snippet dump
Oct. 3rd, 2008 06:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wildestrangerI'm painfully aware of how long it has been since I last posted fic, and particularly how long it's been since I posted Brendolina. Here's a few snippets to tide you over while I finish the rest.
The dressing room of Mr Ryan Ross, Wentz House, Piccadilly, London.
At least the boy was willing to be experimented on. Spencer Smith had had this thought several times during the past week, as Ryan’s remarks changed from “I rather think aubergine is his colour” to “I’m considering sacrificing my green scarf just to shut him up” and “actually, green might do quite well”. There had been a few moments when Spencer had been forced to remind his friend that despite Mr Urie’s apparent pliancy, he wasn’t a doll to be dressed up, and that not everyone could carry off that many flowery scarves. In his private thoughts Spencer could admit that no one could, in fact, carry off wearing that many flowery scarves, but there would be no point in sharing this with Ryan. Ryan, when it came to fashion, held some implacable views.
Urie, on the other hand, seemed happy to try on whatever was proposed to him. So far this had included a velvet cape (abandoned after Sir Peter took one look at it and expressed his thoughts on the propagation of Gerardic fashion in terms which made Urie blush), bright yellow breeches with white boots (Spencer had raised his eyebrow and asked, mildly, whether Ryan really thought that it would be necessary to draw attention to this part of Urie’s anatomy. And how long he thought the boots would stay clean.), and a mauve coat with embroidered flowers, which had been a surprise favourite with them all (even Spencer had refrained from rolling his eyes). The Beckett ball was only a week away, though, and the tailor had informed them that at least four days would be necessary to complete a suit to Mr Ross’s exacting standards.
Which, currently, seemed to be involved in a struggle between “how many layers and patterns were needed to create a suitably artistic ensemble” and “how many layers before Urie drowned underneath all that cloth”.
Spencer sighed. Some days, he missed the army. Not even the Right Honourable Justin Hawkins, the aide-de camp to the Duke of Wellington, had worn flowery scarves. There had been no debate over whether such scarves were a suitable complement to embroidered silk. No one had even though of wearing a cape.
Spencer blamed Lord Way for so much.
Augustus was Gerard’s second hamster. The first one, Matilda, had been a present from his grandmother on Gerard’s seventh birthday, and Gerard had loved her devotedly. Matilda had slept in a little cage next to Gerard’s bed and he had played with her every day, letting her climb over his shirt (and sometimes under it, resulting in many giggles) and constructing trails and bridges for her from his books. He had fed her himself every evening and held her in his hands as she ate. When the door to her cage had been discovered open one morning, Gerard had been devastated. Despite a frantic search of their house (Gerard remembered the cook’s annoyed huffs when his kitchen had been invaded and his grandmother’s icy glare as she stared the man down, her hand holding Gerard’s tightly), Matilda had never been found and he had blamed himself for not taking better care of her. Neither his grandmother’s assurances that it had been only an accident nor the four-year-old Mikey’s sticky hugs could convince Gerard that he could be trusted with another hamster.
Sir Spencer was not what Brendon had expected, or hoped for. A tall young man, with light-brown hair slightly too long for fashion, not more than a few years older than Brendon himself. Probably the same age as William. Brendon shifted in his chair and lowered his gaze, affecting modesty whilst making sure that his hands hadn’t started picking at his jacket or tapping a rhythm against his legs. This man was nothing like William; he was the head of his household and the stern guardian of his three cousins, a sober man with responsibilities. And broad shoulders that filled his elegant coat neatly, and no doubt strong thighs under his desk, and Brendon really shouldn’t be thinking about that. Regardless of how capable Sir Spencer’s fingers looked as they traced Brendon’s references with a quill.
Brendon swallowed hastily, looked up, and discovered that his new employer had given up examining Lady Palmer’s letter of recommendation in favour of inspecting Brendon himself. Sir Spencer’s cool blue eyes gave the impression of being both thoughtful and thorough as they seemed to take in Brendon’s worn boots (still dusty from his journey), his threadbare breeches, and the painstakingly cleaned brown coat that Brendon had salvaged from a pile of Mr Stumph’s old clothes and wore for travelling, public outings and meeting employers. It was slightly too large, for Patrick had been a rotund youth, but it gave an air of modesty and genteel poverty, which Brendon preferred to cultivate for his own sake as well as his employers’, who liked to see distinguishable inferiority in the people they hired to educate their children. Yet despite this well-thought out plan for his appearance, Brendon was somewhat unnerved by so exact a scrutiny.
The dressing room of Mr Ryan Ross, Wentz House, Piccadilly, London.
At least the boy was willing to be experimented on. Spencer Smith had had this thought several times during the past week, as Ryan’s remarks changed from “I rather think aubergine is his colour” to “I’m considering sacrificing my green scarf just to shut him up” and “actually, green might do quite well”. There had been a few moments when Spencer had been forced to remind his friend that despite Mr Urie’s apparent pliancy, he wasn’t a doll to be dressed up, and that not everyone could carry off that many flowery scarves. In his private thoughts Spencer could admit that no one could, in fact, carry off wearing that many flowery scarves, but there would be no point in sharing this with Ryan. Ryan, when it came to fashion, held some implacable views.
Urie, on the other hand, seemed happy to try on whatever was proposed to him. So far this had included a velvet cape (abandoned after Sir Peter took one look at it and expressed his thoughts on the propagation of Gerardic fashion in terms which made Urie blush), bright yellow breeches with white boots (Spencer had raised his eyebrow and asked, mildly, whether Ryan really thought that it would be necessary to draw attention to this part of Urie’s anatomy. And how long he thought the boots would stay clean.), and a mauve coat with embroidered flowers, which had been a surprise favourite with them all (even Spencer had refrained from rolling his eyes). The Beckett ball was only a week away, though, and the tailor had informed them that at least four days would be necessary to complete a suit to Mr Ross’s exacting standards.
Which, currently, seemed to be involved in a struggle between “how many layers and patterns were needed to create a suitably artistic ensemble” and “how many layers before Urie drowned underneath all that cloth”.
Spencer sighed. Some days, he missed the army. Not even the Right Honourable Justin Hawkins, the aide-de camp to the Duke of Wellington, had worn flowery scarves. There had been no debate over whether such scarves were a suitable complement to embroidered silk. No one had even though of wearing a cape.
Spencer blamed Lord Way for so much.
Augustus was Gerard’s second hamster. The first one, Matilda, had been a present from his grandmother on Gerard’s seventh birthday, and Gerard had loved her devotedly. Matilda had slept in a little cage next to Gerard’s bed and he had played with her every day, letting her climb over his shirt (and sometimes under it, resulting in many giggles) and constructing trails and bridges for her from his books. He had fed her himself every evening and held her in his hands as she ate. When the door to her cage had been discovered open one morning, Gerard had been devastated. Despite a frantic search of their house (Gerard remembered the cook’s annoyed huffs when his kitchen had been invaded and his grandmother’s icy glare as she stared the man down, her hand holding Gerard’s tightly), Matilda had never been found and he had blamed himself for not taking better care of her. Neither his grandmother’s assurances that it had been only an accident nor the four-year-old Mikey’s sticky hugs could convince Gerard that he could be trusted with another hamster.
Sir Spencer was not what Brendon had expected, or hoped for. A tall young man, with light-brown hair slightly too long for fashion, not more than a few years older than Brendon himself. Probably the same age as William. Brendon shifted in his chair and lowered his gaze, affecting modesty whilst making sure that his hands hadn’t started picking at his jacket or tapping a rhythm against his legs. This man was nothing like William; he was the head of his household and the stern guardian of his three cousins, a sober man with responsibilities. And broad shoulders that filled his elegant coat neatly, and no doubt strong thighs under his desk, and Brendon really shouldn’t be thinking about that. Regardless of how capable Sir Spencer’s fingers looked as they traced Brendon’s references with a quill.
Brendon swallowed hastily, looked up, and discovered that his new employer had given up examining Lady Palmer’s letter of recommendation in favour of inspecting Brendon himself. Sir Spencer’s cool blue eyes gave the impression of being both thoughtful and thorough as they seemed to take in Brendon’s worn boots (still dusty from his journey), his threadbare breeches, and the painstakingly cleaned brown coat that Brendon had salvaged from a pile of Mr Stumph’s old clothes and wore for travelling, public outings and meeting employers. It was slightly too large, for Patrick had been a rotund youth, but it gave an air of modesty and genteel poverty, which Brendon preferred to cultivate for his own sake as well as his employers’, who liked to see distinguishable inferiority in the people they hired to educate their children. Yet despite this well-thought out plan for his appearance, Brendon was somewhat unnerved by so exact a scrutiny.
