III. But I don't like scenes, except on the stage.

[epigrammatical]

[In which Lord Henry treats the text feature as if it were a telegram service.]

[Text, private to Dorian Gray]
[This message is sent after two days' discreet waiting after Toby's arrival. Henry is not blind and definitely noticed Dorian's reaction, but (wisely, probably) did not interfere, and has allowed time to pass before approaching Dorian—and has also been studiously avoiding Toby. He has no idea whether his friend will answer, but even if he doesn't, that will tell him much of what he needs to know.]

Are you well? I do not wish to intrude, of course, but I could not help but notice a certain amount of recent excitement.

[Text, private to Alcuin nó Delaunay]
I hope this finds you well—would you be available to dine or for a drink sometime soon? I should like to hear of your progress with our yellow book.

[Open action nice choice and not so nice, post-trainwreck choice]

[ETA: Disturbing conversations about murder and possible eventual bad behaviour within.]

Comments

OPEN ACTION - HAVE AT

[epigrammatical]

[At some indeterminate point before or after the above, anyone is welcome to encounter Lord Henry somewhere in the city. He tends to wander with apparent aimlessness, but in so doing is gathering information and taking in the sights.]

[He has also found a book-dealer in the Wood sector with whom he has come to an amicable arrangement of apparent non-employment: he seems to be loafing around there for a few hours every day, but is in fact engaged in discreetly organising the place and getting to know the local poetry, all for a regular wage that is sent round to his house rather than handed to him directly. You might find him there, too.]

Book-dealer

[iron_ego]

[Engaged in discreetly organising, you say? Then most profuse apologies, for Tony Stark has just entered his place of non-employment and picking up books at random, flipping through them as he takes a few steps, then placing them down on the first available surface. Every few volumes earn a thoughtful sound from him before they are snapped shut and, for the most part, he looks only marginally entertained in being surrounded by so many books that have yet to be transcribed into a useful form (that is to say: electronically).]

You there, garçon!

[He snaps his fingers and points at dear Lord Henry, unconcerned that the mystical linguistic properties of the turtle has reduced his French to a mere 'waiter' call out. In a bookshop. Yep. Like I said, profuse apologies.]

[epigrammatical]

[Who is this rude, loud American and who is he yelling at? And he is apparently mad as well, calling for a waiter in a bookshop. Henry pauses in the process of picking up one of the items in Tony's trail of books—just to look at it for himself, surely, and not to put it back—and glances over his shoulder, wondering if the man is calling out to someone behind him. Seeing no one, Henry merely returns his attention to the book with a barely audible sigh, studiously ignoring Tony.]

[iron_ego]

[Tony is not used to being ignored, but then, what can he expect when the owner of this shop has obviously taken pity on the slower minded type in giving this man a job. Diversity, equality, and chances for all; he's all for that (check the Stark Industries mission statement for proof), but it's not helpful when he's looking for something.

He snaps his fingers again and points directly at the slow bloke to make it clear that, yes, he means you sir.]

Books. Science. [He enunciates the words to avoid confusion.] Where are there? Make it snappy. Not all of us have all day.

Book Dealer/Vendor

[inseine]

[Sometime in the late evening quite near closing hours, a tall, upright man enters the book shop. He is dressed in a simple East Asian-esque workman's outfit, something not perfectly tailored to his awkward frame and obviously pulled straight off the shelves from the Earth Sector. He has a matching cap, drawn low over his face. He looks like a man who has just come off of a long work shift, slightly dusty from head to toe and smelling vaguely of metal and asphalt.

The lights are dim, and it might be a trick of the light, but a close look at this stranger's face would reveal some strange marks and bruises clustered around his neck and jaw. They are well on their way to fading, but one week is not quite enough to heal up from a dreadful fall, after all.

With a deep grimace, the man approaches the first set of shelves and studies it closely. He searches like a man on a mission, but it seems that he is having some trouble finding what he's looking for in a language he recognizes. An employee's aid might be nice right about now...]

[epigrammatical]

[Henry is lounging in a chair nearby, again maintaining perfectly the appearance of complete idleness with his nose in a book, and glances up at the newcomer, watching him thoughtfully. After a moment:]

There is some rather good poetry on that shelf.

[inseine]

[Oh, the face Javert makes when he hears the word poetry pronounced. Certainly not what he was looking for!]

Damned if I can see that. [Javert murmurs to his collar. He thrusts a hard, disappointed glance at the shelf. Without looking back at the lounging Henry, he asks through the corner of his mouth,] English is a dominant tongue here. That makes it difficult for the likes of me. What do you have in French? Anything? Not poetry. I don't often read poetry.

[polyhistor]

[He's been here for sixteen days, nine hours, eleven minutes and a handful of seconds. But idleness has never once even remotely entered his mind. Reid prefers to be busy. There's something to be said about old habits and dying hard, but the truth of the matter is, he doesn't want to think about this. Any of this. Being here, being away from his team, superheroes, extraneous usage of the word doth.

Instead, he's thrown himself into his first and favourite pastime - learning.

Pattern recognition is an important part of linguistic interpretation. The kedan language is unlike any he's ever seen, and lacking in any Rosetta Stone equivalent he's all but working blind. But after a time, certain themes can be found in the local written word. They have six distinct pronouns for gender, for instance, and the grammatical structure is... interesting, to put it mildly. The gender of the subject (and each subject is gendered, falling into one of the aforementioned six categories) completely changes the overall composition of the sentence. It's one of the most illogical languages he's ever come across, and he's functionally literate in almost every one on Earth.

He spends about forty minutes picking out several volumes, from slim poetry booklets to the encyclopaedic hardcovers you could probably kill someone with (not a murder weapon he's ever seen, and in his line of work that's actually a good thing) and when he's done he approaches the small vendor's check-out. There's no one there, which leads to a few moments of awkwardness in which he stands on his tip-toes to peer into the back, rocks back on his heels when the motion doesn't attract anyone and glances around the rest of the store.

Well.

There is a bell.

So he reaches out and taps it, because surely that's the purpose it serves, right?]

[epigrammatical]

[In a corner behind a shelf where he is quietly trying to reorganise the wreckage left by an earlier customer, Henry is so absorbed in his task that he completely fails to notice Reid looking about, and he almost doesn't notice the bell. Because, after all, he's been trained to ignore bells; they're for tradesmen and servants and porters, after all.

And then he remembers—he needs to pay attention to these things now.

And Daowei is out. Again.

So with a quiet sigh he shelves the book in his hand and emerges. Just because he's an employee, though, doesn't mean he has to act like one. At first glance he might appear to be just another customer.]

Good afternoon. Are you looking for Daowei?

[polyhistor]

[Well, if it's one thing he's good at it's recognizing certain characteristics about someone based on available information and cues. It doesn't even occur to him that Henry might be an employee, he's too... obvious aristocracy.]

No-- well, sort of. I was hoping to pay for these. I could just come back later. Are you friends with him?

video; weak encryption

[virginprice]

Yes, I am quite well, thank you. [He is a bit tired, but that's easy to cover.]

I've finished the book and found it quite interesting- and of course I would be happy to see you again. When shall we meet?

video; weak encryption

[epigrammatical]

I am entirely at your disposal, dear boy. Tonight, if that would suit?

video; weak encryption

[virginprice]

That sounds perfect. What time shall we meet, then? [His own job keeps him busy until early evening, but he's sure Favrielle would let him off early if he asked. She's been a very accommodating employer.]

video; weak encryption

[epigrammatical]

Half-past seven? There is a café in the Fire sector near my house of which I've become rather fond, and if we find matters running late, we may adjourn to my suite for a drink.

video; private

[depicted]

[Oh. It's Henry. And. That extremely emotional, unfettered reaction was public. Others seemed to realize Dorian and Toby knew each other, but it isn't until Henry sends the text that Dorian understands why.]

[Whoops. Well, Dorian does answer, during daylight. For the particularly attentive, that shirt of his is one he has worn before, but not open collared like this. And is that a speck of something darker, something red on the cloth? It's better not to ask.]

[He is all smiles, for Henry, as if he didn't very nearly agree to murder him, as if all is glorious and beautiful in the world. And for Dorian Gray, it is.]

It's sweet of you, Harry, but I'm fine. Toby and I were close twenty years ago—you do mean Toby, don't you? [Maybe Henry means Dorian snapping about Jehan's horrible wardrobe?]

[Yes. Dorian isn't quite as polished or put-together as he usually is when Henry sets him off on Victorian Mode. But then, Henry isn't putting him in Victorian Mode at all, remarkably. Dorian's mindset has happily gone back to the 1980s, and it doesn't want to leave.]

video; private

[epigrammatical]

[Henry's sharp brown eyes miss nothing, but as always he keeps his observations close, and they are unreflective in his pleasant, genuinely concerned smile.]

Mr Matthews, yes—or Toby, if you like. [The briefest of pauses.] Your affairs are and always have been your business, dear boy, so suffice it to say that I hope the reunion was a happy one.

[The interrogative upward inflection on the end is only just audible. You might think you imagined it.]

permaprivate permavideo until further notice

[depicted]

[When Dorian is with Toby, he doesn't want to think, to consider, to waste his energy on anything but that endless succession of bright, burning moments that Toby's company gives him. And if he were younger, if he and Toby had not discussed Lord Henry on their first meeting, then that would be enough to carry him through without second guesses or hesitation. He would have smiled, laughed off what he assumes is true concern, and tell Henry that all is well.]

[But he isn't that young any longer, and that discussion had brought Dorian dangerously close to agreeing to something he isn't certain he'd regret. Dorian returns Henry's smile with his own, but his hand strays to his collar, absently fixing his shirt to be more presentable.]

It was. Harry—Toby means a lot to me. [The smile fades. Dorian doesn't quite know what to say, and it shows in the way he hesitates to speak, parts his lips, then reconsiders.]

[After a moment, he settles on a vague warning.]

But he's dangerous, and he doesn't like you very much. He has read Oscar's book. Don't be careless with him, Harry.

[epigrammatical]

[The spark of interest in Harry's eyes grows a little brighter in that moment of hesitation, not unlike the look of interest that appeared when Dorian first told him about Sibyl Vane. He has always been interested in the people who catch Dorian's fancy, and he finds Dorian's uncertainty—or is it wariness—entirely fascinating.]

[But then there's the warning, and while Harry's expression doesn't change, he now begins to actually worry a little. Still, he sounds as unruffled as ever, and you might as well have informed him of some minor social contretemps at the Albemarle.]

Dorian, you know that I am never careless. [And that's true, because how else has he survived so long without actually being involved in an outright scandal?] I suppose I should not be terribly surprised that he should dislike me if his impressions come from a thing Oscar has written; he has never hesitated to say behind one's back what he would say to one's face with double the enthusiasm. How dangerous is he, Dorian? Should I be concerned for you as well? I hope not; concern furrows the brow and ruins one's sleep.

[Flippant as ever. But genuinely worried. For both of them.]

OPEN THREAD II

[epigrammatical]

[So this trainwreck happened! Later, well after dark, night owls in the Fire sector may happen to spy Lord Henry looking for—well, not to put too fine a point on it, for the roughest trade he can find. Or they might be what he's looking for. You never know.]

[Oh, and, uh, in the parlance, "rough trade" = "carnal distractions of the worst sort", in case you were wondering.]

in which this could end amazingly badly

[cynisme]

[The thing about being a drunk is that your feet will take you where they want to at whatever hour of the day or night. Tonight it happens to lead him with a bottle in hand and a hum on his lips to the fire sector. He's not sure how he got there or why, but there he found a comfortable enough wall to lean against and drink, shaded by the darkness, content to be lost in his thought and alcohol-induced mirth.]

aw yeah.

[epigrammatical]

[Henry, thoughts churning and desire for distraction as yet unsatisfied, pauses for a moment in the shelter of a wall to light a cigarette, with a match taken from a silver match-box. He the match out and casts it aside, only then noticing the young man with the bottle. And wonders what he's about, and decides to find out. He declaims, seemingly to nobody in particular, but clearly meant for the young man's ears:]

De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu, à votre guise. Mais enivrez-vous.

[There is never a bad time for Baudelaire. Even if the quote in question postdates Grantaire by a solid 32 years. Not that Henry knows that. And he's only using the original French because it's the first thing that surfaces in his mind, and he likes it better than any of the English versions he knows—and he never remembers to take the turtle's magic translation properties into account.]

[cynisme]

[It's the spark of light that gets Grantaire's attention. He's yet to see a cigarette or pipe on La Tortue, and the last sparks in his memory are that of musket fire and flint. That small, isolated flame is almost comforting, though, a familiar respite that he's missed.

The quote is, of course, lost on Grantaire, but that doesn't mean that he can't appreciate it. He chuckles, bringing the lip of his bottle to his own and taking a swig. Wine hangs to his lip and he casually licks it off.]

I have every intention to, monsieur. You a poet?

only the best things can happen here

[monstrous]

[So there is this poorly dressed yet somehow attractive person in clothes that might seem familiar but are arranged in all the wrong ways. He appears terribly lost, and approaches Henry shyly.]

Sorry, excuse me. You wouldn't know how to get to the Tree Sector from here, would you? [He smiles sweetly and hopefully at Henry. Toby's also hoping Henry doesn't recognize his voice from when he posted on the network before]

the VERY best

[epigrammatical]

[One way or another, by the time Henry encounters this fellow, the edge has been taken off his appetites, but he's still flâneur-ing his way around the night world of the Fire sector, because he still has a lot of steam to blow off.

He vaguely recognises the voice. It's going to take a moment for the penny to drop, though.]

The Wood sector? You're going quite the wrong way if that is your destination, dear boy.

[monstrous]

[Toby bites his lip and gives an embarrassed laugh] Right, right, wood. [He closes his eyes and repeats the name like a mantra to try to remember] Wood Sector. Wood Sector. [He opens his eyes again] I knew it was something like that, I swear.

[Toby scratches his hair, ducking his head before looking up and smiling sheepishly at Henry] It'll sound silly, but I really thought if I walked around I'd figure out this place easier. It turns out the only thing I figured out was how to get hopelessly lost instead.