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

[priorly]

Who: Prior Walter (priorly) & you??
What: Catch all logs for October!
When: October!
Where: various
Warning(s): language, likely mention of terminal illness (AIDS). Adult themes?
Notes: Please PM me if you'd like a starter, or feel free to wildcard me anytime.

Comments

[vorrutyer]

[ And there's not even a moment of hesitation before he agrees, saying: ]

What a pleasant and charming notion. Most certainly, yes. It would be very agreeable to me.

[priorly]

[At the same time that some line of tension that might have been in Prior's shoulders so long it's seemed part of his stance finally gives out and snaps, something pinches sharply - painfully - at a corner of his mouth. Only for a second.

It's not easy to ask some things.]

Has anyone ever told you you sound like you're chewing a Jane Austen novel sometimes? It's very charming but I feel constantly underdressed without a bonnet and gown. [And, less of a deflection.] Thank you.

[vorrutyer]

Jane Austen? Dear lord, who would let a woman write?

[ That's said with mock-horror - but at least it's very obviously mock-horror. Even Byerly's world isn't quite backwards enough that women aren't allowed to read and write. Though female literacy is a pretty, uh, new development on Barrayar. ]

But there's certainly no need to thank me. Didn't you hear me say that it would be pleasant to me, as well?

[priorly]

You said 'it would be very agreeable to me.'

[There's just a trace of Byerly's accent in that, and not terribly placed - Prior's an experienced mimic. Though he continues with a more anglified inflection.]

Like, it would be very agreeable to me, Miss Price, if we were to perambulate around the ha-ha for a time.

[But he's probably not going to be writing regency romances any time soon.]

I'm not trying to insult you. It's the kind of thing that makes a certain type of person fairly swoon.

[vorrutyer]

[ With a little flip of his hand - ]

Oh, I'm fully aware. Why do you think I do it?

[priorly]

[Because if everything's hyperbole it's near impossible to pick out what's honest underneath. Or, in counterpoint, what's not.

But that's by the by. The last traces of sugar scatter as Prior raises his hand to his brow and faints ('faints') elegantly against the back of his chair.]

[vorrutyer]

[ Oh, he's fully aware. Why do you think he does it?

By gets to his feet, clucking a bit. ]

Come, come, do it again. This time, when I can catch you.

[priorly]

[Because everything he is is kept under heavy guard.

Prior raises a wrist from his slump.]

No, no, this chance is missed. You'll have to help me up and try again.

[vorrutyer]

[ He sighs dramatically. ]

Here, here, let's move somewhere softer first. Let's go to bed. Eh?

[priorly]

[One eye cracks open. A beat, and Prior swoons again, a shiver of laughter somewhat ruining the effect.

It's only a moment before he's pushing himself up.]

I thought you'd never ask.

[vorrutyer]

[ Byerly bows and takes Prior's hand. Then he leads him up, like a cavalier drawing his lady home, up the stairs and to his room.

The room is...well. Like you'd suspect. Not filthy, but cluttered: discarded clothing on the floor, a towel hanging off a doorknob. No books. Bed unmade. By looks unfazed by that, unembarrassed, as he pulls him inside. ]

[priorly]

[Prior is by no means overly fastidious when it comes to cleanliness, but he is a grown man who's moved from an apartment with a bathtub in the kitchen to one with actual bona fide art (prints) on the wall over the space of the last four years. He knows how to fold clothes, even how to use a laundry basket.

He laughs at the towel on the door, pausing long enough that when Byerly tugs his hand there's enough momentum to end up drawn in against him.]

Mon dieu, you were right about the malice in men's hearts. Someone's broken in and stolen all your clothes hangers.

[vorrutyer]

How rude.

[ His voice is mild. ]

I would never come into someone's house and complain about the state of it.

[ He would, and he has. ]

[priorly]

[And Prior is not particularly worried he's given offence. He presses a finger to his own lips.]

Not complaining, sympathizing.

[He lifts a foot and shakes a shirt loose from his shoe.]

For your poor, aching spine that keeps you from bending over.

[vorrutyer]

Oh, I do plenty of that, Prior. Just not for the sake of my clothing.

[ A bawdy wink as he kicks off his shoes, then unselfconsciously starts unbuttoning his suit jacket and waistcoat. He is, without ceremony, preparing for bed. ]

Do you need to borrow a shirt? Do you get cold?

[priorly]

Lesser men wouldn't admit to it. [Which is a small but not insignificant note of approval.] I would like to borrow a shirt.

[Not for the cold, for the scatter of wine-stain abominations across his chest. Shedding his own jacket (in a neat fold over the back of a chair) he bends to pick up the shirt that had accosted him earlier - it already looks slept in. He raises eyebrows, questioning.]

And is the bathroom next door? If I can't moisturize, I should at least cleanse.

[vorrutyer]

Please, give me a little bit of credit.

[ By goes to a little table beside his bed and picks up a small jar. Definitely not the best moisturizer one will find - definitely not the prime bioengineered stuff he's used to back home - but it works. He hands it to Prior. ]

Go, it's two doors down. Do not go next door; that will have a woman screaming bloody murder. Or attempting to bloody murder you.

[priorly]

[Really, he just wants somewhere to change without having to hide behind his own arms like a shy schoolgirl in the locker room. But the moisturizer's a perfectly welcome surprise.]

Assumption or experience? You look whole enough, I'll go with the first.

[To the bathroom! He's not gone long, but returns sleeker of skin and with shirt tails hanging loose around his thighs. Byerly's not vastly broader or taller, but he's enough of both to make it an oversized fit.]

[vorrutyer]

[ By himself actually has a set of proper pajamas in a cool, tasteful dark green. He's slipping into the bed - a touch narrow for two people, but so be it - as Prior comes back in. He lifts his arm, a clear invitation to join him. ]

[priorly]

[Prior himself is a touch narrow, this shouldn't be problematic. He sits on the edge of the bed but doesn't lay down right away, closing his eyes for a moment.]

Do you think we'll get used to it, here? That eventually a day will go by, then a week, a month even, where something entirely mundane won't suddenly turn into a vicious and unwelcome reminder of just how far from home we are?

[vorrutyer]

Of course.

[ Byerly wriggles back to make a bit more room for Prior. His voice is pragmatic. ]

The mind always adapts. Its greatest strength and its greatest weakness. In time, this will be entirely familiar and comfortable.

[priorly]

[It's a perfectly reasonable answer, quite correct, and still somehow not what Prior expects. He looks down at Byerly, then nods.]

Of course, you're right.

[He settles down into the crook of that offered arm, bowing his head against Byerly's shoulder.]

Except I almost don't think I want it to.

[vorrutyer]

[ By immediately wraps him in his arms, holding him close, tucking him in against him. It's not what Byerly usually does, of course, this sort of physical intimacy. He's too unsentimental, unromantic for it. But he suspects that it will make Prior happy, and he wants to do what will make Prior happy. He does, after all, live to serve. ]

No? Speaking of exhausting yourself. Maintaining healthy paranoia is too much, but spending every day denying your current existence, that's fine, sure...

[priorly]

[He would, honestly, be as grateful simply to share a space with someone warm and solid and real. But Prior is a physical creature, seeks out touch where he can and - with some adjustment of Byerly's hold (looser, a little less of an embrace) - he's comfortable here.]

Fair enough. When you show me the prescription for a healthy dose of paranoia, I'll stop missing New York traffic. It's like this city's got no blood in its veins.

[vorrutyer]

[ A little snort. ]

What, groundcars are a city's lifeblood? Well, I'll admit, given the habits of Vorbarr Sultana's drivers, they certainly have a habit of spilling the city's lifeblood...