Why do you think I wanted the company? All the different voices you yell out in, it sounded like I was missing a party.
[He peers pointedly into the dark corners of the room before correcting.]
No hollering tonight. [Prior notices only because sleep's such a hardship over in his own room most of the time. He's either awake through the early hours or waking into them in momentary panic, looking for things in the dark he's not sure were ever there. Richie cries out in his sleep, true, but the only voice Prior's ever heard him use is more wrenching for being his own.] In fact that's half the problem. Have I ever told you how much I hate the quiet?
[Because if not he'll stand here and make small talk in a doorway until he's sure things are okay.]
That confusion dissipates in an instant. Joking, he's only joking. Good. There was something unnerving in that idea that he didn't like. As if the multitude he mimics could flap his jaw and produce sound without his knowing. Sometimes it seemed like that happened anyhow — just like in the alley with the brick. Just like at the Neibolt house, or in the town square with the plastic eyesore come to life.
Richie takes a sip of the water around his soundless chuckle.]
You could always throw on some tunes. I bet Nancy Sinatra would be divine company.
Oh, of course, but I didn't want to wake you. [This is not leading at all, look at the concern in those big brown eyes, hands cupping his chin in kewpie doll innocence.] Did I wake you?
No, no. You didn't wake me. [Oh that boo-boo eyelash bat. It ought not to work so well but Prior's got the dollish lashes and baby brown eyes. Richie presses his palm over the other man's peepers.] Cut that out, work on your Judy Garland later.
[Prior's shoulders lift with a couple of breaths closer to laughter than they should be. Eyes closed under Richie's palm, he presses his own over the top.]
I'd never thought about it, but you must be a weapon in games of Guess Who. How's your Judy?
[A little pause.]
I tried making phone calls, even, but some people don't appreciate it at this hour.
[Richie's grinning too. He lets both hands linger until the challenge is made, whereupon he withdraws to brush back his own pillow-wild hair.]
Oh, fuck a duck. You know the ladies are harder for me. I can't do Easter Parade but... [He pauses. Gaze locking to the door frame as he works his throat and fishes for the pitch.] Toto, I—
[It's severed by laughter. The impression isn't there, though it is a woman's voice. Just not Judy's.] I'll workshop that. If you're having such a shit time getting shut eye maybe you've got the mind to coach. I don't think I'm going back to bed for a while anyhow.
Well, I think - I think that... if I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with. Is that right?
[It's not a woman's voice any more than Prior's usual breathy lilt is, but anybody listening to him and not hearing Dorothy Gale in the very essence of it hasn't ever taken a trip to Oz before. That's the thing with icons, you inhabit rather than imitate.
Richie was supposed to ask him who he'd called - but he hasn't, and he's laughing, and Prior can't push it now.]
[His delight is clear. The voice isn't there but the spirit, the inflection? Spot on, chum. Richie laughs and claps Prior's shoulder.] Fuck! And Lou wanted you to quit drag? What a loony.
[Richie tips his head to the side.]
Well. If nobody better picked up, then I guess I'll be your chopped liver tonight. [He parts ways with the doorframe and ushers the other man in. It's a comfortable room, cleanly kept. He's too used to living solo to not learn how to play housekeeping, and he's a man who likes his creature comforts.] Were you really making calls?
[He'd taken it as a joke. It is the middle of the night, Prior. Could you really expect anything other than an earful?]
I suppose he never imagined he'd be so attracted to someone in a skirt. Imagine the confusion. The questioning. What if he was a closet straight after all?
[Make no mistake, Prior's plainly delighted by that little compliment, shucking his shoulder up into Richie's hand and looking back over it, all coquette, as he heads into the room to find a demure enough perch on the end of the bed.]
Anyway, when your black book's full of doctors and hookers there's no such thing as business hours. Though, only the doctor picked up.
[And people call him a ham. Prior could give him a run for his money when the mood struck, though Richie has him beat for constancy. Always on. Burning out bright.
He lingers by the door, only closing it to a scant four inches as a worrisome knot hooks into his brow.]
She? [This isn't the Shades Darker physician. Richie wets his lips.
Then it hits him.]
Oh — oh, you mean Mrs. Fraser? Claire Fraser, right?
[He's only had a few run ins with the woman, but "rough" is right when you're talking recent times. That's not on him to discuss, though, even if it had raked him with shivers that refused to shake off.
[Mother Fraser and her Children may be how Prior refers to her on the down-low but it's probably not appropriate just now. He's simple about it, when it comes down to it, just nodding.]
She said you helped her out. And I thought [Worried.] Well, you probably had enough dead children for one life time already.
[He stiffens on the spot. True to form, that only turns his smile brighter. A tick that Prior's no doubt intimate with by now. Discomfort pumps up his showboat tendencies, and the charms and smiles are growls and bared teeth against the prods poking at all his sores.]
She told you about that, did she? [He'd have guessed she'd keep those cards closer to the chest, but he supposes if one thing led to another and his name popped up, chatter might delve into unsettling things.] What is enough, anyway? I'd have said zero myself, but you don't get to pick your all your blessings.
[A joke that only sounds tasteless, and more worrying than a simple "I'm fine." Richie joins Prior on the bed with a gainless clatter and a sigh, propping the water on his nightstand.]
I'm still living, Pry, don't fret. I mean it's not the highlight of my month, but I'd be more worried for her. Is she all right?
[Just a little pointed. But really, that's the assurance he's going to offer? If vital signs were all Prior cared about he could have listened for breathing at the door.]
And I'm glad you're still among the living. There are people waving bell, book and candle all over the place out there, you might not have made it back unexorcised. [It's a weak little joke, but an attempt all the same to smooth back a little of that ruffled fur.] Has this month had highlights? I wouldn't want to watch the reel back, myself.
[He gets the memo, matching pointed tone with pointed look. He's never slept well, but what was there to be done about it?
Richie scoffs.] I'd be a damn entertaining spook if I do say so myself. Maybe if I got them laughing they'd spare me the exorcism.
[He zips open his drawer. A tin and a box of rolling papers lie among other toiletries, and the novel he's been consuming consumes half the sprawl. He takes out the rolling papers and pops the tin.
They're sixties kids. Why bother being shy? Richie sets to rolling a joint with all too practiced ease.]
Me either. I don't much care for ghosts. Even before all this shit I didn't like them. When has the supernatural done us any favors?
[Oh, this is a theme Prior can run with for miles. The very worst kind of ghosts, naturally, happen to be the ones who share his own name. But he's got enough vitriol for the poor souls trapped among them here, too. Vitriol and near boundless sympathy. It's a queer cocktail.]
And they're so intrusive. Non-corporeal or not, there is such a thing as personal space. Not to mention demanding. Praise this, dance that. Who knew all the restless dead really wanted was a decent errand service.
[Prior watches the rolling process as he speaks, pausing to exhale a laugh.]
Well look at this. I was going to offer a quaalude once I was sure you weren't trashed on anything worse. [It's not judgement, he holds up a finger to punctuate that.] Which - God knows I'd want to be.
Exactly! Congratulations on being dead, doesn't mean you get an eternal pass on fucking manners.
[Richie perks up at the mention.] Were you now? Well who's to say. If we feel like it after a toke or two we can make it a two course meal.
[He's not a junkie. But a better sleep would be divine.
The smart work he's done with the wrapping is finished in haste, and he lights the joint with equal ease. Richie claims first inhale, but passes the second on to Prior.]
I've...well. I don't want to go making comparisons. Calling one more tragic or gruesome than the other seems heartless. But the girl wasn't murdered. There is a difference, I think. Coming across a casualty versus a desecration. One's tragic in the sense of chaos. Abandonment. The other is just senseless spite.
Watching her fawn over it wasn't easy, either. Downright eerie as a matter of fact.
[Oh, fabulous work, Prior, come in to check he's not choking on his own vomit, come out having set up a better quality of trip. But neither are the kind of thing that leave you washed up in alleyways, at least. He's still a good samaritan - look at him taking the burden of half the joint.]
Love's often a mystery when you're not in it. I've seen lips locked across dinner tables that would chill the blood if they got anywhere near mine. A mother with rose tinted glasses and a sad story, that's all.
[He breathes out a sweet, white cloud and passes the joint back, waiting 'til Richie's hand is too occupied to swat his away before reaching up to slide the thick frames he's wearing down to the tip of his nose.]
Speaking of which. [Rose tints or sad stories?] Are these the same pair that kid in the apartment was wearing, or is it just your taste that hasn't changed?
And a hitchhiking thumb stuck up poor Claire's nose.
[Sad, yes. But let's not forget the toll on the living either.
He takes the bait, which in turn has his specs primed for the picking. Richie's nose crinkles.]
Stop — no, of course they're not the same! They're just spares. [Richie flicks them off his nose with a harried huff.] I had nicer ones in California, but these I took to Derry just in case.
[Oh, no forgetting the toll on the living. Not that a thumb up that otherwise dainty nose isn't quite the image. But there are a number of visuals it may be best not to let burn in too long.
Prior chases those glasses instead, catching them before they can be tossed to the bed.]
So that's why they're only allowed out under cover of darkness? It's a shame-
[And they're settled at the bridge of Prior's nose, instead. At which point he cuts himself off to blink into the fuzz. Louis' glasses were half for reading, half for making himself look more intelligent. These things are a disability aid. Prior's tilting his head up and around trying to adjust.]
Oh, wow. Like, totally spaced out, man. Either that stuff's stronger than it felt or you're blinder than I am.
Blind as a bat, basically. Prior looks a bit better in them than he does, even if the sight is fuzzed and frayed, but a horror's still a horror and he's not fond of those geeky glasses no matter where they're sitting.]
Probably blinder. My eyes failed early and they failed fast. Now come on, nobody wants Groucho Marx's cast offs.
[By rights Prior should be the proud owner of a pair of his own, even if they wouldn't properly correct the way his vision's deteriorating in fuzzy blotches - the blackness around the edge. But it's come to him as some sort of penance for prophecy, he's almost sure: swapping one vision for another. What good would glasses be for that?
He likes these more, having seen worse horrors through other lenses, and shakes his head to Richie's waiting hand, sprawling back a moment to look at the room in a wider view.]
I had this kaleidoscope in my pillowcase one Christmas. The height of fifties engineering. Don't deny me a moment's nostalgia.
[He leans in again eventually, reaching up one hand to the arm of the glasses without letting them be taken off yet. It's the crazy backward logic of ophthalmology. Only the closest things will focus in these.]
Good lord. [He looks down at the sprawling man with mirth and its piggybacking cousin, exasperation. If Prior kept the thick lenses on long enough he'd be seeing kaleidoscope diamonds for real.
When he comes back up Richie leans away, putting himself square in the fuzz zone. He takes his hands to his mouth and mimics a salute from three thousand miles away, drifting echo and all.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[He peers pointedly into the dark corners of the room before correcting.]
No hollering tonight. [Prior notices only because sleep's such a hardship over in his own room most of the time. He's either awake through the early hours or waking into them in momentary panic, looking for things in the dark he's not sure were ever there. Richie cries out in his sleep, true, but the only voice Prior's ever heard him use is more wrenching for being his own.] In fact that's half the problem. Have I ever told you how much I hate the quiet?
[Because if not he'll stand here and make small talk in a doorway until he's sure things are okay.]
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That confusion dissipates in an instant. Joking, he's only joking. Good. There was something unnerving in that idea that he didn't like. As if the multitude he mimics could flap his jaw and produce sound without his knowing. Sometimes it seemed like that happened anyhow — just like in the alley with the brick. Just like at the Neibolt house, or in the town square with the plastic eyesore come to life.
Richie takes a sip of the water around his soundless chuckle.]
You could always throw on some tunes. I bet Nancy Sinatra would be divine company.
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I'd never thought about it, but you must be a weapon in games of Guess Who. How's your Judy?
[A little pause.]
I tried making phone calls, even, but some people don't appreciate it at this hour.
[God bless Belize and his graveyard shifts.]
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Oh, fuck a duck. You know the ladies are harder for me. I can't do Easter Parade but... [He pauses. Gaze locking to the door frame as he works his throat and fishes for the pitch.] Toto, I—
[It's severed by laughter. The impression isn't there, though it is a woman's voice. Just not Judy's.] I'll workshop that. If you're having such a shit time getting shut eye maybe you've got the mind to coach. I don't think I'm going back to bed for a while anyhow.
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[It's not a woman's voice any more than Prior's usual breathy lilt is, but anybody listening to him and not hearing Dorothy Gale in the very essence of it hasn't ever taken a trip to Oz before. That's the thing with icons, you inhabit rather than imitate.
Richie was supposed to ask him who he'd called - but he hasn't, and he's laughing, and Prior can't push it now.]
Aren't you going to ask me in?
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[Richie tips his head to the side.]
Well. If nobody better picked up, then I guess I'll be your chopped liver tonight. [He parts ways with the doorframe and ushers the other man in. It's a comfortable room, cleanly kept. He's too used to living solo to not learn how to play housekeeping, and he's a man who likes his creature comforts.] Were you really making calls?
[He'd taken it as a joke. It is the middle of the night, Prior. Could you really expect anything other than an earful?]
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[Make no mistake, Prior's plainly delighted by that little compliment, shucking his shoulder up into Richie's hand and looking back over it, all coquette, as he heads into the room to find a demure enough perch on the end of the bed.]
Anyway, when your black book's full of doctors and hookers there's no such thing as business hours. Though, only the doctor picked up.
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He lingers by the door, only closing it to a scant four inches as a worrisome knot hooks into his brow.]
The doctor? Is everything all right?
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I think so, now, though by all accounts she's been having something of a rough time.
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Then it hits him.]
Oh — oh, you mean Mrs. Fraser? Claire Fraser, right?
[He's only had a few run ins with the woman, but "rough" is right when you're talking recent times. That's not on him to discuss, though, even if it had raked him with shivers that refused to shake off.
Who wouldn't be spooked by all that?]
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She said you helped her out. And I thought [Worried.] Well, you probably had enough dead children for one life time already.
[Spit it out sunshine.]
I wanted to see that you were okay.
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[He stiffens on the spot. True to form, that only turns his smile brighter. A tick that Prior's no doubt intimate with by now. Discomfort pumps up his showboat tendencies, and the charms and smiles are growls and bared teeth against the prods poking at all his sores.]
She told you about that, did she? [He'd have guessed she'd keep those cards closer to the chest, but he supposes if one thing led to another and his name popped up, chatter might delve into unsettling things.] What is enough, anyway? I'd have said zero myself, but you don't get to pick your all your blessings.
[A joke that only sounds tasteless, and more worrying than a simple "I'm fine." Richie joins Prior on the bed with a gainless clatter and a sigh, propping the water on his nightstand.]
I'm still living, Pry, don't fret. I mean it's not the highlight of my month, but I'd be more worried for her. Is she all right?
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[Just a little pointed. But really, that's the assurance he's going to offer? If vital signs were all Prior cared about he could have listened for breathing at the door.]
And I'm glad you're still among the living. There are people waving bell, book and candle all over the place out there, you might not have made it back unexorcised. [It's a weak little joke, but an attempt all the same to smooth back a little of that ruffled fur.] Has this month had highlights? I wouldn't want to watch the reel back, myself.
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Richie scoffs.] I'd be a damn entertaining spook if I do say so myself. Maybe if I got them laughing they'd spare me the exorcism.
[He zips open his drawer. A tin and a box of rolling papers lie among other toiletries, and the novel he's been consuming consumes half the sprawl. He takes out the rolling papers and pops the tin.
They're sixties kids. Why bother being shy? Richie sets to rolling a joint with all too practiced ease.]
Me either. I don't much care for ghosts. Even before all this shit I didn't like them. When has the supernatural done us any favors?
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And they're so intrusive. Non-corporeal or not, there is such a thing as personal space. Not to mention demanding. Praise this, dance that. Who knew all the restless dead really wanted was a decent errand service.
[Prior watches the rolling process as he speaks, pausing to exhale a laugh.]
Well look at this. I was going to offer a quaalude once I was sure you weren't trashed on anything worse. [It's not judgement, he holds up a finger to punctuate that.] Which - God knows I'd want to be.
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[Richie perks up at the mention.] Were you now? Well who's to say. If we feel like it after a toke or two we can make it a two course meal.
[He's not a junkie. But a better sleep would be divine.
The smart work he's done with the wrapping is finished in haste, and he lights the joint with equal ease. Richie claims first inhale, but passes the second on to Prior.]
I've...well. I don't want to go making comparisons. Calling one more tragic or gruesome than the other seems heartless. But the girl wasn't murdered. There is a difference, I think. Coming across a casualty versus a desecration. One's tragic in the sense of chaos. Abandonment. The other is just senseless spite.
Watching her fawn over it wasn't easy, either. Downright eerie as a matter of fact.
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Love's often a mystery when you're not in it. I've seen lips locked across dinner tables that would chill the blood if they got anywhere near mine. A mother with rose tinted glasses and a sad story, that's all.
[He breathes out a sweet, white cloud and passes the joint back, waiting 'til Richie's hand is too occupied to swat his away before reaching up to slide the thick frames he's wearing down to the tip of his nose.]
Speaking of which. [Rose tints or sad stories?] Are these the same pair that kid in the apartment was wearing, or is it just your taste that hasn't changed?
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[Sad, yes. But let's not forget the toll on the living either.
He takes the bait, which in turn has his specs primed for the picking. Richie's nose crinkles.]
Stop — no, of course they're not the same! They're just spares. [Richie flicks them off his nose with a harried huff.] I had nicer ones in California, but these I took to Derry just in case.
[And what a case it was.]
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Prior chases those glasses instead, catching them before they can be tossed to the bed.]
So that's why they're only allowed out under cover of darkness? It's a shame-
[And they're settled at the bridge of Prior's nose, instead. At which point he cuts himself off to blink into the fuzz. Louis' glasses were half for reading, half for making himself look more intelligent. These things are a disability aid. Prior's tilting his head up and around trying to adjust.]
Oh, wow. Like, totally spaced out, man. Either that stuff's stronger than it felt or you're blinder than I am.
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Blind as a bat, basically. Prior looks a bit better in them than he does, even if the sight is fuzzed and frayed, but a horror's still a horror and he's not fond of those geeky glasses no matter where they're sitting.]
Probably blinder. My eyes failed early and they failed fast. Now come on, nobody wants Groucho Marx's cast offs.
[He holds out his hand. Gimme.]
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He likes these more, having seen worse horrors through other lenses, and shakes his head to Richie's waiting hand, sprawling back a moment to look at the room in a wider view.]
I had this kaleidoscope in my pillowcase one Christmas. The height of fifties engineering. Don't deny me a moment's nostalgia.
[He leans in again eventually, reaching up one hand to the arm of the glasses without letting them be taken off yet. It's the crazy backward logic of ophthalmology. Only the closest things will focus in these.]
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When he comes back up Richie leans away, putting himself square in the fuzz zone. He takes his hands to his mouth and mimics a salute from three thousand miles away, drifting echo and all.]
Hellooo! 'ello, 'ello...
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Heathcliff? Heathcliff, come in from the moors, you'll catch your death of cold.