[Still not sure of Dorian's feelings (how he hates the word fine, let him count the ways) there's some hesitation before going on, as he tries to tread carefully around them.]
Though we do make quite the triple threat, don't we? All of us the disgraced scions of some ancient name. If I'd known that was my type I could have hooked up with that one cousin no one likes to talk about.
[He chuckles, at least. It's halfhearted, but not dismissive at it could be.]
Is it truly a surprise, or are you purposely scraping from the bottom of the barrel in terms of our pasts? [He takes a breath, looking ahead into the darkness of the room.] ... I consider Byerly my friend. And Maker knows there isn't anything I could keep from him if I wanted to.
Well damn, that ruins my next shopping trip. If one must keep an illicit secret, one should do it in style. La femme fatale: dark glasses, a wide brimmed hat. Some sort of exotic accent, too.
[Talking nonsense is certainly easier than speaking truth, but it only runs for so long. Prior sighs and presses his forehead to Dorian's shoulder.]
I'll tell him - I always would. At any rate, it's hardly a monogamous arrangement.
[It has been, on Prior's part, but not by any stated expectation. And Byerly - well, he's Byerly. Prior hasn't asked that he change.]
And that's hardly a surprise. I may have been more shocked by you telling me the sky is blue.
[He leans his head against the top of his, biting his lip. In truth, the longer he stews on the two of them, the more paranoid he is of intruding. Not overwhelmingly so - he's quite calm, really, but enough to clear his throat.]
Mm. [Prior bites his lip, fastening his hands into Dorians.] Mmhm.
[Barely a mumble but there's something softly pleased and - surprised - to it.]
Do you know, I was about to say I think so, to make it softer. For me, or you, or him I don't know. Isn't it terrible how afraid we all are of what we feel. Yes, I do.
[Why should his hand get all the action. Prior leans in to kiss Dorian's cheek in return.]
Love isn't the monolith people think. Not something set in stone after a few months. It has a kind of flux. It moves, changes its form. Expands, if you let it.
[All of which is to say-]
...I don't think Byerly can complain about me falling for you when he fell for you first. Still isn't back up off the ground.
I am insulted. I'm a prophet, Dorian, a soothsayer. We don't speak lightly. When we speak at all - which we only do to a chosen few of whom you should consider yourself honored to be counted among - we speak sooth. Which is to say, truth.
[Bullshit, but if he's cursed with this thing he should be able to play it in his favor now and again.]
I can reach into the vast infinities of the world and pluck a few glittering threads out of the weft. Case in point: you fell for him too.
[Dorian places a hand at his chest during his little scolding, feigning dismay in turn. But there's a moment where it becomes very real, his jaw clenching and eyes narrowing.]
You're very generous with who you ascribe love to, Prior. It was an arrangement—nothing more on his end, and far too much on mine. That is all. If you saw anything in your boundless knowledge, it was a mistake, and one I do not wish to talk about.
[Whether a mistake or not, nothing meaningless would strike that kind of a reaction in someone. Prior holds up a hand, acquiescing to a degree.]
Fine, we won't talk about it, though I will talk to him. But take this as notice: nothing I've said or done here tonight has been generous. [Any affectation slips - let him make that clear.] Undersell yourself as much as you like when it comes to other people, but you don't get to do that with me. It's a personal tragedy that people don't appreciate how selfish I can be.
[He isn't overjoyed to hear it, but he is satisfied enough to let himself relax to a degree. And after that last bit, he can't help but smirk.]
Dear Prior, [he shifts to face him, taking his hand in his in what seems to be a moment of undiluted sincerity.] I don't think you've left any doubt of your selfishness after our little work out.
[The squeak in response this time is quite genuine affront, if an amused variety.]
As I recall, you got off too. [He glances down, although since he's been playing demure there's nothing to see but the vague shape of him under crumpled sheets.] I'm still sticky.
You're insinuating I should be a good host and do something to remedy that, but I'm quite comfortable.
[He pouts, finally leaning to give some much needed attention to his lips. He speaks in between kisses.] You see, I — have this infuriatingly beautiful man in my bed — and he's absolutely demolishing my productivity.
Mm, call it research if it makes you feel better. Rather than dryly documenting the mating dances of, I don't know, something small and multiple-legged nobody gives a damn about you're -
[Mm, no, too difficult to run long on a theme with this kind of distraction, give him a moment to pay the kisses back in kind. The flattery hasn't fallen on deaf ears, either. He lets the sheets slip a little without reaching automatically for his shirt, curling both arms over Dorian's shoulders to keep them from such pursuits.]
You're engaged in practical experimentation. Fieldwork. I won't stop you if you want to make notes.
Oh, yes, let me get my pen and paper. I'll start keeping journals. The wild Walter has the audacity to claim that I should stroke his ego any more than I already have, and I, utter fool that I am, continue to fall for him. I fear for my future for my future. I especially fear that he already knows it.
[He laughs, more lightly and more easily than he thought he could manage, resting his forehead against Prior's in continued effort to stay right where he is.]
I do have a shower. I'll have to change the sheets.
[Which yes, does imply he intends to spend the night, asking without so many words.]
I'm not sure it was my ego I asked you to stroke, was it? And I'm not so wild. Quite domesticated, really, I'd probably follow you to work if you let me. It's not as if I'm some warrior with fire in my veins. I've never seen you do that, by the way.
[He's quiet, and then.]
Oh, look.
[A huff of breath over Dorian's shoulder and the room turns from warm dimness to pure dark.]
Oh no. I'll have to go downstairs, fetch the matches, leave you all alone...
[He withdraws, silent long enough to suggest he might actually be getting up, then snaps his fingers. He was really just making enough space between them — the entirety of his hand is abruptly coated in flame, carefully extended away from the sheets.]
Or not. [He leans back far enough to light the wick again with his thumb.]
[Just as planned. Although the reality of a man whose skin burns without it burning him isn't quite anything one can plan for. Prior ducks his own head back as the flame bursts into existence, stealing the oxygen from the air. And Dorian doesn't so much as wince as it licks his skin.
It suits him, in a way Prior never thought he'd apply to watching someone he liked set on fire. And it is magical. Maybe he should be used to that, now, but from the look of undisguised wonder, he's not.]
You should take bookings, that is some party trick. [He lifts his own hands either side of Dorian's, measuring out the thermal span and warming his palms against it.]
Doesn't it hurt? How do you find out you can do a thing like this? Are you born-
Born with it? Yes. In my homeland, if I hadn't had a talent for setting other little boys I hated on fire, I might have been a social outcast. Smothered in my sleep. Shipped off, never to be seen again. [It's a lot of talk, but the way his sigh is more wistful than false implies that it isn't something he's exaggerating.] I became a great shame anyway, but my magical talents are prized.
That isn't to say there are more mages than not — there aren't. But it is an expectation. You find out you've a talent for it, and you go to school it alongside your mathematics and history lessons. You hone it. You expand it. You climb the social ladder by becoming the very best.
[And with that, the light emitting from his hand abruptly changes, becoming brighter and sporadic. Electricity bounces between his fingers like two goddamn Tesla coils. His hair stands on end, by once again, no pain.]
I'd say it's natural as your gifts, but... well, that wasn't natural at all.
[With a little flourish. His hand stops, mid-air, as the light shifts from warm to cold, static snapping in the air between them. He won't reach further, of course, but it's ridiculously tempting to touch.]
I remember the expectation. [Remembers the man who expected it. A stairwell in a deserted inn, and Dorian spitting like a cat at him.] Perfect body, perfect mind. A tragedy, really - they got you and didn't even realise.
[Too curious, he lets his hand drift lower - will it conduct through him if he runs a palm up one bare thigh?]
...Though I'm less sure about the hair. Punk was never my thing.
Oh? I suppose I'll have to adapt. Get absolutely grizzly, grow out a beard as well. Become absolutely unbearable to kiss, kiss you anyway. That will be a perfect body.
[He turns up his chin indignantly, but there's still a grin at his lips. Prior's curiosity is endearing enough that he glazes over the mentioning of that moment, tries and succeeds not to think about his father. It does, in fact, conduct: not strong enough for it to be discomforting, but leaving a light tingling feeling up his arm.
It dissipates when Dorian taps him on the nose with a light shock. Light, like he ran his socks over carpet.]
I was referring to your... premonitions, but gifts is the wrong word. If you were from my homeland, you would have been bestowed it without a screeching harpy.
[Well, this electricity thing has all sorts of possibilities that were left woefully untapped earlier in the evening. Just as he's making a note of that, Dorian's little love tap knocks Prior back with a pleasant shiver, though not far or long enough to prevent him from idly draping himself back again, across his lap.
May as well do it now before he conjures something else from thin air and distracts him all over again. A second note gets made to ask whether he can do white rabbits.]
But there are people like me where you're from? Prophets? I know you have Gods of some sort. In my word usually prophecy and the divine have some kind of link. At least - as myth would have it. They're a fictional breed, people like me.
[And what a perfect place to be, before he'll get kicked out for inevitably asking ridiculous questions. Dorian thoroughly enjoys this arrangement's view, sweeping his fingers through Prior's hair.]
Well, that isn't too far off from what we believed back home. There are Dreamers, prophets of the Old Gods. We base an entire social class on being descendants of them, which is why my family was of some important. Then there is the most notable prophet, Andraste. She was a slave in my homeland that rose to power, plagued by visions of the Maker until she accepted him as the one true God. She's said to have ascended to his side as his bride.
[A beat.] After we had burned her at the stake. Not very accepting of deviations, you see.
Oh we did that with one of ours. [There's something almost pleased about the recognition.] Well whaddaya know, what a thing to have in common. Though, that is a trend with prophets, I've found. They're so often sacrificial.
[Not many happy endings for the mouthpieces of Gods. Stoned to death in Egypt, or their throats slit by Roman warriors who feared their predictions. Lost to sickness or disease. Martyred to their cause. Swallowed by a fish. Crucified. Not a collection of children's stories.
Prior tilts his chin up, smile tellingly pinched.]
Still, if one does marry a God after, perhaps it sweetens the pill. [He hesistates, leaning into the gentle drag of Dorian's nails.] It's... not just visions of the future and communing with dusty old tomes, you know.
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[Still not sure of Dorian's feelings (how he hates the word fine, let him count the ways) there's some hesitation before going on, as he tries to tread carefully around them.]
Though we do make quite the triple threat, don't we? All of us the disgraced scions of some ancient name. If I'd known that was my type I could have hooked up with that one cousin no one likes to talk about.
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Is it truly a surprise, or are you purposely scraping from the bottom of the barrel in terms of our pasts? [He takes a breath, looking ahead into the darkness of the room.] ... I consider Byerly my friend. And Maker knows there isn't anything I could keep from him if I wanted to.
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[Talking nonsense is certainly easier than speaking truth, but it only runs for so long. Prior sighs and presses his forehead to Dorian's shoulder.]
I'll tell him - I always would. At any rate, it's hardly a monogamous arrangement.
[It has been, on Prior's part, but not by any stated expectation. And Byerly - well, he's Byerly. Prior hasn't asked that he change.]
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[He leans his head against the top of his, biting his lip. In truth, the longer he stews on the two of them, the more paranoid he is of intruding. Not overwhelmingly so - he's quite calm, really, but enough to clear his throat.]
Do you love him?
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[Barely a mumble but there's something softly pleased and - surprised - to it.]
Do you know, I was about to say I think so, to make it softer. For me, or you, or him I don't know. Isn't it terrible how afraid we all are of what we feel. Yes, I do.
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And what a wonderful thing it is that you can say that. Truly.
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Love isn't the monolith people think. Not something set in stone after a few months. It has a kind of flux. It moves, changes its form. Expands, if you let it.
[All of which is to say-]
...I don't think Byerly can complain about me falling for you when he fell for you first. Still isn't back up off the ground.
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Don’t be absurd. That man never fell for me. You shouldn’t say such things so lightly, Prior- you needn’t indulge me.
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I am insulted. I'm a prophet, Dorian, a soothsayer. We don't speak lightly. When we speak at all - which we only do to a chosen few of whom you should consider yourself honored to be counted among - we speak sooth. Which is to say, truth.
[Bullshit, but if he's cursed with this thing he should be able to play it in his favor now and again.]
I can reach into the vast infinities of the world and pluck a few glittering threads out of the weft. Case in point: you fell for him too.
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You're very generous with who you ascribe love to, Prior. It was an arrangement—nothing more on his end, and far too much on mine. That is all. If you saw anything in your boundless knowledge, it was a mistake, and one I do not wish to talk about.
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Fine, we won't talk about it, though I will talk to him. But take this as notice: nothing I've said or done here tonight has been generous. [Any affectation slips - let him make that clear.] Undersell yourself as much as you like when it comes to other people, but you don't get to do that with me. It's a personal tragedy that people don't appreciate how selfish I can be.
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Dear Prior, [he shifts to face him, taking his hand in his in what seems to be a moment of undiluted sincerity.] I don't think you've left any doubt of your selfishness after our little work out.
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As I recall, you got off too. [He glances down, although since he's been playing demure there's nothing to see but the vague shape of him under crumpled sheets.] I'm still sticky.
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[He pouts, finally leaning to give some much needed attention to his lips. He speaks in between kisses.] You see, I — have this infuriatingly beautiful man in my bed — and he's absolutely demolishing my productivity.
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[Mm, no, too difficult to run long on a theme with this kind of distraction, give him a moment to pay the kisses back in kind. The flattery hasn't fallen on deaf ears, either. He lets the sheets slip a little without reaching automatically for his shirt, curling both arms over Dorian's shoulders to keep them from such pursuits.]
You're engaged in practical experimentation. Fieldwork. I won't stop you if you want to make notes.
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[He laughs, more lightly and more easily than he thought he could manage, resting his forehead against Prior's in continued effort to stay right where he is.]
I do have a shower. I'll have to change the sheets.
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[Which yes, does imply he intends to spend the night, asking without so many words.]
I'm not sure it was my ego I asked you to stroke, was it? And I'm not so wild. Quite domesticated, really, I'd probably follow you to work if you let me. It's not as if I'm some warrior with fire in my veins. I've never seen you do that, by the way.
[He's quiet, and then.]
Oh, look.
[A huff of breath over Dorian's shoulder and the room turns from warm dimness to pure dark.]
Your candle's gone out.
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[He withdraws, silent long enough to suggest he might actually be getting up, then snaps his fingers. He was really just making enough space between them — the entirety of his hand is abruptly coated in flame, carefully extended away from the sheets.]
Or not. [He leans back far enough to light the wick again with his thumb.]
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It suits him, in a way Prior never thought he'd apply to watching someone he liked set on fire. And it is magical. Maybe he should be used to that, now, but from the look of undisguised wonder, he's not.]
You should take bookings, that is some party trick. [He lifts his own hands either side of Dorian's, measuring out the thermal span and warming his palms against it.]
Doesn't it hurt? How do you find out you can do a thing like this? Are you born-
[With this in you?
Maybe it's maybelline.]
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Born with it? Yes. In my homeland, if I hadn't had a talent for setting other little boys I hated on fire, I might have been a social outcast. Smothered in my sleep. Shipped off, never to be seen again. [It's a lot of talk, but the way his sigh is more wistful than false implies that it isn't something he's exaggerating.] I became a great shame anyway, but my magical talents are prized.
That isn't to say there are more mages than not — there aren't. But it is an expectation. You find out you've a talent for it, and you go to school it alongside your mathematics and history lessons. You hone it. You expand it. You climb the social ladder by becoming the very best.
[And with that, the light emitting from his hand abruptly changes, becoming brighter and sporadic. Electricity bounces between his fingers like two goddamn Tesla coils. His hair stands on end, by once again, no pain.]
I'd say it's natural as your gifts, but... well, that wasn't natural at all.
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[With a little flourish. His hand stops, mid-air, as the light shifts from warm to cold, static snapping in the air between them. He won't reach further, of course, but it's ridiculously tempting to touch.]
I remember the expectation. [Remembers the man who expected it. A stairwell in a deserted inn, and Dorian spitting like a cat at him.] Perfect body, perfect mind. A tragedy, really - they got you and didn't even realise.
[Too curious, he lets his hand drift lower - will it conduct through him if he runs a palm up one bare thigh?]
...Though I'm less sure about the hair. Punk was never my thing.
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[He turns up his chin indignantly, but there's still a grin at his lips. Prior's curiosity is endearing enough that he glazes over the mentioning of that moment, tries and succeeds not to think about his father. It does, in fact, conduct: not strong enough for it to be discomforting, but leaving a light tingling feeling up his arm.
It dissipates when Dorian taps him on the nose with a light shock. Light, like he ran his socks over carpet.]
I was referring to your... premonitions, but gifts is the wrong word. If you were from my homeland, you would have been bestowed it without a screeching harpy.
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[Well, this electricity thing has all sorts of possibilities that were left woefully untapped earlier in the evening. Just as he's making a note of that, Dorian's little love tap knocks Prior back with a pleasant shiver, though not far or long enough to prevent him from idly draping himself back again, across his lap.
May as well do it now before he conjures something else from thin air and distracts him all over again. A second note gets made to ask whether he can do white rabbits.]
But there are people like me where you're from? Prophets? I know you have Gods of some sort. In my word usually prophecy and the divine have some kind of link. At least - as myth would have it. They're a fictional breed, people like me.
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Well, that isn't too far off from what we believed back home. There are Dreamers, prophets of the Old Gods. We base an entire social class on being descendants of them, which is why my family was of some important. Then there is the most notable prophet, Andraste. She was a slave in my homeland that rose to power, plagued by visions of the Maker until she accepted him as the one true God. She's said to have ascended to his side as his bride.
[A beat.] After we had burned her at the stake. Not very accepting of deviations, you see.
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[Not many happy endings for the mouthpieces of Gods. Stoned to death in Egypt, or their throats slit by Roman warriors who feared their predictions. Lost to sickness or disease. Martyred to their cause. Swallowed by a fish. Crucified. Not a collection of children's stories.
Prior tilts his chin up, smile tellingly pinched.]
Still, if one does marry a God after, perhaps it sweetens the pill. [He hesistates, leaning into the gentle drag of Dorian's nails.] It's... not just visions of the future and communing with dusty old tomes, you know.
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