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

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

[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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Do you miss anything? [Yes, this is a firm and blatant attempt to change the subject now. He doesn't let go of Henry's hand, though.] I am curious to know more of your home- I think I have talked quite enough of mine.

[The hint is gracefully taken.]

My friend Basil has a marvellous garden, with the most beautiful lilacs. He is a painter, and what he lacks in personality he more than compensates for in sheer talent—though of late he seems less inspired. [At this point, Basil is merely missing for Henry; he is sure that his friend will turn up somewhere eventually.] But it is a beautiful place to spend a summer afternoon, and this city is sadly lacking in lilacs.

[It's much appreciated.]

Parts of this city are lovely, but it seems that to see any extraordinary greenery, one must visit the Wood sector. I agree, our lack of lilacs is truly unfortunate.

I regret also the lack of a proper countryside. There is no proper escape from civilisation here, and worse, nowhere for proper country-house intrigue. We must manufacture our scandals her in the city, it seems, rather than letting them grow in the fresh air.

[He's completely unserious now.]

[It makes Alcuin smile and squeeze his hand.]

Yes, how can one expect them to blossom properly if they are deprived of space, sunlight, and that ever-so-tempting privacy?

They must be nurtured in a hothouse, perhaps, or they will grow up between the cracks in the pavement. That being said, I cannot say that I entirely miss the usual round of social engagements that occupy my time at home. At my age one already knows most of what everyone will say before the first course.

Yes, I suppose coming from such disparate worlds makes it harder to predict our reactions and our conversation. Some would miss that sort of security- but then, I think they would be the sort not to notice in the first place.

Just so. And it is refreshing as well to have an entirely new set of conversational subjects, at last. The public at home is incapable of handling more than one or two subjects in a three-month span, and they will talk about it and vivisect it to ashes before it is all over.

I have noticed some little repetition, but I think it is inevitable- we must always be explaining who we are, and what our own worlds are like, since they can be so different. However, it is not quite so dire.

One's experiences become interesting again when reflected in a stranger's eyes. It is almost like living them all over again, but without the tedium of actually having to do so.

[As if it were a completely natural thing to do, he reaches up and brushes back a few strands of hair that have fallen across Alcuin's face, somehow not actually touching skin as he does so.]

[Alcuin tilts his head like he's considering leaning into Henry's hand, but in the end he holds off- though he doesn't seem to mind the near-touch.]

Have you found your life truly that tedious? Or would it only be that you were forced to live it over again?

[Henry notes that response but doesn't press the point. He is, as ever, intrigued by Alcuin's behaviour.]

Were I able to choose what parts I could live over again, skipping the dullest and most tiresome, I daresay I would, but if one had to go through every last tedious dinner and hansom-ride—no, that is far less appealing.

[~~Get a bit more brandy in him and he's all Henry's!~~

He laughs and nods.]

Yes, I daresay you are right. My life has been kinder than many, but I would not enjoy living it over again, with all the tedium and little pains involved.

[He'd ask for details, but after Alcuin's shying away from the earlier discussion about his past, he slides gracefully away from that with a small laugh.]

My own path has been made smooth by rank and wealth, and one should naturally not complain, but of course one does. The more superficial the annoyance, the more deeply felt the complaint.

[Yes, it's very unlikely that Alcuin would give them.]

If a cloth has been pressed flat, a single crease stands out far more than if it is not pressed at all. I think it is quite natural for one to complain in such circumstances. There is an inevitable feeling that since things have always been smooth, they should remain so.

That is a very elegant metaphor, and I agree completely. I find myself somewhat rumpled, admittedly, in my arrival here, but I have no doubt I shall find my way smoothed before too long.

[He gives Alcuin a concerned look, noting that the young man's distress seems to have passed, and that also the alcohol has left him rather becomingly flushed.] Are you feeling quite all right now?

If you are rumpled it does not show, I assure you. I have found the same, but I think things are smoothing out.

[It's hard to say. He hits those wrinkles of grief fairly often.

Henry's question makes him consider, then nod.] Yes, much better. It was only a moment of uneasiness.

[Which is understating the case a bit, but he doesn't want to be sad all over Henry. Henry is far too nice for that.]

[And Henry would, without intending to (?), somehow manage to turn that sadness around into something else. So better choice, Alcuin.]

I am glad. You are far too beautiful and charming to be uneasy, save perhaps for a picturesque melancholy. We should find you some lilies, or a willow-branch, if you insist upon it.

[He's completely unserious again, flattering Alcuin and trying to cheer him.]

[It makes him laugh again, resting his chin on his palm. He's feeling dizzy enough to want the stability.]

Beauty is not a shield to be used against all ills, Henry. But I admit, I would rather be sad and surrounded by beauty than sad without the comfort of flowers. I shall let you know if they are required.

Do so, and I shall be happy to assist. [He noticed Alcuin leaning on his hand and recognised the manner of someone reasonably, though not yet excessively, in his cups.] Shall I bring you a glass of water, perhaps? I think you have had rather enough brandy.

You are quite right. Water, I think, would be wise. [He did not intend to get this drunk, so now that he is he will certainly take steps to mitigate it.] Not that I feel ill- the spinning is quite pleasant, actually.

Spinning? [He chuckles softly.] If you have reached the stage of inebriation where you are experiencing spinning, you shall be grateful for the water indeed.

[He rises, giving Alcuin a comforting pat on the shoulder, and goes to the sideboard, where he fills a glass from a pitcher. He returns to Alcuin's side and offers him the glass, making sure he has a good grip on it before letting go.]

Only a little. The brandy, I think, was stronger than expected- and as I said, it's quite amusing. [He takes the glass carefully, wrapping his fingers around it until he's sure he has it as well. Being aware that he was not at his best would help balance the limitations, wouldn't it? He lifts the glass to his lips to sip, his movements slower than usual, but just as graceful.]

[Henry watches, partly because it's always a pleasure to watch Alcuin do anything, and partly because he actually is concerned for his welfare.]

I think perhaps you ought to rest here rather than attempt the way home. I should hate if you went out and met with some accident. And before you say anything, dear boy—I do simply mean to rest. No more than that.

[See previous notes about the lack of appeal of taking advantage of a drunk person.]

Yes, you're quite right. I am in something of a state- and I know the streets can be dangerous after dark. [He was warned when he first arrived.]

But really, I am all right otherwise. Don't look so concerned.

[Even drunk he does have his observational skills intact.]

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

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