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.]

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[~~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.]

[He pats Alcuin on the shoulder warmly.]

If you say so, I shall take you at your word. There is a second bedchamber upstairs, and you are more than welcome to use it.

Thank you. [He frowns, a little worried that his bad dreams will make an appearance tonight- but perhaps they will not. Perhaps the alcohol will mitigate it, wasn't he talking with Jehan about that?]

Shall I show you upstairs? If we were in my own home you would also have the services of my valet at your disposal, but I am afraid that here we must make shift on our own.

Yes, I think I should probably sleep this off. [He will finish his glass of water first, though. He is sure he'll feel dire enough in the morning without it.] And do not worry, I'm hardly used to a valet anyway.

Whereas I am hardly used to being without one. One manages, however. [He won't mention the shirt that he ruined when he tried to press it.] That being said, if there is anything that you need in the night, I am but across the hall.

One does, though I still do not trust myself to cook. [He didn't have a manservant, but the household had a cook, of course.] And I will wake you if I have need of anything.

[Well, he won't, but he will say he will. It satisfies politeness.]

Oh! cooking. [Henry waves that thought away. At least he's finally figured out how to boil water and make toast without burning it.] Well, when you are finished with your water, I will show you to your room, and you may rest your head with hopefully very little pain in the morning.

[The toaster is a work of magic. Like cooking, but without anything too difficult! He finishes off the last of his water.]

I believe I am ready to retire now, if you will be so kind as to lead the way.

Of course.

[Henry rises and offers Alcuin a steadying hand.]

[Alcuin pushes himself up carefully, taking that hand with gratitude.]

Lead on, then.

[With perfect graciousness, Henry escorts Alcuin to the spare bedroom, pointing out the conveniences and other necessities along the way. As he bids Alcuin goodnight, he rests his hand for a moment on Alcuin's shoulder—very nearly the side of his slender neck, a gesture that could be a little too intimate for some.]

Good night, Alcuin, and sleep well.

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

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