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contact part deux
if this were modern times byerly would probably make you listen to total eclipse of the heart before you were able to leave a message
[ There's a moment's hesitation - only a moment - as he fights the urge to...Well, to lie. To lie in a glossy, easy way, to laugh and report on the whole sordid story like it's an amusing anecdote rather than a mire of misery. To do what he's always done. But in the end, what brings him to his blunt honesty is not, perhaps, his pledge to not lie to her; rather, it's his awareness that she won't share any sensitive secrets until he's abased himself. That's how secrets work - why he was always such a successful spy. You don't worry about your dignity around a man devoid of the stuff.
So. ]
My father was the fifth son of his generation, and unsuited due to both temperament and talent to either religious service or the military. So he was given a threadbare inheritance - an old estate on a rocky beach. The only prosperous souls in our holdings were the smugglers, and smugglers, of course, pay no taxes. So. The way out of such genteel poverty would be to make a favorable match, but my father also had no charm. And so my mother came with next to no dowry at all, and our fate was set.
This is not, of course, to imply that poor families cannot be happy. Many who are without money are rich in love. But our coffers were bare there, as well - as you'll likely be unsurprised to hear. You're well aware how irksome I am when I am but a mere acquaintance; imagine how irksome it would be to have me as your son and heir. Combine that with the Rutyer family's curse of madness, which bit at my father - led him to the most peculiar obsessions, an odd desire to accumulate the strangest things and pile them up in great rotting heaps - Well. The stench alone would have driven an even-tempered and cheerful lad into melancholic fits.
[ His shrug is nearly audible. ]
I imagine you were likely hoping for something more interesting - I fear it's all dreadfully ordinary.
So. ]
My father was the fifth son of his generation, and unsuited due to both temperament and talent to either religious service or the military. So he was given a threadbare inheritance - an old estate on a rocky beach. The only prosperous souls in our holdings were the smugglers, and smugglers, of course, pay no taxes. So. The way out of such genteel poverty would be to make a favorable match, but my father also had no charm. And so my mother came with next to no dowry at all, and our fate was set.
This is not, of course, to imply that poor families cannot be happy. Many who are without money are rich in love. But our coffers were bare there, as well - as you'll likely be unsurprised to hear. You're well aware how irksome I am when I am but a mere acquaintance; imagine how irksome it would be to have me as your son and heir. Combine that with the Rutyer family's curse of madness, which bit at my father - led him to the most peculiar obsessions, an odd desire to accumulate the strangest things and pile them up in great rotting heaps - Well. The stench alone would have driven an even-tempered and cheerful lad into melancholic fits.
[ His shrug is nearly audible. ]
I imagine you were likely hoping for something more interesting - I fear it's all dreadfully ordinary.
[ Mid-morning, backed by the passing snatches of conversation and footsteps and clattering wheels on cobblestones that mark a Hightown street, and the ceramic and metal clinks that mark a café: ]
Mon amant aux longues jambes— [ sing-song, as it's part of an actual song ] —are you awake? [ Stage whispering now, ] Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
[ You know it's solid when you're confident enough to be deliberately obnoxious in the morning. Some of it is that Bastien is tired, wired, and at three little Antivan coffees and counting—but still. He could restrain himself. ]
Wake up.
Mon amant aux longues jambes— [ sing-song, as it's part of an actual song ] —are you awake? [ Stage whispering now, ] Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
[ You know it's solid when you're confident enough to be deliberately obnoxious in the morning. Some of it is that Bastien is tired, wired, and at three little Antivan coffees and counting—but still. He could restrain himself. ]
Wake up.
[ It's the third one that gets Byerly awake - sort of. His acknowledgment isn't so much a yes, good morning, what is it as a mumble that, if one were to really concentrate, bears some small resemblance to Que s'est-il passé? And then the unmistakable sound of smacking lips as he clears out some of his morning-breath. ]
Wake—ah, te voilà, mon prince.
[ And Bastien goes on merrily in Orlesian, since that is the mode that Byerly's sleep-sludgy brain is in. The thoughtfulness of the language choice is somewhat countered by his caffeinated speed. ]
I have a made a grave mistake. Percy caught me this morning in the market, and he said he was thinking of calling off his Wicked Grace games, because for the third week in a row only two people had come—and of course no one comes, after the way he has behaved. But he looked so sad. In the moment I thought, you know, maybe he has learned his lesson? Maybe it will be different? —anyway, I promised we would come tonight. But I forgot until he walked away, [ on account of the sleep deprivation; he doesn't usually forget these things, ] we also said we would have dinner with Lady Azaïs and her Antivan friends, and that is important for the war or whatever. And we have to go play at the Rusted Anchor tonight, because Geraldine says it is the last night those Vashoth mercenaries will be in Kirkwall. That would leave us only an hour or so for Percy, and I think that will break him. I think he will cry.
My proposal is, we set his house on fire.
[ And Bastien goes on merrily in Orlesian, since that is the mode that Byerly's sleep-sludgy brain is in. The thoughtfulness of the language choice is somewhat countered by his caffeinated speed. ]
I have a made a grave mistake. Percy caught me this morning in the market, and he said he was thinking of calling off his Wicked Grace games, because for the third week in a row only two people had come—and of course no one comes, after the way he has behaved. But he looked so sad. In the moment I thought, you know, maybe he has learned his lesson? Maybe it will be different? —anyway, I promised we would come tonight. But I forgot until he walked away, [ on account of the sleep deprivation; he doesn't usually forget these things, ] we also said we would have dinner with Lady Azaïs and her Antivan friends, and that is important for the war or whatever. And we have to go play at the Rusted Anchor tonight, because Geraldine says it is the last night those Vashoth mercenaries will be in Kirkwall. That would leave us only an hour or so for Percy, and I think that will break him. I think he will cry.
My proposal is, we set his house on fire.
[ Byerly's only awake enough to tune in halfway through, so he doesn't fully follow the story. But one thing's for certain: if Bastien is proposing setting someone's house on fire, that house deserves to burn. So, yawning, still in Orlesian: ]
Is it made of wood, or of stone? His house. Just so we know what supplies to bring.
Is it made of wood, or of stone? His house. Just so we know what supplies to bring.
[ Yes, good assessment, this is 100% a fantastic and rational plan. ]
Stone. But we don't need it to burn down. I don't think it would be possible to completely destroy it without risking the neighbors' houses, too. We only need to damage it enough for him to cancel his game.
Stone. But we don't need it to burn down. I don't think it would be possible to completely destroy it without risking the neighbors' houses, too. We only need to damage it enough for him to cancel his game.
Having dinner with Lady Azaïs and her Antivans—
[ His dire emergency solved, more or less, Bastien resumes eating his café breakfast and drinking his fourth cup of coffee, with all the pauses that requires. ]
—showing up for Percy's Wicked Grace game to say hello and unleash the crickets, going to the Rusted Anchor to play and flirt with Vashoth mercenaries. They are going to let us feel their muscles tonight. I sense it in my bones.
[ His dire emergency solved, more or less, Bastien resumes eating his café breakfast and drinking his fourth cup of coffee, with all the pauses that requires. ]
—showing up for Percy's Wicked Grace game to say hello and unleash the crickets, going to the Rusted Anchor to play and flirt with Vashoth mercenaries. They are going to let us feel their muscles tonight. I sense it in my bones.
[ He rests his cheek on his fist over his little table and grins into his coffee. He loves them so much. ]
Of course she can understand me. She is the smartest dog in the world. Even cleverer than the mabari—she pretends not to understand, most of the time, so no one makes her go into battle. If mabari were really smart they would do the same thing.
Of course she can understand me. She is the smartest dog in the world. Even cleverer than the mabari—she pretends not to understand, most of the time, so no one makes her go into battle. If mabari were really smart they would do the same thing.
[ A delighted laugh. ]
You know, I think you might have something there. [ In cooing Orlesian - because Byerly usually speaks to Whiskey in his mother tongue - ] Are you smarter than a mabari? Are you? Yes, yes, and you have the wrinkliest face -
[ Then lots of kissy noises. ]
You know, I think you might have something there. [ In cooing Orlesian - because Byerly usually speaks to Whiskey in his mother tongue - ] Are you smarter than a mabari? Are you? Yes, yes, and you have the wrinkliest face -
[ Then lots of kissy noises. ]
[ Bastien turns his mouth into his fist to laugh against his knuckles. ]
Maker, you're cute.
[ He can imagine it perfectly: By's bedhead, Whiskey's wriggling. ]
I'll bring you a sausage, too. Or... it is not too late, they still have some pain au chocolat.
Maker, you're cute.
[ He can imagine it perfectly: By's bedhead, Whiskey's wriggling. ]
I'll bring you a sausage, too. Or... it is not too late, they still have some pain au chocolat.
Mmmmm.
[ Clear that it's the pain au chocolat that catches his fancy. There's the sound of a luxurious stretch. But he does say: ]
I could go out and meet you. You don't have to bring it to me.
[ Because he does still remember that incident with Bastien bringing him and Lexie breakfast, and the whole mess that had resulted. By will certainly let Bastien bring him things, of course - has, often - but he never wants to seem like he's taking it for granted. ]
[ Clear that it's the pain au chocolat that catches his fancy. There's the sound of a luxurious stretch. But he does say: ]
I could go out and meet you. You don't have to bring it to me.
[ Because he does still remember that incident with Bastien bringing him and Lexie breakfast, and the whole mess that had resulted. By will certainly let Bastien bring him things, of course - has, often - but he never wants to seem like he's taking it for granted. ]
[ Bastien's answering hum is warm—aware of how respectful it is, if not the deliberate thoughtfulness behind it. Of course, he's grown to rather like fetching breakfast in bed. It's an excuse to linger that much longer in affectionate dishevelment before going off to have their souls crushed by their desks and coworkers. But Bastien remembers that incident, too, and his response has been to peacefully cede the entire territory of Byerly's bedroom to Alexandrie.
(Not that it's all selflessness at play. He likes the sense of privacy; he likes having control of the space; he likes the bed he sleeps in all the time smelling like By; he likes not needing to check anyone else's schedule to know where he's sleeping; he likes not even beginning to get attached to Byerly's bedroom, to begin to feel at home there, at the risk of feeling banished to some colder, lonelier place for half the week.)
So breakfast in bed is out of the question on this particular morning anyway.
Fortunately, getting By out of the Gallows altogether is just as good. Maybe better. ]
Come meet me at the docks? It will probably take me as long to get there as you.
(Not that it's all selflessness at play. He likes the sense of privacy; he likes having control of the space; he likes the bed he sleeps in all the time smelling like By; he likes not needing to check anyone else's schedule to know where he's sleeping; he likes not even beginning to get attached to Byerly's bedroom, to begin to feel at home there, at the risk of feeling banished to some colder, lonelier place for half the week.)
So breakfast in bed is out of the question on this particular morning anyway.
Fortunately, getting By out of the Gallows altogether is just as good. Maybe better. ]
Come meet me at the docks? It will probably take me as long to get there as you.
[ It's early for By to be getting out of bed, admittedly - but, well, Bastien seems to be in such a chipper mood, and it's so charming, that By would sooner lose a full night's sleep than lose this. So he hums in agreement, though warns him - ]
I won't shave. Or dress nice. Don't plan for us to go any place reputable.
I won't shave. Or dress nice. Don't plan for us to go any place reputable.
[ Bastien makes a quietly satisfied noise that his café neighbors might think is meant for the last bites of his pastry. He loves Byerly neatly groomed and dressed to the nines—obviously—but this he looks forward to, too. Novelty! ]
We have never been anywhere reputable, my love. Everywhere we go becomes disreputable the moment we arrive.
We have never been anywhere reputable, my love. Everywhere we go becomes disreputable the moment we arrive.
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