[It's difficult, holding still. It's abundantly clear where it's going from the start, and while Dorian certainly isn't opposed, he's a bit at a loss at how easy the entire exchange is. He's continuously in awe of the way Prior carries himself, even at the littlest of things. It's embarrassing, feeling like a schoolboy that doesn't know where to put his hands and say his words.

He doesn't find them right away (for once), opting to feign his shock with a soft gasp and fanning his poor, would-be marred face. Eventually he drops his head and turns his attention back to Prior, smiling despite himself, but only after he's certain there's no tell-tale color left in his face.]

My dear Prior, first, it is not all folk dancing. I did not live in the barbarous south—we had class, with our dancers in silk in the streets. Secondly, Richie told me the creatures slipped in with smooth jazz. I still haven't figured out what that means.