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video; un: eproghuefgdzptrrw

[ Byerly, a handsome fellow with a hard-to-place accent that just sounds a bit different, is lounging on a couch. The angle isn't entirely flattering, since he's filming himself while laying supine, and so there's a view sort of halfway up his nostrils that is a little bit too much information. A bottle of brandy dangles from one hand, and his voice is slurring just a bit. This fellow seems quite drunk. ]

Bonsoir, you grunting peasants and cultureless rubes, and happy Winterfair to all. For those of you who are cultureless monsters, Winterfair is a time when gifts are exchanged and joy is had. My gift to you is that I won't call any of you peasants again for the duration of this broadcast. Winterfair was also the last Emperor's birthday, or thereabouts, which meant everyone had to give him their taxes for the year, but mine's not till later, so you don't need to pay me till then. I'll let you know when taxes are due. Start saving up now.

So what should you all give me instead? I suppose to begin with you could entertain me. What do you say, my cream puffs - a little game of two truths and a lie? You know the rules, since the rules are literally the name of the game. Go on, play with me, do. I'll start. I'm currently rightful Emperor of Barrayar, my great grandfather Pierre once showed up to a Winterfair ball soaked in blood to send a message, I'm terrible in bed.

Anyone who opts out of the game, I'm going to assume they're simply too in love with me to speak with me, so don't play at your own risk.

[ He winks, and then lifts the brandy to his mouth - and it apparently goes down at a bad angle, because he sits up, coughing and spluttering and getting alcohol down his front before he shuts off the feed. ]

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I'm sure I don't know what you mean.

[ He bites that out. It's not angry, now, but it's still defensive. Guarded. Trying to reconstruct the narrative of this little spat, trying to make himself and everyone else believe that he genuinely doesn't give a damn about all of it. And he returns to the other issue, that of Dorian's father: ]

A single good deed doesn't make an unforgivable one any better. The past isn't ever undone.

[It's fair to move on, he knows. He won't linger. Still, he wishes he'd come up with something else to say, because By knows too much for Dorian to be able to say he's wrong.]

That's true. I haven't all but forgotten. But it isn't as if I can just ignore that he made some attempt to make up for it.

Why can't you?

[ A short sharp shrug. ]

Seems easy enough to me.

Because I'm tired. [There he goes with the honesty again. There's reluctance, and yet he still continues.] I'm tired, and I don't have anything else to hold onto. It hurts, yes, but carrying that with me isn't something I'm not used to. I'd rather feel something than just than just not care.

[ His lips tighten. ]

I fail to see the logic here. If you're tired, it seems that the best thing is not to care. No more energy wasted. Terribly efficient.

Allow me to elaborate on the nature of my exhaustion, then. I'm tired of shoving everything aside and getting through the day fueled by spite and anger. I accept it for what it is now, and eventually I can move on. If I pretend I don't care, I drink myself into a stupor, then I wake up in a cold sweat regretting I never confronted it when it began.

[Ironically, he's pulling a bottle from somewhere off-screen. His nerves are slipping into his tone more than he likes, but it's beyond his control.]

I have spent all my life alone, wondering if anyone truly gave a shit on whether I happen die the next day. Was he a terribly misguided man? Yes! But he was a good one, once. If I spend the rest of my life choosing to believe at least he didn't care, I might as well join him. I'll be fucking miserable.

[ And tighter still, with a bit of that simmering anger coming through his cool and detached facade - ]

A good man doesn't do that. [ Doesn't do what he tried to do to Dorian. ]

[Dorian frowns, occupying himself with opening the bottle rather than answering right away.]

I wouldn't be here without him.

[ Sardonically: ]

Oh, yes, merci beaucoup, pere, for your genetic material. A hundred thanks for giving life. And while we're at it, let's take a moment to burn death-offerings to the monkeys we all evolved from.

I don't know what you want me to say, Byerly.

[He leans back after a sizable sip of wine.]

It isn't as if I can flip a switch.

[ Byerly's jaw works a moment. Then he looks away and shrugs. It simply...It's not as though he's the sort of man who sees criminals going free and snarls in rage. Dorian's father was a rotten bastard, but so what? There's no cosmic justice; not everyone gets what should be coming to them; if he tore his hair out about that, he'd have been bald years ago. So - So what? Who cares? And it's not like he needs Dorian's permission to detest his own father.

But what sort of crime is it, really? Accusing your son of something terrible. Trying to use magic to destroy your son's mind and soul. The first is nothing, compared to the second. And if Dorian can just move past it, then why -

By takes an angry swig from the brandy bottle. A real one, this time, not just one for drunken show. ]

Nothing. There's not anything I want you to say. Never mind. So which one was the lie.

Funnily enough, it was that. I intended to tell you as soon as I woke.

[Because he's accommodating. Because he listens. Because he knows how to lighten the mood. Now it's just uncomfortable, heavy, and Dorian drinks again in hopes of it going by faster.]

I don't think I like this game much, anymore.

[ And By takes another deep swig of his own. He wishes Dorian had. He knows, somewhere, deep down, he's being a piece of shit, like he's always a piece of shit, but under other circumstances he might not have been quite so much of one. If Dorian had told him at a different time, when Byerly wasn't all raw nerves from that...that monologue that had tried to lay his soul bare, that had tried to strip him naked - Hell, if it hadn't come after that reminder of his own family. Maybe he'd have been more controlled. Maybe he'd have been able to quiet down the fury in him. But here he is, aware that he's being shitty, unable to stop. ]

Oh, but I think it's my turn. Here, let's give it a go. I'd pull the plug on my father if the Orbiters wouldn't get so pissy about it, I'd probably do that to my whole fucking family, and I don't think that makes me a bad person. Oh, I've broken the rules, that's three true things.

[ That's three false things. ]

[If Dorian didn't know better from that monologue, he might have protested without a second thought. But now he knows better than to just start in, try and support his claims, leave no room for anything else. If a casual mentioning on his family put them here, he never wanted to see what would happen if he cited what he knows about his father. Especially not when Byerly's already this on edge.

Instead, simply, gently:]

I don't think that's true.

Which part?

[ Another deep slug. The slur is gone from his voice, now. In its place is a clipped sort of precision. ]

The part about being a bad person?

All of it.

[He sets his bottle aside, lips thinning in effort to keep from frowning. All this, over the network... he's only just realizing.]

Can I come over, Byerly?

[ A bit petulantly, By looks away from the camera. ]

If you'd like. I won't stop you.

I'll be over soon, then. Don't... [What? Do anything stupid? No, he shouldn't say that. Not now.] Don't miss me too much.

[He winces at his poor substitute, and shuts off the feed shortly after. He doesn't waste any time in going, though - rather than wait, he spends the walk there collecting his composure, bracing himself for any response he might get when you take away the filter of publicity. When was the last time he made such an effort to keep his head for anyone's sake but his own? He wasn't sure.

He knocks, but still tries the handle without waiting.] By?

[ By doesn't respond, but the door opens. He's sitting at the table of his apartment, one bottle of brandy empty before him and a second well on its way to drained. There's an uncharacteristic composure and quiet to him, rather inconsistent with his usual ebullient, slightly sleazy charm. He lifts his chin in greeting. ]

Dorian. Go ahead and come in.

[Dorian is slow to shut the door, just so he has time to take in this... this. Apprehensive wouldn't be the way to describe how he looks at him, no, it's... attentive.]

You didn't waste any time in actually drinking, I see. [He finally sighs, closing the gap and taking up a chair beside him.] I don't know if that lowers or raises the chances of you talking to me.

Is that what you're here for? An interrogation?

[ He points to the kitchen. ]

Another bottle in there, if you want it.

An intervention, actually.

[Dorian casts a cursory glance towards the kitchen, but he doesn't move to go fetch it yet.]

Not for the brandy, so don't fret. Your performance. This... thing you put on for everyone, it can't be even remotely healthy.

Am I performing?

[ He smiles without warmth behind it. Without amusement, either. ]

I had thought this was simply me.

[He doesn't bother smiling in turn, just watching Byerly's expression.]

Truly? Because I believe this is the first time I've actually witnessed you finish a bottle, let alone two. [Dorian had drank most of their last, he remembers. He hadn't thought much of it before, but now...] The spill was a nice touch. You get by quite convincingly, up until I point out what's so likable about you. Then you deflect, distract. So tell me, why is it so horrible that anyone knows Byerly Vorrytyer can be kind, hm?

[ He takes a long drink, and - not looking at Dorian - asks - ]

Are you accusing me of something?

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