reverie overflow.

[vecna]

i still haven't put something less stupid here

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[vecna]

[A shame that Henry nearly cannot appreciate the boldness of its color; since when he has he ever had a chance to share a glass of wine? With anyone? But he looks at it like an oddity all the same, his gaze appreciative in a distant way.]

Next to you?

[Glancing at the, ah, bed, it appears as though he may have to scoot and few odds and ends out of the way to make that a reality. If that’s where she meant.]

[velluminous]

At desk.

[ that was a quick answer... ]

[vecna]

[It sure was.]

This lack of trust really wounds me, Sprezzatura.

[And yet it is spoken casually as he moves to the nearby desk—after imparting his other glass to her—and scoots out the chair, angling to take a seat facing her.]

[velluminous]

[ the only people who sit on this bed are the ones she's taking to bed. accordingly, her brow arches, wordless. this is not that kind of memory. ]

How lucky, then, that it won't transfer to your physical body.

[vecna]

[His intentions aren’t even running close to that, ma’am. Henry seats himself, holding up his glass to inspect it again.]

But my mind might not survive the injury.

[But he just smiles, unbothered.]

What should we drink to?

[velluminous]

[ that's why a woman's bed is her own! and that of her many belongings, too, apparently.

raises her glass to him ]

To knowledge.

[ duh. ]

[vecna]

[Do you even sleep on that bed, Sprezzatura?]

To secrets.

[He can raise his glass to that — the more enticing side of knowledge.]

[velluminous]

[ when she remembers to sleep... ]

To secrets.

[ and she knocks the glass back, drinking easy but somehow not without her own elegance even so. Henry will find the wine to be strong and sweet, with a slight burning aftertaste]

[vecna]

[He takes a drink, too, and his own gesture is unpracticed but easy. It goes down smoothly at first, though the pleasant sting afterward is unexpected.]

Not bad. [His palate for wine is so unrefined that anything would have been either a plain "good" or "bad".] Do you save this for special occasions only?

[Given that it was hiding under her bed... Probably not, he assumes.]

[velluminous]

[ arches her brow ]

I save for when I want it. It is not too terribly expensive.

[vecna]

[Arches his right back, amused.]

You could at least have lied to make me feel a little special.

[velluminous]

Is that necessary?

[vecna]

And here I thought you were trying to endear yourself to me.

[velluminous]

Oh, please, Mister Creel, I want you so badly to like me; please come drink my most expensive wine with me on my bed... You will never taste better than this bottle of Berduskan Dark.

[vecna]

[He laughs gently at her parodied attempt.]

See? That's not so hard. You can throw names of wines around all day and I wouldn't know the difference.

[velluminous]

[ sniffs ] Tragic.

[vecna]

I know. I've been so deprived. But you get to enlighten me, even if it is only in your head.

[velluminous]

Then by all means, this is very expensive wine, and you like it very much.

[vecna]

[And he takes another sip.]

Perfectly spoiled. I can't complain.

[velluminous]

[ huffs a faint laugh. the idea of spoiling him... well, she did say she would refine his palate. this can be the first of many instances to come.

after a beat, she pushes from the bed and begins to fuss with the gramophone, filling the cramped room with the crackling, soft sound of music ]

[vecna]

[Even as he takes one more slow pull from his wine glass, his eyes track her as she moves to the gramophone, imbuing the air with music.

(Normally, he would not allow that, twisting the memory up to invalidate the very existence of the thing, but this is not a normal visit into someone's head -- nor is he certain the crooning music will present a problem at all.)

The question being: just how much does she enjoy the song playing right now?]

[velluminous]

[ her gaze is lowered, watching the record gently spin, wine in hand, hair falling forward over her shoulders. she likes it; that's why she owns it. I wouldn't call it her favourite song, though. a dark, haunting sort of piece. ]

I don't suppose you dance.

[vecna]

["Liking" it is not quite substantial enough for this memory to start ripping at the seams, at least. In fact, he is not exactly sure how music would affect a contented memory at all; he has no experience in the matter.

Not that it matters. Her question has him raising his brows again.]

I can.

[There was not much dancing at Hawkins Lab, and maybe only a middling amount of it in the 50s as a child being humored by those around him. But does he have the knowledge of dancing nestled in his head somewhere, "borrowed" so kindly from someone else? Yes.]

Do you want to?

[velluminous]

[ for now, it seems that the music simply... is. it adds to the memory itself—one she is not trying to escape from. shrugs, sipping at her wine... ]

Only wondering. [ she takes a breath, lets it out again ] "What kind of man is Henry Creel...?"

[vecna]

[Hm. Another final take of his wine, setting the glass down on the desk amongst its many papers. Then he stands, one hand gently beckoning her over.]

You brought it up, so dance with me and find out. And tell me what you manage to learn.