spacerussians | THIS IS AN IVAN VORPATRIL OPEN POST

Ekaterin hadn't realized just what a useful buffer Miles had been at these events until finding herself bereft of his company. Only temporarily, he'd assured her in three increasingly urgent different ways before being diverted down one of the lesser labyrinthine hallways of the Imperial Residence on what she could only assume was Auditorial business. Vicereine Vorkosiga-- No, wait, Cordelia, she'd insisted on, had assured her in what seemed appallingly rational style that detaching a Miles in the throes of limerance would require a hand tractor, and so far it appeared that the mother knew her son, with the possible exception of business for the Empire. She could hardly begrudge the duty that had, ultimately, brought them together.

Still, settled in an upper alcove overlooking the ballroom floor below, Ekaterin reflected that even an afternoon's private orientation over tea from Lady Alys Vorpatril herself really wasn't sufficient to counter the culture shock of being surrounded by a swirl of this many High Vor in one place. Even if she was, as it happened, going to be one of them in a spare handful of months. Smoothing one hand across the grey silk of her gown, she determined that she'd people-watch, and perhaps channel some of her Aunt Vorthys' talent for cultural observation until Miles reappeared. And, hopefully, go unnoticed by those she was observing.

There is a careful balance between showing up at one of Gregor's parties like is expected of him, and being able to slide away from both the careful eyes of his mother and everyone else. Sure, he's good at parties, but he feels like he's getting old. Which isn't a feeling he appreciates, actually, and the less he's reminded of it the better. Having made the rounds of the eligible women for the moment, Ivan's tapping out for the moment.

After all, he and Miles still have to slip away and enjoy their customary wine bottle. No use leaving until then.

He doesn't expect Ekaterin to be in his chosen hiding spot, but he can roll with particular snag. Grinning, Ivan throws himself into a seat across from her, looking out at the Vor below. "You know, the best way to deal with them all is to do what they're doing and drink yourself just shy of flat-out drunk. Although--" Ivan winces as someone slips away to be sick. "Some still don't know their limits."

The "I'm so sorry--" that escapes Ekaterin as Ivan rolls in is practically a spinal reflex, paired with sitting up and suddenly taking up even less space than the neat little seat she'd permitted herself. The flush of colour to her cheeks and the "Oh! Lord Ivan, hello," that come with recognizing just who this specific example of uniformed male is more intention than reflex, and comes paired with a smile that's only slightly retiring as a result.

It twists a bit crooked as she considers his advice, and admits that "Honestly, I think I missed the critical teenaged period where you can figure out your limits without embarrassing yourself. As your mother would put it, a grown woman just shy of flat-out drunk is not a good look."

[ Byerly's crowd did not frequently bump up against Ivan's crowd. Which might, to the external observer, seem odd: after all, they engage in roughly the same brand of sin, gambling and drinking and generally carrying on. But there are distinctions between the circles which are painfully important to a Vor: the fact is that Ivan's circles are, at their heart, respectable, while Byerly's are disrespectable. Ivan's lot are boys being boys; Byerly's are fools.

Tonight, however, they've collided. Truly collided: this isn't just an instance of Byerly tapping into a foreign network. In the plush velvet-upholstered den, town clowns lounge next to the rigid spines of off-duty Ops fellows; knots of them play darts, a few drinking on the sidelines and making bets; someone is making the arrangements to have women brought in; a few are playing poker.

Both By and Ivan are part of this last group. And in this round, they're the only two left. By sits, elbow propped up on the back of the chair beside him, cards dangling carelessly from his hand; and he meets Ivan's eyes directly as he smiles cheerily. ]

I raise.

[ And he flicks a few more chips into the center of the pile. ]

( Ivan tends to avoid Byerly's crowd as a point of pride. Mostly because there are acceptable vices for a Vor to have and unacceptable ones, and Ivan has always fallen in the acceptable crowd. Women, drinking, the usual that can be expected from any young Vor. Gambling, too, as Ivan is doing now.

Poorly, he might add. He was doing great, fantastic even, up until it was just him and Byerly left, and then it's like all of his luck seemed to up and vanish. Either he'd suddenly lost his ability to have a decent poker face, or Byerly was far more perceptive than anyone gave him credit for. Either way, it wasn't looking that good for him.

Ivan holds back a sigh, eyeing Byerly's devil may care expression and, well. Everything. It was almost insulting, really. )

I fold.

( He doesn't like Byerly's expression. And at least he has a few chips left. Two, maybe, but it's still something. Maybe his next hand will be better. Maybe. )

[ What a pity. For once, that hadn't been a bluff; he genuinely had a strong hand. How satisfying it would have been to beat Ivan in earnest. - Not that Byerly has anything against the dear fool; on the contrary, he's exceedingly fond of him. How can you not adore that sweet simplicity? Heavens, would that all men were like his dear cousin-by-some-branches-removed.

By's smile doesn't falter as the rest of the table groans (it seems as though some people, hurtfully, are rooting against Byerly's success); he simply gathers up his chips and passes his cards over to be re-shuffled. ]

You're not doing so well, Ivan.

( At least he has support from the crowd. Ivan glowers at By and his comment -- how nice of him to point out the obvious. Two parts of him are at war: he doesn't want to lose to Byerly, god no. But he also wants this to be over as quickly as possible as to put as much distance between himself and the other man's smug smile.

Decisions, decisions. )

The night is still young. ( It is not. Ivan gestures for them to be dealt a new hand. ) And think how loud everyone around us is going to cheer when I make a comeback.

( He's just saying. )

What a story of triumph that would be. Good over evil. Purity over corruption. Like Ivan-the-Fool rending the heart of Koschei the Deathless into pieces.

[ By tips his chin in thanks to the dealer, then picks up his cards and deliberately lifts his eyebrows, as though in astonishment. A real reaction? A fake one? Who knows? ]

What do you think, Ivan? Does the world ever fall into such storytale lines? Or do the wicked always win?

I think you're reading too much into a game of poker, By.

( His hand is... good. Or at least better than his last, so he decides to make the, well. Average effort. As one does. Ivan places one of his chips in the center -- a measly first bet, and nods to the dealer. )

I raise.

Perhaps.

[ By has...a lot of nothing. Ah, alas. Well, he's certainly not going to fold after all of that. So he flips a few coins of his own into the pot. The fellow to his right does the same; the next one folds.

Pleasantly: ]

How's your hand, Ivan? Feeling confident?

If you're trying to throw me off my game it won't work.

( If there's one good thing about Ivan, it's that his ability to just gently ignore most things thrown at him with the air of vapid blankness works in poker, too. Ivan matches the bet -- it seems logical -- and leans back in his seat. )

What about you, By?

[Something something getting information out of Ivan. Maybe there's thieving involved or it's a matter of intergalactic security. Who knows? Certainly not Ivan. He merely has the misfortune to look far too much like someone else Solo knows.

He's pretending to be Gaby who he's actually met at some function even if she did a minimal amount of flirting at the time. Turns out she didn't want to play the honey pot with Illya's lookalike.]

I've heard you consider yourself quite the gentleman.

( Well, the woman's picture was pretty nice. And Ivan's never going to turn down talking to someone of the fairer sex. Because he's cad-ish. Cad light? )

More than consider. I am, or so says most people.

THIS IS AN IVAN VORPATRIL OPEN POST

Party time at the Imperial Residence, some time between ACC and Winterfair Gifts:

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hope i don't even know how to play poker

me either, why did I pick this game

i don't know!! now we both must suffer googling for it

i'm sorry, i should have gone for...uhh...wist?

nope. what about bs???

catfishing :| also obvs hammer face

done and done