[After they'd been taken. After the release. After Prior had walked Byerly's dreams to drag him out by force. After relief and terror pushed Prior into running any which way but home. It does give it context. And a little sting: the timing. But he'd have no right to complain over not being somewhere he walked out of.]
Something like that. Less scratchy and prone to chafe, one hopes, although everyone has their proclivities.
[Prior's all too aware of the kind of inculcation boys of their time grew up with, he was one. And he soaked it up too, albeit in a different way, that varnished coating of shame even he hasn't completely scratched off. He knows how their world sees people like him. How he's supposed to see himself.
And he's met enough straight men searching for answers in public restrooms or on the ramble to have a few clues of what a mess it can be when they find them. The date adds some context for that, too, and the knowledge that the only other time Richie's mentioned Byerly it's been with open distaste. There are numerous equations here, all adding up.]
[What does he even say? The natural response would be to spit back fire. No, of course he's not all right. Back from the dead and world view upended for the third or fourth time in as many months, living off bullshit and vices and trying to slip back into life like it's all hunky dory good times, problem solved folks! Nevermind that he'd slid into Byerly's bed and hoped to dissolve there. Stop being somebody, cease to be anything but the electric pops from pharmacy stimulants, back-alley snake oil cut into white lines. Forget what he felt like, floating in the eye of the storm. Forget the fear of what's watching them, what has them under their thumb, life and death turned to child's play for a purpose obscured in a hundred shrouds. How closely it aligns with the questions he'd been asking just before the Storm hit, tangling with powers that saw fit to scoot you around as they needed, put words in your mouth and ideas in your head and deceive you into thinking they were your own.
This isn't anything to lay on Prior, though. He doesn't need to be part of that story. Richie isn't so sure what the connection is between the two men outside of their being roommates, but he remembers how Byerly's eyes had narrowed when the name slipped out of his own lips. They cared for each other, of course. Probably had more in common than the obvious, and the obvious wasn't something Richie was supposed to be privy to.
Yet here he fucking is. Can't he climb out of it? Somehow?]
Hate to break it to you Miss Lane, but the jury's in recess and Superman has flown the coop. Will the press please hold questions until court is back in session?
Ask a stupid question, I know. But the world's all fucked up, Richie, what sensible ones are left? It's not supposed to be an interrogation, I just mean-
[That he'd listen. To any number of the things he's fucked up about. It seems to him someone used to pouring out words for a living could feel ready to spill with no available outlet, and Prior has a high tolerance level for lengthy diatribe.
Prior doesn't say any of it. Opts for a small olive branch instead.]
Well, I've agreed to bed rest for a while. It's dull. I hate the quiet, it always feels like a premonition. So if you wanted to come over when the nurse is off duty, you'd find a willing audience for... whatever. Nostalgia if you wanted. We of the New, old, World.
[The nurse has a fine moustache and cold-war accent and Prior assumes Richie would rather encounter her again on his own terms.]
[This is more in line with what he'd expect. Prior is just one of those souls. Have so little, give so much. Self-sacrificing little sod, even if he's not tethered to Richie by anything better than an innate familiarity with Watergate and the rise of Prince.
Richie drops the phone to his forehead and lays still. Thinking it over. His gut says he'd lose his lunch if he leaped for the offer right this instant. Now's out of the question. Later?
Does there have to be a later? This old town's big enough to lose a pair of yokels in, but that's a myth and he knows it. The refugees keep hurtling back to each other. He doesn't think a one of them has gotten more intimate with a local than the time it takes to roll between the sheets or a brawl in the streets. There and gone again in a flash, and all that remains is what the Storm cast aside.
Richie plucks the phone from the top of his head and finally replies.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Something like that. Less scratchy and prone to chafe, one hopes, although everyone has their proclivities.
[Prior's all too aware of the kind of inculcation boys of their time grew up with, he was one. And he soaked it up too, albeit in a different way, that varnished coating of shame even he hasn't completely scratched off. He knows how their world sees people like him. How he's supposed to see himself.
And he's met enough straight men searching for answers in public restrooms or on the ramble to have a few clues of what a mess it can be when they find them. The date adds some context for that, too, and the knowledge that the only other time Richie's mentioned Byerly it's been with open distaste. There are numerous equations here, all adding up.]
Are you all right?
no subject
This isn't anything to lay on Prior, though. He doesn't need to be part of that story. Richie isn't so sure what the connection is between the two men outside of their being roommates, but he remembers how Byerly's eyes had narrowed when the name slipped out of his own lips. They cared for each other, of course. Probably had more in common than the obvious, and the obvious wasn't something Richie was supposed to be privy to.
Yet here he fucking is. Can't he climb out of it? Somehow?]
Hate to break it to you Miss Lane, but the jury's in recess and Superman has flown the coop. Will the press please hold questions until court is back in session?
no subject
[That he'd listen. To any number of the things he's fucked up about. It seems to him someone used to pouring out words for a living could feel ready to spill with no available outlet, and Prior has a high tolerance level for lengthy diatribe.
Prior doesn't say any of it. Opts for a small olive branch instead.]
Well, I've agreed to bed rest for a while. It's dull. I hate the quiet, it always feels like a premonition. So if you wanted to come over when the nurse is off duty, you'd find a willing audience for... whatever. Nostalgia if you wanted. We of the New, old, World.
[The nurse has a fine moustache and cold-war accent and Prior assumes Richie would rather encounter her again on his own terms.]
no subject
Richie drops the phone to his forehead and lays still. Thinking it over. His gut says he'd lose his lunch if he leaped for the offer right this instant. Now's out of the question. Later?
Does there have to be a later? This old town's big enough to lose a pair of yokels in, but that's a myth and he knows it. The refugees keep hurtling back to each other. He doesn't think a one of them has gotten more intimate with a local than the time it takes to roll between the sheets or a brawl in the streets. There and gone again in a flash, and all that remains is what the Storm cast aside.
Richie plucks the phone from the top of his head and finally replies.]
I'll give it a thinksy. Rest up, Slim.