milliways_bar | (no subject)

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"But musing what an easy thing it were to mix our opiates in a larger cup," Autor says, patting the counter in preparation to hop over it. "And drink, and not perceive"—and here he hops—"sleep deepening lead his truer kinsman up, like undistinguished Night, darkening the skirts of Eve.*"

After a few minutes of setting up his prior preparations, the boy reaches for the specials board. "Good night, Bar."

Bitter Chocolate Aria
Hot chocolate & one croissant

Submission Sonata
Virgin strawberry & wasabi daiquiri

Ode to Blood
Giga ant eggs, sour apple juice, seltzer water, flavored ice

Fiery Trigon
Grenadine, lemon juice, apple juice, passion fruit juice, & cinnamon

Silent Overture
Free coffee if you can prove that you’re knighted

Note: Virgin bar.

[This post is open forever.]

*Ode to Sleep , Richard Chenevix Trench

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Using one would be a lot easier if I owned one. I don't. And Bar's not able to give me one right now, no matter how nicely I ask.

"So you can either tell me, or, we can make it worse and turn it into a guessing game."

Autor shrugs. "Or I can pull up a book and keep silent for the rest of the night."

And oh, hey, look at that! He can call out books at will. This one is particularly interesting to him.

"Fine. Following you around it is then. Hope you don't mind. Not that I'd care if you did."

"Mmhm," Autor says, almost cheerfully, as he reads his book.

I'll invest in a crossbow and make you bugger off.

Yeah I don't see that working. Trying to hit a flying target without much practise at stationary? Good luck, Overlord.

Frowning, he plucks the lemon wedge from the glass. Making to squeeze the juice into the water.

The juice ends up going in a different direction.

Um. Oops?

Autor sighs, and picks up a maternally-worded napkin leftover from before he put Bar down for a nap.

He cleans off his glasses irritably, and, apropos of nothing, asks, "You can make it snow in the bar, right?"

Yeah, that's not where that juice was supposed to go.

Er.

"Some particular reason why you want snow?"

"I don't want snow," he says. "I want fireflies. A thousand of them, at least. Partially to see if you can do it, and also because that would be beautiful."

"Look. I may be getting old, and with age comes infirmity, but my ears are better now than they used to be.

"And you said 'snow'. Not fireflies."

Pause.

"When did you start caring about whether the weather—indoors or out—was beautiful? Given that, when you first arrived, you were pale enough to indicate that you only saw the outside of a building if you absolutely had to, not because you wanted to."

Stare.

"This young lass of yours somehow managed to change your mind about these things?"

"Wait, that doesn't make sense. How did your hearing improve?" Autor says, furrowing his brow.

"And snow is pretty, as long as I'm not out in it," he scoffs. "I asked if you could make snow because I was wondering if you could modify the snowflakes to look like fireflies, instead. Hogwarts, A History describes their Enchanted Ceiling, though I hope you'll not need to do it on such a grand scale."

He wrinkles his nose. "I'm studying an opera. A three-dimensional visualization of how the notes move would be incredibly useful."

Then he shrugs. "And like I said, fireflies are beautiful. I would have picked something else if I didn't like them."

"Someday I'll tell you how. But you have to be a good boy first."

Rabastan's not surprised Autor doesn't know about his illness. It's not in the history books. Even the most recent ones. The authors don't know, and neither does the young man serving drinks tonight.

Not that Potter-verse lycanthropy works the way modern fiction would have us believe.

"Fairy lights. Why not just say you want fairy lights?"

Pause.

"You. Need a visual representation of musical notes? You? Sorry lad, but that does not compute. If you're studying music you should already know how notes work. And you're smart enough to know how, even if you weren't.

"You have an ulterior motive, don't you? I bet it's for this pretty young bird of a sociopath you told me about, and that you're determined to impress. With wizardly help, no less."

"You have a very black and white view of the world, wizard," Autor says, shaking his head, as if it's the saddest thing he's ever heard. Well, at least in a while.

"Fairy lights? I've never heard that term, but it makes sense," he says. "Though she'd probably lau"--and as his wistful commentary on Rabastan's statement sinks in, the boy colors.

Slowly. Painfully. Spectacularly.

Rabastan has the look of a DA who has just heard the defendant unwittingly say something particularly incriminating.

"So. It's all about the young woman after all?"

Smirk.

"I know you're dead clever, and reasonably good at lie-spinning, but even you can't explain this one away. Tell me that it's not what I think it is."

Autor is tempted--oh, so tempted--to throw a smoke bomb and run. But he promised to take care of Bar tonight, so he'll brave the smug-dragon who deigned to descend from the heavens today.

"It really was for an opera. If she wants fairy lights, she can go get them herself," he snorts, and folds his arms. "I'm not inclined to do her any favors."

Dragon? Does Autor really think that of Rabastan?

"When you present someone with a thing, it's called a gift. When you ask someone to make it for you so you can bestow it upon another, it's called a favour."

Smirk.

"Presenting your prospective amore with fairy lights falls under 'gift', not 'favour', and I was not expecting you to do her favours, lad. At all."

He's not meaning Autor should deign to give Punie gifts, though. Punie makes it seem like, if you give her a fire anything, there should be actual fire involved.

"I'm not presenting this to anyone," Autor says, aggravated. "I was just going to have them free-floating in the bar, and preferably not attached to me. Even less preferable? Outside. Night gets cold, you know."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "And I'm not asking this as a favor. I'd pay off some of your tab."

"Oh, you figured that out all on your own? You actually braved the outside long enough to find out this fact?"

Tease.

"Sounds a bit elaborate for something you want only for yourself." Pause. "Not necessary. Gideon gives me enough to cover even that."

"No," Autor says, adjusting his glasses. "I read it in a book, from whence all men should acquire knowledge."

He purses his lips. "Who says I can't want elaborate things? Opera is elaborate," he says. "I'm not giving you the opportunity to force me to eat again."

"No surprise."

Pause.

"Opera is not fairy lights. We both know this. Besides. You've given me the impression that you like things that are ... how do I put this? More substantial than simple twinkling lights.

"Sorry lad, you just don't strike me as the kind of person to covet all that glitters in the world."

"Really?" Autor says, and props his elbows on the bar. "How do I strike you, then? You really don't think glittering pieces of magic would catch my attention?"

You don't know much about me, do you, Rabastan?

How can you expect him to know you? You keep so much of yourself a secret from everyone.

"Magic? Yes. Plain old sparkly things? No."

"Plain old sparkly things are still educational," Autor says evenly, pulling back to place a hand on his hip.

"I've learned a lot from this discussion, for example," the boy says, smirking. "Like that you vehemently refuse to even think about casting something simply and pretty without accusing me of being wrapped around the finger of some girl."

The very idea rankles.

"Well. You are, are you not? That last blush of yours could be seen from Mars it was that bright. Only people who've got it bad for another turn that red." Pause. "And I'm sure, if you really wanted to, you could make your own sparkly things all by yourself.

"You don't really need me for that, do you?"

Edited 2013-05-22 02:19 (UTC)

No, what he needs--immediately and in the future--is a blush-preventing moisturizer.

"On that large a scale? Probably not," he says irritably, popping his nose in the air. "But now I'm thinking it's not worth it. Good to know!"

"Come off it, Autor. Everyone gets teased for their crushes. You'll never be the exception to that."

Pause.

"Just tell me what you really want the fairy lights for and I'll see if I can do it."