Oh, as if real gods are that involved. They're not gods, these things. They're micromanagers if anything, any greater force is far beyond the pay grade they're on.
I'd just like to know why, I suppose. Am I supposed to be lonely? Did I do something terribly wrong?
didn't take you for a religious fellow. You're not hoping for a real divine intervention, are you? I'd say the time for it came and went myself.
Like what? Next to the rest of us a guy like you is a bonafide saint. If you're getting personal punishment what's coming for us hooligans and bad eggs?
And sodomites don't get to be saintly, you should know that. Balanced at the edge of the fiery pit, we lure others to its depths, that's all. Sirens, not saints. But I'm curious - for a bad egg I haven't detected a hint of sulfur. What is this fad for self-loathing? It's just not like me to be behind the trend.
But you went looking anyway. That's more faith than most.
[Ah yes, this old yarn. Something you could subscribe to as a pint-sized choir boy, but made less and less sense the more life you lived. The wonderful thing about eschewing God was doing away with all those archaic don't-you-dares. And he'd...well, not with Byerly, but with girls, sure.]
There's far worse sin in this world than a little ass poking, you should know that.
That's a mystery for you to solve, my sulfur is secret and close to my heart.
Or maybe just more need. For the fabulous, of course - stow the divine. When it comes to that I've generally considered myself a WASP with a silent P.
[And, through everything, the wages of sin theory is not one Prior ascribes to. Calculated, perhaps, but he raises the point to test other people's moral quandaries, not his own. 9 parts theatrics to a single measure of caution. Richie's passed the test more than once already, still: force of habit.]
So you're saying I should get close to your heart to find it?
Ours is a disillusioned generation. I left the Methodist in me behind as a withered husk on the Midwest plains a long time ago. And now it's gone up in smoke like the rest of planet Earth.
I'll imagine that's a euphemism and neglect to ask what for. It's a terrible habit, by the way.
[And he finds himself missing smoky breath. Though as to the other thing-
Well, there could be someone. He could ask Dorian. Maybe through some unfortunate happenstance he'll have been left equally abandoned and - mm. No, things are still new there, a balance he's not ready to tip. For all the better days he has, he's still sick. It's not the most romantic of prospects to live with.
Though that's also no reason to inflict it on Richie.]
I answered: no plans yet. Though your pity is appreciated by we the pitiful - are you sure you know what you're asking?
It's my literal ash tray, get your head out of the gutter you nasty boy.
[It really is terrible. He ought to quit, but it's just a very difficult time and a very difficult place for it. His nerves are always on high alert and nothing soothes them down like a long drag on a slim stick.
Prior's reminder does have him hesitating. Yes, it's not ideal. Richie types Nevermind, but deletes it immediately. He'd had the one scare. Survived it just fucking peachy. Then he'd had a much worse scare that involved no kind of AIDS or leprosy or any other such knowable disease, and the motherfuckers brought him back from the grave.
So perhaps there's something to be said for the atmosphere around here. Or it's the protection of the Orbiter's investments. Micromanagers indeed.
[Theres a drawn out pause in the response. The truth is, he should turn this down. Infectious or not, living with the dying is no kind of party, and Prior's been lucky in finding one person to not only tolerate it but do so with care. Prior's alone here now, again, and if he wanted to be fair on anybody he'd leave it that way. But he's just so terrible at being alone. Already the distraction of a few scattered texts has his body curled in round the phone like the screen light's something he could photosynthesise.
[He could guess the obvious, but he gathers that "You were doing el tango horizontale" isn't going to fly.
The second obvious retort is one that chills him a little more considerably, but a moment of rational thought has him backpedaling. No no no, Byerly wouldn't be hustling under Shades Darker's roof if Koralle suspected deathly, incurable illness passed through sex and blood. Sharing an afflication can't be the reason either.]
I was assigned a house when I got here. Everyone else got roommates but me: I got all the space I could wish for without the wish ever being made. Creaky floorboards and silent, impenetrable dark. I posted on the network that night, because I was lonely, and my leg was fucked up and I couldn't get off the bathroom floor.
He came over with a picnic. Apple turnovers and not-terrible wine and an invitation he wouldn't let me turn down. And after that I wouldn't let him let me go.
[So maybe this will backfire one day. But if he's telling truths? It's not just for Prior's own health he made the offer.
Things have been too quiet lately. He's never thrived in silence, and he can't crash on Red and Boxer's couch like it's his vacation cottage whenever the deafening nothing bears down on him. Can't keep pestering the kids. Can't keep strolling among the pods and mooning over Big Bill and Haystack and Eds, Mikey.
Beverly.
Fucking Beverly. It had only been weeks. Not even a full month, he'd had her smile and her fire and her goddamn laughter, too generous for how shit half his jokes were. They were only friends and never lovers, but that didn't erase what having her meant to him.]
Meanwhile Prior's harboring a kind of devastated, disbelieving fury in the pit of his chest and he hasn't let it spill yet, but with every movement he can feel it splashing higher, threatening to breach its banks. The last thing he can bear is solitude and though he pretends to weigh up the offer, though he's trying for something responsible in making sure Richie knows the catches on the deal, he couldn't turn it down more than someone drowning could refuse a last gasp of air.]
I like repugnance. All my favorite people seem to claim that's what they are. But, if you're sure...
Don't go putting Southwestern pastiche on my walls and we'll get along fine.
[Easier to type than to realize. Fuck, he really is signing the dotted line here. Talk about rash decisions.
Richie puts the phone down a moment. Reaches for his smokes and realizes he's due for a refill. Bevvie always carried extras.]
If you find a better offer before we get to go back home my biddy heart won't break neither, so don't be shy about changing your mind. My door's open whenever you need it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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I'd just like to know why, I suppose. Am I supposed to be lonely? Did I do something terribly wrong?
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Like what? Next to the rest of us a guy like you is a bonafide saint. If you're getting personal punishment what's coming for us hooligans and bad eggs?
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And sodomites don't get to be saintly, you should know that. Balanced at the edge of the fiery pit, we lure others to its depths, that's all. Sirens, not saints. But I'm curious - for a bad egg I haven't detected a hint of sulfur. What is this fad for self-loathing? It's just not like me to be behind the trend.
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[Ah yes, this old yarn. Something you could subscribe to as a pint-sized choir boy, but made less and less sense the more life you lived. The wonderful thing about eschewing God was doing away with all those archaic don't-you-dares. And he'd...well, not with Byerly, but with girls, sure.]
There's far worse sin in this world than a little ass poking, you should know that.
That's a mystery for you to solve, my sulfur is secret and close to my heart.
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[And, through everything, the wages of sin theory is not one Prior ascribes to. Calculated, perhaps, but he raises the point to test other people's moral quandaries, not his own. 9 parts theatrics to a single measure of caution. Richie's passed the test more than once already, still: force of habit.]
So you're saying I should get close to your heart to find it?
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You could if you're so sweet on me baby!
You never answered my question by the way.
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How am I holding up?
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I meant about a pad to crash in.
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[And he finds himself missing smoky breath. Though as to the other thing-
Well, there could be someone. He could ask Dorian. Maybe through some unfortunate happenstance he'll have been left equally abandoned and - mm. No, things are still new there, a balance he's not ready to tip. For all the better days he has, he's still sick. It's not the most romantic of prospects to live with.
Though that's also no reason to inflict it on Richie.]
I answered: no plans yet. Though your pity is appreciated by we the pitiful - are you sure you know what you're asking?
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[It really is terrible. He ought to quit, but it's just a very difficult time and a very difficult place for it. His nerves are always on high alert and nothing soothes them down like a long drag on a slim stick.
Prior's reminder does have him hesitating. Yes, it's not ideal. Richie types Nevermind, but deletes it immediately. He'd had the one scare. Survived it just fucking peachy. Then he'd had a much worse scare that involved no kind of AIDS or leprosy or any other such knowable disease, and the motherfuckers brought him back from the grave.
So perhaps there's something to be said for the atmosphere around here. Or it's the protection of the Orbiter's investments. Micromanagers indeed.
The pause must be notable by now.]
Sure I do. If you might accept pity that is.
[Heaven help him.]
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So a response does come, eventually.]
Did Byerly ever tell you why we lived together?
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The second obvious retort is one that chills him a little more considerably, but a moment of rational thought has him backpedaling. No no no, Byerly wouldn't be hustling under Shades Darker's roof if Koralle suspected deathly, incurable illness passed through sex and blood. Sharing an afflication can't be the reason either.]
A mutual love of parcheesi?
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I was assigned a house when I got here. Everyone else got roommates but me: I got all the space I could wish for without the wish ever being made. Creaky floorboards and silent, impenetrable dark. I posted on the network that night, because I was lonely, and my leg was fucked up and I couldn't get off the bathroom floor.
He came over with a picnic. Apple turnovers and not-terrible wine and an invitation he wouldn't let me turn down. And after that I wouldn't let him let me go.
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What a soft nougaty center lies under that devil's goatee.
Is this your way of asking me to up the ante?
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It's my way of telling you I'm like that Japanese knotweed. Harder to get rid of than you may have intended.
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[So maybe this will backfire one day. But if he's telling truths? It's not just for Prior's own health he made the offer.
Things have been too quiet lately. He's never thrived in silence, and he can't crash on Red and Boxer's couch like it's his vacation cottage whenever the deafening nothing bears down on him. Can't keep pestering the kids. Can't keep strolling among the pods and mooning over Big Bill and Haystack and Eds, Mikey.
Beverly.
Fucking Beverly. It had only been weeks. Not even a full month, he'd had her smile and her fire and her goddamn laughter, too generous for how shit half his jokes were. They were only friends and never lovers, but that didn't erase what having her meant to him.]
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Meanwhile Prior's harboring a kind of devastated, disbelieving fury in the pit of his chest and he hasn't let it spill yet, but with every movement he can feel it splashing higher, threatening to breach its banks. The last thing he can bear is solitude and though he pretends to weigh up the offer, though he's trying for something responsible in making sure Richie knows the catches on the deal, he couldn't turn it down more than someone drowning could refuse a last gasp of air.]
I like repugnance. All my favorite people seem to claim that's what they are. But, if you're sure...
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[Easier to type than to realize. Fuck, he really is signing the dotted line here. Talk about rash decisions.
Richie puts the phone down a moment. Reaches for his smokes and realizes he's due for a refill. Bevvie always carried extras.]
If you find a better offer before we get to go back home my biddy heart won't break neither, so don't be shy about changing your mind. My door's open whenever you need it.
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But keep your door locked, Richie, this isn't Mister Roger's Neighborhood. I'll settle for taking a key.
[There's quite a break, here, but - well, the boy was raised right somehow.]
And thank you.
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You're welcome Pry.