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Choosing dinner party seats is a fine art. Seat a Brit next to a Slav, a man next to a woman, or a doctor beside a lawyer. Mix it up, but not so much that communication becomes impossible. Do not seat two introverts beside each other, or frosty shame will creep his fingers into the room and smother whatever atmosphere the host kindles.
Food is also important. A refined, yet unimposing set of dishes must be served, enough to impress, yet just "normal" enough for people to like it without a veneer of pretension. Italian food fit this criteria, being the known favourite of both the host, and a certain blond haired guest.
Julia Rothman is a woman who understands these rules, and likes to observe people at dinner parties, where guard should be let down, and new people met. Lies would fall, and she would see her guests' true colours, unraveling each person's mysteries as night progressed. Beside her newest asset, a young Russian male, sits John Rider, a legendary soldier who has fallen on hard times. This, of course, was not on accident.
John is a narcissist who likes to talk about himself, stories tumbling from an eloquent, and infinitely docile British tongue, his clear accent coloured with a musical Irish lilt. Yassen prefers to listen, cataloguing every small detail, silently sizing his company up. Julia wonders if the Rider is dumb. He believes he can hoodwink the biggest terrorist group since Al-Qaeda. Julia Rothman studies people like a spider surveying her tangled prey before she eats it. She sees the lie on his lips before it reaches her ears.
Yassen is there to stroke John's ego, using his training to great effect. Vindictive pleasure rears its ugly head in her chest. John will fall by her new member's hand, after young Cossack leaches every secret from his willing lips, the Brit's tight-fisted grip unfurling in the promise of pleasure. After all, who could resist such a beautiful Raven?
Stories John Rider didn't even know he had of the Paras came tumbling from somewhere deep in his soul, recounting a tale of a horiffic training experience, one where he somehow slept in the midst of a British monsoon. The nymph-like male beside him gazed at him in awe, his glacial blue eyes languidly shifing in a triangle between his eyes and lips.
A half finished plate of wild-mushroom and cottage cheese ravioli doused in a tart vodka sauce sat in front of Yassen, he idly twirled his fork while John spoke, a soft laugh bubbling from somewhere genuine as John injected mirth into his words. Julia's glare burnt his cheek, and he yearned to glare right back, but instead, he met the comfortably intense observing eyes beside him.
What a beauty he was. Hair of delicate spun gold that grew slightly shaggy at his nape, a slim, calm, aquiline face with high cheekbones and blue eyes that twinkled in the moonlight that filtered through the window; despite the dim artificial light. He knew he shouldn't be tempted, but something genuine cut through flimsy seduction, the younger male's gaze resting serenely just below his eyes.
He bit into another ravioli parcel, the decadent filling making his tongue tingle with unsung symphonies, coupled with the tart sauce that jolted him back into the here and now. The other male was drinking champagne; honey coloured bubbles rising gracefully, much like Yassen himself, as the main appeared. Duck breast with a sweetly tangy cherry sauce. And oh, John tried to not linger on the sight of a droplet of dark sauce on his lip as he licked it away, the conversation he was making (about a sniper shot he performed at 600 metres from the target) slightly less interesting than the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed...Fuck.
Yakov Antonovich Golubev (he still had trouble using the frankly racist name Rothman had bestowed upon him; Yassen Gregorovich) was enjoying the dinner far more than he thought he would. John Rider was an interesting man, harder to charm than the rest, but infinitely pliable when prodded in the right direction. The man was off on a tangent, relaying a story similar to Yassen's miraculous shot. Really, it was quite nice that John talked so much, he thought as he chewed the mouthful he took, it was so easy to space out and detach from his mind and wander off into a memory, or a kind of meditation.
John was handsome in a masculine way, broad with a classic British face, deep, brooding brown eyes with hints of humour, clean-shaven, just how Yassen liked it (was he to seduce John, or was John to seduce him? He mused absently.) and close-cut brown hair that wasn't so close cut anymore - just enough to card his fingers through it.
Next came a fancy little tart of meruingue, raspberry and a creamy curd that was familiar, yet he couldn't quite place the flavour, nor did he particularly care, focused completely on John's lips, enunciating words dramatically. The sound of his voice faded and his food lost taste, all of his senses drinking in the man before him.
Pleasure sparked in John's eyes during every mouthful, and with horror, Yassen acknowledged his yearning to cause that pleasure. He watched, transfixed as he ate every last spoonful and finished his drink of choice (wine). He snapped himself out of it forcibly. He had a job to do. Yassen looked up at the tap on his shoulder. John had evidently asked him something.
"Pardon?" Yassen asked in his usual dreamy, absent tones.
"I asked if you would care to accompany me to my room?"
Yassen sought Julia's gaze and she winked at him. He looked up at the now standing soldier, and slipped his hand into his, feeling his tight, warm grip, and slightly calloused hands. Yassen stood up with his aid (it was unneeded, but the gesture was appreciated) and followed him under the moon's reassuring eye.