ᴀʟᴛᴜs, ᴇɴᴄʜᴀɴᴛᴇʀ, ᴍᴀɢɪsᴛᴇʀ (tevene) wrote in valloic, @ 2021-11-01 14:59:00 |
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There were about a thousand different coffee shops in Vallo - and Dorian certainly wouldn’t mind trying them all. He often prepared tea in the comfort of the penthouse, depending on the day - he liked Earl Grey quite a bit, he liked the ones where the aroma of flowers tickled his nostrils, he enjoyed a hint of chocolate too. But if it was shaping up to be a morning he went with coffee - there had been quite a few mornings as of late, though he was content to pitch in extra at the shop so Gilmore could spend time with his daughter. When he saw Laurence was having a rough time of things, however, Dorian changed course - he picked up two fine, fragrant coffees from a little place in the city that looked as if it closed at dusk and was tucked away like a lovely gemstone. He didn’t want to get anything too sweet, because the French toast abomination would fit the bill, so he went with two lattes that were creamy, with a touch of cinnamon and only a tad bit of honey - it worked well enough, anyway. Caffeine was always a lifesaver. It was a tenant of modern life that he’d come to appreciate. Carrying the cardboard holder, he showed up at Laurence’s door and knocked. Was this the first time at his friend’s apartment? Gasp. Dorian felt as if they were making progress, since Laurence didn’t seem embarrassed to have someone over. How proud he was. Laurence likely would have been more embarrassed to have Dorian over had he been thinking of it more, but he hadn't been. It would be too much to say he was grieving. Eloise was still alive, and likely with her family, and the nature of Laurence's world made this sort of parting not uncommon. When he had been transported to New South Wales, it was with the knowledge that he was unlikely to ever see any of his friends again - a six-month voyage by ship to visit him at a penal company was unlikely enough to be unimaginable, and though he could still correspond with them, it would take a year or more to receive any answer to his letters, and any new news contained in what he received would be woefully out of date. Even that small bit of correspondence had been something, however. He’d resigned himself to the fact that even that much was impossible once he’d come here, though he still wrote frequent letters to Granby, Tharkay, and Jane, which he kept secured in the top drawer of his desk. As it had been with his friends back home, so it would be with Eloise, he supposed. So no, he couldn't claim he was grieving. He knew Eloise had prefered the freedom allocated her sex here in Vallo, but he also knew that she'd missed her family, and he hoped that the latter would help ease the sting of the former, if she remembered Vallo at all. But he still thought he'd miss her, and their conversations, and the comfort of knowing that there was someone here in Vallo who understood his world, even if Eloise’s world had lacked dragons. All this to say that he hadn’t thought at all of the unsuitability of his apartment until after Dorian was already on his way, and at that point, it was already far too late to have changed his plans. But he’d had Ignis over nearly every week for their cooking lessons, and so he thought, having Dorian over wouldn’t be too much worse, though Ignis’ visits had been of a professional nature and this was more of a social call. Despite Laurence’s objections to the very visible nature of his bathroom, kitchen, and bedroom there was nothing that precluded the idea of entertaining. He kept his apartment nearly fastidiously clean, and after his shopping trip with Dorian, it was tastefully decorated. In the meantime, he’d also bought a nice Chinese Rug, which sat in front of the couch, and it had been with some amusement that he’d bought a framed print of The Fighting Temeraire to hang above it (the ship herself, his dragon’s namesake, had still been in fighting condition in Laurence’s time, and though it had been a little sad to learn she’d been broken up in 1838, there’d been little surprise and, in fact, a good deal of pride). “Dorian, thank you for coming,” Laurence said, greeting him with the ghost of a smile. It was nice to see Dorian, despite everything. “Mr. Scientia has just left. I hope you’ll forgive the state of the place. Please come in.” “The state of the place,” Dorian repeated with wry amusement, stepping into the apartment and noticing that there wasn’t a speck of dirt or disarray to be found. As he expected, of course - Laurence’s etiquette and manners would outmatch those of the haughtiest Orlesian (however those manners were often accompanied by a smile and a literal knife to the back - in Tevinter, the only difference was there was no smile). “Yes, it’s terrible. I shall be informing everyone on the network post-haste.” He was teasing, naturally, in his sarcastic way - his fond sarcastic way. But there was a look of sympathy in steely gray eyes, since he knew what it was like to lose someone to a Vallo glitch here and there. Laurence and Eloise had attended the symphony together, hadn’t they? There was much to bond over. “I brought coffee - and I do know how you take yours, so that’s the mark of true friendship, isn’t it?” he posed the question as he handed over the to-go cup. “You really have done lovely things with the apartment.” Laurence smiled a little, familiar enough with Dorian's sense of humour to recognize the sarcasm for what it was, and maybe he was being a little silly about the whole thing. "Thank you," Laurence said, accepting the coffee as he led Dorian to the kitchen island. He'd have liked to have a proper dining table, except that there really was nowhere to place it that wouldn't make the place look too crowded. If he were to have dinner guests at some point, however, he thought he should start thinking of a way to make it work. He took a sip from the cup, expecting a regular coffee with just a splash of cream and sugar, and getting instead a mouthful of latte, sweetened with honey and spiced cinnamon. The surprise was in no ways unpleasant, though he did look at the cup in open astonishment for a second before composing himself. "And apparently, well enough to find new combinations for me to enjoy," he said dryly, amused. He placed the cup on the counter while he pulled the casserole from the oven where he'd kept it to keep warm. "I'm glad you think so," he said, looking over his shoulder at the apartment, feeling a bit of fondness for it. "Aside from the farm, and that had only been built up enough to offer some shelter from the elements when I left New South Wales, this is the first place I've lived that's really been my own. I was never put ashore for longer than a six-month, and was often at sea for a year or more, so it made little sense to buy a house until I was married." Which had, in the end, never happened. Ooh, there was the m word - marriage. What a fun sort of idea (or not, it seemed downright terrifying). “Indeed, it’s very you,” Dorian complimented - though he had no doubt that Laurence would spruce the place up to his liking. He wasn’t one to sit idle (or to mope, apparently). “My family’s estate back in Tevinter is gigantic and besides the paid staff, it was just me - my mother was never really present. Quite lonely, really.” And after Halward’s death, Dorian’s own mother (she gave him life, though part of him thought she may have regretted such an absurd decision - she was not cut out to rear a child) retreated even more. To parties, to the theater, to anyplace fashionable, and to sitting in the coolness of a shaded area, sipping a drink and not even pretending to care. He didn’t miss her. Leaning against the counter, he observed Laurence with the casserole dish and - Maker, did that smell divine. “So you plan to keep busy today, then? In an effort not to dwell or give your handsome face frowny wrinkles?” “Ah, I’m sorry. My family also has quite a large estate, though my mother was fond of entertaining and we had plenty of regular callers, so it was rarely empty. I imagine it would have been a very different place, had it frequently sat empty.” He did, in fact, have many fond memories of the place, even if Lord Allendale had made it clear early on that Laurence would be expected to find other lodging, once he was old enough to do so, during his shoreleave, and once he’d explicitly told Laurence he was no longer welcome at the estate even for visits when he’d joined the Aerial Corp. It would have been positively dreadful, he thought, having all those large rooms built for entertaining hosting nothing but dust and shadows. He was glad that Dorian was here now. The penthouse he shared with Marina seemed much warmer. He did his best to not appear too embarrassed as he split the casserole between two plates, and placed one in front of Dorian before he took his seat beside him. Of all the things that Laurence had to adjust to, here in Vallo, the free and easy compliments were probably the most difficult. “I’m afraid that ship has long sailed, my friend, but I thank you” Laurence answered. He’d spent many days in the punishing sun, and many afternoons being beaten by the wind aboard Temeraire; he knew that his skin wasn’t nearly as smooth as some others his age. Like Dorian, for instance. “But yes. I’ll be seeing Miss Ruby,” he, regrettably, did not know her last name, “for hot chocolate later this afternoon, and then dining with Lan Xichen. It’s been…” he hesitated, struggling for a word that properly encapsulated his feelings on the matter. Overwhelming? Affecting? Touching? “Quite unexpected, all of this. Thank you, Dorian, for coming to keep me company.” Dorian regrettably didn’t know a Ruby either, though he knew Lan Xichen; he liked Lan Xichen, who had a quiet sort of comfort about him. It might do Laurence good to wind down with a meal around the other man. “I’m glad,” he replied, soft and sincere - a lot more than he usually was. He didn’t always show his true colors, and had seemed to retreat even more into himself after he was hurt so badly (emotionally, that is) but when he did - it meant something. That he felt comfortable enough to do so - safe? Safety. That was a feeling he thought he’d never have again. “At the very least, we can count on our community to be there for us,” he added, settling in to take a bite of the casserole. Oooh, couldn’t you just feel the sugar climbing through your veins? He’d never actually had a breakfast like this before - though he’d been cooking more lately, wanting to try new recipes. Sometimes when Eleanor stayed over, he wasn’t cooking for just himself and Marina too which was nice. “Well, most of them. It can be a lot, however, when you’re just not used to such things. Much of Vallo can be ‘a lot,’ however.” Laurence's face softened a little at Dorian's tone. "It is a lot, but it's been nice, too," Laurence said. "Back home…" He frowned, tilting his head. He didn't mean to criticize; he love England, even with all her flaws. "Back home, it's not like this, necessarily. We're not isolated, per se - it's expected one makes plenty of social calls and has a wide social circle - but we don't often speak of or even acknowledge, much, our griefs. If we were in mourning, we were expected to separate ourselves from society for a time," women longer than men, as men couldn't often abandon their business for longer than a few weeks, " and we were expected to change our dress for the prescribed mourning period, but…" But it wasn't casseroles and hot chocolate and breakfast with friends. It was time spent alone, receiving only the occasional caller, and then letting all see your grief with no one acknowledging it beyond a sentence or two expressing their regret. Not that he thought that having one disappear would have warranted a mourning period back home. He took a bite of the casserole, and stopped short, staring in amazement. "Is this really what people eat for breakfast here?" he asked, startled. "It seems more like a dessert." “A bit mad, isn’t it?” Dorian had to laugh a little, because while he enjoyed a sugary treat here and there - this was also a lot, and food in Thedas definitely wasn’t this sweet. Or downright syrupy - then again, he supposed there were some desserts in Orlais that fell under the ‘my teeth are rotting’ category, and he’d steadfastly avoid those. “I’ve been trying to cook more breakfast food so as to have a proper meal in the morning before rushing off - but that’s usually been more savory. Nothing very sweet.” He took another bite - it was good though, don’t get him wrong. Chased by a sip of coffee made it work even better; it was a pleasant balancing of complex flavors, in that regard. “We didn’t grieve much in Tevinter either,” he added after a moment. “For different reasons though, I suppose. I’ve already gone over the whole idea of emotion being viewed as weakness rubbish - but a lot of it was just that we simply didn’t have the time. Hard to find it when the world’s always in perfil, you know?” Darkspawn here, demons there - maybe even a tentacle monster. It really just depended on the day. “I’ve made a few ham-fisted attempts at breakfast myself, though I’ve not yet been successful at cooking the eggs just right.” They inevitably ended up overcooked or still a little slimy, and he generally, in the end, pushed them to the side and ate around them. “But there’s nothing better than a proper English breakfast. Bacon, eggs and sausage, some tomatoes and mushrooms, perhaps a bit of black pudding. Toast and jam, of course.” He missed being able to order a full English breakfast whenever he pleased. It had been several years since the last time he’d been able to. The french toast casserole wasn’t as comforting, but he thought, perhaps, that it was still a nice treat for such a dour day. It was difficult to maintain a dark mood when one was eating sunshine in a pan. “Your world sounds very trying,” Laurence said, frowning a little, an invitation for Dorian to speak more on it, if he wished to. Even with most of Europe at war for these last seven years, the upper classes of Britain had scarcely seemed to feel it. Of course they’d talk about it amongst themselves, often as a kind of gossip or as interesting dinner conversation, but they’d not suffered much until Bonaparte himself had invaded the island. He did not get the impression that the same held true for Thedas. Constant peril and Dorian claiming to have helped save the world certainly gave a different impression, at least. While there was always just the chance that Dorian was being hyperbolic for the sake of drama, Laurence did not get the impression that that was the case. “That it is,” Dorian concurred and in some ways he missed his world. Others, not so much - when he told Laurence he had thought about his situation here and ultimately hoped that he would be able to stay in Vallo, he meant that. No matter what this world seemed to throw at them all, it was (at least for him) infinitely easier to deal with than navigating the treacherous political waters that he was obligated to traverse in Thedas. Perhaps, in comparison to some of the Magisters, he was the baby shark in a pool of more experienced predators, but he'd learned a few things in his time. Necessary things. “It’s always been like that, however - the history is...sordid.” Tevinter itself was built on the backs of dirty secrets, blood, and bone. He loved his homeland but also recognized its flaws - its many, many flaws. “Whenever things go wrong here, it still helps me keep my views in perspective - as in, it could be worse?” he suggested. “Tell me more about this...English breakfast, though. Black pudding, specifically. The rest of it I ought to be able to replicate.” Or he’d try, anyway - what else were friends for? “I suppose there must be a certain level of chaos attached to any world with magic," Laurence said, hesitatingly. It wasn't that Laurence's world lacked it - it seemed as though Europe was nearly always at war. His own lifetime had seen the Colonies fighting for their independence, the Reign of Terror in France, Bonaparte's neverending conquest of Europe, and dozens of other violent uprisings. But they, at least, were limited to what men could do with black powder, steel and dragon. "I am glad things are a little easier here for you. Black pudding is a sort of pudding made from pig's blood and oats or groats, more of a sausage than any kind of dessert. I've never had to make it myself though, so I couldn't tell you much more. You'll have to tell me what you think if you do make the effort though." He didn't want to presume that Dorian would be trying to replicate it for his own sake. Of course he’d be replicating it for someone else’s sake - the idea of working with pig’s blood in terms of the culinary arts was not something he’d do for himself. The idea was amusing and he chuckled fondly, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin (proper table manners whilst eating a sticky breakfast-desserty food were important). “You can tell me what you think too,” Dorian suggested. “Hopefully I get it right to invoke at least a little bit of nostalgia. Whenever you’ve a free morning and wish to pop over for breakfast - or brunch, something like that.” The gays did love their brunch, as Dorian had learned, and he was no exception. “A weekend sometime.” Perhaps it would help with the doldrums of leaving someone too - it was important to keep those at bay, because Vallo could be unpredictable and you just never knew what rug would be yanked out from under you next. Just the offer itself was enough to help ease the doldrums. The loss of Eloise was hard, but he thought that if Dorian ever were sent back home, it would be much more difficult to rally, and not only because he knew Eloise was returning to a large family that she'd missed and who loved her, and that Dorian would not be. "Thank you, Dorian, I'd be delighted," Laurence said, overcome. He turned to his coffee and his breakfast, focusing on them for the time being. "I count myself lucky to have a friend such as yourself," he said at last. Oh, how sweet (literally - there was a lot of sugar going on here, it was a wonder his stomach didn’t start churning). Dorian wasn’t used to being thanked for his friendship - perhaps because before the Inquisition, he didn’t really have any friends. Just people he would ‘party’ with, absolutely drunk off his ass and not remembering how he got Maker knew where on whatever morning it was - that sort of thing didn’t exactly lend itself to lasting connections. “Alright, enough sentiment - or else I’m going to have to spike this coffee with whiskey,” he snorted, but he was only teasing. He appreciated it, truly - it was nice having friends, after all. People he could count on. People he would research ‘cooking with pig’s blood’ for. Sigh. Oh, well - it was educational, if nothing else. |