nysalogs | [open] channeling angels in a new age, now.

[At that, Prior covers the butterfly's glow with his cupped hands and hushes Byerly.]

You'll give it a complex. It's a wonderful attack butterfly. The most vicious blows do come from those who let us get attached before they strike.

[He bites his lip and after a moment it becomes clear something's tickling. His hands fall away and reveal the little creature crawling up the side of his throat.]

See? It was just biding its time.

[Prior tips his chin up, accommodating this little journey, but keeps his eyes on Byerly. There is, as yet, no reason given for him to be lurking in the shadows in front of the other man's home, nor is he acting like there needs to be one. Just passing, butterfly in tow.]

And how is the boredom so dire you told a whole city about it? Assuaged? [Or the melancholy, or one of the multiple other things that little introduction to the network may have been intended to achieve.]

[ By reaches out to touch his finger to the underside of Prior's chin - both to tease Prior and to see if he can get the little creature to crawl onto him. His smile is rather wry. ]

How is the boredom that has you lurking outside my home at an ungodly hour?

Boredom? I am haunting the line between life and death, as we shadows of mortality are wont to do.

[Can't you see he's dressed for the occasion: all color swathed by a black coat, a shade he'll only wear when feeling mawkish. Though the effect is marred somewhat by the way he smiles and clips his teeth together as Byerly lifts his chin, the mildest threat of a bite, too high to count. The butterfly flirts with the offered fingertips, a tease if ever there was one.]

...Or the line between that street and this, as the case may be. It's too quiet here. I don't do stillness well. So I thought I'd groom my whiskers and make my slow way over here to introduce myself but, alas, nobody home.

Or nobody awake, perhaps.

[ He has a steady hand, waiting for the butterfly to move forward rather than urging it on. Though the urge to tickle Prior's neck is almost irresistible. ]

I find the word for boredom to be much more evocative and truthful in Russian. Skuchno. It comes from the word skuchat, to long for. Boredom is, in Russian, a terrible longing. I don't comprehend whatsoever why your idiotic English language distinguishes them.

Well, because if it meant that, we'd all be complaining of boredom, all the time. We're made of terrible longings. Or I am, aren't you?

[Never entirely solid on his feet, he leans in slightly to Byerly's steadying hand, and closes his eyes.]

Skuchno. It sounds better when you say it. Is that what your accent reminds me of? But you know french too, n'est-ce pas? What a queer combination the future is.

[The little creature gives up Prior's neck for Byerly's hand just as Prior's eyelashes flutter open.]

Ah - abandoned.

How dreadful.

[ He lifts his hand towards his own face, to light his features. ]

But yes, my mother tongue was French, and my nanny tongue Russian, which means that my French lags a bit behind my Russian because I saw more of nounou than maman. I'll teach you sometime. All the best swear words for you.

[ He brings the butterfly back to Prior and urges it to alight upon his cheek. ]

It likes you best.

Times have moved on somewhat, but back when I was little Russian was not a tongue for the fashionable houses. Why just pronouncing wish as vish could get you hauled over the communist coals. Let alone being a communist and a fag. Darling, it would be unthinkable.

[He peers over Byerly's lifted hand, the luminescence of the little insect making everything glow.]

So I would love to learn. [And, echoing something Byerly had said of him earlier, but turning it to a new angle-] All these offers to teach me things. Maybe you have a missed calling, too.

[Taking a breath - blame his fuzzy lungs, or something. for where his oxygen's gone - he clasps a hand round By's wrist.]

And, speaking of callings - if I had wings, I know what I'd like best.

[A small movement, and it's tiny dancing star in the air between them.]

[ That soft bioluminescence suits Prior. He's a beautiful man even now, no doubt, but his illness has clearly robbed him of much. But in the bluish glow, the pallor is erased, the gauntness disguised - and the sweetness of his face, his delight over the little bug, truly replaces the usual desperate misery that lurks under his drawls and smiles. It's a cruel thing, an unhappy thing, watching Prior play cheerful for the crowds. By so much prefers this genuine warmth.

And it's that thought that keeps By from leaning forward and kissing him. The temptation is strong, and it feels right in that moment - the natural next step in this little dance. But Prior has so much self-loathing misery all tied up in that feeling of being undesirable. To bring in the question of desire, to make this less than chaste...It might give Prior pleasure, but it'd be just as likely to dredge up all sorts of ugliness. No. Too great a risk. He's a gambler, but he's not going to bet double or nothing with someone else's happiness.

Heaven help him. He wishes he could make it better. He wish he knew how to heal...anyone. Anything. But he can't. ]

Ah, to fly. The dream of all men everywhere. I think you'd look fetching with butterfly wings, Prior. [ By strokes down the side of his face. ] If only I could teach you how to kick free of the earth. That'd be a lesson worth learning.

[Prior's focus is distracted, head tipped to watch the butterfly until there's only a speck of light to follow, blinking out high above them. But he looks back in time to catch the look on Byerly's face. And he's not an idiot. His self-esteem may be riddled with bullet holes, but his self-worth's a less vulnerable edifice.

It's the kind of look Louis would have spit nails for a week over someone giving him, before, while he'd have gracefully pretended not to be pleased and amused. And Prior remembers Louis, too, back when Prior falling in love with him had felt like being chosen for some higher purpose.

No more. He won't mark out his future in terms of looks like these. He can't allow them, only to watch them die as the reality of what his daily life with all its little indignities really looks like gradually settles in. Or, worse, watch them turn pitying or resentful. He's too young to forgo looks like these, but even the knowledge of that makes him feel ancient already. Better to keep this to whatever it's been, so far. Mutual distraction? Prior's sure he wouldn't allow himself to agree to so much without the feeling that it's giving Byerly some purpose, too.

But that look. Prior looks back and lets himself be aware, for one moment, how much just looking at Byerly sometimes feels like cheating on someone who no longer has the slightest claim.

And then he laughs, bites his lip.]

Oh, I trust I'll learn. Just, not too soon? For now I think I'd rather be taught how to keep myself here as long as can be arranged. [Gently deflecting, he lets the need to shift his stance pull him away just enough.] Though I'm really not sure assaulting people will ever be my thing.

No? No plans to become a soldier or nightclub bouncer? Pity.

[ He lifts his hand to tug gently on one of Prior's stray locks of hair. The length looks almost silly to his Barrayaran eye, where even the town clowns like him keep it military-regulation short. It's charming, truly.

With a small sigh, he turns towards more serious matters. He's very nearly sincere when he says: ]

But it doesn't have to be your thing, dear Prior. Just a thing you can do. I can teach you marksmanship instead, if that pleases you better, but one must always be prepared to be disarmed.

Marksmanship. That's shooting people, right? [No, fine, sure, marksmanship. He cards fngers back through his own hair only to bunch it between them and tug lightly in faux despair.] You have no idea what a constant affront this place is to my delicate liberal sensibilities.

[Never so much as a gun in the building once out of the family home. He exhales slowly.]

I think I'll be very prepared to be disarmed. There can't be that much difference between learning to fire a gun and learning to look like I could if they pushed me?

Ah, there are certain people who can get away with just looking like they could if you pushed them. Those people tend to be six foot seven and muscly all over and have a scar across their cheek. Neither you nor I exactly fit the bill.

[ He reaches out and interlaces his fingers with Prior's. ]

But come. Let's go in. Have a nightcap. I hate not being able to see your lovely face clearly.

As if you don't light up the night on your own. [His smile is wry, a look cast down into the dark where their hands are linked. Nothing but a blur and the sensation of warmth spreading far beyond his fingertips.]

Though what assumptions you make. You have no idea the things I keep hidden. [Prior's free hand plucks at the lapel of his coat with a flourish, as though muscles like Popeye's or an extra five inches in height might somehow be lurking beneath.] The scar, anyway. I can wear a cropped shirt and petrify enemies with my absence of an appendix - oh, wait.

[Breaking away, he ducks across to where he'd been waiting and retrieves a small paper bag.]

I came bearing gifts.

[ With a laugh - ]

A gift! Do share.

I was right, strawberries are out of season. But blackberries are close enough and these are... [He shrugs.] Close enough to blackberries.

[Prior rustles the bag as he comes back over, clasping it against his chest. One small favour gone unforgotten.]

They should really match with gin, but it may be a little late for something so abrasive. [Certainly for his sensitive system.]

[ Just a little blink, a tap of his long eyelashes. A moment of genuine surprise. By is not...accustomed to these sorts of gestures. Not at all. Not accustomed to promises kept, just those made idly and forgotten. ]

Ah. Do I try one now? [ He gestures to the bag, miming taking one. Do they need to be washed first? ]

[Prior raises a warning finger to counter Byerly's mime.]

In a bowl, sweetheart, we're not savages. Besides, I have my reputation to think of. I can't greet the neighbors after standing out here, pressing things into your mouth in the dark.

[Oh, he could, and with a smile too. But Prior's stood for long enough, and inside there will be light and he won't need to compensate so much for his eyes and his leg. So he affects a southern accent, fans himself in a thrill of affronted sensibilities, and sweeps toward the door.]

[ And By bows him inside - though he watches him go closely, looking for signs of weakness, of trouble. Takes note of it, and frowns very slightly.

But he's all smiles again as he makes his way into the kitchen, fetching a bowl down from the cabinet. He sets it out for Prior. ]

Well, go on then.

[There are always signs of weakness to find, for anyone who looks at him long enough. But there are signs of someone refusing to give in to it, too. His leg's bad enough now that he can't quite erase the limp, even on the good days, but there's a grace to his movement despite it - the rest of his body accepting the shockwaves and turning them into a sashay.

He turns on the spot, taking in the room before leaning over the table and tumbling berries into a bowl.]

The imperial palace. I am honoured. Incidentally, I assume that whole declaration earlier was trying to attract attention?

Just trying to have a bit of fun.

[ The lie is easy enough. But Byerly hesitates just a second before adding something more honest - though it's delivered with the same smooth confidence as his lie, given no more significance than it. ]

And find out a thing or two. Collect biographies.

[ He reaches out and plucks out a berry, though he doesn't eat it quite yet. ]

Well, it is a town full of displaced queens. I don't know that the title's enough to get you a visit to the inner sanctum.

[Though Prior has to wonder how an empress would feel about someone else throwing the title around. Either think him dangerous or dismiss him - and with the drunken piano concerto the later far more likely. But it seemed like a performance intended to catch someone's eye, and that's the purpose that makes Prior curious.]

Did you find out anything interesting?

[He selects a berry of his own - careful, slow.]

Like who could be looking to poison you with forest fruit?

[ That last, damnably perceptive comment makes Byerly flinch just a bit. In no small part because he hadn't registered what he was doing - but Prior's completely correct; he'd been hesitating because he'd been waiting for Prior to eat one of the berries first. To check to see if he was being poisoned.

Well. Paranoia does run deep. He still doesn't take a bite. ]

A few things. To begin with, who's willing to share, and who isn't.

Does that really tell you much? I could give you half my life story without sharing a single secret. And I never did get a poem. [Lips pressing to a performance of a pout, Prior lets his elbow rest on the table, reaching across - thin wrist, long fingertips curling out - to coax Byerly's berry from him.] That's enough to make someone resentful.

[Both berries in his palm, he tilts it, lets them swap places.]

But then you're the one with the weaponry. I thought you were worried about the motives of the people on the ship? Not the rest of us who got thrown off the boat.

[A quick, wry smile and he tips both berries into his mouth. They're not quite what he could pick up from the store at home but the taste's fresh and bright, autumn fruit.]

The snozzberries taste like snozzberries.

Ah.

[ His gaze drops. He's a little ashamed before that casual, unquestioning, unjudgmental demonstration of the harmlessness of the gift. Some gratitude, eh, Vorrutyer? ]

Well. Malice can come from any and all directions. And often does. I think the best definition of life is still possessed of the capability to really royally fuck something up. [ He shrugs, and takes one of the berries, and eats it. ] This is remarkable, Prior. Delicious.

Really? I thought that was just the cover line of all my report cards.

[It's Byerly's expression that Prior waits on, not what he says. Well, there are all those stories about the first time british people tried bananas - coming from an oversaturated age it's rare to see someone really trying something new.]

I'm fond of flawed things. Maybe that's why I like people so much. Most people. But I think there's a second part - something like and live to fuck up again another day. We're tenacious, aren't we?

[He picks another berry from the bowl. They're stupidly ripe staining his fingertips already.]

Malice sounds dramatic. [But so does war before the bombs fall.] Did anyone ask for a rhyme about plotting our downfall?

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