The smooth Italian nuances that leave the other man's lips momentarily see both Dorian's stormy grey eyes lift upward in rather pleasant surprise, a slightly lopsided simper touching his features in a moment of endearment towards the other man. After all, there were so few whom understood his language, ever fewer whom appreciated it as he is assured it should be appreciated. Dorian finding himself newly intrigued by the being beside him before his attention wavers towards the serving man behind the bar and the ease with which the man beside him seems to command the start of this aforementioned 'tab'. His correction is gentle, though the smallest of frowns appears upon the youthful-looking fae's features all the same. Bartender was not a word he was familiar with, the syllables rolled upon his tongue a moment in repetition of the phrase- though the man's explanation brings the faintest of simpers to his lips once more. A chuckle rising within his throat.

"Ah, forse, but he serves you, does he not?"

The smooth baritone of his voice combines both Italian and English now with a subtle lilt to both, one eye lifting slightly in a shadow of a tease perhaps, the words hardly argumentative, as if almost inviting the other man to argue with the logic he knows to be sound. Perhaps bartender was merely the modern word for servant, it mattered little to Dorian in the end, the Aragonian King assured the tasks the man performed were one in the same. The word however, was committed to memory. The matter of the tab seems decidedly more puzzling, silver gaze narrowed slightly at the suggestion that the man before him might very well take some sort of pleasure from laying collapsed upon the floor while the bartender servant robbed him of his money. Astounding! This modern way of things. The other fellow seeming to delight in the notion of such an evening, Dorian finding him almost amusing, so very different to those he had known. Although in truth nights of drunken debauchery were hardly foreign to him. Alcohol was freely flowing after ever battle, wedding, birth or simply whenever his Father and thus Naples by extension- chose to flash its wealth to the rest of the world in a style so lavish it made even the fine interior of this bar seem pale. The nature of the other man however, was appealing in some fashion, Dorian entirely oblivious to the power the vampire so subtly continued to notch upward and by that same notion only assuring Dorian continued to find more and more appeal in his presence. Even despite his hair.

The man's assurance that where he was from, such length of hair was considered normal, is met with an almost dubious look from the fae and yet one that betrays a curiosity all the same. His lips part to ask from what kingdom the other man was from when his mention of the use for such hair brings a ready chuckle to the fae's lips, another simper tracing his features. This look however, is decidedly more roguish in nature.

"Forse questo potrebbe essere vero. Anche se si ha abbastanza abilità, credo, si può fare un bel po 'senza mani a tutti."
(Perhaps this might be true. Though if one has enough skill, I think, one can do rather a lot without hands at all.)

His shoulders lift in a languorous shrug, the Italian words offered in a smooth murmur with that same accented ease. So many years spent within the confines of his castle had at least allowed the man to perfect his own forms of artistry- varied as they were. His attention moves once more from the man at his side and towards the drink that appears suddenly before him at his new companion's request. He has never tasted modern alcohol before, Dorian long ago having given up any regular habit of eating or drinking. Unusual perhaps, even for a fae and yet there are few so old as himself, few whom have learned to exist without it. After all, he hardly needed food or water, eating was a human habit, one he had allowed to fall aside after the deaths of his human family. Much to the eternal disdain of Samantha, the girl still afflicted with a need to eat three meals a day and to attempt to force him to do the same. Her intentions, as always, were entirely pure and yet she simply did not understand- he did not grow hungry or thirsty anymore. Such things were reserved entirely for his pleasure, the occasional food drawing his intrigue enough to taste it. The drink before him affording him the same intrigue now as he eyes it.

The toasting gesture the vampire makes is entirely unobserved, Dorian far more intrigued with the drink itself, one slender finger moving to circle the rim of the glass before taking it lightly within his grasp, doing much the same as Malek, bringing the glass to his lips. This liquor is far.....far more potent than any he has had before, it very near burns his tongue, both eyes widening in shocked surprise as he coughs in response.

"This is- very strong. It is like liquid fire!"

He offers at last, both eyes lifting once more, tongue brushing across lips as if considering the after taste he is left with.

"We do not dislike it though."

His mannerisms, his speech, are nothing short of ancient and yet he remains oblivious to it, just as he remains oblivious to his companions plan to see how very much he might enjoy the taste of whisky. A rather simple task perhaps, given his body has near no immunity to it, the fae taking another sip before his finger traces around the rim of the glass once more in a playful, haphazard fashion. The man glancing upward again at Malek's words. Words so very similar to those Sebastian had spoken.

"It depends upon whom they are as to what they call me. Once too, it would have depend upon who you were, though things have changed I think. Still, I have been called many things over many years, but Dorian will suffice."

There is no bravado nor ego to the words, the soft baritone of his voice delivering the sentence with ease, Dorian having well come to understand that in this kingdom at least his authority was not the same as within his homeland and that his titles- so many of them, were better reserved for later on. His silver gaze returns to Malek now, tousled dark hair falling into his gaze, one hand moving to brush it aside absentmindedly. He finds he likes this man, his presence, his company even. Malek decidedly appealing to him.

"It should please me, I think, to drink with you- you are English? Your accent is not unfamiliar to me."

The English, it seemed, had a way of finding him. Just as they, too, had a way of coaxing him into their beds more often then not.