[There are certain survival instincts Prior's convinced are wired into his evolutionary code. Whatever chromosome or genetic sequence twisted just so in his case and maybe two, maybe ten percent of the population like him, it carried with it its own history of how to adapt and endure. Certain techniques, common to those who have come to require them, like spiders born with an instinct for fancy twists in silk.
Firstly: like recognizes like. Second, a certain form of nonverbal communication able to back up the first.
Third, or fourth, or somewhere among all the means someone like Prior has to keep himself safe, is the ability to recognize discomfort. Whether a flicker or a flare, one twitch can be the prelude to a fist, the flick of a blade: worse. And Prior has seen worse. Lived through it. New York has its safe havens - thank God - but Prior has always refused to play dress up in any way that fits in with the rest of the world.
Louis had his nondescriptly bad dress sense, his second-day stubble, his refusal to kiss or hold hands West of Chelsea. Prior had painted nails, a lilt to his voice, a tilt to his hips, and features cut from fine bone china that would have called him out without the rest of it. He didn't pass, would never pass, and could bear most kinds of ridicule but not the sort that would have come with any attempts to try.
So he's learned people well. And he sees some sort of recoil in the dark of Richie's eyes before they go wide with his play-acting. It's not a reason to recoil in kind, but it advises some caution, at the least.
And yet.]
Nineteen-eighty-six. [What are the chances?] January.
[In other words, snap in all but a matter of months.]
Lets see, though. There are a few odd little versions of Earth running round unchecked, so here's what's true for me: Reagan's the chief clown in the media circus, Trump's a jumped up little shitweasel running real estate, the snow this year has given way to disappointing slush but the city's not underwater, and I've never seen a dinosaur outside the Natural History Museum. And now, you. [A fellow triceratops, apparently. Prior's smile's sweet, genuine.] We're paleozoic, baby, who'd have thought.
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Firstly: like recognizes like. Second, a certain form of nonverbal communication able to back up the first.
Third, or fourth, or somewhere among all the means someone like Prior has to keep himself safe, is the ability to recognize discomfort. Whether a flicker or a flare, one twitch can be the prelude to a fist, the flick of a blade: worse. And Prior has seen worse. Lived through it. New York has its safe havens - thank God - but Prior has always refused to play dress up in any way that fits in with the rest of the world.
Louis had his nondescriptly bad dress sense, his second-day stubble, his refusal to kiss or hold hands West of Chelsea. Prior had painted nails, a lilt to his voice, a tilt to his hips, and features cut from fine bone china that would have called him out without the rest of it. He didn't pass, would never pass, and could bear most kinds of ridicule but not the sort that would have come with any attempts to try.
So he's learned people well. And he sees some sort of recoil in the dark of Richie's eyes before they go wide with his play-acting. It's not a reason to recoil in kind, but it advises some caution, at the least.
And yet.]
Nineteen-eighty-six. [What are the chances?] January.
[In other words, snap in all but a matter of months.]
Lets see, though. There are a few odd little versions of Earth running round unchecked, so here's what's true for me: Reagan's the chief clown in the media circus, Trump's a jumped up little shitweasel running real estate, the snow this year has given way to disappointing slush but the city's not underwater, and I've never seen a dinosaur outside the Natural History Museum. And now, you. [A fellow triceratops, apparently. Prior's smile's sweet, genuine.] We're paleozoic, baby, who'd have thought.