So long as you don't tell mine I'm here. She'd be dragging me away by my earlobe if she knew I was delivering flowers to pretty boys.
[Ah, but he doesn't. The flowers are indeed for Prior, and to reiterate it, he holds the bouquet out to him shortly thereafter. His free hand extends to take his sketches in exchange; he can't help but try and grasp something else, because there's a certain vulnerability in waiting for a word about them that makes his smile hesitant. He isn't certain if they're excessive, or appropriate at all, or... Well, he doesn't know. He hasn't exactly done this before.]
I thought you might like a little nature that you won't be tripping over. At least, I hope you won't.
And I thought you were just trying to make the garden look inadequate. [Oh, no no. Prior moves his sketchbook to the other side before he takes the flowers - this is a gift, not an exchange of goods. And if he doesn't quite know why it doesn't mean he doesn't want the chance to appreciate it.] Though you'd hardly have to go to so much effort.
[It's no good, he can't maintain the kind of composure needed for wry commentary, he's smiling too widely for that, nose in the flowers.]
Is there some occasion I don't know about? [A light breath-] Is it my birthday?
[Dorian drops his hand to his side somewhat defeatedly, casting a glance towards the sketchbook as if he'll revisit it soon. He probably will, if he has his way.]
No, but you will tell me your birthday. What a grand occasion it will be. [And as if it were a grand secret, he leans forward with a lowered voice.] Now, you can't go ruining my reputation, but I have weaknesses for men who smile so sweetly. I saw them in passing, and they reminded me of you. But if you do need help with that poor garden of yours, I would be more than willing to try and help.
Well, it would be churlish to say no to a handsome man offering his tools. Or is it your hose? [Prior can double-entendre like he's reading the prayer card at church when he wants to. It's the grin he can't keep back.] I can see why Byerly likes you. Let me just-
[Deposit the flowers straight into the glass of drinking water he'd brought out.]
I'll find something that suits them better later. But tell me about your reputation. Are the neighbours going to talk?
No, no, I'm very hands on. We might not even need the hose by the time I'm done.
[He laughs, leaning back on his hands with a grin of his own.]
Oh, of course they are. I'm quite horrible at being subtle. That Dorian, he's climbing through the window again, did you see him? [A beat.] I'd rather not climb through one, if that's alright. Tears fine fabrics.
You're not supposed to climb right through the window. First you stand under with with a boombox. Or, hm. [Not a creature of modern technology, Prior.] a lute?
Though you're right to avoid my window, it's all shattered glass right now. Violent to velvet, lethal to lace.
Oh? I do play one. [He raises his brows in amusement.]
Perhaps I'll have to purchase one again, if that's what it takes. As long as you unlock your door instead... You are worth trouble, but if I'm going to have anything torn off me, I'd rather I already be inside.
[His eyes widen a touch - the gesture is so unexpectedly sweet that he doesn't know what to do with it. He raises a hand to ensure it stays, slowly smiling as he sits back.]
You're something else. I don't normally wear such natural accessories, but I'll make an exception. [And, with a thoughtful hum, like the question is more casual than it is:] You didn't hide, before all this?
Please don't tell me these are all man-made fibres. [Lowering his hand, Prior lets a fingertip trace across Dorian's shoulder, testing the fabric.] It's no wonder you've been here five minutes before talking about tearing them off. And no, I don't. Well.
[He tilts his head, ticks a few things off on his fingertips.]
Birthday presents, unexpected acne, receipts from Bloomingdales, and my boyfriend wouldn't kiss me anywhere below 14th street, but I would have kissed him on the steps of the Supreme Court if he'd let me. How about you?
Oh, darling, I'll stand a lot of things. Talk of my dress isn't one of them. [He scoffs, waving a scolding finger before dropping it in his lap.] It was very in fashion back home.
[Home. He bites the inside of his cheek, turning his gaze back to the flowers.] We don't kiss at all. We don't have... boyfriends, was it? Anything more than a few romps behind closed doors is shameful.
Oh I like how you dress. I simply hope it doesn't chafe anywhere important.
[Ah, the flowers. Well, Prior picks another one to match the first. With apologies to the previously flawless arrangement.]
Oh its shameful at home, too. We walk hand in lavender gloved hand down the street straight to Sodom if you listen to some people. Some news channels, even. Doomed, doomed. So. [His voice turns clipped.] I listened to those people for a while and I thought - if I'm to be an abomination all my life, I might as well be a fabulous one.
[He pauses, fingertips pressing at the flower's stem.]
[As morbid as the topic is, he still finds it in him to smile. It's a bitter smile, that doesn't quite reach his eyes.]
I used to be. But when you have to leave home because no one can stand you for who you are, least of all those closest to you, you get rather exhausted pretending to be anything but. Us abominations are just too prideful, aren't we?
I was going to say - [As he kneels, leaning in again to thread the next flower in beside the first] that I don't believe you learned to flirt like this without ever kissing boys. But then you put down pride.
[He settles both hands on Dorian's shoulders now.]
Pride is the only response to shame. It's the only defence. Where I'm from, Pride is a movement. Pride is marching down the street in rainbow hotpants while people rattle protest signs, because we exist, and we have and will exist whether they see us or not, we have and will exist whether they try to put us down or not. We have and will exist so we may as well be goddamn visible and make them deal with it. It's their problem. There are fucking terrible people in the world, Dorian. There are genocidal dictators with Chaplin moustaches, and murderers and abusers and presidents who should've stayed actors, and Republicans in general, and lawyers, and republican mormon lawyers and they should be ashamed for the things they think and feel and do. And anyone who thinks queers are shameful ought to be ashamed that they think fear and hate and rancid conservativism less shameful than love. Screw the bastards. They're messed up assholes, and they're the ones missing out.
[His shoulders tense, but he isn't so uncomfortable that he leans any further away. He listens, and parts his lips to interrupt, but lets the questions die on his lips. As many as their are running through his head, he shouldn't deflect.]
I might have a few questions about rainbow hotpants, but... [He starts slowly, carefully, like saying something might make him vulnerable.] You're much braver than I, Prior. It's a very good quality - an attractive quality. I'll try after you, shall I?
[He lets out a breath - it should be a laugh but the sound doesn't quite catch.]
You might. I'm not brave, really. I'm as scared and ashamed as anyone else, often enough. But when you have a community, enough of you, you can be brave on alternate days.
I won't have you discrediting yourself. You've said more than I could even think to myself, let alone voice to anyone. Besides, being brave and afraid aren't mutually exclusive.
[He hesitates, then brings a hand up to take one of Prior's.]
We do have each other, don't we? And they don't seem to care in this world.
They don't, although less can be said for some of our fellow refugees. Strange how many world decided to choose to have this in common. Green skin, three stomachs, still terrified of homos. You'll still hear things. But that's what I almost miss - adversity can be quite the bond, don't you find?
[He catches Dorian's hand and, lips curling at the corners, dips his head to kiss it.]
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[Ah, but he doesn't. The flowers are indeed for Prior, and to reiterate it, he holds the bouquet out to him shortly thereafter. His free hand extends to take his sketches in exchange; he can't help but try and grasp something else, because there's a certain vulnerability in waiting for a word about them that makes his smile hesitant. He isn't certain if they're excessive, or appropriate at all, or... Well, he doesn't know. He hasn't exactly done this before.]
I thought you might like a little nature that you won't be tripping over. At least, I hope you won't.
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[It's no good, he can't maintain the kind of composure needed for wry commentary, he's smiling too widely for that, nose in the flowers.]
Is there some occasion I don't know about? [A light breath-] Is it my birthday?
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No, but you will tell me your birthday. What a grand occasion it will be. [And as if it were a grand secret, he leans forward with a lowered voice.] Now, you can't go ruining my reputation, but I have weaknesses for men who smile so sweetly. I saw them in passing, and they reminded me of you. But if you do need help with that poor garden of yours, I would be more than willing to try and help.
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[Deposit the flowers straight into the glass of drinking water he'd brought out.]
I'll find something that suits them better later. But tell me about your reputation. Are the neighbours going to talk?
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[He laughs, leaning back on his hands with a grin of his own.]
Oh, of course they are. I'm quite horrible at being subtle. That Dorian, he's climbing through the window again, did you see him? [A beat.] I'd rather not climb through one, if that's alright. Tears fine fabrics.
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Though you're right to avoid my window, it's all shattered glass right now. Violent to velvet, lethal to lace.
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Perhaps I'll have to purchase one again, if that's what it takes. As long as you unlock your door instead... You are worth trouble, but if I'm going to have anything torn off me, I'd rather I already be inside.
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[He crooks a finger in Dorian's direction - lean closer?]
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I only prefer there not to be prying eyes.
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[And he tucks the flower into Dorian's hair, angled so the stem catches and holds.]
There, somewhere more fitting. They're beautiful, thank you.
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You're something else. I don't normally wear such natural accessories, but I'll make an exception. [And, with a thoughtful hum, like the question is more casual than it is:] You didn't hide, before all this?
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[He tilts his head, ticks a few things off on his fingertips.]
Birthday presents, unexpected acne, receipts from Bloomingdales, and my boyfriend wouldn't kiss me anywhere below 14th street, but I would have kissed him on the steps of the Supreme Court if he'd let me. How about you?
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[Home. He bites the inside of his cheek, turning his gaze back to the flowers.] We don't kiss at all. We don't have... boyfriends, was it? Anything more than a few romps behind closed doors is shameful.
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[Ah, the flowers. Well, Prior picks another one to match the first. With apologies to the previously flawless arrangement.]
Oh its shameful at home, too. We walk hand in lavender gloved hand down the street straight to Sodom if you listen to some people. Some news channels, even. Doomed, doomed. So. [His voice turns clipped.] I listened to those people for a while and I thought - if I'm to be an abomination all my life, I might as well be a fabulous one.
[He pauses, fingertips pressing at the flower's stem.]
Are you ashamed of yourself?
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I used to be. But when you have to leave home because no one can stand you for who you are, least of all those closest to you, you get rather exhausted pretending to be anything but. Us abominations are just too prideful, aren't we?
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[He settles both hands on Dorian's shoulders now.]
Pride is the only response to shame. It's the only defence. Where I'm from, Pride is a movement. Pride is marching down the street in rainbow hotpants while people rattle protest signs, because we exist, and we have and will exist whether they see us or not, we have and will exist whether they try to put us down or not. We have and will exist so we may as well be goddamn visible and make them deal with it. It's their problem. There are fucking terrible people in the world, Dorian. There are genocidal dictators with Chaplin moustaches, and murderers and abusers and presidents who should've stayed actors, and Republicans in general, and lawyers, and republican mormon lawyers and they should be ashamed for the things they think and feel and do. And anyone who thinks queers are shameful ought to be ashamed that they think fear and hate and rancid conservativism less shameful than love. Screw the bastards. They're messed up assholes, and they're the ones missing out.
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I might have a few questions about rainbow hotpants, but... [He starts slowly, carefully, like saying something might make him vulnerable.] You're much braver than I, Prior. It's a very good quality - an attractive quality. I'll try after you, shall I?
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You might. I'm not brave, really. I'm as scared and ashamed as anyone else, often enough. But when you have a community, enough of you, you can be brave on alternate days.
[He sits back on his heels.]
That's one thing I miss, being here.
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[He hesitates, then brings a hand up to take one of Prior's.]
We do have each other, don't we? And they don't seem to care in this world.
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[He catches Dorian's hand and, lips curling at the corners, dips his head to kiss it.]
Pink or blue?
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[He slowly comes to smile, but his tone implies he's quite serious.]
Pink.
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Set fire to? Metaphorically, with the intensity of your disapproval?
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Oh, if looks could kill, that'd be enough. No, I do mean literally. Perhaps to just their coattails, if you'd like something less extreme.