milliways_bar | (no subject)

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."

"Balthazar." The sorcerer replies, teasing another piece of cinnamon roll free. Yes, he plans on eating the whole thing - duels with Horvath burn a lot of energy.

"Hello, Balthazar," Autor says, starting this conversation backwards, as he seems to do so often. "What do you do back home?"

"Well, I don't have huge cinnamon rolls." The faint note of amusement is back - it's possible he's noted the verbal herding.

"No, those are pretty one of a kind," Autor says, raising a brow. He hails a wait rat and orders tea--this is a tea kind of situation. "You're quite reluctant to talk about yourself, I've noticed."

He drops the observation casually. It's just there, no inflection to mark it as any different from, say, commenting on how he looks tired.

"Whereas you are quite eager to hear my life story." Balthazar replies, giving no quarter. "Even to the point of making apologies you don't entirely mean."

And now he's embarrassed again. He looks away, busying himself with watching the rats, before glancing back. "... Ah," the boy says, with tinted cheeks. "For what it's worth, I did mean the apology."

"At least partially." Balthazar agrees, with another piece of cinnamon roll. "I suppose that's good for partial credit."

Autor squints at him. He scoops up his tea from the wait rat calmly--not desperately, like he feels--and sips it just as calm. "No, I meant it fully. Just because I felt I ought to doesn't mean I can't also feel remorseful."

Edited 2014-10-14 07:49 (UTC)

"No, no it doesn't." Balthazar agrees, his calm not feigned. Of course, he has quite a few more years of practice in the art of dancing around a topic.

"If I ask you any more questions about yourself, will you answer them?" Autor says, sipping his tea.