faderift | [ open: all arise! ]

Entry tags:

[ open: all arise! ]

WHO: you. yes, you there. you're invited
WHAT: Sonia is throwing a big party, because everyone needs an excuse to get good and drunk together right now. And dancing. There is always dancing.
WHEN: Justinian, shortly after the return of the jungle crew
WHERE: The suite at the top of the mage tower
NOTES: ♫ have some party jams ♫

The month in the jungle was a long one, made longer by the total lack of any alcohol to mitigate the experience. Utterly unthinkable. Sonia is addressing a public need by throwing a grand party -- a public service, even. Besides, it's what she does. When was the last time she got to plan a party, anyway? Granted, this is not a Denerim soiree for the young nobility, but the venue doesn't matter. Only the people and the drinks, and Sonia is assuredly rich in both. It is also a fantastic excuse not to think about any of the bad things that have happened since she was last in Kirkwall.

The decoration in the residential suite at the top of the mage tower would be best classified as improvisational -- one of those drapes tacked along the wall for ambience may be a bedsheet -- but it's the spirit of the thing that counts. One makes do with what one has. In one corner are a few tables laden with spirits, some provided by Sonia, others by generous partygoers. There are a few Barra vineyard vintages in the mix, highlights of her personal collection, a testament to the celebration she considers tonight to be. There's a small selection of food nearby, mostly for snacking to go with the drinks, though guests are free to bring whatever they like to share.

And there is, of course, music. Someone here has brought a fiddle or a flute or a bunch of pots masquerading as a drum set. Maybe you've brought your very own a capella choir. Whatever the accompaniment, there's something to dance to. Sonia makes sure there is dancing.

Tonight is not for licking wounds or swapping grisly stories of terror and survival. Tonight is for feeling alive, getting properly and delightfully drunk, and having a good god damn time.

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By smiles at that, sweetly enough that it's quite clear he's being thoroughly sardonic.

"Maker, yes," he replies. "I've seen nothing save restraint from you. You're truly steely."

"Oh, yes, it's why I get invited to all the parties," Miles sings, his returning smile baring teeth. The urge to drink more to a) spite Byerly and b) make Byerly's presence more tolerable is compelling, and his hand twitches. Compelling, yes, and unfailingly preamble to something grander and stupider than snippy banter. "Why do you get invited to all the parties? Besides this one, since everyone within hearing range was invited, apparently."

"I show up uninvited," he replies with obnoxious good cheer. "Even if someone doesn't know at first that they'll be glad of my presence, they'll figure it out before too long. Really, it's a gift I'm giving them."

Then, fluttering his lashes - "But don't tell me that the Lord Lieutenant is unpopular."

"Of course you do," Miles says, matching Byerly's obnoxious cheer with an irritatingly sunny smile. "Of course it is."

He sidesteps the question, because the last thing he feels like right now is revealing directly to Byerly just how few friends he had growing up. He's getting a little tired of getting Lord Lieutenanted, and every time Byerly says it, he fiercely regrets those words ever having left his mouth.

"Oh, it's like any noble party circuit," he goes on, passing his empty wine glass from hand to hand. "Everyone with a title is invited. Parties are a great deal of fun with friends, but they're also fantastic place to embarrass people you don't care for. The trick is to know whether you've been invited to entertain or be entertained."

"You're causing me agony. Here - " The hostess of this party is going by with a bottle of wine. Byerly fluidly grabs it from her, tolerates the pout she throws in his direction, and pours a healthy dose of white wine into the man's glass.

"The trick," he corrects Miles archly, "is to always be there to entertain. If you choose a role yourself, no one can assign one to you."

Miles smiles through his teeth as the wine burbles pleasantly into his glass, the crisp scent of it rising to his nose. That's supposed to be my line, you asshole, he snarls inwardly, but instead of saying anything, partly out of spite and partly out of a desire for Byerly not to belabor the point, he takes a drink. There is also some relief in it, because he hasn't spent a single night drunk since he got here -- mostly through lack of opportunity, but still. Even Miles can use an ill-advised night every now and then. Just maybe...not this one, with Byerly.

"I am well-accustomed to defining my own role," he says, largely in an attempt to not let Byerly have the last word on it. It's a half-truth. He defines his role with the Dendarii only; at home, he is defined by Barrayar. Here... "Or carving one for myself, as it were."

He watches the retreating hostess and how friendly she seems to be with...just about everyone, and how fondly tolerant she had seemed of Byerly in that brief moment. Bastien's impression of her seemed to be an accurate one, now that he's had a look up close, sort of.

"Do you entertain her?" Miles asks, gesturing in her direction with his glass, one eyebrow raised. This is sheer curiosity, to see how Byerly will react, what answers he'll give. "I hear she's a Fereldan lady of high standing, in line for a title and everything. Does she hire you for all her parties?"

"Hire?" he asks innocently. "Why, that would imply I require some wage. No, dear creature, I am like a party golem. During the day, I slumber - but at night, if you sprinkle me with wine, I jump to full consciousness and obey my master's whims. Play the fiddle? Belch the Orlesian national anthem? Dance till my feet bleed? I'll do that, and more. I live to serve."

He presses his hands together (rather awkwardly, still holding his wineglass) as in supplication. The song and dance, he expects, will do something to bend the tiny man's attention away from his dear cousin. He's not in the mood to hear some spiteful little slander coming from that spiteful little mouth.

"But tell me all about the roles you've carved for yourself," he says. "That sounds quite heroic."

Perhaps if Miles had no experience with any Byerly, Barrarayan or otherwise, the distraction might have worked. In a different mood, it may well have worked. But Miles has decided he is not in the mood to be baited. He would rather do the baiting for once.

"And spoil you for the depths of my character? So early on? No, we should let that narrative play out at its own pace. I'd hate to ruin all the little plot twists for you. There's a hell of a kicker about six months back." He smiles back, his sharp grin bordering on feral. Alcohol usually makes him lethargic, and he does feel a little blurriness around the edges of his consciousness, but he feels taut, on edge.

That, and the apparent skittishness on the topic of the hostess gnaws at him. The reality is of course rather more innocuous, but for Byerly's wife to proclaim no knowledge of any relatives in Riftwatch, and Byerly's obvious attempts to divert his attention on the subject... It snags at his attention, and he doesn't like Byerly to begin with, and he likes even less not knowing things he feels he ought to know about. So instead he will doggedly and foolishly pursue this topic and see what it is that makes Byerly squirm.

"She certainly seems pleased to have you here," Miles agrees with deceptive mildness. He'd seen them dancing together earlier, talking, smiling. Obviously this Byerly has cleaned up his past reputation somewhat, but his vile sense of humor seems a multiuniversal constant. "So where does she keep you while you slumber? Tucked away in a little cupboard under the stairs, or does she keep a small shrine on her grand estate for the patron spirit of getting absolutely wasted?"

Edited 2020-07-20 14:14 (UTC)

"A little cupboard," Byerly muses, "a small shrine. You know, dear fellow, there are people in the world who take up a bit more room than you."

And then Byerly takes a slow sip of his drink, evidently done. A vile sense of humor indeed.

"Oh, a short joke," Miles says in a tone of absolute boredom. "I am cut to the quick, Byerly. You have wounded me in such a novel and unexpected fashion that I do not know how I will ever recover."

Byerly doesn't like this, keeps steering away from it, so as far as Miles is concerned, he's on the right track. An outside observer or, perhaps, someone who knows Miles a little better might point out that this is starting to become a petite obsession, and that perhaps that energy could be directed to something less...uh, petty and probably destructive. Byerly is slippery, Miles will give him that. But if he runs his mouth enough, he'll find some handholds. That is usually more or less how it works out. Sometimes with undesired side effects.

"Not so small a shrine, then," he decides, turning the glass in his hand. "Something grand for her favorite party golem. Incense and candles and gilded icons. One of those tacky round beds with the satin sheets and more pillows than anyone has any business using. Offerings of fine wine and chocolates on the altar for good drinks and good music, euphoria and protection."

"You make me sound like some sort of god," Byerly responds mildly. He can feel some irritated tension penetrating his drunken good mood, but maintains his attitude of calm cheer. "That's heresy, Lord Lieutenant. The Maker might strike you down where you stand." With a shooing motion - "Move away, won't you?"

"No," Miles says cheerfully. Chase me away just as it's getting interesting, eh? "You're the one who protested at the space. I'm just trying to get the measure of it. Perhaps you can introduce me to the hostess later. I'd very much like to ask her where she sources her wine collection."

"Introduce yourself," By responds with as much cheery rudeness as he can muster. The idea of Miles talking to Sonia fills him with immense irritation. Not just because he's a foul little creature, but also because Sonia will likely enjoy Miles. And he doesn't want to endure Sonia telling him to just be a little kinder.

"You're not shy."

"Not at all," Miles says, so aggressively cheerfully that his face is starting to hurt. Spite is too powerful a motivator sometimes. "But I'm deeply curious as to why you suddenly are."

His smile grows ever so slightly harder for just a moment before returning to normal. "Shy?" he responds. "What - am I blushing? Well, you'll have to forgive me for that. Your raw charisma is simply so overwhelming."

"Oh, all is forgiven," Miles practically purrs, watching Byerly's face with unsettlingly alert eyes. What's with all the aversion, especially when Byerly and the hostess seem to get along so well? He could try a little harder to keep Miles away from her, if that was his concern -- Byerly still hasn't deigned to mention so much as her name, let alone her relation to him -- but he seems mostly just to be trying to get rid of Miles as fast as possible. Unfortunately, Miles is used to this, and simply refuses to be chased away. "Can't be helped, I get it all the time. I'm sure your lovely cousin will fall to my charms as well. I'm an absolute menace, y'know."

"Mm," By responds, and then, "The issue, of course, is that she's not a professional. You know. In pretending to fall to a fellow's charms." Then, with a bright smile - "I assume that your prior conquests have all been transactional, no?"

Which is a rather cruel charge, he supposes. Especially because it's likely true - near-impossible to imagine a woman choosing the little bastard. But the man's just getting under his skin.

"Can't say I've ever had the experience, no," Miles chirps, absolutely insufferably. He'd been offered the opportunity to see a licensed practical sexual therapist once during his school days on Beta Colony, but having been bitten once by uncouth rejection, he'd been far too shy (and Barrayaran) and had staunchly refused. In retrospect, it might have been a good idea. But Miles has had enough independent and successful romantic ventures at this point in his life -- and he's fielded enough accusations along the same lines -- that this fails to have the intended effect. No, he's clearly rattling Byerly, and it's the most fun Miles has had all fucking month.

He clucks his tongue, eyebrows raised as he takes a delicate sip from his glass. "Inserting the implication that your cousin is a prostitute just for a cheap jab at me? Ouch, Byerly."

That hadn't been the implication - he'd been charging Vorkosigan with that - but to fight against it would sound awkward, the protests awkward and weak. Damn this foul little creature. Damn his preening smugness. When the man he knew was dreaming up this little spirit, couldn't he have made him a bit less vile? Or, failing that, dulled his tongue a little?

As though you don't enjoy his vileness. As though you don't enjoy having a vicious little target. True enough back home, when he could always slip away from any insults by playing the clown. It's shocking how much harder it is to insult someone when you're playing at respectability.

"Forgive me," he replies. "It seems I underestimated how impressive your title is. How embarrassing."

Miles watches every rebuttal die in Byerly's mouth and grins viciously. No, he does not mean the hostess any dishonor, of course, but watching Byerly trip and fall over his own tongue is a pleasure worth savoring along with the wine.

"That's not what you're embarrassed about," he says in a singsong tone. "Not very used to having to care about losing face, are you?"

He feels like his back teeth are about to split. But:

"No," he answers, very sweetly. "I'm quite new to failing to live up to high expectations. Do you have advice for me?"

"Oh, I don't think you need any advice from me," Miles says with aggressive geniality. He even reaches out to pat Byerly on the hand. "You seem to be doing spectacularly well all on your own."

"For less than a year, though," he says, voice turning positively syrupy. "You have an entire lifetime of experience to draw on. I can just imagine it - " He doesn't really have to imagine it; he knows well the scandalous divide that came of that birth - "You come out of the womb, and the family immediately fractures. How powerful, to cause a rift merely by existing."

That seems almost...too pointed a jab. It gives Miles an awful chill, a nasty, slimy feeling in his stomach. He resents it fiercely. This is no newer territory than his sex life -- this is much, much older -- but there's a certainty behind Byerly's words that lends it a piercing sting. Miles's smile doesn't waver; the wattage only seems to increase, dangerously bright.

"Oh, you don't give me enough credit," Miles practically sings. "I was causing a scandal long before I was actually born. A master of drama in utero." He takes another (unwise) sip from his glass, tilting his head to one side, as if in concession to some point. "Every family has its own fault lines. I wonder where yours lie." He searches out the young hostess in the crowd again, glancing her way. Hmmmmmm.

"How could I possibly give you credit when you make comments like that?"

He doesn't like the way that Miles' eyes are wandering. Not at all.

"You can open any history book. Look to the tales of the Rutyers during the Occupation and before. Vicious." Then, with a click of his tongue - "I thought you were doing your research. Not very well, it seems."

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