Birthday Party

[peripheries]

Who: Paul Atreides and all his CR
What: Throwing everyone’s favorite Duke a surprise birthday party
When: Forwarded dated to April 1st
Where: Bone House in Gaze

Content Warnings: Drinking, underage drinking, drugs (both fictional and not), drawings of space worms, skeletons, will add further warnings if necessary



When you arrive at the house in Gaze, (affectionately known as Bone House), a skeleton will open the door and offer to take your coat if you have one. No need to take your shoes off or anything!

The large house has been decorated with black streamers and confetti. In the entryway and hung on the railing to the second floor that overlooks the entrance to the great room are large banners that say “HAPPY BIRTHDAY PAUL” (though one looks like it used to say “Jaune” but was just painted over? Whatever).

In the Living Room, there is a large board and various colored markers for people to write messages to the birthday boy. There is also a table full of bottled water and various couches, chairs, and beanbags to collapse into if the party gets to be too much and one needs a quiet place to rest or a place to chill if you’ve imbibed too much… well, whatever you had.

It is also where all the food and drinks are.

There’s an extremely large charcuterie board with the usual meats, cheeses, and olives as well as an extremely eccentric collection of snacks ranging from individual sized Cheez-it bags, to humungous bags of Doritos and salty chips, as well as nearly every kind of Oreo one can imagine.

There are also various cakes, all angel food. Some are misshapen, some have an attempt at being frosted with whipped cream and fruit, one even says “Happy Birthday Ka-” before that was hastily covered with a bunch of strawberries jammed really close together.

At the island, a skeleton is playing bartender. Surprisingly, it can seem to take and understand individual orders, but there’s always a constant flow of tequila shots being made and sent out to the great hall to be served by another skeleton.

And, no, of course it’s not going to check your age to see if you’re legal. It’s a skeleton. Why would it care?

The Great Hall is the center of activity and where everyone is encouraged to mingle and have fun. There is a skeleton on the grand piano in the corner gleefully playing piano covers of the hits from the Shrek Soundtrack with the occasional cover of “DaRude’s Sandstorm” when it has another one to help out.

In another corner, on huge piece of paper that spans nearly 6ft wide and 8ft tall is drawing of an Arrakis sandworm and it’s giant maw. The game is Pin the Tooth on the Sandworm and it’s… very easy… because the worm maw is most of the board. Even if the skeleton spins you as you’re blindfolded, it’s pretty hard to lose. If you manage to do it, which is likely, the skeleton running the game will award you a tequila shot! If you lose, the skeletons will award you a tequila shot (but it’s rail).

(It’s a drinking game, isn’t the point to drink?)

There’s also a table that has many candelabras on it, numbering up to seventeen. They’re still lit and burning even though there is a sign that says “make a wish!” even though it almost looks like a shrine for the dead.

…It’s maybe clear that the concept of “birthday candles” was greatly misunderstood.

There is also a skeleton dealing out small doses of “Spice”, a psychoactive drug straight outta the Duneverse. However, you must check in with this Skeleton to get a dose. There will be no “permanently melting your brain with ancestral memories” at this party!

Teacher’s/God’s/Jod’s/The Emperor Undying’s study, adjacent to the main hall, is closed and locked. Though, the lock is fairly easy to break if someone really wanted to get in. There’s not even skeletons guarding.

That said, many things are warded with eerie runes of blood and bone.

So, fuck around and find out.

The upstairs is generally off limits. Party goers can climb up the stairs, and it’s encouraged if they want to look over the Great Room from above, but all of the bedrooms are carefully guarded by more skeletons who will SCREAM VERY LOUDLY if you try to enter and will become hostile if done by force.

Of course, this won’t happen if you are with someone who lives in the house.

Enjoy the party! Mingle away!

((ooc: if you have any questions or anything, please hit me up at worldtype)) or via PM.))

Birthday Board | At the Party | The Morning After | IC Party Games | Spice Dealer

Comments

[peripheries]

[The reality is, it’s easier to touch than to speak for Kaworu. His words sometimes aren’t the right ones, too strong when they should be soft. There’s less ambiguity in a touch, an attempt to comfort that’s clear. That’s why he reaches out to Paul when he hears him suffering in dreams that Kaworu cannot see but can save him from.

So there’s nothing odd about tucking himself against the taller boy now than there is then. Though at that comment, his nose and mouth screw in indignation.]

Who said that? I’ll tell them I ate your hand rice.

[Another huff.]

Fine. Next time. Wake me up.

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul laughs, low in his throat and with just a faint touch of triumph, his loose hand coming up to the nape of Kaworu's neck, fingers splaying to the curve of the base of his head against the soft, tousled hair there.]

That's just what I'm guessing they must think - but thank you for being so protective of my honor.

[Paul knew what he was saying, guessed at the reaction it would evoke, and it satisfies a certain shade of selfish hunger that's whetted by his thumb rolling slower and slower over Kaworu's ribs, dragging t-shirt fabric in pleasant friction against both of their skin.]

It'll be worth it. You trust me, don't you?

[peripheries]

You tricked me. So much for honor.

[There's a pout. Can you hear the pout? He's maybe playing it up just a little bit because he's embarrassed he could be so easily had like that!

But it's hard to pout when there's such a soothing sensation between his ribs of the soft push and pull of t-shirt fabric and the warm thumb that gentle kneads it into soft wrinkles. He'll take that it feels gentle. Sometimes the touch of Paul's hand on his neck makes him feel like he just leapt off a roof without an AT Field.]

I do but... I think you're unusual. About mornings.

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul can hear the pout, can picture it well, and it draws an indulgent smile out of him. This arrangement finally feels satisfactory, Kaworu curved against him like a fallen crescent moon.]

All the more reason I need you to protect what I do have.

[Kaworu is so pliant, as trusting of Paul as he says he is. He's a spice-shimmering blend of relaxed and anticipatory under Paul's hands, and it's a sensation Paul dimly understands the risk of getting lost in. This is enough for now, for where they are.]

I'm unusual about a lot of things. Isn't that why I'm one of your favorite humans?

[peripheries]

You are my favorite human.

[It's not really a drunken confession, even if it comes out in a slurred ejaculation of a sentence. He's more fond of Paul than he is any other human he's met and, yes, it is because of his unusualness. His unusual rejection of his humanity instead of the innate pride that most seem to have in it. Even if they've never thought about what being human means.

He feels like he could stay here forever, in this spice-induced tangle of limbs with another person, feeling every breath, every heartbeat.]

And it's my duty as your guardian to protect your honor. Miniscule as what remains may be.

[terriblepurpose]

[Kaworu says it like it's simple. Not easy, or thoughtless, but simple. You're my favorite human, and it blooms inside the folds of his heart like sunrise's first rose light. Breath to breath, Paul's catches on a silver hook so fine he never saw it slipping past the ward of his teeth.

He's not anyone's favorite anything. Not here, where everyone else (he knows it isn't true, he knows it isn't fair) seems to find familiar face after familiar face brought forth, and Paul scours the beaches for faces he only ever finds in nightmares.

It's too much. It's just enough. It's not enough. He can't decide. He can only take another breath, and brings his face to half-hide against the reckless softness of Kaworu's hair.]

You're my favorite angel. [Only a little muffled.] Even if I met a thousand others, you'd be my favorite.

[peripheries]

Even if one of them was a very large worm?

[It's a small joke trying to obscure the very large desire to fill that ever present hole in his chest with with all the bits of affirmation he can find. Picking up pennies to try and fill a wallet.

There's a small tilt of his head upwards, pressing his hair further into Paul's face.]

[terriblepurpose]

Even if it was the biggest worm anyone had ever seen.

[Paul's roving thumb stills as he anchors Kaworu against him with a pressed palm on his ribs and the cradling hand on the back of his neck. It sends deep resonant waves through him wherever the thin, clean lines of Kaworu fall against him.

His hair still smells like a sea breeze fresh off the open ocean. It's tickling silk across his skin.]

I've never heard a worm play the piano like you.

[peripheries]

It's because... [There's a thought there, floating up somewhere in the depths of his brain that he tries to materialize but it remains just floating shimmers in the light.] Hands. No hands. [That's the best he can manage right now.]

None of them had hands.

[Or at least none suited for playing piano. His brethren would forever be without rainy afternoons trying to learn new melodies as Paul rests on the couch and people move in and out of a space in a way one only can when there's comfort. When there's a space for you.

Idly, he reaches up and brushes his fingers over Paul's, also slender but much longer, before slowly closing them around Paul's hand, closing the gaps, fitting the pieces together.]

[terriblepurpose]

You have good hands.

[Paul says it with the fervor of a convert by revelation as Kaworu's tender fingers close around his calloused ones, faintly knit by a constellation of small scars.]

But it's not really your hands that you play with. They're- instruments on instruments. You...

[He thinks of the way Kaworu's hands flowed across the keys as he practiced the new songs Teacher showed him, light and unburdened. The first time Paul heard him play, it had been technically near-perfect, and perfectly restrained.

The hand curling around his doesn't feel so confined.]

People say music comes from the soul. [He says, softly.] Yours are good. I can tell from your hands.

[peripheries]

You can tell from my hands?

[There's a soft laugh that takes over the final few syllables of his words, fading into a gentle inhale.

Instruments on instruments.

He runs his thumb gently down Paul's taking in the callouses and roughness, appreciating them like a fine painting or work of art.]

I suppose. I... always liked music and could never explain why. Perhaps only because there is part of me that is human and music is an incredible creation of mankind.

[Even Kaworu has nice things to say about humans when drunk. Or when there only seems to be one human in the entire universe and it's the one right in front of him.]

[terriblepurpose]

[Yes, Paul thinks, as Kaworu brushes light over his skin, a drifting glow he can't help but follow in meditative focus. I can tell by your hands.]

Some people believe that song came before speech. Did you know that?

[Kaworu's knowledge is eclectic, as full of unexpected facts as it is gaps. There was a reason that the people who created him gave him a piano, when they gave him so little else but scars.]

They say music was the first way we communicated with each other, rhythm and melody, like birds, or whales. All feelings, no words. Maybe that's why you like it.

[Of course he thinks about the tapping of fingers on his wrist, on the strut of the bunkbed, along the outer curve of his knee. He thinks about them deliberately, stoking the hearth of radiating warmth in his chest in the hopes it, like music, conveys feeling without words.]

I can tell from plenty of things about you.

[peripheries]

No. But it does make sense.

[As if on cue, or perhaps there was a cue, a connection between them brought further into something material by the spice they shared, he taps out an affectionate three beat pattern on Paul's chest. It flows into the the beating of his heart, a melody for the beat.]

Music crosses cultures. Some even may say it crosses species. Because it is feelings, something honest, from someone's heart. It's easy to tell when music is ingenuine more than words.

[Tap tap.]

Like?

[terriblepurpose]

[Kaworu has been generous with praise tonight, and Paul has eased himself into a state of temporary acceptance. He's been playing at the part of princeling to make it possible, and it's been a kind of fun he hasn't had in months. But this - being given an invitation for outpouring, after having his own glass filled - isn't a game the way that is. He takes his time thinking about it, a whole three heartbeats long.]

Like the questions you ask. [He echoes the beat, slowed and softened, on the top of a cervical vertebrae.] You want to know why things are, not just how. It matters to you that things have an order. It's hard for you to understand why people do things that hurt themselves, or each other.

You're kind to people. Not always nice [with a press of reassurance] but kind. There's a difference.

[And Paul can sense it, a glimmer within the vast brilliance of the soul housed in the small body he's cradling - a sun-warm tidepool of self, not wholly angel or human, but something of both, and something only of Kaworu.]

Things like that.

[peripheries]

[Kaworu had been expecting something simple. A further compliment about his musical skills or newly discovered talent for surprise parties. But words coming from Paul's mouth (from his heart) make Kaworu feel oddly frozen in time and space.

Can he really be kind? Does he even understand kindness? He's rarely experienced kindness in his life. Mostly, he knows it to be the opposite of cruelty. But does that mean he knows what it is to be kind?

It makes him curl up a little, burying his face into the crook of Paul's neck as if to avoid being seen, even though Paul can't even see him at this angle and obscured by his own attempt to hide. Kaworu is silent a time measured in heartbeats as well, hand resting over Paul's heart and the other still firmly entwined with his.]

I didn't know that about myself. I think... that's why humans need others. To see things they can't. Even mirrors... those aren't true images of you.

[terriblepurpose]

[Kaworu tucks himself against the vulnerable column of Paul's throat, and when Paul thinks of teeth he doesn't think of them drawing blood. He's only aware of them, hidden behind soft lips that nearly touch Paul's skin when Kaworu speaks, and he thinks his pulse must almost be audible as it rushes inside his carotid artery.

There's nothing abstract or esoteric about that sensitivity, which has him catching his breath in that very throat at the same time that the meaning of Kaworu's words process on those more rarefied levels.]

You're right.

[Does Kaworu hear the faltering note? Does he notice the dampness of Paul's palm, the acuteness of his focus? The thought is agitating either way.]

We need other people to know ourselves. [And he could stop there. He could stop, and it would be enough, and he could have refrained from adding, voice low and husked:] Do you like what I see in you?

[peripheries]

Yes. Very much.

[Kaworu wonders if Paul can hear how breathless his voice is, even as he tries to muffle it against the other boy's shoulder. He's far too wrapped up in his own body, his own mind to take notice of Paul's damp palms or the notes in his voice. The only thing he can place out of ordinary is the more rapid tempo of Paul's heartbeat. He would have to adjust the time of his rhythm to match what he had created just a few minutes ago.

He does not know how Paul can see kindness in him. It was the last thing he expected to hear. But he likes the idea that he could be kind. Kindness is something many humans are poor at and something no angel has ever been. It is better than cruelty and he's learned it has a place next to truth. It's a curious puzzle to unlock at a later time.

Kaworu's messy head lifts out from the nest between Paul's neck and shoulder to look up at him.]

You've already surprised me. And I don't think you even meant to.

[He reaches up to cup Paul's face, shifting upwards slightly, moving closer to a staddle as he leans over the young Duke. (Paul does look young, right now, he realizes. He looks flushed and wide-eyed in a way that Kaworu has never seen before.]

Do I have to fulfill my end of the bet now?

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul's charm is a discipline he began his training in earlier than any other weapon. Before he could curl small, clumsy fingers around the hilt of a knife, he could smile winsomely and curl them around a heart. Flirtation is just the most recent nuance of a well-developed system, and he learned at the feet of a master of the fluttering lash and the coy invitation.

But that training only ever went so far. There was an abbreviation of practice, a sharp line his mother cut through the teachings of her order. Paul can promise almost anything with a crook at the corner of his lips, but he's never learned how to give any of it.

So when Kaworu leans over him, luminous and mussed, his slim fingers hot where they curve along his face, Paul's wide eyes aren't feigned. The tentative splay of his hand where it's slipped to Kaworu's waist is not played at. The hitching tremor of his breath isn't a performance for anyone.

He shouldn't be surprised. Isn't this what he agreed to? Isn't this the flame he's played with all evening, finally catching on tinder?]

You don't have to.

[His boldness has deserted him. There's too much vulnerability in his voice, shy and faltering, and of course Kaworu doesn't have to - Paul thought he believed that, he'd push him out of his lap to await an entirely different conversation in the sober light of day.]

I've never- [he swallows a dry mouth, his hand still on the back of Kaworu's neck twitching] -I don't want everyone to see.

[peripheries]

[At first, Kaworu feels like he did back in the catacombs when Sayo kicked him in the ribs. A sharp, unexpected pain in his chest. Did he misunderstand? Is Paul doing one of those things that humans do when they make up a nice excuse to hide their true feelings? Did he open up only to find a shut door?

Paul's hand on his waist is warm and unmoved, even as the hand on his neck twitches and presses moisture into his skin and fine hairs. It steadies Kaworu, pulling him back from his head and into the world again. He looks at Paul again, who looks shy and nervous, eyes wider than the plates in the kitchen; all of his usual boldness lost to a delicate, skinny boy in his lap.

This is power, Kaworu realizes. In this moment, he has power over Paul and there's something delightful about that. There's something fun about deciding how far he'll go, how much he'll give into temptation. A smile plays on his lips as he stares down at Paul, and he reaches down to brush some curly hair out of his face in a gesture both affectionate and teasing.]

Oh? Are you shy?

[terriblepurpose]

[Between the spice and his existing attunement to Kaworu's moods, Paul nearly feels the kick of pained uncertainty under his own ribs. Or perhaps that's his, too, in the fretful moments after thinking about how his words will be misunderstood, how Kaworu will end up hurt thanks to Paul's relentless playing of games, all the things he's always done and never understood were wrong -

Then Kaworu's expression tilts knowingly, and most of Paul's thoughts dissolve into fervent white static when he brushes at stray curls and asks if he's shy.

Of course he's not shy. He's Duke Paul Atreides, first of his name, and his mother would have his tongue out of his mouth if he ever hesitated to use it. Shyness is only another word for fear, and fear will never be permitted mastery over him.]

Yes.

[He says, hushed, and it's as if Kaworu's pliancy has flowed into him. He melts into the couch, his head tilted back as his throat bobs. His hands stay very still, and his tongue is a tiny pink point at the corner of his mouth as he looks up at Kaworu like an exquisite puzzle.]

Is that all right?

[peripheries]

Hm.

[Is the response as Kaworu gives him a thought look over, eyes raking Paul's prone form, how he sinks into the couch, the tip of his tongue in his teeth, the bob of his throat. It's (mostly) far too intense to be real. Just for show. A little game.

He leans closer and tucks some of Paul's hair behind his ear, so he can't hide behind those needlessly long and floppy bangs. He watches it cascade through his fingers, a sensation and visual pleasure heightened by the spice.]

It's not a bad look on you. Cute, actually.

[terriblepurpose]

[The temptation to squirm is nearly unendurable, and if not for the possibility that squirming might burst whatever delicate bubble of balanced potential enfolds them, Paul isn't sure he could stay still under that look. He knows he must be coral pink in blotches he's never thought were flattering, his blood vessels in rampant rebellion.

Kaworu's toying with his hair reminds Paul, in floating association, of his Omen's paws kneading in Paul's lap, the faint prickling of claws in the midst of plush, affectionate pressure.]

Thank you.

[If that's the game they're playing, then doesn't Paul know what his role is? It's playful, then, to glance away, his hand slipping tentatively towards the curve of a hip.]

...do you still want to?

[peripheries]

[As much as Kaworu likes their games, he isn't as good at them as Paul is. Paul has had years of training to construct an image of himself to present towards other people, warping it and forming it just so that it matches to them. Keeping one's mouth shut and their face neutral is part of that.

Kaworu, on the other hand, is rather lacking when it comes to a "poker face". There's so many new emotions in his heart, new feelings, that they simply bubble up to the surface and take over.

So when a hand moves towards his hip, he makes a little noise between a hiccup and a gasp, shattering the smirk like it was nothing but glass. Paul is flushed and Kaworu imagines he's in an even worse state. He can feel heat all the way up his back like electricity in his spine.]

I do.

[Then he ducks closer so his lips are nearly brushing Paul's forehead as he speaks.]

But people will see...?

[The tone starts off breezy enough, teasing, but he did promise to be Paul's guardian angel. So that means making sure he knows what he's doing even if every nerve in his body is begging him to just let it happen.]

[terriblepurpose]

[Paul has never heard anyone make a noise like that before. It snaps his focus to it in fascination, his eyes skimming the pulsing hollow of Kaworu's throat on their way to his gently descending mouth, disappearing from his sight to stop just short of touch.

He may be shy, or something almost like it, but he's also swift and sinuous. It's barely more than a flicker of thought to twist in reconfiguration, lifting them both in a half-turn that lets him catch Kaworu under his knees and tug him into a hold.]

Then we can go somewhere else.

[It's not inflected like a question, but there's still an echo of one in the faint tremor of how it's said.]

[peripheries]

[There's another funny noise from the angel-turned-boy, but it's delighted, somewhere between another gasp and a laugh. It's very bold. Very dramatic. Exactly the sort of thing that he likes. There is a beauty in honest and unrestrained emotion, he thinks, like the dazzling splitting of a lightning bolt across a dark, stormy sky.

Kaworu wraps an arm easily around Paul's neck to let him be lifted like a protagonist right out of a shoujo manga. A very slick move. Unfortunately, unlike the boys in those manga, Paul has the relative muscle strength of someone his size and even Kaworu, in all his delicateness, is still an impressive lift for him to maintain, especially while intoxicated.

So there's a brief moment where they nearly stumble before Kaworu simply activates his Darkblood powers to make himself light as a feather. He shifts, wrapping his arm tighter around Paul's shoulders and pulling himself up so they're nearly face to face.]

So. Where are we going?