelligentsia, but a fine, stone-colored brocade shirt with a crumpled collar.
The second thing that Sebastian noticed was that he was beautiful.
Large blue eyes. Cheeks full with youth. Pale skin. A rosy tint just beneath the surface of it, like a drop of blood rubbed into white silk and spread across the entire arc of his features. Streaks of grey ran through his dark hair, and the startling contrast only made him more beautiful.
The third, and most interesting thing was not something Sebastian saw so much as something he felt, curiously enough.
Palpable apathy.