[ He lets go of one foot so he can try using his fingernails to tickle the arch of the one he's still holding by the ankle, with an expression akin to a alchemist pouring one experimental liquid into another. ]
[ One good for the objectivity, one for the twitch. Bastien transfers Byerly's foot to his shoulder, holds his leg a bit like he's planning to take it with him somewhere, and kisses him on his elegant ankle. ]
Because I was going to ask you if you wanted me to change divisions or something, but if it is all the same to you, I would rather not.
[ It’s novel, to have the warmth and satisfaction of being flirted with, without the undercurrent of uncertainty. Wondering had its charms, of course. The gamble of it. The dizzying little maybes. Knowing is quiet and sturdy. Odd, to feel like he could lean his weight into something and it might hold.
So Bastien’s smile is subdued and unfocused, when he nudges his cheek back against By’s toes. It makes sense, really, given all the other contradictions—Fereldan and Orlesian, noble and downtrodden, silly dirty playful humor from a mouth that belongs to a haughty portrait over a grand fireplace, his black moods and his self-loathing and his lies and his sweet, earnest, honest heart—that Byerly could put his smelly foot on a man’s face and make him feel treasured. ]
Well, [ Bastien says once he’s had a moment to deal with that, face sharpening with mischief while he slides his hand down Byerly’s leg— ] some trouble, I hope.
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How about you?
[ He twists around - a little surprisingly limber - to maneuver his feet into the vicinity of Bastien's face. ]
Would you like this incredible gift?
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L’essence du Byerly. [ And some very serious bullshit: ] Do you spend more time on the left foot when you bathe?
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[ In mock-offense: ]
I am a division head in Riftwatch. I show no partiality.
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[ He lets go of one foot so he can try using his fingernails to tickle the arch of the one he's still holding by the ankle, with an expression akin to a alchemist pouring one experimental liquid into another. ]
None at all?
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[ He twitches just a bit - a slight ticklish reaction. ]
You're just like any other soldier to me.
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[ One good for the objectivity, one for the twitch. Bastien transfers Byerly's foot to his shoulder, holds his leg a bit like he's planning to take it with him somewhere, and kisses him on his elegant ankle. ]
Because I was going to ask you if you wanted me to change divisions or something, but if it is all the same to you, I would rather not.
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[ He grins idly, and uses his long toes to stroke Bastien's cheek. ]
Not because I think you'll get in trouble; I just like looking at you.
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So Bastien’s smile is subdued and unfocused, when he nudges his cheek back against By’s toes. It makes sense, really, given all the other contradictions—Fereldan and Orlesian, noble and downtrodden, silly dirty playful humor from a mouth that belongs to a haughty portrait over a grand fireplace, his black moods and his self-loathing and his lies and his sweet, earnest, honest heart—that Byerly could put his smelly foot on a man’s face and make him feel treasured. ]
Well, [ Bastien says once he’s had a moment to deal with that, face sharpening with mischief while he slides his hand down Byerly’s leg— ] some trouble, I hope.