the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sintreadingdawnNovember 16 2009, 20:42:52 UTC
Fine he says, fff. "You won't regret it," Caspian insists as they make their way over.
Yes you can blame him.
So shut. Up.
Honestly, a little shimmer is no different from the gold-toned threads in brocade tunic over skirting over loose trousers and has Peter forgotten that exquisite diamond pattern on sky blue? That was embossed by only the finest Telmarine looms. Learn to appreciate. Fff.
Anyway, unlike those who put on airs Caspian's smile is very genuine. He can't help but admire a friendship with someone who could pass for his fairer-skin twin. Some might consider it a queer anomaly or even frightening because of stories about dopplegangers (whatever those are to this Telmarine) but Caspian sees it as an opportunity to make yet another sibling. By now he must know the feeling, having lived under the roof with more or less adopted family members. One can't say the Pevensies look completely alike but there is a trace of similarity in them, beyond the accent of course. Speaking of the accent, to Caspian knowing his twin hails from a place called London gives him some small harmless hope that maybe one day he will have the chance to visit Earth too. It is a silly idea to base such a thing on a likeness of faces, he knows, but it hurts no one and because of it he gains a friend, right? Not to mention it's quite comforting to know the individual with the second best hair in this world looks like him too. Ahem. Also, that jab? He ignores it. Honestly.
When they reach Dorian he gestures between blond and brunette.
"Dorian, hello. Peter, this is Dorian Gray, something of my twin," as if the High King didn't know, "Dorian, this is Peter Pevensie. My good friend."
This last part the Telmarine says with eyes slightly narrowed at the Englishman--the fair-haired one--not because it's untrue and not because there's more to it but because sometimes he wonders how good and kind and polite Peter can be. Fff.
the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sinposhpeterNovember 17 2009, 03:43:38 UTC
The distinct line between good evening and hello need not be drawn, and Peter returns the polite nod toward the other Englishman, not sizing him up but not leaving him free of scrutiny. Something of the impeccable fit of the man's chosen attire makes him seem to imply confidence even if he seems to not be the type either to push it into one's way or attention; just something that is, and Peter notes this too. Then the Telmarine makes more direct introductions, and the blond makes no effort to refrain from sending him a dry look when he modifies it with 'something of my twin' because...well, in a much exchanged phrase--unspoken or otherwise--between two kings:
No really?
That is what blue eyes and the mildest quirk of a mouth say before focus returns to the person he is supposed to be meeting, and the moment between that and the offering of his hand doesn't exist, the only transition being the motion itself--natural and also polite, not unlike the nod he received seconds before. Some people say nice to meet you, or rather, some people say that to some other people, but it is different for each speaker and the spoken to, and this is no exception. In this case, the High King does not have time to meditate at all on what he prefers, but 'pleasure' would be something of a lie and nothing is downright rude, so he arches a brow instead, curious or just filling space.
"Dorian Gray. Easy to remember," he says and it might as well be--or could as easily be--something as mundane as someone saying that the sun is bright or that dirt makes things messy. Obvious. Not impressive. But very true. Very. Northern sky edged eyes say more, but they are not clear about what that extra expression ought to communicate and from the confident set of mouth and jaw, one can tell without knowing Peter much at all that he knows he is being vague. It is a choice, not a carelessness, a consciousness rather with which he says his own hello to the man from a parallel England.
the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sinnobodyneedknowNovember 17 2009, 09:28:40 UTC
The phrase something of my twin brings a smile to Dorian's face, a look that is self-satisfied. Despite the fact that his face is no longer unique, the herald of London, at the same time he has a perverse pleasure in sharing it with the Telmarine. It is that streak of vanity that phrase caresses. Dorian knows that he is a beautiful man, but there is an odd, forbidden sort of thrill in looking into another man's face and seeing only himself, and not being related to him.
Not that relations would stop Dorian Gray, but the lack of them does in fact make it easier.
He turns his full attentions to the blond. There is something different about this boy - man, whichever, that Dorian cannot quite place. Perhaps it is the look he has on his face, the confidence he carries, or maybe it is simply the purple suit, although Dorian cannot fault him for the odd choice of color when Blair was the one handing out assignments. Why purple, Dorian wonders, but only for a moment. Instead he nods his head, politely. "I suppose that is the benefit of a simple name," he replies, taking heed of Peter's accent, filing it away. A London accent, a proper Queen's English. There is comfort there, too, knowing that however many London's exist, they all seem to speak the same language.
"Are you enjoying the party?" he asks to both of them, unspecific. He turns slightly to look at the people mingling around them. It is a polite, decorous event.
the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sincouturecaspianNovember 17 2009, 09:45:07 UTC
Yes really.
Now. Shut. Up.
Honestly.
The simple 'greeting' Peter gives back to Dorian almost earns him a nudge to the ribs but being cordial and bred for these kinds of social affairs Caspian manages to refrain from harmless violence between boys. Someone could stand to be kinder though, really. He wonders if it's the face that puts Peter off where normally he is fairly casual about meeting others such as Allison Cameron, but then again she is a woman. Does that make any kind of difference? Do courtiers? Right, well anyway, Caspian looks from blond to brunette again, ever smiling because it is a joyous occasion and he has one friend to this side and one friend who is more than a friend to that side. There is no curse and the drink is very good. So chin up, Peter Pevensie, don't let the purple get you down.
Almost he considers noting that Dorian Gray is not as simple as Caspian. The numeral is optional, as are his titles which carry weight everywhere he goes but matter little in terms of importance to non-Narnians. Instead he answers the question.
"I am. Blair always knows how to host a good party," the Telmarine says with a brief but brilliant smile to the High King who has attended her feasts before. In all cases they have attended together. "I think this may be your first, Dorian? But the longer you stay here the more you'll see she cannot be stopped."
the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sinposhpeterNovember 17 2009, 11:43:57 UTC
Thought given to word, Peter would insist he is being polite enough, plenty in fact, and despite Caspian's potential nudge to the ribs--if he had--that he had been honest at least with his greeting. He has no need of superfluous niceness--and yes he considers it excess--with Dorian. That over with, he surveys the crowd, thanking an attendant who takes his empty wine glass from him with fluttering eyelashes and a voice so accommodating that he finds it easy to dismiss with basic gratitude before his attention returns, seamless, to friend who is more than a friend and new acquaintance.
When Caspian eyes him with a short but beaming smile, though aware of being looked at, Peter does not turn to reply with expression as he might elsewhere, a smile equal in feeling though made of subtleties found in the eyes and the almost imperceptible tilt of his head. For now he stands in a comfortable confidence, purple suit or not. It is, at least, a very good suit, though he still finds it the mildest of consolations. Hunter green suits the Telmarine however, and this richer brown seems to fit this Dorian as well. The party is a myriad of colors, some people standing beside each other who make a combination painful to the eyes not because of who they are but because of the colors they happen to be donning, but this group of three is not one of those. Most notable beyond appearance amongst these young men is the palpable silence between words, as if they are none of them afraid or unsettled or anxious in a way that often people can be at social functions like this, needing to continue prattling to fill up the space as if it might draw attention elsewhere.
"True," to Caspian. "And yourself?" this time to Dorian, and Peter shifts just the slightest so that he might more easily look at both brunettes. It emphasizes to him every difference between them, distinct to him now as it surely would not have been a year or so ago, but this may only come across as a flicker of acknowledgment in blue eyes. Nothing more, nothing less, and all is politeness to the point that as often is the case he dourly supposes this conversation will go nowhere in particular. The watch he wears would tell him, expensively (it is in fact the one Blair gifted him with on his birthday) but he knows far better than to look at it now. Later (sooner) perhaps.
the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sinnobodyneedknowNovember 17 2009, 14:48:59 UTC
Dorian watches the two men before him with a trace of amusement lingering in his features. Clearly they are comfortable sort of friends; like he is comfortable with Basil, perhaps more so, if only because Basil is so proper and polite. Which is not to say that Dorian isn't (although that would be true) but merely that Dorian feels that Basil wears his facade well. He watches Peter shift, and eye him, and he wonders if he should tell the lie or the truth.
While Dorian rather likes lies, he suspects that the truth will be much more interesting to guage. "This is the first of these parties for me," he explains, casually, taking another sip of wine. "It seems to me like the kind of party someone throws when they very much wish to be grown up." Almost like a debutante's party, nothing dramatic or impressive about it. His voice is pleased, however, the roll of his words not droll or ironic at all. "I used to go to a number of events like this one in London. From what I have seen of Blair, I think she would fashion herself a lady, if she could."
He does not say it as if it is a bad thing, but maybe a little indulgently, as though the girl who is hosting them has a fair bit to learn. They are a cluster of men judging another group of people, even if he is the only one who is actually doing the judging. It seems, to Dorian's eye, that the rest of the party is more entranced, but then he might simply be jaded by his upbringing. "But I don't think I would like to stop her," he adds, his eyes resting on the dark-haired hostess for just a minute, then turning back to the two men near him. "Are you friends from your own world? Is that how you met?"
the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sincouturecaspianNovember 17 2009, 22:46:04 UTC
Comfortable? Doubly so...except when one is giving the other a good shove in the sandbox. Do they have those in Victorian England? Hm. Well in any case Caspian draws his gaze away from his purple suited (peacock of a) friend to focus on his lighter colored mirror image.
What Dorian says sort of surprises Caspian. It is honest which he appreciates, something easy to do when the honest-cum-mild-criticize isn't directed at him, but it is still a curiosity to hear. His remark reminds him of a courtly noble, a lord, the kind Claire or Karolina would not appreciate in the least but the kind Caspian X has known since birth. Young maidens do throw celebrations in an effort to push their womanhood forward for reasons simply inappropriate to discuss in polite company, especially with girls about. But Blair is not a Telmarine Countess or whatever it is they call such noblewomen in London, to Caspian she is a 'New York City' girl...which perhaps only underscores Dorian's assessment. To that effect the young king says nothing, possibly feeling unqualified to pass judgment on what it means to be grown up when he is seventeen years and five days shy of eighteen. For Narnia, grown up is very different from the Upper East Side. This does however beg the question, how old is his twin?
"Peter and myself?" Caspian asks, drawn out of his thoughts by a question that fortunately does not address maturity, age differences, and being grown up. "We are, in a way," he nods, looking to Peter to see if he'd like to tell the rest of the story, kick to the stomach and rocks to the face quite optional. "I am Narnia-born," adds the Telmarine.
the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sinposhpeterNovember 17 2009, 23:47:08 UTC
Though the thought of course not filters through his mind in response to not wanting to stop Blair from throwing this party or that one, he keeps it from slipping into an aloud form. No need, Dorian has seen fit anyway to redirect conversation back toward themselves, and Caspian having turned the answer over in simplified terms, seems now to be handing it off. The blond's mouth thins for a moment, lips pressed together as he considers a number of answers, none of them quite good enough and never the whole story.
We were not always friends. His world is not technically my own--especially not now. I hesitate to believe in being of two worlds if one has resigned itself to becoming nothing but a memory.
No none of them are quite it, and neither are the dozens of other responses, so he buys a moment of time with a look at Caspian that says is that all? before returning his gaze to the paler brunette.
"I, am not first from Narnia," he says in a tone that seems to indicate I'm sure you could tell to the other Englishman. He doesn't speak more to Narnia specifically however or the adventures contained therein, which implies there is more to the story, which there is--a lot--but they don't have the time to devote to opening from the very first chapter, so he summarizes, "It's something of a long story, but it's true enough that we are friends and met on common ground."
When a passing server holds her tray of fluted wine glasses out to him, he takes one, sipping once which serves as well as any ending punctuation. Well, for the moment anyway.
the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sinnobodyneedknowNovember 17 2009, 23:54:35 UTC
Dorian's eyes catch the thinning of Peter's lips, but considering he only met the man a moment ago, he's not sure what to make of it. He files that away, because there is always something interesting to record about people's reactions to conversations, things to be brought up, used, mentioned later, things that Wotton tried to teach him. Dorian didn't learn as well as Wotton hoped, but he learned well enough.
Perhaps part of the advantage of being in this City alone, without anyone of his own world to watch him or consider him or know him, by reputation or by acquaintance, was that Dorian can completely remake himself, in a manner. Everyone in the room seems young, even though Dorian is by far not the oldest person present. Grown up in Dorian's London is far different than in Blair's New York. They share an age but Dorian runs a household, keeps himself occupied, was engaged to be married, after all. His parties are very different sorts of affairs.
"No, you're quite the Londoner," Dorian says casually, his ear trained for the accent. "I suppose if I had stopped a moment I would have concluded the same thing myself." He takes another drink of his wine, and the flavor is thick and heady on his tongue. "I've never been very good at small talk," he says smoothly, which is only partially true. He actually is sufficiently decent at it, especially when it comes to women, but the truth is that he doesn't actually like it much; he prefers action.
the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sincouturecaspianNovember 18 2009, 00:10:29 UTC
What? Caspian notices the queer look coming from Peter but dismisses it as nothing more than Peter being Peter, fff. He is intuitive enough to know when his friend who is more than a friend is just being his dry deadpan self or genuinely dislikes the company. He is not at the latter stage...yet? Neither is that all but the High King must know as much. When he mentions something of a long story the Telmarine who is very much a part of that story brightens. No it has nothing to do with his nearly finishing his glass of wine.
"We are still on common ground," he adds perhaps a bit cryptically because only Peter and a handful of others know by all terms and titles he still remains the monarch who reigns above the Telmarine. He must never forget that. How could he? At the mention of small talk Caspian feels slightly sheepish for not having considered what to do after introducing his friend who is more than a friend to Dorian Gray, his likeness. "Perhaps you will consider hosting something for an occasion? It would be interesting to see what you consider a party," Caspian nods once, completely unaware of what doorway to debauchery that could open.
the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sinposhpeterNovember 18 2009, 00:29:44 UTC
Still on common ground? True, and his eyes flicker in acknowledgment. For his part, Peter says nothing else, but he doubts the veracity of Dorian's statement. For someone who is not very good at small talk he seems to be made of the stuff that integrates that very skill in everyday life, a society man though precisely which society that is, Peter would admit to not being certain of. He can only guess with what he's been given, but they are not bad guesses. With the ability to read minds, the blond would say his own look is short of queer by a long shot, but not being able to do that really, he knows well enough that he is making some kind of look, and that Caspian notices. Truth be told, he is not yet at that latter stage of disliking the company; he has no reason to. Dorian Gray is polite and Caspian's proclaimed friend of sorts. This warrants their time spent together rather than apart and the introduction that led up to standing side by side.
He is in the middle of taking another sip when the Telmarine suggests another party and his eyes dart sideways.
Really.
It can't be helped, and this does seem to be something Dorian knows personally as a part of the England he comes from. No harm, as even if he does throw some sort of event, Peter is not obligated to go any more than he is obligated to wearing purple again (not at all) and he has long since honed the skill of not showing his true displeasure. Often it is easier to remain unreadable than deal with the whys and what fors of a true expression, and that is where the High King finds his understanding of airs, or did over a decade ago, learning that the bare faced truth in matters of court or kingdom was not always optimal or even ideal. The same can be said in this setting, if on a rather more elementary level. Rules of court and London Society differ vastly on a close-up perspective, particularly Dorian's though none here know enough of the other side to properly compare, but the gist remains similar.
Wine lowered now, he makes no attempt to partake in this conversation or statement directed at Dorian, not especially interested himself, but his attention gives the impression of being present, thoughtful even as he raises his glass again. The wine is very good, and he is beginning to think between strategical sips and polite pauses, this night may pass faster than he expected before arriving. That he is the only one here, possibly, ready to leave at any time not in criticism on the party but simple default behavior of avoiding 1)wearing a purple suit and 2)a little too much socializing in said purple suit, which probably has less to do with his underlying tendency toward exiting with an elegant silence. One wonders how he got through fifteen years of this stuff (nearly, well) in Narnia, but that is another matter that may or may not be discussed another time.
For now there is Dorian Gray and Caspian X and a flurry every now and then of stares in their collective direction, but it doesn't take the sharpest person to notice where the focus lingers. Twins are one thing, but they are not twins, and so people look a little longer, trying to figure out the simple difference of skin tone and carriage. Peter doesn't blame them; it is a little difficult not to even subconsciously compare the two.
the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sinnobodyneedknowNovember 18 2009, 00:39:10 UTC
Dorian takes a moment to be surprised at the suggestion and then pleased by it. A party, his kind of party, here in the City, would likely destroy reputations, cause distress, and have people yelling about curses, but it sounds like so much fun. A real party with real things that actually happen, instead of small talk and wine and servers. The thought is almost too hedonistic, at first. "Perhaps I should," he says, stepping so that he stands opposite of Caspian, so that they can almost both look at Peter at once. He wonders if it is disorienting. He wonders how bad can it truly possibly be to be in the same room, in the same close proximity to two unrelated people who have the same exact face.
Dorian knows, however, when Peter's attention wavers. It is not something that is often directed at the brunette - he is naturally, in London, at least, the center of attention - but he has seen the same expression on many a bored face before. "Would you attend, if I invited you both?"
It is pure fortune that Dorian does not know about Susan - yet. A girl like Susan, whose title is the Gentle, is the kind of girl that he would have no hesitation to prey on, if the opportunity presented itself. Dorian does not fear consequences; not because he has not experienced them, but because he does not think about them.
the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sincouturecaspianNovember 18 2009, 00:54:00 UTC
There's no way to make an elegantly silent exit in a purple suit, Peter Pevensie. But if he wishes to leave Caspian wouldn't mind following. Blair has already received her presents, food has been served, and desserts enthusiastically consumed. All that's left is the small talk and wine and servers. Unlike in the king's court, his court, Caspian X has no need to play the handsome and diplomatic host. There are no Narnian or Telmarine nobles to delegate, no Archenlanders to entertain, and least of all politics or business up for discussion which is what most feasts always boil down to; a means to an end. He is young yet and he has longed for an opportunity to simply celebrate without responsibility which is not the same as irresponsibly. Even his coronation, though a time of joy for the prospect of peace, was steeped in politics. Why else did he leave the dance floor with the blond man who now stands near him?
"I would," he nods to Dorian then contributes to the possibly disorienting effect by turning a grin to Peter, as if to say and that means you would too, wouldn't you? Fortunately Caspian X, though a king, is not the type to force his friend to attend when it isn't necessary by any means. It would be nice though, it would make a Telmarine happy, just saying. "Susan would be delighted too, I think," the brunette nods back to Dorian, "she enjoys parties."
There is no thought to asking if the Gentle can obtain an invitation at all. Caspian simply doesn't think anyone could refuse her in the first place.
the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sinposhpeterNovember 18 2009, 01:08:05 UTC
As if one thing wasn't enough, but he watches as the Telmarine turns a grin to him and he shrugs, not committed in the least.
"Barring curses or what-have-you," he replies, polite but with a very clear side-door through which to exit if he so chooses, and it is made this way in order to emphasize the civility, as if to say: here, I am not keeping anything from you, least of all that I might have no interest in such a thing.
...
That effort ends up being wasted when Caspian X, blathering blatherer extraordinaire mentions the Gentle. Blue eyes sharpen but refrain from actually narrowing.
"Probably," he agrees none too joyfully and sips again before adding, "More than probably," a modification, because it is not his tendency to make his sisters' choices for them. To comment on or watch and make his own judgments in that way? Absolutely, but the overbearing role never worked for him, worked against him in the past, and even with events perhaps as silly as social ones--not silly at all to those who truly get cheer out of them, really--he tries to apply this truth.
"And admittedly, I tend to go where she does." As far as parties are concerned.
Ahem.
Read into that how you wish or not, Dorian. But Peter doesn't say things for his own health. Leave it at that maybe.
the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sinnobodyneedknowNovember 18 2009, 01:12:23 UTC
The name Susan catches Dorian's attention, and he listens to both men. If Susan is Peter's sister than it can only be hoped that she took after the family looks, and that she is as beautiful as he is, which would only serve to pique Dorian's curiosity. And the next words, the look on Peter's face, all of that seems to serve as almost a dare, or a challenge.
It is a poor idea to challenge Dorian Gray.
"But she was not invited to this party? How unfortunate for her, to have to stay at home." Dorian raises his glass again, and thinks. Perhaps it would do him well to look into this family, to think about this girl, Susan, if only because now his curiosity and interest are quite involved in the matter.
"It would only be polite to invite you and your family, Peter," Dorian says, almost gently, almost in a teasing manner. "You do not have to accept if you do not want to."
the smell of your skin, the glittering lights of Hell, I'm missing sincouturecaspianNovember 18 2009, 01:33:12 UTC
If Caspian could catch on to these subtleties he might actually react to them. He does not understand why Peter would want to narrow his eyes or why suddenly it seems Dorian is particularly interested in Peter's expression. Well, aside from the fact that the blond is quite captivating no matter how he views himself plain like a pair of jeans and a white 't-shirt' or something. The way his friend speaks of Susan's probability Caspian only imagines it is because though she is his sister it is still the same kind of affair he chooses to dismiss...unless she's in attendance. Caspian has seen them both before, brother and sister arm in arm, his pleasure derived only from the fact that such frivolous affairs make her smile. He may be deadpan and dry but deep down Peter Pevensie can be selfless in his own begrudging way.
This is in fact how he reads his admission of going where she does. Doesn't every good gentleman accompany his lady friend--especially if she is his sister--to any sort of celebratory occasion? It is only proper to see to it that she not attend alone under any circumstances, not for her honor but for her pride. Clearly Caspian has not completely grasped the concept of dating in a world like Blair's or even Claire's.
"It was her decision," he clarifies, a little mystified himself. Though she wasn't on the guest list certainly she was welcome to attend as a guest of a guest, but for whatever curious reason declined. One can only imagine it has something to do with perfecting a walk in high heels lest she fall under Blair or Serena's scrutiny. "But I" we(?) "would certainly try to persuade her to attend," Caspian laughs softly.
Oh, at that gentle tease he looks at Peter. How will he react because it's one thing to have such insufferability come from a friend who is more than a friend and another thing to have it come from a stranger only five or ten minutes met.
Yes you can blame him.
So shut. Up.
Honestly, a little shimmer is no different from the gold-toned threads in brocade tunic over skirting over loose trousers and has Peter forgotten that exquisite diamond pattern on sky blue? That was embossed by only the finest Telmarine looms. Learn to appreciate. Fff.
Anyway, unlike those who put on airs Caspian's smile is very genuine. He can't help but admire a friendship with someone who could pass for his fairer-skin twin. Some might consider it a queer anomaly or even frightening because of stories about dopplegangers (whatever those are to this Telmarine) but Caspian sees it as an opportunity to make yet another sibling. By now he must know the feeling, having lived under the roof with more or less adopted family members. One can't say the Pevensies look completely alike but there is a trace of similarity in them, beyond the accent of course. Speaking of the accent, to Caspian knowing his twin hails from a place called London gives him some small harmless hope that maybe one day he will have the chance to visit Earth too. It is a silly idea to base such a thing on a likeness of faces, he knows, but it hurts no one and because of it he gains a friend, right? Not to mention it's quite comforting to know the individual with the second best hair in this world looks like him too. Ahem. Also, that jab? He ignores it. Honestly.
When they reach Dorian he gestures between blond and brunette.
"Dorian, hello. Peter, this is Dorian Gray, something of my twin," as if the High King didn't know, "Dorian, this is Peter Pevensie. My good friend."
This last part the Telmarine says with eyes slightly narrowed at the Englishman--the fair-haired one--not because it's untrue and not because there's more to it but because sometimes he wonders how good and kind and polite Peter can be. Fff.
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No really?
That is what blue eyes and the mildest quirk of a mouth say before focus returns to the person he is supposed to be meeting, and the moment between that and the offering of his hand doesn't exist, the only transition being the motion itself--natural and also polite, not unlike the nod he received seconds before. Some people say nice to meet you, or rather, some people say that to some other people, but it is different for each speaker and the spoken to, and this is no exception. In this case, the High King does not have time to meditate at all on what he prefers, but 'pleasure' would be something of a lie and nothing is downright rude, so he arches a brow instead, curious or just filling space.
"Dorian Gray. Easy to remember," he says and it might as well be--or could as easily be--something as mundane as someone saying that the sun is bright or that dirt makes things messy. Obvious. Not impressive. But very true. Very. Northern sky edged eyes say more, but they are not clear about what that extra expression ought to communicate and from the confident set of mouth and jaw, one can tell without knowing Peter much at all that he knows he is being vague. It is a choice, not a carelessness, a consciousness rather with which he says his own hello to the man from a parallel England.
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Not that relations would stop Dorian Gray, but the lack of them does in fact make it easier.
He turns his full attentions to the blond. There is something different about this boy - man, whichever, that Dorian cannot quite place. Perhaps it is the look he has on his face, the confidence he carries, or maybe it is simply the purple suit, although Dorian cannot fault him for the odd choice of color when Blair was the one handing out assignments. Why purple, Dorian wonders, but only for a moment. Instead he nods his head, politely. "I suppose that is the benefit of a simple name," he replies, taking heed of Peter's accent, filing it away. A London accent, a proper Queen's English. There is comfort there, too, knowing that however many London's exist, they all seem to speak the same language.
"Are you enjoying the party?" he asks to both of them, unspecific. He turns slightly to look at the people mingling around them. It is a polite, decorous event.
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Now. Shut. Up.
Honestly.
The simple 'greeting' Peter gives back to Dorian almost earns him a nudge to the ribs but being cordial and bred for these kinds of social affairs Caspian manages to refrain from harmless violence between boys. Someone could stand to be kinder though, really. He wonders if it's the face that puts Peter off where normally he is fairly casual about meeting others such as Allison Cameron, but then again she is a woman. Does that make any kind of difference? Do courtiers? Right, well anyway, Caspian looks from blond to brunette again, ever smiling because it is a joyous occasion and he has one friend to this side and one friend who is more than a friend to that side. There is no curse and the drink is very good. So chin up, Peter Pevensie, don't let the purple get you down.
Almost he considers noting that Dorian Gray is not as simple as Caspian. The numeral is optional, as are his titles which carry weight everywhere he goes but matter little in terms of importance to non-Narnians. Instead he answers the question.
"I am. Blair always knows how to host a good party," the Telmarine says with a brief but brilliant smile to the High King who has attended her feasts before. In all cases they have attended together. "I think this may be your first, Dorian? But the longer you stay here the more you'll see she cannot be stopped."
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When Caspian eyes him with a short but beaming smile, though aware of being looked at, Peter does not turn to reply with expression as he might elsewhere, a smile equal in feeling though made of subtleties found in the eyes and the almost imperceptible tilt of his head. For now he stands in a comfortable confidence, purple suit or not. It is, at least, a very good suit, though he still finds it the mildest of consolations. Hunter green suits the Telmarine however, and this richer brown seems to fit this Dorian as well. The party is a myriad of colors, some people standing beside each other who make a combination painful to the eyes not because of who they are but because of the colors they happen to be donning, but this group of three is not one of those. Most notable beyond appearance amongst these young men is the palpable silence between words, as if they are none of them afraid or unsettled or anxious in a way that often people can be at social functions like this, needing to continue prattling to fill up the space as if it might draw attention elsewhere.
"True," to Caspian. "And yourself?" this time to Dorian, and Peter shifts just the slightest so that he might more easily look at both brunettes. It emphasizes to him every difference between them, distinct to him now as it surely would not have been a year or so ago, but this may only come across as a flicker of acknowledgment in blue eyes. Nothing more, nothing less, and all is politeness to the point that as often is the case he dourly supposes this conversation will go nowhere in particular. The watch he wears would tell him, expensively (it is in fact the one Blair gifted him with on his birthday) but he knows far better than to look at it now. Later (sooner) perhaps.
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While Dorian rather likes lies, he suspects that the truth will be much more interesting to guage. "This is the first of these parties for me," he explains, casually, taking another sip of wine. "It seems to me like the kind of party someone throws when they very much wish to be grown up." Almost like a debutante's party, nothing dramatic or impressive about it. His voice is pleased, however, the roll of his words not droll or ironic at all. "I used to go to a number of events like this one in London. From what I have seen of Blair, I think she would fashion herself a lady, if she could."
He does not say it as if it is a bad thing, but maybe a little indulgently, as though the girl who is hosting them has a fair bit to learn. They are a cluster of men judging another group of people, even if he is the only one who is actually doing the judging. It seems, to Dorian's eye, that the rest of the party is more entranced, but then he might simply be jaded by his upbringing. "But I don't think I would like to stop her," he adds, his eyes resting on the dark-haired hostess for just a minute, then turning back to the two men near him. "Are you friends from your own world? Is that how you met?"
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What Dorian says sort of surprises Caspian. It is honest which he appreciates, something easy to do when the honest-cum-mild-criticize isn't directed at him, but it is still a curiosity to hear. His remark reminds him of a courtly noble, a lord, the kind Claire or Karolina would not appreciate in the least but the kind Caspian X has known since birth. Young maidens do throw celebrations in an effort to push their womanhood forward for reasons simply inappropriate to discuss in polite company, especially with girls about. But Blair is not a Telmarine Countess or whatever it is they call such noblewomen in London, to Caspian she is a 'New York City' girl...which perhaps only underscores Dorian's assessment. To that effect the young king says nothing, possibly feeling unqualified to pass judgment on what it means to be grown up when he is seventeen years and five days shy of eighteen. For Narnia, grown up is very different from the Upper East Side. This does however beg the question, how old is his twin?
"Peter and myself?" Caspian asks, drawn out of his thoughts by a question that fortunately does not address maturity, age differences, and being grown up. "We are, in a way," he nods, looking to Peter to see if he'd like to tell the rest of the story, kick to the stomach and rocks to the face quite optional. "I am Narnia-born," adds the Telmarine.
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We were not always friends. His world is not technically my own--especially not now. I hesitate to believe in being of two worlds if one has resigned itself to becoming nothing but a memory.
No none of them are quite it, and neither are the dozens of other responses, so he buys a moment of time with a look at Caspian that says is that all? before returning his gaze to the paler brunette.
"I, am not first from Narnia," he says in a tone that seems to indicate I'm sure you could tell to the other Englishman. He doesn't speak more to Narnia specifically however or the adventures contained therein, which implies there is more to the story, which there is--a lot--but they don't have the time to devote to opening from the very first chapter, so he summarizes, "It's something of a long story, but it's true enough that we are friends and met on common ground."
When a passing server holds her tray of fluted wine glasses out to him, he takes one, sipping once which serves as well as any ending punctuation. Well, for the moment anyway.
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Perhaps part of the advantage of being in this City alone, without anyone of his own world to watch him or consider him or know him, by reputation or by acquaintance, was that Dorian can completely remake himself, in a manner. Everyone in the room seems young, even though Dorian is by far not the oldest person present. Grown up in Dorian's London is far different than in Blair's New York. They share an age but Dorian runs a household, keeps himself occupied, was engaged to be married, after all. His parties are very different sorts of affairs.
"No, you're quite the Londoner," Dorian says casually, his ear trained for the accent. "I suppose if I had stopped a moment I would have concluded the same thing myself." He takes another drink of his wine, and the flavor is thick and heady on his tongue. "I've never been very good at small talk," he says smoothly, which is only partially true. He actually is sufficiently decent at it, especially when it comes to women, but the truth is that he doesn't actually like it much; he prefers action.
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"We are still on common ground," he adds perhaps a bit cryptically because only Peter and a handful of others know by all terms and titles he still remains the monarch who reigns above the Telmarine. He must never forget that. How could he? At the mention of small talk Caspian feels slightly sheepish for not having considered what to do after introducing his friend who is more than a friend to Dorian Gray, his likeness. "Perhaps you will consider hosting something for an occasion? It would be interesting to see what you consider a party," Caspian nods once, completely unaware of what doorway to debauchery that could open.
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He is in the middle of taking another sip when the Telmarine suggests another party and his eyes dart sideways.
Really.
It can't be helped, and this does seem to be something Dorian knows personally as a part of the England he comes from. No harm, as even if he does throw some sort of event, Peter is not obligated to go any more than he is obligated to wearing purple again (not at all) and he has long since honed the skill of not showing his true displeasure. Often it is easier to remain unreadable than deal with the whys and what fors of a true expression, and that is where the High King finds his understanding of airs, or did over a decade ago, learning that the bare faced truth in matters of court or kingdom was not always optimal or even ideal. The same can be said in this setting, if on a rather more elementary level. Rules of court and London Society differ vastly on a close-up perspective, particularly Dorian's though none here know enough of the other side to properly compare, but the gist remains similar.
Wine lowered now, he makes no attempt to partake in this conversation or statement directed at Dorian, not especially interested himself, but his attention gives the impression of being present, thoughtful even as he raises his glass again. The wine is very good, and he is beginning to think between strategical sips and polite pauses, this night may pass faster than he expected before arriving. That he is the only one here, possibly, ready to leave at any time not in criticism on the party but simple default behavior of avoiding 1)wearing a purple suit and 2)a little too much socializing in said purple suit, which probably has less to do with his underlying tendency toward exiting with an elegant silence. One wonders how he got through fifteen years of this stuff (nearly, well) in Narnia, but that is another matter that may or may not be discussed another time.
For now there is Dorian Gray and Caspian X and a flurry every now and then of stares in their collective direction, but it doesn't take the sharpest person to notice where the focus lingers. Twins are one thing, but they are not twins, and so people look a little longer, trying to figure out the simple difference of skin tone and carriage. Peter doesn't blame them; it is a little difficult not to even subconsciously compare the two.
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Dorian knows, however, when Peter's attention wavers. It is not something that is often directed at the brunette - he is naturally, in London, at least, the center of attention - but he has seen the same expression on many a bored face before. "Would you attend, if I invited you both?"
It is pure fortune that Dorian does not know about Susan - yet. A girl like Susan, whose title is the Gentle, is the kind of girl that he would have no hesitation to prey on, if the opportunity presented itself. Dorian does not fear consequences; not because he has not experienced them, but because he does not think about them.
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"I would," he nods to Dorian then contributes to the possibly disorienting effect by turning a grin to Peter, as if to say and that means you would too, wouldn't you? Fortunately Caspian X, though a king, is not the type to force his friend to attend when it isn't necessary by any means. It would be nice though, it would make a Telmarine happy, just saying. "Susan would be delighted too, I think," the brunette nods back to Dorian, "she enjoys parties."
There is no thought to asking if the Gentle can obtain an invitation at all. Caspian simply doesn't think anyone could refuse her in the first place.
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"Barring curses or what-have-you," he replies, polite but with a very clear side-door through which to exit if he so chooses, and it is made this way in order to emphasize the civility, as if to say: here, I am not keeping anything from you, least of all that I might have no interest in such a thing.
...
That effort ends up being wasted when Caspian X, blathering blatherer extraordinaire mentions the Gentle. Blue eyes sharpen but refrain from actually narrowing.
"Probably," he agrees none too joyfully and sips again before adding, "More than probably," a modification, because it is not his tendency to make his sisters' choices for them. To comment on or watch and make his own judgments in that way? Absolutely, but the overbearing role never worked for him, worked against him in the past, and even with events perhaps as silly as social ones--not silly at all to those who truly get cheer out of them, really--he tries to apply this truth.
"And admittedly, I tend to go where she does." As far as parties are concerned.
Ahem.
Read into that how you wish or not, Dorian. But Peter doesn't say things for his own health. Leave it at that maybe.
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It is a poor idea to challenge Dorian Gray.
"But she was not invited to this party? How unfortunate for her, to have to stay at home." Dorian raises his glass again, and thinks. Perhaps it would do him well to look into this family, to think about this girl, Susan, if only because now his curiosity and interest are quite involved in the matter.
"It would only be polite to invite you and your family, Peter," Dorian says, almost gently, almost in a teasing manner. "You do not have to accept if you do not want to."
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This is in fact how he reads his admission of going where she does. Doesn't every good gentleman accompany his lady friend--especially if she is his sister--to any sort of celebratory occasion? It is only proper to see to it that she not attend alone under any circumstances, not for her honor but for her pride. Clearly Caspian has not completely grasped the concept of dating in a world like Blair's or even Claire's.
"It was her decision," he clarifies, a little mystified himself. Though she wasn't on the guest list certainly she was welcome to attend as a guest of a guest, but for whatever curious reason declined. One can only imagine it has something to do with perfecting a walk in high heels lest she fall under Blair or Serena's scrutiny. "But I" we(?) "would certainly try to persuade her to attend," Caspian laughs softly.
Oh, at that gentle tease he looks at Peter. How will he react because it's one thing to have such insufferability come from a friend who is more than a friend and another thing to have it come from a stranger only five or ten minutes met.
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