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Darling, I'm home! I know you were bored beyond belief without my company, but you can relax now.

[It wasn't out of the usual to announce himself like this. Dorian only went out to do a bit of shopping hours ago, and yet he still opens the door like his return is a gift from the Maker itself. Aren't you glad you have the best housemate in the world, he asks every week. It might be exhausting.

He isn't the worst, though. He's brought groceries home for dinner, which is a feat considering he used to just order things prior to having her over; he hated preparing meals. He makes a beeline for the kitchen, casting a cursory glance to wherever Rosalind might be.] And how are we this evening?

[What a good roommate. Honestly, though his constant theatrics can sometimes grate on the nerves, Rosalind has learned to simply accept them. He doesn't expect her to gasp and coo over every exclaimed statement; she's learned to simply respond as she might if he'd entered like a normal person, and it works out well.

In any case: how she is is, oddly enough, scrambling. Hoisting herself up off the couch, she wraps her fingers around her throat, her eyes trained on him as he closes the door behind him. She's not wearing one of her high-collared shirts today; instead, it's something looser, built for Wyver's heat.]

Ah-- perfectly fine, thank you.

[He's heading to the kitchen, thank god, though she doesn't pull her hand from her throat just yet.]

I didn't expect you back so soon . . .

[It's been hours, Ros, it's not his fault you lost track of time reading.]

Planning on cooking us dinner? Tonight is a treat.

[Initially, Dorian hadn't thought anything of how quickly she'd moved. He'd seen it out of the corner of his eye, but he was occupied with relieving his arms of all the bags he'd been carrying.

But all good things come to an end. Dorian turns right around the second they're on the floor, leaning against the counter to properly address her. A cursory glance becomes a double-take, then that becomes a once-over.]

Oh, I do agree... [He says slowly, brows raising with amusement.] But perhaps it might be too harsh on your sore throat?

[Her mouth purses, and for a moment she thinks about simply denying it, but that would be stupid. He's going to find out sooner or later, and though he'll tease, he won't be cruel.

And boy, that's . . . actually, there's only a few, but any at all are embarrassing, frankly. They're old enough to explain why she's been wearing such high-necked shirts these past few days.]

Get your jokes out now, please, I don't want to hear them later.

I don't know if you had a night with a gentlemen or hit every branch on the way down from the jungle.

[Dorian hardly waited for her to finish before he started in. He leans forward, arms crossed, expression full of far too much glee than should be allowed.]

Oh, do tell me it was indoors. I know you must have showered, but now I can't help but wonder about your standards...

They're not that bad.

[They're pretty bad, but that's not entirely why she's fussing. It's silly to be embarrassed with him of all people, and god knows she's been dying to tell someone, but it's not exactly something easy to confess to. Even now, her breath catches, and perhaps he'll be able to see the way she's balking: not just out of normal embarrassment, but something truly hesitant.]

And though I did have a night with a man-- not a gentleman, thank you, not after the way he treated me-- these aren't from him.

[She glances away. Her fingers play at her throat, fingers absently sliding against the bruised skin there. Her ears have gone red, and Rosalind hesitates one final time before admitting:]

They're not from a man at all, actually.

[There are more taunts on his tongue regarding her taste, and questions on what sort of fellows she’s taking to bed, but they die the moment it clicks that it wasn’t a fellow at all. He blanches, simply standing there gaping at her for a moment, then places a hand at his chest to exaggerate his shock. She isn’t walking away without the appropriate amount of teasing..]

Of all the people you don’t tell, you don’t tell me? Dorian Pavus, your wonderful housemate who would have gladly heard it all over dinner? I’m shocked! Shocked, and frankly, appalled. Did you think I didn’t want to hear every sordid detail because there isn’t a man in the picture?

I didn't tell you because I've never-- it's not something I'm precisely accustomed to telling anyone.

[Her ears are growing redder, but she manages to wrench her gaze up and meet his.]

It isn't a behavior that's precisely encouraged where I came from.

Oh.

[Dorian's smile falters at that, but it isn't wiped away entirely. Unexpected, but not enough to ruin the evening - he won't let it. He leans off the counter, crossing the gap between the kitchen and the living room. He stops just short of her, gesturing towards her neck then extending his hands expectantly.]

Universes apart, endless galaxies, and yet so many us have that little prejudice towards it in common... There's no shame under this roof, my dear Rosalind. I won't have it. Let's see them.

[It still takes her a moment. It's not that she thinks he'll do anything but be accepting of it, but . . . god, but it's hard. It's hard to admit and it's hard to acknowledge, even now, even with all she's seen and done. Ridiculous, that her breath catches again and her face has gone pale, but she drops her hands.]

I've never . . . I've never before. I'm sure she could tell, I was an absolute idiot about it, gaping at her and following her lead in every little thing. But I suppose I was still shocked she'd want to.

[She's too old for this. She's gone through the song and dance of being ignorant in sexual matters, but this is so different. This isn't about sex, not really. This is the shock of sexuality, horribly tentative and painfully new, and in that, she's all but a teenager, fumbling her way in the dark.]

It's different here, as I'm sure you've noticed. No one cares. She asked me if I wanted to as bold as anything, not glancing around to see who might have heard, not caring if anyone saw us leave together.

[It's almost painful, seeing what he so vicariously avoided recognizing in his youth. If he wasn't piss drunk, he thought his heart just might stop if anyone so much as jokingly implied he'd go out having night with handsome fellows who made his knees weak and his mouth dry. It isn't now, though- he's quite steady when he addresses Rosalind, and he speaks with the same casual tone that he uses when they talk of everything else. Too much, teasingly, as if he knows better.]

When I was a boy, I couldn't do anything unless it was in the dark. It didn't matter that it made it a great deal harder than it would have if we just had a little lighting, or that I had no idea what I was doing - I didn't want anyone to know. I desperately wanted someone to appreciate me, but I didn't have the courage to show off. It stayed that way for... some time.

[He does hesitate briefly, what's appropriate between the two of them vague and unclear, but eventually he moves to brush the hair off the shoulder so it obscures nothing.]

It's as you said: it's different here. You're here to learn about how this world works, and this is part of that world. I've learned to care less more recently than you might imagine, so if you don't think me embarrassing in that regard, you aren't allowed to think that of yourself.

[She doesn't expect the touch, but it's welcome. Heaven only knows if she'd have the courage to pull her hair back herself, even here, even with him, because even the flimsiest of coverings seems better than telling the truth.]

I never risked it. I couldn't, not if I wanted to ever accomplish anything in my field. I couldn't risk being caught.

[Though she'd wanted to. God, but she can still remember Victoria Pendergrass, twenty-two to Rosalind's sixteen, sweet and vivacious and charming . . . she'd been dazzling. Rosalind had trailed in her footsteps that entire semester at Girton, desperately savoring each little touch, every intimate word and glimmering smile, perfectly aware they were all platonic, desperate to fantasize that they might not be.]

You'll laugh, perhaps, but I'm still learning how to navigate all of this. You tease me on my gentleman callers, but the truth is, I suspect I have so many because I'm finally learning I'm allowed to have them at all.

. . . I thought-- the first time I walked into the Institute after I'd slept with a man here, I was filled with dread. I was certain I'd face nothing but leers and insinuations, because of course I would have at home if it'd gotten out I'd done something so human as fuck someone. But here . . . no one cares. No one cares if you do it with a man or a woman, no one cares if you indulge yourself a hundred times or not at all.

[Irrelevant, perhaps, except it seems only appropriate when they're talking about their feelings like this. Which doesn't make it any less embarrassing, frankly; Rosalind glances away, abruptly wishing she had a drink or two in her system. It'd make all this far easier.]

. . . when did you learn to stop caring, then? How recently?

[It isn't the time to laugh, and he doesn't, thank the Maker. It's just that how Rosalind describes the aftermath of laying with a man here is the very same dread that filled him when he stepped through the exact place of work the following morning, and it's so very ironic. Perhaps down the line, when they're much more comfortable with each other, he will laugh without worry of treading on her sensibilities. He'll say something along the lines of I thought taking it was supposed to leave you feeling well and good, done properly. We're doing something wrong here, my dear.

For now, he keeps a solemn face - a sure face. There isn't room to let her see doubt here, as often as it threatens to eat at him when he lies alone at night. He will do what that man did for him that night when he poured his heart out about his homeland. He'll try to make it apparent how ridiculous pretending it's something to be ashamed of is, at their age. He'll try to reiterate the only path is to live freely and truly.]

I learned to stop caring when I told the man I was bedding the second time... here. On this planet. Two months ago, I believe. [He counts the months under his breath, then returns his gaze back to her with a certain smile.] Yes, yes, nearly three. My indulgences were fleeting when I left home, nothing... nothing of note, no room to talk after. Not what you were expecting, was it?

[Not at all, and her surprise is clear on her face. She'd have thought . . . oh, twenty-five, perhaps. Older than so-called normal people, but still, ages ago. He's so comfortable in his skin, she never would have thought . . .

But she ought to know better. She of all people ought to know better, because they're so alike in this way. It isn't that he's so comfortable in his skin; it's that he's so good at appearing comfortable. Relaxed and at ease and perfectly flippant all the time . . . she takes half a step forward, just for the comfort of having him in proximity.]

No. Not at all.

[A beat. She offers a slight smile, tired and companionable.]

That's the trick, is it? Faking it until it becomes real?

Ah, close. Faking it until you comes to terms with the fact that the only opinion that matters is yours, regarding matters of the heart.

[He takes a full step, turning to put his arm around her shoulders as he gestures towards where they store their liquor. It's such a grand gesture for their small space, and he does feel quite silly, but his grin remains none-the-less.]

And until then, you get piss drunk with the best housemate you could possibly have. Then you'll compliment him on his dinner, even if it's actually as burnt as ever... and I'll eventually give up and order us something. How does that sound?

[It's a ridiculous gesture, but it works as intended: Rosalind huffs a laugh, resting her weight lightly against him.]

Let's worry about dinner before drinking, hm? Only I'd hate to burn down the house. Unless you'd rather skip the middle step and simply order now, so we can give up pretense and start our evening early.

Are you truly so opposed to seeing it all play out? I'd hate to see all my ingredients go to waste... by not going to waste. A burnt waste is better than one left to sit, or... something.

[Is it, really? Judging by all his last attempts, he's not really going to learn anything from it. So he concedes with a huff:]

I'll cook, you can order, we'll have food left over if it goes well.

Pasta, then.

[Ros isn't that like the third time in two weeks you've had pasta, maybe try something else??? No? Okay.]

What on earth did you buy, anyway? I want to know how high your hopes are for this endeavor.

[She seems in a far better mood now, and smiles as she takes a step forward, heading for the kitchen. Truth be told, her heart is singing-- because it seems miraculous, really, that they're on the other side of this with no repercussions. That somehow, impossibly, she's told him a secret only one other has ever been privy too, and that there's been no consequences.]

Be honest instead of trying to brag and I'll tell you more about some of my amorous adventures.

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