garrulously | ivan wants out of this conversation, a post

Ivan has the distinct feeling of being trapped, and he’s not quite sure how it happened. It is, he thinks, not his fault. Whose fault it is remains to be seen, but Ivan feels like Byerly, Dono, and his own mother are the three top contenders. Byerly, because if he wasn’t sleeping with By he wouldn’t be here at all. Dono, because he just has a suspicion. And his own mother — betrayal of the highest order — is the one who suggested he might swing by Vorkosigan House on an errand.

Aunt Cordelia is probably also to blame. But the point is: not his fault. None of this is, as he finds himself shepherded into the library, and maybe if he keeps telling himself that, it’ll be true.

Consolation comes in the form of a plate of Ma Kosta leftover after-dinner snacks and a bottle of wine. It is, Ivan decides morosely as he pours himself a glass and helps himself to two things absolutely drowned in powdered sugar, a very effective form of bait. And he, the damn fool who took it. What did his mother even say to the Count and Countess that would make them want to keep him here at their leisure? It has to do with Byerly, there’s no way that the timing makes sense otherwise, but he thought that telling his mother would be the end of it. Just once, and then it’s over.

His luck has never been that good when it comes to Vorkosigans. Blast this whole family loyalty thing.

Maybe his aunt and uncle will decide he’s not worth the trouble, although he’s not sure about which one he’s getting. Probably Aunt Cordelia, what with her Betan sensibilities and all. That’s terrifying to even consider, but so is the alternative. Maybe Uncle Aral will have decided that he’s not worth the time, and he’ll get away from this without having to talk to either of them. He can go home, back to his bed and potentially Byerly.

This is the thought that consoles him as he sits on the couch, waiting. Although it definitely doesn’t prevent him from jerking up into a ramrod straight siting position the moment he hears the door. Dammit.

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"I'd like them to avoid me all together," Ivan mutters, staring at his wine glass. He knows his relationship with Byerly is not conductive to that exact thing -- hell, Ivan's not sure why he wandered back into this again and again except for the fact that the sex is surprisingly good and life is vastly unfair, making By as a damned good kisser as he is. Which proves his uncle's point, Ivan supposes, except for where it's vastly unfair to whatever this is.

Byerly Vorrutyer is a goddamn headache from a family of people generously regarded as mentally unstable, which Ivan feels is some sort of common ground shared between them. Although unlike By, Ivan likes to think he's kept himself separate from the whole Vorkosigan-Vorbarra political madness. But Ivan likes him well enough, will admit to it in the spare moments between headaches, and he has plenty of practice with Miles Vorkosigan that makes everything with Byerly feel familiar.

"I--" Never dated anyone as long as I've spent sleeping with Byerly Vorrutyer, is what he wants to say. It's the fact that made him tell his mother in the first place. But instead he says "Sir?" Because that sounds like something said from personal experience. His first wife, maybe?

Aral gives Ivan an intensely dry look, setting an elbow on the back of the chair and propping up his chin with a fist.

"If I'm going to take up mindreading, it wont be within ten wormholes of Barrayar." He gives Ivan an expansive gesture. "You'll have to elaborate on which is the confusing part."

Oh God, how to ask this-- "It just sounded like you were talking from personal experience, sir." Ivan might not dive into Vor rumors like Byerly does, but he's spent his time around it and in it to absorb some things that he has steadfastly refused to put together.

Like several bits of rumors about his uncle and Vorrutyers, for instance. But since Miles has only responded to those with anger and annoyance, Ivan's never bothered to question the validity. Except right now, of course. Oh hell.

In a younger age, or just a slightly less relevant topic, the Count would have closed the topic with an unhelpful, challenging "What do you think?" or as he favored most, simply stared them down until they fumblingly sought another topic.

It certainly could be a luxury here. He'd already demanded Byerly's files. All of them. From history to education to the psych profiles he agreed to and the ones that were built without tricky little things like permission. It wasn't that it even remotely came up clean - no one in that field did - but it fell within the admittedly elastic boundaries of "acceptable."

So, when he answered, there was nothing forced... but certainly nothing subtle or veiled about it either. He was too old for that shit.

"I am. Both of them certainly qualified."

"Oh," says Ivan, having found that everything else had failed him for the moment. Well, most everything. "Wasn't he her brother?"

Very tactful, Ivan. He takes a rather large gulp of his wine to cover it, even though he knows he can't take it back. Time to press forward, Ivan supposes, and try and separate Byerly from his dead relatives in the hopes that his uncle will have mercy on him. And the other man isn't even around to appreciate it.

"I don't think it's fair to make generalizations based on his other family members," Ivan points out -- god knows he doesn't want to be lumped in with a particular group of people he can't help but be related to by blood.

He rubs at his face, giving Ivan a rather dry, withering look. "At the time, I believe it would have been more appropriate to exclaim 'wasn't she his sister?'" Ges had been there first, after all. That detail was certainly far less commonly known.

The other comment, as it came, was hardly worth countering. He'd read Byerly's mission reports, often penned by Alys' unshy hand. Ivan could probably find mercy on Barrayar, it just wasn't currently in this room. "Tell me, boy, have you actually gotten a taste for being in the midst of disaster?"

Well that's more information about his uncle's sex life than Ivan ever wanted to know, thank you very much Uncle Aral. Does Miles know all this? Somehow Ivan doubts it, and instantly decides in that moment to never tell his cousin what he know will never be able to un-know. Has he misstepped, somewhere, to make this his fate?

As much as he wants to claim this isn't his fault, he knows it's partly his, for sleeping with Byerly, and continuing to do so.

"I can't say that I have, sir." Which is a feat no one will appreciate, given his relatives and their desire and ability to drag people into it. "But everyone else seems to have a taste for disregarding that." Although, at the same time, everyone's mellowed out about it, recently, which Ivan finds himself both confused about and appreciative of. What's he supposed to do then, if it's not constantly telling Miles 'no' and being ignored.

Ivan frowns at his wine, and finishes off his glass.

Aral has long since had a policy of meeting rumor and censor over the subject by aggressively dropping the truth. Scandalized and deeply uncomfortable, most Barrayarans let the accusations die immediately after. Ivan, first hand, gets to see how effective it is.

Instead, he watches his nephew's face as he works through those thoughts. He makes a "pass it" gesture at the bottle.

"About that.. You'd both done quite a good job recently."

Surrendering the bottle without complaint after he's topped off his glass -- Ivan knows better than to think he can hold a bottle of his uncle's wine from the man himself -- the frown stays, because he feels like there's something there. Lurking behind what could be construed as a positive comment from his uncle about his sex life.

"Er." He starts, considers. "Thank you, sir?" His voice creeps up the register at the end, waiting for the shoe to fall. Because there's one. He knows there has to be, damn it.

It isn't fast in coming. The Count pours the wine first, setting the bottle back near Ivan and swirls it in the glass, taking in the aroma and color. At length, there's that first appreciative sip and the delicate sound of the glass clicking back on the polished hardwood table.

There's almost enough time to hear the whistle as it falls.

"It occurs to me that you do work well together. Perhaps now, even better." And there it is, that hard, calculating look. He was never one to go long without finding a use for something. "In fact, there's been a matter I've been asked to advise on recently."

It's somehow worse than Ivan imagined. He has no problem flat out rejecting his cousin -- that's old news by now. But his uncle? He's got less practice at that, mostly because his uncle doesn't ask him for anything. Ivan's fine with that. There's no reason for that to suddenly change the moment he decided to sleep with someone of the same gender. Bisexuality surely does not qualify him for anything other than his normal workload, or else he never would have gotten into this.

"Surely it's nothing you need me for, sir. Although I'd be happy to volunteer Byerly, if that's what you want."

Sorry Byerly, Ivan thinks, it's for the best.

ivan wants out of this conversation, a post

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