that is, lavi is actually not currently in a chair? He's standing by one of the windows in this room he's been living in for months now, one hand pressed against the frame as he leans against it -- aiming to look casual, instead of as exhausted as he feels. He looks out the window at the exact same landscape, the neatly manicured gardens of whatever rich estate he's shut up in, and wonders how so much can tell him so little.
he knows that he's still in england, at least. the eternally overcast weather reminds him of london. maybe somewhere south? but that's about it. it chafes at him -- the not knowing, especially for someone who's always known exactly where he is.
the door opens behind him, but he doesn't turn. he knows who it is, or at least -- has a pretty good idea of who. instead, he adopts a casual, almost lazy drawl, only the stiff line of his shoulders shows how tense he really is,]
You know, being a prisoner is nice and all -- [it's really not, actually] but it'd be even better if I could get a book to read, or even a newspaper.
the noise of the day receded gently—an anomaly with the noah, and more often than not meaning the lot of them had been dispersed by the earl. off to torture some exorcists, no doubt, which leaves tyki with the charge of being lavi's surety for the evening.
the overcast sky presses against the tall estate windows; outside, there is a courtyard view, effectively encasing their captive guest, landlocking his view of any horizon. below, there is a wave of blooming magnolia and propagated rosebushes, trailing the house's periphery along to its more quiet edges. lanterns have been strewn that give a warm hue to the pavement, coming alive earlier now that winter is upon them.
the door closes behind tyki, and though he isn't one to try and be too convivial for the sake of bringing comfort(let the bookman be discontent for the rest of his years, it's funny), he has about four sleeved vinyl carried in the hollow of his arm. lavi won't see it if he's staring out that lonesome window, of course, but he will hear the record player start, the gentle scratch of a needle dropping on to its surface; the orchestra is pulled in by the gravity of the rough start, and then it evens out. soft, sweet. very much not like his host that lavi must endure.
tyki takes his time to reply to him, setting aside the rest of the vinyl first, then pulling out a matchbox from a pocket within the breast of his coat. )
You're bored, Eyepatch? It must be difficult for you, I know.
( he won't acknowledge that request, but he's thought just of it. it is why he has brought a newspaper, to lure lavi into his proximity. it's not like he reads that dreck! the advanced crosswords make him feel dumb. )
I'm actually impressed you've lasted this long. Are your wits about you?
( he watches the language of his body closely: the columned tension of his spine, the heavy line of his shoulders. a glimpse of an expression keeping control in spite of it all. he hums placidly at it, tilting his head at the music, and moves to the coffee table centered in the room. the bookman will surely hear that beloved sound of paper fanning and falling on to it. )
Here.
gently holds your hand as i also also arrive late from my.... empty rp brain.......
[LOOK... MAYBE HE GETS UP AND STRETCHES EVERY NOW AND THEN
The flowers are pretty, still clinging onto their blooms even with the colder weather, an act of stubborn survival that Lavi could draw comparison to, if he wanted. And he had those first few months. Now, it feels as stale as everything else -- like the music humming in the background, the pretense of civility, markers of culture. The Noah -- or whoever they're pretending to be in this life -- are cultured. Gentlemanly, even. It's a good guise. Lavi, of all people, can admit that. It reminds him to fix his own, to not stiffen at the sound of paper, to not turn around and just lunge.
Temper. Of all the emotions he's been trained not to feel, anger's always been his weak point.
And anyway, he's already done that before, always with the same results. Tyki's not Cyril, but that doesn't mean he's merciful, even if he is more willing to humor Lavi in a way the other Noah never do. He's not sure if he should be grateful, or to resent him all the more.]
Depends.
[he finally turns around, tone even even as his eye darts to the paper on the table. not moving, not yet.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for 2x (tyki)
that is, lavi is actually not currently in a chair? He's standing by one of the windows in this room he's been living in for months now, one hand pressed against the frame as he leans against it -- aiming to look casual, instead of as exhausted as he feels. He looks out the window at the exact same landscape, the neatly manicured gardens of whatever rich estate he's shut up in, and wonders how so much can tell him so little.
he knows that he's still in england, at least. the eternally overcast weather reminds him of london. maybe somewhere south? but that's about it. it chafes at him -- the not knowing, especially for someone who's always known exactly where he is.
the door opens behind him, but he doesn't turn. he knows who it is, or at least -- has a pretty good idea of who. instead, he adopts a casual, almost lazy drawl, only the stiff line of his shoulders shows how tense he really is,]
You know, being a prisoner is nice and all -- [it's really not, actually] but it'd be even better if I could get a book to read, or even a newspaper.
comes in late...from globetrotting
the noise of the day receded gently—an anomaly with the noah, and more often than not meaning the lot of them had been dispersed by the earl. off to torture some exorcists, no doubt, which leaves tyki with the charge of being lavi's surety for the evening.
the overcast sky presses against the tall estate windows; outside, there is a courtyard view, effectively encasing their captive guest, landlocking his view of any horizon. below, there is a wave of blooming magnolia and propagated rosebushes, trailing the house's periphery along to its more quiet edges. lanterns have been strewn that give a warm hue to the pavement, coming alive earlier now that winter is upon them.
the door closes behind tyki, and though he isn't one to try and be too convivial for the sake of bringing comfort(let the bookman be discontent for the rest of his years, it's funny), he has about four sleeved vinyl carried in the hollow of his arm. lavi won't see it if he's staring out that lonesome window, of course, but he will hear the record player start, the gentle scratch of a needle dropping on to its surface; the orchestra is pulled in by the gravity of the rough start, and then it evens out. soft, sweet. very much not like his host that lavi must endure.
tyki takes his time to reply to him, setting aside the rest of the vinyl first, then pulling out a matchbox from a pocket within the breast of his coat. )
You're bored, Eyepatch? It must be difficult for you, I know.
( he won't acknowledge that request, but he's thought just of it. it is why he has brought a newspaper, to lure lavi into his proximity. it's not like he reads that dreck!
the advanced crosswords make him feel dumb.)I'm actually impressed you've lasted this long. Are your wits about you?
( he watches the language of his body closely: the columned tension of his spine, the heavy line of his shoulders. a glimpse of an expression keeping control in spite of it all. he hums placidly at it, tilting his head at the music, and moves to the coffee table centered in the room. the bookman will surely hear that beloved sound of paper fanning and falling on to it. )
Here.
gently holds your hand as i also also arrive late from my.... empty rp brain.......
The flowers are pretty, still clinging onto their blooms even with the colder weather, an act of stubborn survival that Lavi could draw comparison to, if he wanted. And he had those first few months. Now, it feels as stale as everything else -- like the music humming in the background, the pretense of civility, markers of culture. The Noah -- or whoever they're pretending to be in this life -- are cultured. Gentlemanly, even. It's a good guise. Lavi, of all people, can admit that. It reminds him to fix his own, to not stiffen at the sound of paper, to not turn around and just lunge.
Temper. Of all the emotions he's been trained not to feel, anger's always been his weak point.
And anyway, he's already done that before, always with the same results. Tyki's not Cyril, but that doesn't mean he's merciful, even if he is more willing to humor Lavi in a way the other Noah never do. He's not sure if he should be grateful, or to resent him all the more.]
Depends.
[he finally turns around, tone even even as his eye darts to the paper on the table. not moving, not yet.]
Is that real? Or am I finally seeing things?
[not the blind joke with his one eye....]