It wasn't often that he left his shop in the middle of the day. Alistair usually spent the daytime hours in his brewery or behind the counter testing potions. Sometimes he restocked items, or read a book, or glared at people through the windows - or, if he was feeling adventurous, he went to the Leaky Cauldron and glared at people there. He had to entertain himself somehow, after all.

But in short, he didn't get out much. The sun was bright, and he drew his thick and moth-eaten black coat around his shoulders, white hair a mess and only getting worse as the collar of the coat forced it to curl and tangle around his face. He'd even taken the time to brush it out (mostly so Darian wouldn't make a scene) and most of the work was gone with one shrug of his shoulders.

Of course, the coat was a bit thick for the weather, as were his leather pants. And the knee-high boots. The undershirt was really the only thing suitable for he summer sun, being light and baggy. His coat wasn't just to keep the sun off his pale skin, though; deep in its enchanted pockets sat several vials of a potion that was...well, it wasn't illegal. The unspoken word in regards to that, though, was yet. Either way, Darian had ordered more, Alistair wanted money and an exchanged needed to be made.

He wouldn't have gone to Darian's flat in any other circumstances, or so he told himself. Darian wasn't exactly Alistair's favorite person - not that he kept a list, of course, or that anyone was vying for the top spots - but he did pay well, and Alistair liked money. The other man's flamboyance was rather grating on the nerves, of course.

Darian's flat was far from the Alley proper. When Alistair arrived a short time later, having appeared a few streets away, the place was pretty quiet - the street empty, as most residents were still at work. He marched to the front door. Alistair wasn't the sort to worry about social issues, of course, so he didn't bother knocking. Darian knew he was coming, after all - that was all the excuse Alistair needed.

He slammed the door open unceremoniously, striding into the apartment. It was, of course, fancier than his spendthrift place - black and leather and gold in all the right places. It didn't scream its owner's lifestyle, but still held nothing back. Whoever owned this place had style.

Alistair mostly ignored it. He wasn't the sort to be taken in by other people's zebra patterned pillows.

The teenager sitting on the couch was new, though. Alistair looked him up and down, and matter of factly drew his own conclusions. "Here to learn the trade?" he asked - or, rather, sneered - as he shrugged off his coat.

The inward explosion of the door made Erin jump, unused as he was to people falling into the apartment during the middle of the day and especially not people who were for all intents and purposes albino scarecrows.  He craned his head back, wide blue eyes catching the expression on Alistair's face and narrowing at the comment about "learning the trade."
 
"Piss off," he eventually decided, a sentiment born partially of the suspicion that Alistair was not refering to fashion and partially of Erin's automatic reaction to sneering blonde men. This one was so pale in skin and hair as to seem nearly colorless, his black, baggy clothes not helping the impression. Plush lips and thickly-lashed eyes rendered him astoundingly pretty, but Erin had been fooled one too many times in the past and thus developed a paranoid-keen sense for gender relations. A week with Darian had only strengthened this skill: Alistair was not the first nor the fifth at whom Erin'd had to squint. Where did Darian find these people, that's what he wanted to know.

But he rose from the couch without rancor, stuffing his feet into trainers in preparation to leave. That was the deal: his cousin let him stay only if he scarpered when company came 'round. He could wander back around two or three in the morning, let himself back in, and either the company'd be gone or Darian's bedroom door would be closed, spelled silent so Erin could sleep. It wasn't too bad, not as bad as he'd expected. The 80% of the time Darian wasn't there made up for the 20% of the time that he was.
 
He stooped to tie one trailing knot, casting Alistair a long look as he did so. "Cor," he said thoughtfully, straightening and emerging from behind the couch, "Eat a sandwich, why don't you?" 
 

The little twerp was getting up to leave, apparently. Good riddance, Alistair decided. The IQ in Darian's apartment was usually in opposite proportion to the people in it, in his experience (He was immune to this effect, of course). Darian had a few smart friends, Alistair would concede...but most of them were bloody stupid. Pretty, but stupid. Oh, and shallow. But pretty. 

He walked over to lean on the couch, one bony hip cocked against the leather that was (he suspected) probably the same as his pants. The clothing companies made shortcuts like that, he was sure. Lazy bastards. He was pretty sure one of Darian's coat had once been a set of curtains. (This proved the theory, naturally.)

Alistair had toned out Erin, effectively shutting the kid out of his mind, when the little berk made a comment. Alistair whipped his head around, messy white hair getting even worse as it caught on the fur around his collar. Now he wished he'd stayed by the door; he'd have shoved the little blighter down the stairs, if given the chance.

"Sod off, you little arse," he told him, matter of factly, and vaulted over the back of the couch to land on the warm spot Erin had left. Technically, warm leather in the summer wasn't exactly pleasant, but Alistair wasn't going to complain.

Well, that was a silly thought; of course he was going to complain. He waited all of 5 seconds after Erin's footsteps had faded down the stairs before he stood up again, shedding his coat unceremoniously (but more carefully than he usually would have, in mind of the delicate bottles contained therein) and walked to Darian's door. He was more mindful here; having once opened Darian's bedroom door uninvited, he'd found that once was enough.

He thumped it with his boot instead, since while he was mindful of Darian's privacy, any dents in the wood could be easily fixed. "Oi!" he said. "I'm charging by the hour, 'ere. Pluck your eyelashes later."

A trailing snicker was Erin's only response, along with the deliberately loud boy-clomp as he went out the door and down the stairs. A frame-rattling slam completed the first impression, although to be fair Erin was really only alerting Darian to the company and his own departure.

Duly noted. The house fell into watchful silence as Alistair moved through it, lush carpet hushing even the stomp of his boots.

"Oi! I'm charging by the hour, 'ere. Pluck your eyelashes later."

"Why?" Breathed a voice directly behind Alistair's ear, lit by lazy humor and practically a purr. "Do you think I can't afford it?"

He was bare-chested under an Eastern robe, in jeans, feet pale as something from the underside of a log and toes meshed firmly in the luxurious carpet. His hair was wet but not dripping, dampened down and curling heavy against his neck and jaw. His eyelashes were perfectly even. Darian grinned.

"Nice," he said, eyes kindled with interest as they lingered on the pale swoop of Alistair's hair. It was half-disheveled silk now, too fine not to catch on the man's jacket and collar and the very air itself to tangle, but Darian could see it'd been brushed at least once today and he appreciated the effort, he noticed things like that. Fast as a cat he leaned closer and tugged on a strand, lips curling into a laughing smirk. Of course an instant later he'd taken a sharp step back, no fool though he loved playing one, getting out of range before Alistair could shove him away. He turned this into a graceful side-saunter as if it was what he meant to do all along, moving past Alistair into his bedroom (which possessed the same semi-immaculate showroom quality born not of innate cleanliness but house-elf magic, disuse, or both).  He crooked a finger at Alistair to follow him, called out, "How much?" as he searched in a drawer.

Alistair was composed enough not to jump at the voice at his ear - but only just. He still startled, whipping around, scowl firmly in place. When he was looking at Darian he was completely still, though - the aura of I meant to do that so thick around him it nearly had physical weight.

"Well, if you can afford it, I might just show up when you're out next time and wait," he said, with mock thoughtfulness. As he spoke, though, he looked Darian up and down. He didn't need to say it; his expression said what the hell are you wearing this time clearly enough. He was used to Darian, though; his tenancy to eye roll at Darian's outfits had vanished years ago. Now it was more of a cursory investigation, as one might scan the Prophet to see the headline.

Still, Darian in his own home was often more interesting to look at than when he was outside. He tended to wear less, but Darian was often able to make a single robe more outrageous than an ensemble with as many layers as the Queen's knickers. It was a skill or knack - natural or otherwise - that Alistair rather liked.

Not that he'd ever admit it.

He did toss his head as Darian moved his hand. Darian had a rather silly fascination with hair, for some reason. Or maybe it was just the fact Alistair's was easier to get at than Landis's.

"15 galleons," he said, following Darian and sitting rather heavily on the bed, "Actually, 17. It's the new blend you wanted and I'm out of distilled Cardemon."