The man looked positively dismal. A sad sight in every way. Which was a pity, for Guy was certain there lured a handsome man behind it.
Now, Guy wasn't normally someone who'd comfort a stranger - there were far more interesting things to do with strangers - but... well, he had wine with him and, really, he might as well. It wasn't like he had much else to do.
So, he approached and offered the jug. "You look awful." He said.
Peter doesn't honestly believe that anything in a jug would be helpful to him and his lips curve up in something of a brittle smile. "Well, then the out matches the in," he assures, waving a hand to deny the...well, whatever it is. "I didn't mean to ruin the night, though."
The Island is certainly lacking in holes of shame to crawl into.
Guy shrugged and took a generous gulp himself instead. "Too late. You already did. And such a beautiful night like this..." He added musingly looking up to the sky.
Peter arches a glance to the sky, simply to catch the litter of stars all about them before he regards the man again. "I don't think I'd be particular good company, really."
But he can't help a proper introduction and he slowly extends a pale hand. "I'm Peter."
"No. No, I've avoided the unforgiveable sin of being American," he notes with dry sarcasm and a glimmer of joking in his eye. "I've been here...well, two months. Two long months."
Guy smiled at the joke. Though perhaps in recent times he had found the company of certain Americans less than completely awful, the stereotype was still very much true.
"People claim 'it gets better' after a while. And it does, but it's not always a good thing. Nor is it at all comforting to know." Guy said truthfully. He lifted the jug a bit. "It's wine of a sort." He explained. "Contrary to popular belief, it's not half bad." It wasn't exactly half good either. It... varied.
"I'm used to the finest wines in Italy," Peter says, lifting his chin to denote that he won't be subjecting himself to anything less today. "So I'll continue to pass until a nice Montepulciano arrives."
Not Montepulciano not Château d'Yquem, this stuff, definitely not. "Oh, well, I'm sorry." Guy said, with mock indignation. "I had no idea that I was dealing with a man of particular tastes."
"I lived in Italy the last two years," he confesses, as though this were some sin and not that he won't drink, that he's too spoiled. "Its riches became my preferences."
"You can't be from my time then." Guy asserted. Or perhaps he was, but then he gave a very odd definition to the word 'riches'. "I was used to quite a different quality in England as well, but" He looked idly at the jug as he spoke with a light raise of his eyebrow. "well, one adapts aparently."
"1937." Guy replied. Where Mussolini and propaganda rang the boot-shaped country. Oh there was culture, yes, but Guy didn't really care much about it, not in those days, not in that situation.
"Ah," Peter says, and he knows. Of course he was only eight in that year, but he still remembers the sounds, the noises, the smell of the countryside that came with passing years. "Not precisely the best of years. I can vouch, obviously, for the fifties in Italy," he says, but it's so very tired and lethargic.
"Well, I shall have to go and visit." Guy replied, with a small smile, knowing in the back of his head where the fifties would take him. He heard the tired voice, but ignored it, didn't ask about it, didn't really want to know. "What did you do there?" He asked.
"I was a musician. Well, quite honestly, an opera repetiteur, but that simply means I spent my life surrounded by good people and good music." And then, one day, the music came to a hush and hasn't come back since.
Now, Guy wasn't normally someone who'd comfort a stranger - there were far more interesting things to do with strangers - but... well, he had wine with him and, really, he might as well. It wasn't like he had much else to do.
So, he approached and offered the jug. "You look awful." He said.
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The Island is certainly lacking in holes of shame to crawl into.
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But he can't help a proper introduction and he slowly extends a pale hand. "I'm Peter."
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He accepted the somehow surprisingly soft hand. "Guy. Haven't seen you around, have I? Have you been here long?"
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"People claim 'it gets better' after a while. And it does, but it's not always a good thing. Nor is it at all comforting to know." Guy said truthfully. He lifted the jug a bit. "It's wine of a sort." He explained. "Contrary to popular belief, it's not half bad." It wasn't exactly half good either. It... varied.
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