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

[Whatever time of the night it is when Byerly abandons his piano, and any engagements that came afterwards, it is dark by the time he returns to his refugee accommodation. The streetlights here aren't much when they're lit at all, and several of the ones on this street have flickered and faded out already.

It is dark, but the figure in the street outside his house is darker still. A sharp black outline against the smudgy night: someone in a long black coat, with a black scarf pulled up half across his face.

It paces, a couple of steps one way, then the other, then steps back further into shadow and seems to huddle in on itself as if specifically attempting not to be seen. But it doesn't move more than a few meters from this one particular front door.]

[ Byerly sees that figure a block away. He can see immediately that if this is a criminal, it's an amateur one - hesitant, nervous, afraid. Their first crime, surely. Even the second time breaking into a house, a fellow has more confidence, as By knows from personal terrified youthful experience. Or perhaps that fear is because the crime intended is a more serious one than mere burglary...?

He eases his stunner out of its shoulder holster, gently and quietly. As he approaches, he sways like someone profoundly intoxicated, shuffling and humming slightly to himself. He draws closer, closer, and then -

Yes, all right. That is Prior. Twenty paces away, he recognizes the scrap of hair peeking out and his way of holding himself. By's gait returns to normal, and with a sigh he slips the weapon back under his jacket. ]

You'll scare a fellow to death like that.

[It's not an entirely serene experience to be the person lurking in the dark, either. Being alone in a strange place with poor footfall and a network full of people who'll happily profess to have been unrepentant murderers back in their own world and indeed - depending on your ascribed theory - who may even have been brought to this one to continue their line of work does not leave one precisely free of nerves.

And yet Prior has been in his chosen position for some time before Byerly arrives, watching the house for any sign of occupation and reminding himself that this whole experience is nothing compared to walking home alone east of Avenue B at certain hours of the night, and he's done that in heels.

That said, there is one trait common to all regular late night wanderers and users of project-bound bus routes. Avoid the goddamn drunks. So it's with a sinking heart that he hears Byerly's humming, shuffling approach, turning his face away to be as invisible and uninteresting as possible.

Until he speaks, and Prior's head snaps round toward him with not so much a shriek of terror as a particularly affronted squeak. Oh god he's so fucking relieved.]

What about you? Sneaking up that way, I thought I was going to be assaulted for a lengthy and incoherent conversation and a slurred request to buy some neat liquor, if nothing worse.

[He huffs, feathers ruffled enough to make a show of it, but then relents and beckons Byerly closer.]

Come here. And try to keep your tinny little heart from rattling too much, you'll scare it away.

[Said as he carefully loosens the top few buttons of his coat. A faint glow escapes from under the fabric.]

I wouldn't mind a bit of neat liquor, now that you mention it.

[ But his voice is crisp, dry, and ironic. If he's the least bit intoxicated, it doesn't come through in his voice - particularly curious, considering he was slurring for the camera not an hour ago.

He frowns just a little bit when he sees that glow, and approaches, his eyebrows quirked in slightly wary curiosity. ]

What do you have there?

Sorry, I've got nothing neat to offer. You might need to settle for peachy keen.

[Byerly hasn't seemed drunk since five minutes after Prior started talking to him earlier in the evening. Add that to the other times the man's drunk with him without getting drunk with him, and by now Prior assumes it's some kind of crutch. There are enough people he knows who're bolstered by the mere act of having a glass in their hand, no actual lubrication required.

But digging into that isn't a particular concern just now. By the time Byerly reaches him Prior's pulled the collar of his coat away from the crook of his neck, where the thing settled earlier.

It's still there, wings twitching lightly as they catch a hint of breeze. Maybe any local could tell him it's a plain, common or garden Luceatiea, but just like when it landed, the sight makes Prior catch his breath a second, and smile.]

And I haven't the first clue, but I think it likes me.

[ It's not the first one By has seen; he spends his time out in parks and byways, after all. He recognizes it as a common enough creature. Perhaps that's part of what makes Prior's delight so utterly delightful in turn: he's not wide-eyed over some precious, rare thing, but over something that flutters in a number of corners of the city. It's so utterly, completely charming. ]

So it appears.

[ He rubs his mouth to hide a smile. His eyes dance, though, giving away his amusement and fondness. ]

Either that, or it's an attack butterfly. One very bad at its job.

[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?

Byerly || Nightbird

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