As it was the custom of lizards to bask in the sun, so it was also a habit of the Count's to leave his hand resting in the spring rays for some minutes before daring to lay it on the shoulders of his young companion. For while his core temperatures may have been as arctic as the glacial chambers of his heart, a few moments spent in the glory of Sol would give his limbs at least an illusory feel of life and warmth. This, from his perspective, was not calculation, but merely courtesy.
Still, though, the warmth it gifted his skin was brief and fleeting- and more than once Albert had laughed and exclaimed at the coolness of his fingers, before drawing the Count's hand forward to warm it in both his own. And indeed gradually the temperature there would rise once more under his friend's gentle ministrations, his cold flesh lent heat from the young man's touch. He had it not within him to tell his companion that it was truly in vain, for the ice would already have glazed over by the time his hand was returned to his person, himself having no internal fire to keep alight a furnace gone dark years ago.
But this, regrettably, was no pretty dance of courtesy- merely the most exquisite care in calculation. For it was spring in Paris, and while spring could turn a young man's fancy- or turn one to the fancy of young men- spring too was the time when the frozen seas of the north would melt and set great icebergs adrift to prowl the open waters. And the Count was far too experienced a seaman to not know that it took merely one to sink an entire ship.
