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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
[ Bastien grins before he throws it, and while he throws it, and after it’s stuck wetly and pulpily to his cheek.
But he doesn’t laugh, and once he’s peeled the lemon off and dropped it into his own cup, the grin goes away. ]
They are going to be harder on you than I was.
But he doesn’t laugh, and once he’s peeled the lemon off and dropped it into his own cup, the grin goes away. ]
They are going to be harder on you than I was.
[ Once they've done what they can to acquire information and the choice of what to do about it is fully in the Queen's reportedly capable hands, Bastien does what surely anyone would do after several days of sharing a bedroom with his lover and four of his lover's subordinates and never having a moment alone there or anywhere:
He catches Byerly by the shoulders outside their inn, on their last evening in Denerim, and hauls him into the adjacent alley's shadows to kiss. It's a long, thorough, collar-gripping, ass-grabbing kind of kiss, but it does have an end, because he's not about to have public sex just outside the inn that's hosting all of their colleagues, in a country not known for being libertine.
So he stops. He loosens his grip on By's clothing and pats it flat. He sniffles; it's cold. ]
Hello.
He catches Byerly by the shoulders outside their inn, on their last evening in Denerim, and hauls him into the adjacent alley's shadows to kiss. It's a long, thorough, collar-gripping, ass-grabbing kind of kiss, but it does have an end, because he's not about to have public sex just outside the inn that's hosting all of their colleagues, in a country not known for being libertine.
So he stops. He loosens his grip on By's clothing and pats it flat. He sniffles; it's cold. ]
Hello.
[ At the end of that kiss - that magnificent kiss - Byerly lets out a helpless little huff of laughter and drops his forehead against Bastien's. His hands are still tucked beneath Bastien's shirt, laying against his bare skin; he doesn't remove them quite yet, taking the opportunity instead to caress his bare skin. (And to warm his fingers.) ]
Hello. You're going to kill me.
[ Hot and bothered without any way to take care of it - pure torture. ]
Hello. You're going to kill me.
[ Hot and bothered without any way to take care of it - pure torture. ]
[ Maybe Bastien would be sorry if he weren't the one who just got desperate enough to drag Byerly into an alley to make out. But he is, so: now they're even, and he's all smugness and mischief about it. ]
Only a little.
[ He taps his nose against By's. It nearly turns into further kissing, but catches himself and leans his head back an inch. ]
Maybe you should distract me.
Only a little.
[ He taps his nose against By's. It nearly turns into further kissing, but catches himself and leans his head back an inch. ]
Maybe you should distract me.
Mm.
[ All the care of a bard who used to make all sorts of verbal agreements he'd be risking his life to break afterwards goes into, ]
I promise to be more glad to know more of you than sad about what I know, and if there is some sadness mixed in, all it will do is make me hold onto you a little tighter sometimes. Not despair or regret knowing. Deal?
[ All the care of a bard who used to make all sorts of verbal agreements he'd be risking his life to break afterwards goes into, ]
I promise to be more glad to know more of you than sad about what I know, and if there is some sadness mixed in, all it will do is make me hold onto you a little tighter sometimes. Not despair or regret knowing. Deal?
[ After that nuzzling, it is perhaps entirely unforgivable that Bastien spits in his own palm for real, not pretend, and snatches By’s hand for a slimy shake.
Or perhaps entirely forgivable, given all the spit they’ve swapped already.
Bastien drags Byerly back out into the street by their clasped hands. Then he lets go as naturally as if he were just not much of a hand-holder, rather than someone avoiding it in a place it’s a more unusual sight, in their specific circumstances. ]
Where first?
Or perhaps entirely forgivable, given all the spit they’ve swapped already.
Bastien drags Byerly back out into the street by their clasped hands. Then he lets go as naturally as if he were just not much of a hand-holder, rather than someone avoiding it in a place it’s a more unusual sight, in their specific circumstances. ]
Where first?
Josias, sweet and earnest, apparently misses the unspoken prompt to leave - if not the office, then at least Byerly's immediate presence. He trails after him to his desk, instead, lingering awkwardly beside it before offering:
"Then we both stop. There is evening still. Ah, young?"
A look for confirmation, this phrase he's apparently only recently learnt, as confident in it as the rest of his Trade: not much.
"Then we both stop. There is evening still. Ah, young?"
A look for confirmation, this phrase he's apparently only recently learnt, as confident in it as the rest of his Trade: not much.
"The night is young," he corrects. It's damned annoying, how endearing it is to hear a well-intentioned young man butchering Trade idioms. And he has that adorable Antivan accent, too. Byerly wants to be furious, longs for fury, but it's hard to maintain it when the only object within reach is so round-cheeked and wholesome.
"For whatever reason, evenings cannot be young. Just the night."
He looks down at that correspondence. On top is a request for aid, and the fact that he wants to write fuck off on it without even looking at who it's aid for tells him that, yes, he probably should not be working right now.
"What do you do with your evenings, anyway, di Jaconissa? I cannot imagine you spend much time in dance halls or gambling dens."
"For whatever reason, evenings cannot be young. Just the night."
He looks down at that correspondence. On top is a request for aid, and the fact that he wants to write fuck off on it without even looking at who it's aid for tells him that, yes, he probably should not be working right now.
"What do you do with your evenings, anyway, di Jaconissa? I cannot imagine you spend much time in dance halls or gambling dens."
A thoroughly focussed frown as he absorbs this correction, complete with a soft muttered repeat of evenings cannot be young to fully bed it in. There is very much the impression that he'll still get it wrong next time, though.
"Ah, well, working," he answers, though for once with a look of self-awareness at how the answer fits in this discussion and situation they've both been caught in. "But otherwise, reading. Walking. But that is not as good here, I get lost."
A glance at Benedict's empty desk, there, a touch of colour climbing his cheeks. He pulls his attention back to Byerly. "Is that what you do? Gamble and dance?"
"Ah, well, working," he answers, though for once with a look of self-awareness at how the answer fits in this discussion and situation they've both been caught in. "But otherwise, reading. Walking. But that is not as good here, I get lost."
A glance at Benedict's empty desk, there, a touch of colour climbing his cheeks. He pulls his attention back to Byerly. "Is that what you do? Gamble and dance?"
Byerly's eyes flick briefly between the desk and the blush. Has his assistant been seducing the handsome young bookkeeper when the fellow gets lost? Seems like the sort of thing Benedict would do. But Josias seems a bit too awkward to be easily seduceable.
"At times," Byerly says. And then he thinks a moment and amends, with just the lightest rime of bitterness, "I used to."
His subsequent glance towards his own desk holds a measure of loathing. No question what has gotten in the way of said gambling and dancing.
"You should try it. While you're still young. Sin a little."
"At times," Byerly says. And then he thinks a moment and amends, with just the lightest rime of bitterness, "I used to."
His subsequent glance towards his own desk holds a measure of loathing. No question what has gotten in the way of said gambling and dancing.
"You should try it. While you're still young. Sin a little."
"A bookkeeper gambling is not for trusting."
He looks mildly horrified at the idea. Also probably the idea of dancing, too, seeing as he doesn't mention it at all. Instead, further diversion, focussing on Byerly's tone - to a level probably not so usual for Josias. Subtle reactions and glances don't tend to be things he picks up on, but here, now, a little flexibility must be applied. His true, hungry curiosity for Byerly's poor mood hasn't yet been sated.
"You used to because you aren't young, or because you're ambassador?" he asks, still with that regular earnestness, awkwardly oblivious to the potential insult couched in the question.
He looks mildly horrified at the idea. Also probably the idea of dancing, too, seeing as he doesn't mention it at all. Instead, further diversion, focussing on Byerly's tone - to a level probably not so usual for Josias. Subtle reactions and glances don't tend to be things he picks up on, but here, now, a little flexibility must be applied. His true, hungry curiosity for Byerly's poor mood hasn't yet been sated.
"You used to because you aren't young, or because you're ambassador?" he asks, still with that regular earnestness, awkwardly oblivious to the potential insult couched in the question.
The accidental insult makes Byerly laugh. It's not a particularly merry sound, but that is to be attributed to his mood rather than any real offense. In a better time, he'd actually be quite buoyed by the young man's faux pas.
"Because I'm ambassador," he answers.
Then, perhaps from some sympathy to the poor fellow, he switches over to Antivan. His command of the language certainly isn't as strong as his knowledge of Orlesian or of Trade, but it's decent enough: though he errs frequently in the grammar, mis-conjugating his verbs and mis-gendering his nouns, he speaks with such fluent confidence that a listener might not even notice.
"I want to keep dancing and gambling until I die," he says. "We'll be old men whose hearts give out in front of Wicked Grace."
"Because I'm ambassador," he answers.
Then, perhaps from some sympathy to the poor fellow, he switches over to Antivan. His command of the language certainly isn't as strong as his knowledge of Orlesian or of Trade, but it's decent enough: though he errs frequently in the grammar, mis-conjugating his verbs and mis-gendering his nouns, he speaks with such fluent confidence that a listener might not even notice.
"I want to keep dancing and gambling until I die," he says. "We'll be old men whose hearts give out in front of Wicked Grace."
[ Bastien returns from his (and several other people's) misadventure at sea leaner, tanner, and stubblier than when he left—but otherwise fine. Nary a scratch. A bath, some kisses and sleepy mumbling, and then he invites himself to Byerly's more comfortable bed and passes out asleep for something like fifteen hours.
Presumptuously assuming that Byerly gets any sleep himself in that time frame, whenever he rouses, Bastien is awake and watching him. Which is unusual. Not the awake part; it'd be difficult not to be an earlier riser than Byerly. But he's too much of an energetic morning person to spend a lot of time lying in bed just staring at someone, so more often when Byerly wakes up he's already gotten any necessary minutes of affectionate gazing upon By's precious sleeping face out of his system and is reading or working with a writing board propped on his knees or has gotten out of bed altogether.
His faint smile stretches a little wider when By's eyes are open. ]
My last dream was about you.
Presumptuously assuming that Byerly gets any sleep himself in that time frame, whenever he rouses, Bastien is awake and watching him. Which is unusual. Not the awake part; it'd be difficult not to be an earlier riser than Byerly. But he's too much of an energetic morning person to spend a lot of time lying in bed just staring at someone, so more often when Byerly wakes up he's already gotten any necessary minutes of affectionate gazing upon By's precious sleeping face out of his system and is reading or working with a writing board propped on his knees or has gotten out of bed altogether.
His faint smile stretches a little wider when By's eyes are open. ]
My last dream was about you.
Mm.
[ Byerly's still sleep-muddled and dozy. So his first act is to lift his hand and caress Bastien's cheek, seeking out proof that he's truly there and solid and not, himself, a dream. His thumb runs over his cheekbone, his mustache, the corner of his lip. All there. All real. If the Maker is good and true, never to be away from him again.
(The Maker, Byerly knows, is not good or true. This won't be the last time he suffers this fear. He knows that.) ]
What was I doing?
[ He uses his fingertips to tug very lightly on one of the longer hairs on Bastien's chin. ]
In the dream.
[ Byerly's still sleep-muddled and dozy. So his first act is to lift his hand and caress Bastien's cheek, seeking out proof that he's truly there and solid and not, himself, a dream. His thumb runs over his cheekbone, his mustache, the corner of his lip. All there. All real. If the Maker is good and true, never to be away from him again.
(The Maker, Byerly knows, is not good or true. This won't be the last time he suffers this fear. He knows that.) ]
What was I doing?
[ He uses his fingertips to tug very lightly on one of the longer hairs on Bastien's chin. ]
In the dream.
[ The petting makes Bastien's eyes close again, but they open again at the stubble-tug. ]
Swimming.
[ Why Bastien would be having dreams about the water right now is a mystery, surely. ]
I was in a boat, and you were swimming. You kept going so deep down I couldn't see you anymore, and I would start to worry, but then you would come shooting up like a dolphin and give me something from below. Rocks and seaweed, I think? But I was very pleased to have them.
Swimming.
[ Why Bastien would be having dreams about the water right now is a mystery, surely. ]
I was in a boat, and you were swimming. You kept going so deep down I couldn't see you anymore, and I would start to worry, but then you would come shooting up like a dolphin and give me something from below. Rocks and seaweed, I think? But I was very pleased to have them.
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