Re: second floor ; smoking
The assassin leaned forward in his chair, and in doing so pulled back his hood without concern or care; his identity meant nothing here, where no one knew him and he barely even knew himself. "I do," he admitted with a laugh. "Words sound better in languages that are not English, no?" Nothing immediately came to mind when he thought of words whispered between the sheets, though he had bedded many women (or so the man who wore this garb had) and instead he searched for words one might use in such a situation. "I am fond of bella, or bellissima, it is a matter of opinion. My dear, mio tesoro, and mio amore. My love. It is very romantic. In bed, the words themselves mean only so much as one makes them mean." He nodded, as he could agree that caring was often feigned, a pretense, and he was guilty of that on more than one occasion. Except he wasn't; he barely knew how to care in truth, how could he pretend? "Pretense or no, it is still caring. What separates words and their meaning is the feeling, you see? For it to be true, it must be said with feeling. Emotion. The girl, or boy, must be someone who makes you feel," and his tone was almost wistful.
He smiled when she called him charming, but as she could not understand how he could lack love, so did he feel the same for her. Surely there was someone, as he'd so stubbornly claimed, who sought her heart. "I did, once," he said, the words tasting bitter as he spoke them, but he was caught between two truths, two realities, and took from both. "She is... gone. Not here." He waved a hand. Gone, not dead. Those who had died were close to his heart, so much so that he had lost pieces when they were lowered into the ground. "I have, yes. I watched them die," he confessed, "and I could do nothing." For all his skill and the blades hidden in his braces, he had failed to save them. "Some might say it is better to not have it, as to not feel the pain. But once love is had, no one would wish to undo it." Not even him, with all the sacrifices, for he would be worse than he was now without it.
A grin spread across his features, the somberness fleeing elsewhere. "Do men bore so easily?" he teased. "Those who seek power and are corrupted by it, the only freedom they want is for themselves." He nodded, because yes, he believed in liberation. Here or there, he believed in it. "I do not laugh at fate, no, but I believe we make our own," he said, and smirked again. "Was it fate for us to meet as well?"