It's something Sweeney knows, but never thinks about. He doesn't need much, and is so rarely in there that it just really doesn't matter. He just needs the symbol, a confirmation that he earned enough to not be dead.
"Fuck. Been so long since I've been stayed in any place with more than one room--" As a residence. "--I ain't e'en sure what I'd ask for." The castle was the last one he recalls. That's fucking depressing if he thinks too hard on it.
Dorian frowns, thinking things over for a moment before he answers. "A kitchen. Your own bathroom. Maybe a living room area? Definitely a kitchen though, you don't want your entire bedroom to smell like whatever you cook."
The chuckle that threatens ends up a short, sharp laugh.
"Instead of it smellin' like a fuckin' ashtray?" He has so few folk over to his place, he forgets they don't know how bad it is. At least he finally washed the linens. Two years was too long, even for him.
"To be fair, my room also smells ashtray adjacent," Dorian shrugs. Not as bad as Sweeney's—after all, he believes in doing laundry on a regular basis. But bad enough that you can tell he's a bit of a smoker.
"Yeah, one that sits next ta a bottle of fancy perfume an' a thoroughly fucked ponce," he teases.
Sweeney sighs, his mind wandering back to what he might choose, if he had the ability to define his housing. It seems strange that he doesn't have any real idea of what he would want. The tub had been (and still is) the goal.
"Not sure I should be trusted with a kitchen." Levity lingers in his voice.
"If you burn the boat down, maybe the Admiral could get a new one," Dorian grins. "How long has he had this stupid thing anyway? Absolutely due for an upgrade."
Sweeney shrugs. "No fuckin' clue." Silence lingers while he takes a slow drag.
"Only reason I came back was I kept fuckin' dyin'. Didn't wanna stay that way." He taps his ash. "Put in what repair work I needed to ta earn the right ta be alive." Something clicks, and he makes an amendment.
"Alive enough." Because he knows what he is here isn't the same thing.
Dorian can't help but let out a low chuckle. Alive enough indeed.
"I know I was one of the few people who were fine going back to the Barge. There were a decent amount of you lot who wanted to stay. And honestly? I don't blame you."
"Ya mean would I rather be my own man, earnin' easy coin an' spendin' it on e'ery debaucherous thing that strikes me, whene'er I want, instead of bein' trapped in a place that's constantly torturin' me by shovin' me full'a new lives while holdin' me under the threat of unmakin' me at any moment?" A beat follows.
"Whereas I happily jumped at the chance to have a roof over my head, running water, a regular food supply, climate control, and, most importantly of all, not being in fucking jail for once," he dryly responds.
"Urgh, it has to be more than 'occasional' for me," Dorian points out, with a little wrinkle of his nose. He needs exclusive access to clean shirts and they both know it.
"I still have no idea how you're fine getting so grimy at times."
"Nope," Dorian grimaces. "That's far too much for me. I was born in an expensively rich house, I live in an expensively rich house, I will die in an expensively rich house."
"B'fore or after the bein' immortal deal?" Sweeney's brow lifts in curiosity. It's one thing to come back from the dead, another to die when the deal's already been made. Devil's in the details.
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"Fuck. Been so long since I've been stayed in any place with more than one room--" As a residence. "--I ain't e'en sure what I'd ask for." The castle was the last one he recalls. That's fucking depressing if he thinks too hard on it.
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"Instead of it smellin' like a fuckin' ashtray?" He has so few folk over to his place, he forgets they don't know how bad it is. At least he finally washed the linens. Two years was too long, even for him.
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Sweeney sighs, his mind wandering back to what he might choose, if he had the ability to define his housing. It seems strange that he doesn't have any real idea of what he would want. The tub had been (and still is) the goal.
"Not sure I should be trusted with a kitchen." Levity lingers in his voice.
"Might burn the fuckin' boat down."
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"Kinda surprised more didn't change when shit was gettin' fixed up in Flotilla." It seemed the perfect opportunity.
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Dorian shrugs before continuing. "I wonder how fixed the ship truly is."
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"Only reason I came back was I kept fuckin' dyin'. Didn't wanna stay that way." He taps his ash. "Put in what repair work I needed to ta earn the right ta be alive." Something clicks, and he makes an amendment.
"Alive enough." Because he knows what he is here isn't the same thing.
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"I know I was one of the few people who were fine going back to the Barge. There were a decent amount of you lot who wanted to stay. And honestly? I don't blame you."
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"Ya mean would I rather be my own man, earnin' easy coin an' spendin' it on e'ery debaucherous thing that strikes me, whene'er I want, instead of bein' trapped in a place that's constantly torturin' me by shovin' me full'a new lives while holdin' me under the threat of unmakin' me at any moment?" A beat follows.
"Yeah, tough choice, that."
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"Ya got me there." While he enjoys those things, he's spent a lot of his existence not having them.
"An' occasional access ta clean shirts," he notes with a tip of his head.
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"I still have no idea how you're fine getting so grimy at times."
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"Fuck, this shit is nothin'. I did live in the fuckin' trees." For at that time I was lost in my madness.
"They don't call us Men of the Mounds ironically."
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"Yer plannin' ta get around ta dyin' at some point?" Isn't being immortal one of his things?
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"Was it intentional? Or that Devil fuck you?"
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"Intentional. I killed myself."