King of Kings

Did your usual supplier go out of business or something?

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I have specific tastes.

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Like?

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Organic peaches. Naturally fresh and juicy, grown without the use of synthetic fertilizers, pesticides, or herbicides for a full, unforgettable, great tasting flavor.

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On the bright side, not being able to get a hold of the produce means you won't be sick of it tomorrow.

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Do you believe in having too much of a good thing?

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Sometimes, but I'm sure it's different for everyone.

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Well I could stand to have more peaches, and hard apples. It's the curse's doing.

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fatespoken

Difficult to figure out what to do in that situation. I mean, you obviously can't go out and purchase some.

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Have you tried shopping for fruits grown without the use of chemical enhancements?

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fatespoken

Not personally, nor in the City. But I did have a friend who used to drag me along with her. It's not that hard, given that you live in a place with a variety of shops and that you can read. The first qualifies here, the second is uncertain.

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Used to?

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fatespoken

I'm not in my world, am I?

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Have you been dragged along in this one? The experience may differ.

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fatespoken

It's just a matter of looking hard enough.

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Should I put you to task?

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fatespoken - Date: 2010-02-17 07:05 am (UTC) - Expand

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Do we?

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In the Gallery Piano Room.

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Now?

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Yes. Now.

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Despite the slight warning in Adrian's tone, it is not in Dorian's nature to hurry, and so the brunette doesn't. Instead he saunters, casually, without a care until he is in the gallery where only a few days earlier, he had murdered Basil Hallward on the floot.

It has opened a new kind of world for Dorian. One where consequences for sin were not measured in how pleased they might make Wotton, because by no stretch of the imagination would Wotton be pleased by this particular turn of events. No, this was a world were consequence for happiness over goodness was measured in increments of Dorian's soul, bartered away against the beauty of his portrait, where the rot under his eye had grown considerably over the last few days.

It almost pleases the beautiful young man, how his portrait took all his pain, all his horror, and left him pristine.

He opens the door without knocking, looking in the room to see where the older blond man is standing, and gauging the distance to the piano.

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Adrian is not only inside, he's also sitting at that piano and the keys are covered but he has no intention of playing. His green eyes studying the white on black, he knows how how to play, which ones will make the notes he can compose without pen or paper, but that isn't why he's here today. The floor is clean, spotless, immaculate even, however the supposed smartest does not act as if he expects Dorian to com clean without pressure. That would be too easy for the brunette.

"Have a seat."

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Dorian does not pause, even though he wants to. The piano is his place; the instrument is his favorite thing in the room, his position of power. He moves to sit next to Adrian, then, unwilling to give up that feeling. His fingers do not move to uncover the keys, however. His eyes focus, too, on the covered keys, just for a moment, before he turns his brown ones to look over at the blond.

From this distance, a distance that they have only experienced seldom, Dorian does not take the moment to appreciate Adrian's fine features. Instead he raises his eyebrows and reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his silver case and opens it, offering the contents to Adrian, first.

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