pontmercyfriend | Never trust anyone who has not brought a book with them. [Backdated to May 17th, 2015]

Entry tags:

dorian pavus

Never trust anyone who has not brought a book with them. [Backdated to May 17th, 2015]

Marius does not lie when he tells Dorian to expect the same treatment as Flavia upon his own birthday.

The week before, he made the point to walk to his favorite book store and purchase a few volumes he felt the mage would appreciate very much; a history of the world in general, a collection of ghost stories and folklore centered on Darrow traditions and mythology, a history of magic and its varied traditions through a myriad of cultures, and, a personal, recent of Marius': The Portrait of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. (And perhaps Marius might have also decided upon this as a gift for the shared name between the protagonist and his friend, having felt a twinge of playfulness at the thought at the time.) On the top rests an intricately designed card, composed of various serpentine images. Marius hopes Dorian will like it.

This afternoon, Marius carries the newly-wrapped packages as he makes his way to the seventh floor of Dimera, to Dorian's rooms. He owes much to his friend, really, and he hopes this parcel of texts will help show the other man how much Marius appreciates his companionship. He struggles a bit trying to balance the books, all of which vary in thickness, as he walks, nearly stumbling into the wall on more than one occasion.

But eventually, he manages to make his way to number 32 without further hassle. Shifting the books in his arms, he knocks three times.

"Dorian?" He calls out. "It's Marius. I have your birthday present!"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Marius' eyes widen the way they did when he was stuck as a child, caught off-guard by the sudden display of magic and the abrupt way the door shuts behind him.He hasn't forgotten about Dorian's abilities, of course, but to witness them in such a way is a sensation he remains mostly unfamiliar with. And, of course, he remembers how careful Dorian had been the last he'd seen him use magic; even if he had made a dumpster explode.

"Well, if you'd like them set down here, I can certainly do it," Marius says, carefully making his way over to the spare end of the coffee table. "I've carried them far enough as it is." He glances at the various contents - the empty bottles, what looks to be papers from Darrow's library, and the curious, overly large volume with aging pages. "And what is this here?" He asks, tilting his head towards the large text.

"Of course it's your birthday," Marius says, catching the tone of Dorian's words. He can guess that the occasion is not a happy one for the other man; he feels saddened by the thought, but he also understands; more than Dorian might think. "Happy birthday. Can I perhaps offer to make you a cup of coffee?"

"My apologies," Dorian says, earnestly and with downturned face, when Marius startles at the quick clatter shut of the door. It makes Dorian think something is significant about it. Something that eludes him at the moment, in the heavy fuzziness of his thoughts. He will think on it later. He raises his voice again, this time with the sterile veil of irony. "Forgot myself. Must remember better not to frighten the mundanes too badly."

Dorian sinks himself heavily onto the couch cushions at the far side of the sofa. He sits, not with his usual composure, but loose, with legs splayed tiredly. Drained.

Still, he is actually glad to see Marius.

"Grimoire. My grimoire, sorry. Come have a seat and give us some company. Coffee would be lovely, actually. I've got a french press in the drawer. What did you get me?"

"You don't have to apologize," Marius is quick to try and assure the other man, guilt stemming from his own reaction as he catches the crestfallen expression on the other man's face. It's hardly his fault for Marius' starting at such a simple noise; a noise that echoes more loudly in his thoughts ever since his time as a child, granted, but Dorian couldn't know that. And Marius doesn't care about his own discomfort; it's Dorian he's worried about. "I just wasn't expecting it, is all."

He watches the way Dorian all but drapes himself across the sofa; he knows that sort of posture well, from personal experience. His concern only grows.

"Grimoire?" Marius tilts his head, curious about the word. He would guess it must have something to do with magic - perhaps a place to organize one's thoughts on it? Or a collection of spells? "Then I shall make you coffee. How do you take yours?"

He smiles. "You'll have to unwrap them to find out."

He really does have to apologize, for reasons it may be better to talk with Marius about later. Drunk and despondent is not a good look on Dorian to begin with.

"It's a book on the practice of magic. In this case, mostly comprised of my own notes. Spells I use infrequently but want to remember. Techniques. Observations. Theory. That sort of thing."

Things that Dorian had worked on all his life. Things that had gotten his father's approval once. Things that had gotten Alexius' approval once. Margin notes scrawled in by Felix when Dorian was working hard late at night.

"Strong," Dorian says. "Three creams, two sugars." He reaches for the first of the books, hesitating at first, but then starts to peel back the paper with as much care and reverence as he has in him, when he is both inebriated and childishly eager to know what he's been given.

Edited 2015-05-26 02:44 (UTC)

"Oh really? That's fascinating. So a sort of journal, but focused specifically on individual spells of your own choosing?" Marius asks, intrigued by Dorian's explanation. He knows absolutely nothing about magic, but from the way Dorian explains it, it reminds him of scientific experiments and the scientific observation process Combeferre has mentioned.

It also sounds really personal, he thinks. There is an art to writing one's own notes, even on academic-like subject matter. He has to wonder what would happen if an object such as Dorian's Grimoire fell into the wrong hands. But he doesn't voice his curiosity aloud.

"Duly noted," Marius nods as he heads for the kitchen. He pauses, first, to watch Dorian unwrap his presents. He thinks that might be the general history book, but he cannot bring himself to remember. "So? How do you like it?"

Dorian peels away the paper on the books one by one to reveal the titles. He stops and admires them, each one, as he goes. Admiring the heft, admiring the look of the covers, leafing through to look at chapter titles and illustrations with the loving attention to detail of consummate reader. The last that he opens manages to get, more than just a noise of quiet approval, a bright, sloppy laugh. He's certainly not expecting to find, nestled between the non-fiction, a piece of literature bearing his own name in the title.

"You are a delight, Marius Pontmercy, did you know?"

He peers toward Marius with a bright look, ferocious and unself-conscious.

Edited 2015-05-26 03:22 (UTC)

Marius is deeply gladdened by the way Dorian approves of each book. The delight on his face is contagious enough to cause him happiness as well. Even with quiet approval noises, Marius gets the sense that Dorian is truly happy with his gifts. He is glad for that; he did spend quite a long while trying to find the perfect volumes to compliment what he could guess of Dorian's tastes.

His reaction to Dorian Gray, naturally, is Marius' favorite. He thought the other man would appreciate the title. And the story itself is quite fascinating and marvelous, but then, Marius is biased towards the dramatic and fantastical in fiction.

"I try," he says with a bashful smile, going red beneath his freckles at Dorian's words. "I'm glad you like them."

"I noticed that you try," Dorian says, not disguising the note of impressed fondness in his voice. The alcohol has made him more sentimental, surely, and more open to his own emotion, by far. Dorian drinks for a reason. That reason is self-medication. He is a pleasant drunk around other people, for the most part. Certainly, Marius' gifts have lifted Dorian's spirit, though his discomfort over being in Darrow on his birthday still lingers.

"Finish that coffee and get your bum over here." He crooks a hand to usher Marius over. He is aware that he is being bossy. He excuses himself. Dorian could be more bossy, after all.

It's interesting, to see how the effects of alcohol affect Dorian. Marius has witnessed drunkards in all sorts of fashions and ways; from the sorrowful to the downright violent. The mage appears to have a tendency towards sentiment, which only endears him to Marius the more, who is very much of the Sentimental Drunk type, himself. "Thank you," he mumbles again, before returning to finishing up the coffee for both Dorian and himself.

"Hold your horses," he says, adding the cream and sugar to both mugs before carrying them into the living room. He places one mug in front of Dorian, while keeping the other for himself. At some point, he should just admit to his own caffeine addiction, he thinks. "Are you always so demanding?"

"We prefer dracolisks in my country," Dorian jokes. "And war elephants. Horses are so Orlesian." He takes his own cup of coffee, pleased to see the requisite amount of cream lightening it, and sips. It's still a little too hot for serious drinking.

Dorian pats the couch cushions beside himself.

"I don't know. Am I always so demanding? Sit down. Take your proverbial coat off. You make me nervous just standing there, make yourself at home, Marius."

"War elephants?" Marius' eyes widen at the image that statement produces; he can barely picture it, people riding to war on elephants, or elephants even cooperating enough to be ridden. "Those sound a tad...extreme."

He makes his way over and sits to where Dorian pats beside him on the couch, careful not to spill his own drink. He sips from it slightly, the heat of it still as warm as when he made it in his friend's french press.

"Better?" He asks over his own mug, turning to better face the other man. Privately, he wonders if he should gather some water and Advil for Dorian, for later. "Sorry. I'm still getting used to the modern ideals of propriety."

"It is a bit extreme. That's Tevinter. In over twenty thousand years, Minrathous has never been sacked. The land has never been occupied by any other people but hers." Dorian narrows his eyes with a strange sort of expression, a darkly breed of pride. Dorian has many criticisms of his homeland. That she still stands and will in hopes forevermore is not one of them.

"And yes." He shrugs the mood off and nurses his coffee. "Much better, thanks. Propriety can be a fine thing, but there's no need for it here. You are a ... friend. A friend, and a good one. You could dance naked in my den and I would not complain. I might cheer, actually. In fact, you are invited to try it, any time the fancy might strike you."

"That is impressive," Marius tells him, marveling at the fact that a country could hold its own - remain untouched by other nations - for so long. "I wish I could say the same of France, but alas." His own country's history twines with many nations, invasions, and wars. France does bear her own strengths, but keeping other people out is not one of them.

"I'm glad you consider me a friend," he says, smiling to the point where his eyes crease in delight at such a thought. It will never stop being wonderful, the idea that other people consider him a friend. He goes red at Dorian's next sentence, of course. "Well, I wouldn't hold out hope of that. I'm not one for spontaneous bursts of nudity." Which is both technically true and false at once, now.

"Are you not?" Dorian teases. "Truly?" He doesn't mean it to be mean-spirited -- seldom he does -- but the alcohol eats away at a few more layers of his breeding and turns his humor bawdy. He reaches across to pet the curve of Marius' ear with one long finger, calloused from constant grip of his staff.

"Such a pity. Although if you're interested one day, I could still teach you at least fifty ways to shame all of your ancestors with all of your clothes still on. Perhaps I can get your friend Grantaire in on the act. There's a man who seems like he knows a good time when it presents itself. You really ought to let yourself go more often. You might learn that you like it."

"Well," he begins, before tentatively sipping at his coffee. He jumps a bit at Dorian's hand on his ear and almost spills his drink. Courfeyrac's friendship has taught him much in the ways of physical gestures of affection between friends, but Marius still finds himself caught off-guard when others show him the same. "I suppose I can't say that I don't ever engage in nudity. Just...only in front of one person." He blushes when he finishes the sentence, all the way to the tips of his ears.

For as comfortable as Marius is being naked with Rat, in society as a whole, he still finds himself struggling with issues of modesty.

"Now that sounds like an adventure in and of itself," Marius remarks, before sipping from his drink again. "Although I am certain everything that I am is already shaming my ancestors well enough." Even beyond his attraction preferences, his grandfather, back in Paris, made it perfectly clear what the old family thought of Marius' ways of thinking and political sympathies.

"Grantaire does indeed know how to have a good time," he says, not surprised in the least that Dorian knows him. They each remind Marius of each other, he realizes, watching Dorian. "Have you been drinking with him yet? He does know all the best wines."

Southerners, Dorian thinks, though Marius is not rightly a southerner. Close enough for Dorian. "They don't have baths where you're from? Or you've just never gone to a public bath? Or is it like here, with the private running water and whatever? It's still hard for me to remember how all this works in your world."

Dorian presses his lips together to avoid an indulgent smile at the thought of Marius being dragged off to a swimming pool or the like. Would he be just as shy about that?

"We've had some drinks. He's a clever lad. And knows how to drink better than to answer the question, 'what will you have?' with 'the red stuff' or 'the white stuff.' Maybe I should worry more that he is a bad influence on me, or likewise, but I've not yet gotten into trouble with him that I could not get myself back out of."

Edited 2015-06-06 12:16 (UTC)

"Well, we had public baths, in Paris," Marius explains with a shrug. "And most people had their own tubs and barrels at home. But in the time that I'm from, bathing, specifically, bathing often, wasn't as seen as the light that shines upon it today. People did it rarely." He shrugs again. "And I was poor, so, more often than not, I bathed with cold water, alone in my room." He manages a small smile. "It's not glamorous, by any means. My time is caught somewhere between the even more distant past, and this modern age, if that makes sense."

Marius has thought about going to the public pool on multiple occasions, just to teach himself how to swim. But the thought of modern swimwear makes his cheeks redden again.

"Grantaire has turned drinking into an art," Marius says with a knowing smile. "I'd say, from what I do know of the two of you, you are mutually capable of being bad influences." He winks after he says this, just to assure Dorian that he is, indeed, joking.

Dorian's face turns hot at Marius' reminder of what Dorian's wealth had once afforded him at home in Tevinter, and some of the nastier things Dorian had said to Blackwall about his personal hygiene upon meeting him. Dorian had been in the habit of a bath twice a day -- morning and evening. Not everyone could afford or get to such luxuries in their lives.

Dorian leans his head against Marius' shoulder, feeling exhausted and boneless from too much wine over too many hours.

"What a depressing thought. You sitting in a freezing cold tub all alone in some country that can't even grow a decent palm tree. You must make up for it while you're here."

Growing up in his grandfather's house, Marius had access to clean water and baths as often as he liked. He chose to separate himself from that home, and in doing so, carved out his own poverty in the process. Living on his own taught him to appreciate the little luxuries, such as access to clean water. Seeing Dorian's face burn, he looks at him in concern, before tilting his head to allow more space for his head on his shoulder.

"My family was wealthy, back in Paris," he says. "I chose to leave, and thus, I became poor. You get used to cold water, after awhile." He leans back against the couch, trying to comfortable with Dorian leaning on him. "I do appreciate baths here. I like being able to soak for as long as I please."

Marius' shoulder is surprisingly comfortable, for as thin as he is. And Dorian is, perhaps, more drunk than he first assumed he was. It would make an excellent napping spot, and Dorian finds it suddenly unfair that he's not sure whether or not Marius might put up with that from Dorian. Marius is a good friend, but Dorian hasn't had many friends. He doesn't know where to expect them to draw a line.

He gives a very, very long sigh and refuses to move his weight from Marius regardless.

"So you say. Let me tell you, I've been traveling for years now, much of that camping, and I will never, ever get used to a cold bath. Ever. This isn't hyperbole. This is me recognizing a great truth about myself. That I am a spoilt little shit."

From his years of knowing Courfeyrac, Marius is more used to weights on his shoulders than one might expect. Many a nights, he's wound up shouldering Courfeyrac's head when he's drunk too much. Dorian's head on his shoulder doesn't bother him in the least, therefore. He is perfectly fine with being a pillow for a friend, if that's what they need at the moment.

He suspects, given the state of Dorian's sobriety, the man is liable to fall asleep at any given moment.

"Cold baths are really great during the summer though," Marius points out. "Especially in a city like Paris, where, in July, insects would wind up stuck to your skin for all the sweat you've gathered."

"And even if you are spoiled, you're still a great friend Dorian," he tells him.

Dorian gives a long, loud yawn, with a jaw wide enough to bring water to the corners of his eyes. He stretches his hands out in front of himself before relaxing against Marius' warm shoulder again.

"What a delightful mental image," Dorian laughs. "You're very generous, though. Great? Seems a bit too superlative for someone like myself."

Dorian's body threatened another yawn.

"If I should fall asleep on you, just lock the door on your way out, would you? I may have done a little too much drowning my sorrows earlier."

"Well, those were the delightful summer months in Paris," Marius says with a grin and a start of a shrug, before remembering that Dorian's head rests on his shoulder. He stops before he disrupts Dorian's comfort levels. He hopes.

"You are great, Dorian," he assures him, earnest with every word. "Really. Don't let anyone else tell you otherwise."

"Noted," he nods. "Would you like a blanket or a glass of water for when you wake up?"

The smile that Dorian graces Marius with is gentle and too-warm from sleep, a half-formed and sloppy thing unlike the crafted expressions that usually rest on his features.

"If I stop to tell one off, I'll have to tell off them all," he says, sleep weighing his voice down. "I think ... water. They tell me it keeps the headaches away better than anything else."

"Well, they deserve to be told off, all of them," Marius assures him, moving to let Dorian's head droop on the pillow beside him. The other man clearly could use the rest, and Marius doesn't want to get in the way of that. He moves to drape a blanket over Dorian's shoulders, smiling down at the other man.

"You get some rest," he tells him. "I'll make sure to get some water for you, before I leave. It does help, with headaches I've found. Also, fast food works wonders on an aching stomach."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Never trust anyone who has not brought a book with them. [Backdated to May 17th, 2015]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject