[ He reaches down into the water to demand Bastien's foot to rub. ]
I'll agree that you're easy to be selfish with. If a fellow were inclined to take from you, and take, and take, you'd permit that to happen. I expect you'd be miserable, but you'd permit it. [ A cocked eyebrow. ] But giving to you is a difficult thing indeed.
[ Bastien thinks about that. He's thinking hard enough about it that it takes him a second to understand what Byerly's hands are after—but once he does get it, he obliges, pruny toes and all. ]
You do a very good job of it— [ more contemplative than argumentative ] —I think. That hot chocolate alone.
[ Probably not what he means. And not even the best example of the purely material giving he's done. But—lightness. ]
[ Bastien smiles. The coffee, too. The book, which put a lump in his throat that could only be removed by crying or by dragging Byerly to bed. The song living in his sending crystal, which he's listened to so many times he could sing it nearly perfectly, despite not understanding a bit of it. ]
But not—support?
[ A guess. He'll certainly take this foot rub, at least, shoulders going limp against the wall of the bathing pool. ]
[ By shakes his head. No, that's not it. He presses his thumb into one of the points of tension, and says: ]
Not attention. You pull back from being seen. A fine quality in a Bard - [ A lift of his eyebrows. ] But. I think that much of love depends on being able to make oneself seen. You, though, were taught to be as invisible as Serault glass.
[ A pinch on his big toe. ] So you're quite difficult. But once a fellow can discern those little crystalline etchings on that glass, they're magnificently beautiful.
[ Bastien’s quiet for a moment, turning boneless over the massage and warm over the beautiful and thoughtful over the rest. He doesn’t know (because he’s wrong) if he would concede that he was taught to be invisible, rather than his bardmaster harnessing some innate insubstantiality that’s always made it easy for him to slide out of people’s sight and lives and hearts like he was never there at all.
But it doesn’t really matter. The end is the same: ]
I suppose I am very lucky you enjoy a little challenge, then.
[ He smiles and wiggles his erstwhile-pinched toe. ]
[ It’s one thing to give himself a pep talk. Another to hear it from the source. Bastien says, ]
Yeah,
[ but it’s not knowing or smug. It’s hushed and wondering. Yeah; how amazing.
A moment, quiet and still, to wrap the thought in paper and tuck it into his heart. Then he smiles and folds his arms against the wall behind his head, stretches his legs longer, and settles into a pantomime of cockiness to repeat, ]
So into me. I could shave off my hair. I could wear head to toe beige. You would still kiss me.
You could eat anchovy every day and wash as rarely as that Edgard fellow. You could be followed around by a children's choir that's constantly singing.
[ He returns to massaging that foot as they move away from sincerity and into something far more comfortable. ]
[ He wiggles his toes again—nails neatly trimmed, thank you—and the feigned cockiness bleeds out of him, even though he doesn’t move much. What’s left behind is settled and happy, relaxed from the foot up, watching Byerly’s eyelashes move. ]
Well, you could grow your hair long and begin braiding it into your beard. Just one long uninterrupted— [ a hand is freed from behind him to illustrate the sweep of hair from head down to chest. ] Or you could become that fellow who is always laughing loudly at the wrong moment at the theatre. You could insist on calling your dick Little Byerly. You could even make me do it.
[ Penetrated on two separate fronts, Bastien thinks to add but does not. Alexandrie is too much Madame d’Asgard, to him, for him to include her in a dirty joke she hasn’t started herself.
But he’s pleased to have earned a cackle, so in lieu of it, he piles on, ]
The only nobleman to sow all of his own oats. The only lord I’ll ever kneel before and mean it.
[ Bastien's relaxed enough for the tickling to make him nearly laugh—a hitched noise in this throat—but he nods and rubs a hand over his face, leaving behind an expression with much less heat mixed in with the amusement.
It's not directly related; Byerly wouldn't be acting on it either way. But it's only a couple of mental stepping stones to arrive at, ]
[ Byerly, who has made a career of being so noisily unsecretive that no one has any desire to ask any questions lest he start talking again, cocks his head at the Bard. ]
[ He pulls his foot free, but only to nudge the other into Byerly's hands in its place. ]
We could be. We might have to step up our game a little bit, if we don't want anyone to notice. I could go up to the griffon eyrie and rappel down to your window after dark.
Or we could go on a mission to the mountains where - oh no - there's only a single cabin - and within that cabin, but one bed, and on it, a single blanket...
[ He takes up the new foot and starts massaging it vigorously. ]
Right. Alright. [ He rolls his shoulders and rouses himself to think more clearly. ] Reasons to be a secret, first.
One, you have to be a little respectable, and openly having a wife and a mistress and a— [ Why is the male equivalent of mistress mister? That’s terrible. He gestures vaguely to himself instead. ] It won’t help. Not here. Maybe in Orlais.
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Yes, you are.
[ He reaches down into the water to demand Bastien's foot to rub. ]
I'll agree that you're easy to be selfish with. If a fellow were inclined to take from you, and take, and take, you'd permit that to happen. I expect you'd be miserable, but you'd permit it. [ A cocked eyebrow. ] But giving to you is a difficult thing indeed.
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You do a very good job of it— [ more contemplative than argumentative ] —I think. That hot chocolate alone.
[ Probably not what he means. And not even the best example of the purely material giving he's done. But—lightness. ]
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[ Light in return. But, a little less so, as he starts to rub: ]
But it's not just about...things. You'll take things.
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But not—support?
[ A guess. He'll certainly take this foot rub, at least, shoulders going limp against the wall of the bathing pool. ]
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Not attention. You pull back from being seen. A fine quality in a Bard - [ A lift of his eyebrows. ] But. I think that much of love depends on being able to make oneself seen. You, though, were taught to be as invisible as Serault glass.
[ A pinch on his big toe. ] So you're quite difficult. But once a fellow can discern those little crystalline etchings on that glass, they're magnificently beautiful.
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But it doesn’t really matter. The end is the same: ]
I suppose I am very lucky you enjoy a little challenge, then.
[ He smiles and wiggles his erstwhile-pinched toe. ]
Thank you for looking.
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[ He goes down the line and pinches every toe in turn. He lingers for a moment over the pinky toe, gently working it back and forth, as he says: ]
And I don't want you because you're easy, or because you're hard. I just want you.
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Yeah,
[ but it’s not knowing or smug. It’s hushed and wondering. Yeah; how amazing.
A moment, quiet and still, to wrap the thought in paper and tuck it into his heart. Then he smiles and folds his arms against the wall behind his head, stretches his legs longer, and settles into a pantomime of cockiness to repeat, ]
So into me. I could shave off my hair. I could wear head to toe beige. You would still kiss me.
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[ He returns to massaging that foot as they move away from sincerity and into something far more comfortable. ]
You could let your toenails grow out five inches.
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[ He wiggles his toes again—nails neatly trimmed, thank you—and the feigned cockiness bleeds out of him, even though he doesn’t move much. What’s left behind is settled and happy, relaxed from the foot up, watching Byerly’s eyelashes move. ]
Well, you could grow your hair long and begin braiding it into your beard. Just one long uninterrupted— [ a hand is freed from behind him to illustrate the sweep of hair from head down to chest. ] Or you could become that fellow who is always laughing loudly at the wrong moment at the theatre. You could insist on calling your dick Little Byerly. You could even make me do it.
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[ A cheery scoff - ]
You know quite well my dick is named the Bann of Dragonmount.
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The only Bann in history to successfully penetrate Orlesian territory.
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Dirty!
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But he’s pleased to have earned a cackle, so in lieu of it, he piles on, ]
The only nobleman to sow all of his own oats. The only lord I’ll ever kneel before and mean it.
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[ By grins at Bastien and tickles his knee. ]
Now we better stop flirting before I act on it. I can hold my breath a long time, you know.
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It's not directly related; Byerly wouldn't be acting on it either way. But it's only a couple of mental stepping stones to arrive at, ]
Are we a secret?
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I don't know. Are we?
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[ He pulls his foot free, but only to nudge the other into Byerly's hands in its place. ]
We could be. We might have to step up our game a little bit, if we don't want anyone to notice. I could go up to the griffon eyrie and rappel down to your window after dark.
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[ He takes up the new foot and starts massaging it vigorously. ]
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Mm. Any time. Although—if we are ever making up reasons to go somewhere, I want you to take me to Denerim.
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What, it's not too provincial for you, Royan?
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I cannot finish scoring it until I have done a thorough inspection.
[ A fake-snobby drawl, but then he drops it and cracks one eye open, smiling and more sincere. ]
If you show me what you love, I think I will like it.
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[ Evidence to the contrary.
But, circling back: ]
We didn't answer our question.
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One, you have to be a little respectable, and openly having a wife and a mistress and a— [ Why is the male equivalent of mistress mister? That’s terrible. He gestures vaguely to himself instead. ] It won’t help. Not here. Maybe in Orlais.
Two—it’s kind of hot.
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[ He smiles luxuriantly. Because it is hot. ]
And you, potentially, might want to keep yourself open for seduction without having to explain yourself overmuch...?
[ That's a question. By isn't certain how often Bastien seduces. ]
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