"Then be someone else instead," Dorian says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "And sure, that might be hard here where everybody already knows your name. But you know what happens when you graduate? You can go wherever the fuck you want."
He looks over at Sweeney and then, in an act of possible stupidity, drains the rest of his gin as well. Dorian sets the glass down, regretting it with his last swallow, but fuck it. He'll end up vomiting in the bathroom later, whatever, he's done worse before.
"No matter what, you still have to decide who you want to be before you become that person."
"I don't decide," he explains slowly and with purpose. "That falls on you cunts." Humans do this. It's what they've done, over and over. He's just there to do what he's made to.
Dorian, who doesn't have the full context for what Sweeney is or how his existence works, can't help but scowl. He knows he should keep things good, he knows he should keep this conversation neutral. He's a warden, dammit, he shouldn't be picking fights and being a shit to the inmate in his charge.
But despite his attempts to be better, Dorian is at his core a bit of a cocky asshole. He's also a cocky asshole who adores talking about himself and the slight frustration that he's been feeling at the fact that this whole conversation feels like pulling teeth is slowly bubbling over into actual frustration.
"Yes, you do decide. Because you've obviously decided what sort of person you are already—a combative fuck who can't string a sentence together if it contains more than ten words and only responds to alcohol and bribes."
He could laugh if his shoulders weren't already so coiled. He's definitely not that drunk. Sweeney's been goaded into a lot of fights. Probably will be goaded into a bunch more. But not by this cunt. Not tonight.
Sweeney's attention lingers on Dorian in study. Well, at least he's a different sort of Warden. Doesn't change the fact they all keep trying to tell him who he is.
He slides his tongue over his teeth and takes a drag.
"You think that, yer only showin' ya don't know me."
There's no particular hostility in it, just a tired resignation. This prick is telling him he gets to decide who he is in the same breath he's defining that exact thing.
"Then tell me more about yourself so I can know you," Dorian grumbles. "This is a two-way street, you know. If you want people to get to know you, you have to put in effort on your end that isn't fucking bribery."
Christ, he needs more gin. Dorian stands up to bring the bottle to the table before pouring himself another glass.
"It ain't fuckin' bribery." Sweeney's eyes slip beneath their lids. His hand hovers above the table's surface for a fleeting moment, before he flips his fingers to place an ashtray gently on it.
He pulls a long last drag and holds it while he snuffs the butt in the tray. He gives zero fucks about where he taps his ash, but he doesn't flick butts in people's cabins.
"If we do, I haven't met them yet," he grumbles. Dorian takes another large sip of his drink before sitting down. He's still radiating a lot of irritation—but when taking his apparent youth into account, his entire bearing comes off like someone having a sulk.
"The supernatural in my world...it's not organized. I know that some people here have all the vampires knowing each other, a whole cult of people dedicated to this spooky eldritch thing, a whole werewolf network, things like that. Where I'm from, everybody keeps to themselves—the first time I met a vampire was in the 1980s, for fuck's sake. So if there are these obvious rules in dealing with a faerie that everybody knows, it's safe to assume that I don't bloody know them."
"No." Sweeney's shoulders ease a touch as his attention slips down to the ashtray for a moment. There's no need for defense on his side, he's just quietly frustrated by the overarching situation.
"They don't all know." And that's the fucking problem. He's surprised that in a place like this, with all the oddities and cultures but still so many humans, that folk have no place to start with something that feels so logical and natural.
Humans did this. Humans made trade. Bartering millennia before the first coin. But he's the one that's asking too much for wanting to make deals for fucking favors.
He pulls another cigarette from behind the same ear, pressing it between his lips while he answers around it so he can fetch his lighter from his pocket. Sweeney decides to take a different course towards the solution.
"When ya sold yer soul, was that a bribe?" The lighter flicks open, and he breathes life into the cigarette with a long drag before snapping it shut, his gaze settling casually on Dorian. Surely this example would be more familiar.
Sweeney considers the question. There's the truth, and then there's the Truth.
"I can." Discomfort is wrapped in the words, though he's clearly trying to minimize it with a brief tightening of his jaw.
"As much as you can become a monk." The explanation is presented with intent. He's still thinking as he works his way through it.
"Yer capable," he admits with a faint nod while his gaze lingers on the fabric concealing Dorian's chest. "Ya could make the choice ta give up e'erythin' that makes ya you." He's clearly implying Dorian, not people in general. Though really, it's still accurate for most people too.
"You can go through the motions. Live yer life ta the standards others insist are how ya should. Tell yerself it's the right thing ta do. That ya'll be better fer doin' it, fer not bein' who ya are." His tongue pauses to wet his lips.
"An' people will admire ya fer all the things that ya do while yer busy not bein' yourself."
There's a pause as Dorian mulls things over. He thinks he gets what Sweeney is saying. He could do something without a transaction. But then, would he be Sweeney anymore?
"There's a book about me," he says. His tone of voice implies that he's got more to say and he gives Sweeney a 'hold your questions' look as he continues talking. "The Picture of Dorian Gray—it's quite popular back home. The Dorian Gray in that book is selfish and cruel. I could try to be the best person in the world—a perfect example of temperance and charity, completely unlike that Dorian Gray. But that won't change the fact that when people hear the name 'Dorian Gray', they expect certain behaviors. Some times it's easiest to give the people what they want."
He gives Sweeney a little shrug at that. Dorian's the sort to not give up all the things that make himself him.
He smokes casually as he listens. Sweeney takes the time to reflect; to sort through the similarities and the overwhelming differences. Some things are conjecture though, so he figures he should get things clarified before continuing.
When the man is done, he takes a slow drag and holds it a moment longer.
"Was the book written 'bout you as a biography sorta thing, or did ya come from the book because it had been written?" Sweeney taps his ash. "Originally, course. I understand that it's still definin' ya.
"A biography sort of thing," Dorian explains, with a little nod. "There was a dear friend of mine—a man named Oscar Wilde. I told him about my life story and he thought that was interesting enough to make into a book."
Dorian can't help but let out a small chuckle. "He immortalized me in a way that I never could do myself."
Dorian takes a drink of his gin, more to kill time than to do anything else. He's mulling this all over in his head, trying to decide what to say next and how to say it.
"There are always new stories," he points out. "The current stories might be about Sweeney, the miserable drunk, but give it enough time and things might shift to Sweeney, still drunk but less miserable. It's still you. It's still your nature. Just...shifted, somewhat."
Sweeney takes umbrage with being called a miserable drunk. While he is both of those things, they're not mutually inclusive. Besides, before the last few days and this fucking conversation, he had been getting better on both fronts.
Also, he hates that fucking name. Adding insult to fucking injury. Fucking English cunts.
"An' that's my fuckin' point." He rolls his eyes shut and taps his ash.
"Seems if things keep on course, I'll have at least three new stories e'ery year. More if the Floods have anythin' else ta say 'bout it." Like the last one and that fucking Frenchie.
"So what? You're more than your stories," Dorian points out, with a little shake of his head. "If you were entirely dependent on your stories, if you were always something that someone else had made you, the Admiral wouldn't bring you here to begin with."
"Oh, I'm certain that part is because he's an idiot," Dorian says, without any hesitation.
"I mean, think about it. Why the hell would you put someone through all this nonsense if you want them to change themselves? I know the Admiral won't outright say so, but I suspect the man simply can't drive."
"Never attribute to malice what stupidity can perfectly solve on it's own," Dorian points out, with an annoyed little sigh. "Very few people in the universe are out and out cunts. A grand majority of them are goddamn idiots. Also, he's not a god."
His brow lifts at the audacity of the man's words. It's immediate announces that this prick has clearly not spent his extended life in service, specifically to one such cunt god. Sweeney's not gonna argue that a grand majority of folk are idiots. He knows that damn well; he's staring at one.
"How ya know he ain't a god? He tell ya on that intro pamphlet?"
"Gods have much better things to do with their time than worry exclusively about fifty or so people," Dorian says, with a cavalier little shrug. Because they do! Worrying exclusively about fifty or so people, at least in Dorian's mind, is an entirely human thing. Or, at least, a not-god-like thing. He's not going to outright assume the Admiral's human.
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He looks over at Sweeney and then, in an act of possible stupidity, drains the rest of his gin as well. Dorian sets the glass down, regretting it with his last swallow, but fuck it. He'll end up vomiting in the bathroom later, whatever, he's done worse before.
"No matter what, you still have to decide who you want to be before you become that person."
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"I don't decide," he explains slowly and with purpose. "That falls on you cunts." Humans do this. It's what they've done, over and over. He's just there to do what he's made to.
No one knows my name. Least of all me.
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But despite his attempts to be better, Dorian is at his core a bit of a cocky asshole. He's also a cocky asshole who adores talking about himself and the slight frustration that he's been feeling at the fact that this whole conversation feels like pulling teeth is slowly bubbling over into actual frustration.
"Yes, you do decide. Because you've obviously decided what sort of person you are already—a combative fuck who can't string a sentence together if it contains more than ten words and only responds to alcohol and bribes."
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Sweeney's attention lingers on Dorian in study. Well, at least he's a different sort of Warden. Doesn't change the fact they all keep trying to tell him who he is.
He slides his tongue over his teeth and takes a drag.
"You think that, yer only showin' ya don't know me."
There's no particular hostility in it, just a tired resignation. This prick is telling him he gets to decide who he is in the same breath he's defining that exact thing.
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Christ, he needs more gin. Dorian stands up to bring the bottle to the table before pouring himself another glass.
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"It ain't fuckin' bribery." Sweeney's eyes slip beneath their lids. His hand hovers above the table's surface for a fleeting moment, before he flips his fingers to place an ashtray gently on it.
He pulls a long last drag and holds it while he snuffs the butt in the tray. He gives zero fucks about where he taps his ash, but he doesn't flick butts in people's cabins.
The smoke escapes as he cocks his head.
"What? Ya don't have faerie where yer from?"
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"The supernatural in my world...it's not organized. I know that some people here have all the vampires knowing each other, a whole cult of people dedicated to this spooky eldritch thing, a whole werewolf network, things like that. Where I'm from, everybody keeps to themselves—the first time I met a vampire was in the 1980s, for fuck's sake. So if there are these obvious rules in dealing with a faerie that everybody knows, it's safe to assume that I don't bloody know them."
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"They don't all know." And that's the fucking problem. He's surprised that in a place like this, with all the oddities and cultures but still so many humans, that folk have no place to start with something that feels so logical and natural.
Humans did this. Humans made trade. Bartering millennia before the first coin. But he's the one that's asking too much for wanting to make deals for fucking favors.
He pulls another cigarette from behind the same ear, pressing it between his lips while he answers around it so he can fetch his lighter from his pocket. Sweeney decides to take a different course towards the solution.
"When ya sold yer soul, was that a bribe?" The lighter flicks open, and he breathes life into the cigarette with a long drag before snapping it shut, his gaze settling casually on Dorian. Surely this example would be more familiar.
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So maybe Sweeney thinks of all of this in the same way? A transaction.
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"It's like that. I don't deal in souls. But it's the balance. Offerin's." He tips his head one way, then the other. "Favors."
Sweeney's attention slips behind Dorian for a moment.
"It's what Leprechaun do."
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"But you can still do something for someone without a transaction, right? Every meaningful action doesn't have to be a deal."
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"I can." Discomfort is wrapped in the words, though he's clearly trying to minimize it with a brief tightening of his jaw.
"As much as you can become a monk." The explanation is presented with intent. He's still thinking as he works his way through it.
"Yer capable," he admits with a faint nod while his gaze lingers on the fabric concealing Dorian's chest. "Ya could make the choice ta give up e'erythin' that makes ya you." He's clearly implying Dorian, not people in general. Though really, it's still accurate for most people too.
"You can go through the motions. Live yer life ta the standards others insist are how ya should. Tell yerself it's the right thing ta do. That ya'll be better fer doin' it, fer not bein' who ya are." His tongue pauses to wet his lips.
"An' people will admire ya fer all the things that ya do while yer busy not bein' yourself."
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"There's a book about me," he says. His tone of voice implies that he's got more to say and he gives Sweeney a 'hold your questions' look as he continues talking. "The Picture of Dorian Gray—it's quite popular back home. The Dorian Gray in that book is selfish and cruel. I could try to be the best person in the world—a perfect example of temperance and charity, completely unlike that Dorian Gray. But that won't change the fact that when people hear the name 'Dorian Gray', they expect certain behaviors. Some times it's easiest to give the people what they want."
He gives Sweeney a little shrug at that. Dorian's the sort to not give up all the things that make himself him.
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He smokes casually as he listens. Sweeney takes the time to reflect; to sort through the similarities and the overwhelming differences. Some things are conjecture though, so he figures he should get things clarified before continuing.
When the man is done, he takes a slow drag and holds it a moment longer.
"Was the book written 'bout you as a biography sorta thing, or did ya come from the book because it had been written?" Sweeney taps his ash. "Originally, course. I understand that it's still definin' ya.
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Dorian can't help but let out a small chuckle. "He immortalized me in a way that I never could do myself."
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"Yeah." He takes an idle drag. He has the feeling that there is an inherent disconnect on one of the main points.
"I came after the stories."
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"There are always new stories," he points out. "The current stories might be about Sweeney, the miserable drunk, but give it enough time and things might shift to Sweeney, still drunk but less miserable. It's still you. It's still your nature. Just...shifted, somewhat."
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Also, he hates that fucking name. Adding insult to fucking injury. Fucking English cunts.
"An' that's my fuckin' point." He rolls his eyes shut and taps his ash.
"Seems if things keep on course, I'll have at least three new stories e'ery year. More if the Floods have anythin' else ta say 'bout it." Like the last one and that fucking Frenchie.
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He takes a drag, his eyes fixed on Dorian.
"That so then?" Are you fucking kidding me? "Then why does he keep shovin' more stories in, if he just wants me ta make my own?"
Sweeney's very curious about his thoughts on the matter.
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"I mean, think about it. Why the hell would you put someone through all this nonsense if you want them to change themselves? I know the Admiral won't outright say so, but I suspect the man simply can't drive."
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"'Cause he's a cunt, like any other god." He releases the rest of his smoke with a roll of his eyes.
"Kid with an ant farm, lettin' us build 'til he gets bored an' shakes the fuckin' thing."
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"How ya know he ain't a god? He tell ya on that intro pamphlet?"
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