[The man is certainly a performer, he has to give him that. Aside from the few initial moments of pause he'd caught earlier, in bed, while they were still feeling each other out, there'd been nothing but a show put on.
It made him hard to read.
Perhaps some of it was genuine - some of it had to be, considering the ease with which it was put on, but just how much of it was he'd yet to determine... though perhaps it didn't matter. Not now, not here, not when they'd both been pulled from home - a shared home, oddly enough - and the connection in that served as an anchor in the mist.
Passing by the mirror, he follows Baptiste's glance into it. There's no reflection of his own, of course, but it does provide another angle of the room, projected sweeping vistas writ small. It aids in the reality of the illusion, though the sunlight doing no harm crumbles any pretense of this being a reality in turn... which is good, all told, else he might be tempted to linger and reminisce.
Or he would, if he wasn't brought back to reality by the sound of his ~bath buddy~ clearing his throat and offering his own coy little not-quite-reverence.
Some might get their hackles up at the disrespect. At home, he might, even, depending on the situation they found themselves in. But here? In this one? The irreverence is more than welcome.]
Do I, now? One would think a self-appointed guide would have chosen the best one.
[Irreverence can meet irreverence, but at the same time he doesn't let Baptiste get the chance to choose one. Perhaps the deep red one - very nearly black - with dried rosebuds embedded in it was a shade... predictable, but it smells like oud and spice and smoke and seems far more indulgent than any of the lighter, floral options.]
no subject
It made him hard to read.
Perhaps some of it was genuine - some of it had to be, considering the ease with which it was put on, but just how much of it was he'd yet to determine... though perhaps it didn't matter. Not now, not here, not when they'd both been pulled from home - a shared home, oddly enough - and the connection in that served as an anchor in the mist.
Passing by the mirror, he follows Baptiste's glance into it. There's no reflection of his own, of course, but it does provide another angle of the room, projected sweeping vistas writ small. It aids in the reality of the illusion, though the sunlight doing no harm crumbles any pretense of this being a reality in turn... which is good, all told, else he might be tempted to linger and reminisce.
Or he would, if he wasn't brought back to reality by the sound of his ~bath buddy~ clearing his throat and offering his own coy little not-quite-reverence.
Some might get their hackles up at the disrespect. At home, he might, even, depending on the situation they found themselves in. But here? In this one? The irreverence is more than welcome.]
Do I, now? One would think a self-appointed guide would have chosen the best one.
[Irreverence can meet irreverence, but at the same time he doesn't let Baptiste get the chance to choose one. Perhaps the deep red one - very nearly black - with dried rosebuds embedded in it was a shade... predictable, but it smells like oud and spice and smoke and seems far more indulgent than any of the lighter, floral options.]
Though I trust this will do?