HUNGER IS THE ONLY STORY HE HAS EVER HEARD IN HIS LIFE
THAT HE COULD BELIEVE
Dune was off for the rest of the night. It couldn’t come soon enough-his mind was tired from balancing trays of drinks for hours, and for some reason his stomach was feeling worse and worse by the minute. The golden paint that had been so carefully and deliberately applied before the start of the party was now a smeared mess across his left side. There were too many horses in too close quarters- he had to politely brush past so many strangers that the paint was blurred beyond all recognition. Some of it had gotten on the tip of his nose, and it glimmered foolishly in the “ambient” lighting. (lighting which, he knew from firsthand experience, was a bitch and a half to light).

Waves of nausea came and went, as did the clenching of his stomach, as he wove his way toward the exit. All he wanted was to lie down and go to sleep. The tips of his limbs felt tingling, which he attributed to some kind of jonesing for a good Dream. Later he would admit this was probably another effect of food poisoning. Or in this case poisoning-poisoning. What a god’s awful bartender- it was baffling, when they had the money to hire a professional. Scratch that, even a complete novice like Dune could probably run the bar without poisoning anyone.

He was feeling terrible. But the boy was an opportunist, and he intended to metaphorically pocket some of the fancy canapés to share with the street urchins on his walk home. A small rough-hewn bag is somewhat discretely slung over his shoulder, and into it he slips the silly, decadent foods that took far longer to make than it would to eat. Some of his favorites were the apples sliced into the shape of roses, and caramels swirled with paprika and salt and pressed in the shape of little suns- he took extra of those. And for his cats (not technically his cats, strays) he carefully swiped the few things they might be interested in.

Dune was not planning to stay for very much longer, as it would obviously look very very bad for him to be caught with a bag of stolen goods-- although was it stolen if they were free? So it was not want of conversation that made him stop by one of the guards as he grabbed a bundle of grapes and placed it into his swelling bag.

He clears his throat to catch the guard’s attention. “You’re scowling.” He comments quietly, barely audible above the din of “good music” that streams through the warm night.  “You know they don’t like that.” The guards were of course not allowed to partake in merriment, so expressions of enjoyment were also unwanted. Neutrality was the name of the game, for mares and stallions of his position. Didn’t the man go to his orientation? Dune had walked past it on his way to be painted, and he had overheard a stern old mare, wizened as a grape left in the sun, rattling off a list of expectations that effectively summed up to: make like a statue.

Not that Dune was bothered by the stallion’s transgressions. He was just giving some advice, one questionable worker to another.

D U N E

HUNGER IS THE ONLY STORY HE HAS EVER HEARD IN HIS LIFE
THAT HE COULD BELIEVE
The wealthy spoke in their own language. Dune knew well the derisive, sour curl of the lip when one of them saw something that displeased them- like a stray, mangy dog or a servant with an unkempt tail. He knew how laughter could be twisted from an expression of joy to one of scorn, and an appraising frown could be a hard-fought victory.

So when Ba’al says “I don’t work for them,” Dune’s focus narrows in on the note of disdain behind the statement. At first the bay thinks it’s directed at him, or those like him-- those who were not gifted with the opportunity to stand around pretending to be working. The man would not be the first to look down on Dune for his position, and certainly not the last. He should be used to it by now, the derision, but he isn’t. Every foul look or comment, every condescending tone of voice (interpreted correctly or not) he carries with him. He remembers.

But there is something different about this man. Something about his disdain that does not reek of class. Dune soothes his ruffled pride, and his fierce gaze softens. “Well, then. Scowl away.” Dune looks terrible. Sweating profusely, the golden paint on his body gone clumpy. His eyes shift in and out of focus, the poison blurring his attention. But his smile is still bright and gleaming, a gleam of liveliness that refused to be tarnished by time and circumstance. “Having fun?”

Dune holds up an apple, perfectly red and round. Before the party they had been polished to a deep sheen with a linen rag. Everything here was about appearance. He laughs at the thought of taking all this food for himself. “Oh, it’s not for me. Some friends of mine weren’t invited.”

“Friends” is a term used loosely. Some of these friends would stick a knife in his back for the right price, but…  well,  street kids only had each other. Theirs was a violent, twisted sort of family, the only one most of them would ever know. Dune owed his own childhood survival in part to older boys and girls-- it is only fitting that he pay it forward. "It all gets thrown out anyway, end of the night." He shrugs, tucks the apple into his sack. There were few things he abhorred more than waste.

D U N E