There's no audience to perform for. In years past that might have put him off- in Arcadia there was always an audience, for everything. Dancing, eating, fucking on a few notable occasions, dressing, bathing; never a moment alone to himself. When he returned at first Ossie did what he always did, as many did. But slowly, by small measures, he found his tastes lay outside the spotlight. Away from the crowds, from any audiences... Ossie felt thin and transparent as a wasp's wing most days, like everything about him glittered on his surface. What was he, away from everyone? A meaty question, one he was still gnawing on the gristle of.

Giles never counted as everyone. Giles was familiar as the creases on his hand used to be when he still had them, a part of him and the other half of him.

When Ossie moves, the Wyrd moves with them, making up for any discrepancy in their separate bodies. And ever so softly, a performance just for Giles to hear, Ossie croons the words, closing the space so he hardly has to raise his voice at all.