milliways_bar | (no subject)

Well, that's startling. Autor narrows his eyes, white hot heat flooding his face. "I have never looked like a slob in my life," he says, glancing down to what he's wearing. "This is comfortable attire--because it's too cold in here."

Still, he does take the sweater off to reveal an immaculate blazer and cravat combo. He balls the gray garment up along with his rage.

"Comfortable, yes, but... not very classy." There's amusement somewhere in that rasp of a voice. Of course, he has that complaint about most of the clothing of the era he's currently living through.

"Forgive me for not realizing there was a dress code," Autor snaps. He tucks his sweater under his arm. "I can wear whatever I like."

"Yes, yes you can." Balthazar agrees solemnly, raising a hand to catch the attention of one of the waitrats. "There is a wonderful freedom to fashion. Or failing to adhere to it, as the case may be."

"Unlike some people, I have more important things to do in my life than to pay attention to the fripperies of fashion," Autor says scathingly. He'd wear a school uniform--immaculately presented--until the day he dies.

He looks over what this man is wearing to make sure there's nothing that can be said about his clothes. "Where are you from, anyway?"

Balthazar looks like a hobo... if you're not paying attention. His clothes are all high quality, if in places a bit worn, and all from different times. It's probably not intentional, but those layers echo the pattern of armor he wore, once upon a time.

"Initially, currently, or were you hoping for a travel itinerary?"

Autor is paying attention, now. His first impression was that of a tired hobo, but now he's struggling to place the man.

He blinks at the question. "Oh. Er. Most people don't world hop here, so initially would be best, and then current, if you don't mind?"

"Essex, New York City." Balthazar offers, with his accent managing to not really match either of those two locales. The tea he's been hoping for arrives, and he takes the teacup carefully, his rings glint in the fire light.

That's... a lot of rings, Autor thinks, blinking at them. He wonders if any of them act as a focus, like Rae's, or as poison immunity, like his own.

"Ah, so not so much world-hopping, but country-hopping then," he says. Perhaps. "When are you from, in your current locale?"

"So many questions." Balthazar observes, relaxing with the scent of tea. "And you couldn't ask for a fitted coat?"

Autor looks away, and his gaze happens to lay on the sweater. He blushes a little, and doesn't know why. The boy forces himself to look back at the man. "Yes. I do that," he says. "And this... This was a gift."

He raises an expressive eyebrow. He must have made someone mightily mad to earn a gift such as that.

"For your information," Autor says contemptuously, "it's a gift I happen to like, from a women I highly respect, and sorely miss."

"That does not forgive it, only explain it." Balthazar points out. He's seen many things over the years that have had quite a lot of emotional worth... and precious little worth otherwise.

Autor shifts in his seat, a little uncomfortable. "It's also quite warm, as I mentioned, and this is what people call 'sweater weather'," the boy says, adjusting his glasses. "It's... I like it."

He's not sure why he's bothering to defend his gift against this stranger.

He's doing it because there's something about Balthazar that demands an answer, even from people who don't actually want to give it. Call it Merlinian magic. Call it ancient birthright. Call it the ornery-ness learned over centuries.

"Ah." Autor may have just lost any ability to comment on Balthazar's attire and actually gain any ground in this discussion.

And Autor knows it; he's a musician and he knows tones, so reading into Balthazar's single syllable utterance is child's play.

Still.

"What do you mean, 'ah'?" Autor asks. Rhetorically. He fumes, pursing his lips and folding his arms. "You've no right to comment on my clothes, especially when they're a gift. And you still look tired."

"I have the right to comment as soon as you felt the need to start commenting... which you are still doing. It is correct, when they say the clothes make the man." He points out, with the same dry recitation he might use to explain the day's weather.

"I was trying for sympathetic," Autor says honestly. He rubs the back of his neck. "I... probably could have phrased it better."

"Probably." Balthazar agrees, accepting a plate loaded down with a ginormous cinnamon roll from a second rat. Lovely.

"I didn't know people even ordered cinnamon rolls from Bar," Autor murmurs, mostly to himself.

"Look. We clearly got off on the wrong foot."

It's not quite an olive branch, because Autor is terrible at extending those. And it's not quite an apology, either, though he's starting to think it'd be best if he did make the effort. He sighs through his nose. "I'm sorry, all right?"

That earns another raised eyebrow, this one higher than the first.

"Are you apologizing because you feel remorse," He teases a piece of roll free, liberally dosed with icing, "Or because you feel you ought to?"

"A little of both," Autor says, opting again for honesty for some reason unknown to him. He dislikes being this honest. "Is that one of Rae's cinnamon rolls?"

The way he says her name is gentle; clearly he's fond of her.

"Sunshine does make truly delicious cinnamon rolls." Balthazar agrees, content with his tea and roll.

"Ah, so you do know her," Autor says, nodding. He wonders how to turn the conversation away from her, his naturally protective side flaring like it does around Dr. Lecter. "What is your name? Mine is Autor."