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.
Well, the foresight's not even useful, most of the time. I can feel something coming the way you can smell snow in the air before it falls, this crisp sharp feeling in my chest that something's on its way but I don't know what or when or if I'm exaggerating things and it's all just an anxiety attack in the guise of something meaningful. But besides that -
[He dips his head a little, not to pull away from Dorian, just not to look quite so directly at him for the moment.]
I get into people's heads. Not always deliberately. That thing where you walked my memories? I might do it with yours, and you'd never know I was there. There's no rhyme or reason to it but - it's more likely, if we're close.
[He frowns, not because Prior's looked away or because of this new information, but only because that sounds wholly unpleasant and there's not much he can offer for it. Not that he wouldn't try. He isn't like some people. Person. Fuck Louis.]
Well, I can't say things you might see are entirely pleasant. But you have probably already encountered the worst of my personal affairs. [He shifts, leaning forward and turning his chin up so he can look at him again.] Anything you witness will be something I'd already tell you. Not anymore.
Edited (i can words, i promise) 2018-05-20 00:46 (UTC)
Sometimes dreams. Sometimes - and this is new to me, I haven't even told - well, you're the first person I've told. Sometimes I hear people who aren't there. Oh, that sounds like... I don't mean in the metaphysical sense. I mean I overhear people who happen to be somewhere else.
Possibly? [This he looks more anxious about than the rest, but he does finally look up.] As I said. It's new. It happened when I was picking up a new jacket.
[Dorian takes a moment, idly drumming his fingers against Prior's chest.]
When it happens again, you should tell me about it. And any time after. And any time anything occurs, really— I know I was rather frightened before, but I know you're not mad. And I'd rather it not drive you mad for stewing on it.
[He has been stewing on it. Enough that he looks down to where Dorian's hand is and realises he's trade being self-conscious about his body for being self-conscious about his mind.]
As for not being mad... when two mannequins dressed in ballgowns begin to converse with the voices of your friends, one can rather feel it.
[It almost feels more intimate than anything gone before, for the added vulnerability of it. Prior winds his own arms around Dorian's waist to keep himself from stopping it.]
I try - I'll keep trying. You know how things are here, you think you're used to it, turn a corner and the world's suddenly crazier than you thought.
[He hums, watching Prior's expression while his hand drifts over the bruises. He doesn't know if it's too much, or if he shouldn't. He only knows he's not adverse to touching all of him like any other skin.]
I do know. However, I also know this world's a little less crazy with you here.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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[But Dorian sees that the smile is pinched. He drops his sarcasm, running his thumb along Prior's cheekbone.]
Tell me about it.
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[He dips his head a little, not to pull away from Dorian, just not to look quite so directly at him for the moment.]
I get into people's heads. Not always deliberately. That thing where you walked my memories? I might do it with yours, and you'd never know I was there. There's no rhyme or reason to it but - it's more likely, if we're close.
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Well, I can't say things you might see are entirely pleasant. But you have probably already encountered the worst of my personal affairs. [He shifts, leaning forward and turning his chin up so he can look at him again.] Anything you witness will be something I'd already tell you. Not anymore.
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[It's not unpleasant to experience, exactly, it's only what holding that kind of information can mean that makes things difficult.]
And - sometimes it's not exactly a memory?
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[At least he doesn't sound particularly worried about any of them — worse things can, and probably will happen.]
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[Dorian takes a moment, idly drumming his fingers against Prior's chest.]
When it happens again, you should tell me about it. And any time after. And any time anything occurs, really— I know I was rather frightened before, but I know you're not mad. And I'd rather it not drive you mad for stewing on it.
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[He has been stewing on it. Enough that he looks down to where Dorian's hand is and realises he's trade being self-conscious about his body for being self-conscious about his mind.]
As for not being mad... when two mannequins dressed in ballgowns begin to converse with the voices of your friends, one can rather feel it.
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Naturally. But it'll be easier, if you tell someone. Me, Byerly... [John's gone, now. He lets out a little sigh.] So long that you do.
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I try - I'll keep trying. You know how things are here, you think you're used to it, turn a corner and the world's suddenly crazier than you thought.
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I do know. However, I also know this world's a little less crazy with you here.
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