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WHO: Byerly & Vanadi
WHAT: The Morning After
WHEN: Backdated to Sonia's party
WHERE: Byerly's I think??
NOTES: it's post-sexy so whatever content warnings might be associated with that

[ It's been easy to fall into old habits, and it grows easier the longer he's in this world. Last night had been a dive straight back into them, all pleasant flirts, courtly dances, and good company. And then all the rest. Oh, it'd been good to lose himself for a while, to really appreciate another body in a way he hasn't in a while ...

... But he can't let go of all of his recent habits, and a keen discomfort sleeping next to a stranger is one of them. It's been a fitful and restless night, and just as the sun rises he decides he's willing to eschew manners and throw in the towel. He'll catch up with the man later, and make whatever apologies are necessary.

Vanadi sits himself up carefully, not quite willing to unduly disturb the form next to him. The man had been lovely company, there's no need to rouse him so early as this. He peels back the sheets, intending to collect his belongings, dress in the almost-dark, and see himself out. ]

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Oh, no wealth to speak of.

[ A dismissive wave of his hand. ]

My family was a mere cadet line. We lived in genteel poverty. Romantic, no?

Ah. [ what do you mean you're not a rich kid?? ] Not much of a threat then, disinheritance.

Not a bit. The only piece of my legacy I truly missed out on was our rotting old house - a pity, because I'd have liked to have burned it.

I wouldn't say burning it is really off the table, if you're careful.

Ooh, naughty! It wouldn't take much. Wood that aged goes up quick.

Oh, certainly. It would make a nice holiday, I imagine. Is it far from here?

Quite a journey, I fear, yes.

[ They enter into the dining hall. By makes for the kitchen beyond it. ]

Still, it sounds worth it.

[ It's easier to walk abreast of Byerly now, and he's picked up his pace for just that -- but he slows again as they come to the kitchen. He lingers in the doorway, brow knitting. ]

Mm. I thought this might be the only one.

[ Just a stall; he doesn't care where he cooks. ]

Is this kitchen not sufficient?

It's fine.

[ That said, though, he doesn't move forward. His gaze shifts from the kitchen, sliding toward Byerly with an uncomfortable trepidation. ]

[ Byerly catches that look. With an incredulous half-laugh - ]

Maker, you've the face of a man before he attempts an assassination. Are you planning to bump me off in there?

No. [ A joke, obviously, he knows it for a joke -- but his tone still sounds a little hurt regardless. And stupid as this is, he can't help but add: ] Are you?

[ What. Well, Byerly manages to dig deep enough to muster a sufficiently sincere: ]

Dear man, if I wanted to kill you, I'd have done it last night while pleasuring you.

No, I know. You've had ample opportunity.

[ It sounds like he's trying to reassure himself. He takes a breath, sets his jaw, and mutters something along the lines of this is ridiculous, before ducking at last into the kitchen proper. His heart is beating wildly, which is irrational, and he ignores it as he sets about briskly familiarizing himself with available ingredients and supplies. ]

Name a few favorite foods -- aside from whisky.

I'm Fereldan. If I name my favorite foods, it'll make you sad.

[ He follows into the kitchen, hands firmly in his pockets, elbow propped up on a counter, well away from any knives or anything that could be used as a weapon. With his current posture, it'd take him a good ten seconds to get into a position where he could pose any sort of threat to Vanadi. See if that can get him to relax a bit. ]

Gray stew, brown stew, turnip stew, dirt stew...

[ He's peripherally aware of Byerly, but the good intentions barely register. He's busy trying to calm baseless, senseless fear that spikes through him. ]

Real answers, if you please. I know how to cook for me, but we're not here for that.

[ It comes out as more of a snap than he'd intended, but it's a bit late to fix that. ]

[ Maker preserve him. ]

Sweets are nice.

[ It's a useless answer, but the irritation that flares does soothe the prickle of fear somewhat. ]

Right. Sweets for breakfast it is, then.

[ He's not quite done taking stock, and moves quickly about the space as he learns it. ]

When does cooking for communal breakfasts usually begin, do you know? I should hate to be chased off mid-project.

Shouldn't be for an hour or so.

[ He nods, then, wordlessly, sets to work. Sweets actually isn't a terrible guideline, it tells him to lean for something more lavish than filling — fruits, sugars, cream, it will all have a place in the ideas that suggest themselves.

For now, though, he works in a brisk silence, tension set in his shoulders and movements. ]

[ By, meanwhile, leans against the counter, watching him work. After a few minutes, that leaning turns into hopping up on the counter and sitting there, legs dangling. And then he turns and lays flat on the counter.

And then he closes his eyes, apparently quite thoroughly asleep. ]

[ It takes him some time to notice his company is seemingly no longer conscious. And when he does it's — a bit odd, a bit startling, and ... somehow, a bit calming. He can't pin why, exactly, a man sleeping on a kitchen counter should chase away the unease. The tensions don't leave Vanadi entirely, but they do ease.

He spends a quick moment staring at Byerly in his incongruous recline, but ultimately does and says nothing of it. He only gets back to work, movements a little smoother.

It's about half an hour before he's standing at the man's side, a plate in hand of quickly mixed and browned flat, sweet bread, doused with sweet syrup and sugared fruits and berries. He speaks quietly, tentatively, unsure of the validity of this "sleep": ]

Byerly.

[ One velvety, long-lashed eye slips open. ]

Yes, Vanadi?

[ Either he was faking the sleep or it was a light doze. Impossible to tell which. ]

[ Is it stupid, he wonders, or very confident, to sleep in front of as near a stranger as Vanadi is? Even feigned, it would have given Vanadi plenty of time to set any number of kitchen knives to murder.

But of course, he reminds himself, Byerly has already done just this, if in admittedly more mundane circumstances. And this isn't the time or place for such speculations. He holds the plate out before himself, half temptation and half offer. ]

Good morning again. [ He can't quite summon a smile, but the irritation is gone. He only looks tired. ] You'll have to tell me how I did. Some ingredients are universal, but some I've guessed at.

[ He pushes himself up to sitting, and takes the plate. A bite; a long chew, meditative, face thoughtful. A swallow.

And then a smile, and a phenomenally sincere: ]

It's exquisite.