[ Bastien hums in sympathy. No one to stop people from breezing right in—like he’s just done, but he’s special and he knows it, so he doesn’t feel sorry.
He gives Whiskey a last rub, more vigorous in parting, and brings his bag far enough to drop it into a chair on his way to Byerly’s desk.
He doesn’t sit on it. There’s always something inherently flirty about that, even when he really is just stopping by to chat. But he can’t abide sitting across from him, either, like this is some sort of official meeting, so he comes partway around instead, stopping to lean against the short end, off to Byerly’s side. ]
no subject
He gives Whiskey a last rub, more vigorous in parting, and brings his bag far enough to drop it into a chair on his way to Byerly’s desk.
He doesn’t sit on it. There’s always something inherently flirty about that, even when he really is just stopping by to chat. But he can’t abide sitting across from him, either, like this is some sort of official meeting, so he comes partway around instead, stopping to lean against the short end, off to Byerly’s side. ]
By.
[ Equal parts imploring and firm. ]
Come on. Tell me you’re angry.