[ Byerly, dramatic as ever, has stepped out into the rain with arms spread, hoping he cuts a fine image that way. Well, and also, being rained on feels nice when you're drunk.
It takes him a moment to catch up, especially as he's distracted by praising Whiskey for being such a good girl for pooping so well. Once he does - ]
[ Bastien leans against the column beside him, cheek squashing on stone. Byerly does cut a fine figure, wet and shirtless and moonlit, and somehow even a finer one when he's being sweet and effusive with his dog. ]
[ Bastien makes a face and a disgruntled noise of vague disagreement. ]
I was going to say the Maker will want you, right here—
[ He crooks his arm. It’s meant to suggest the Maker putting his arm around Byerly and keeping him snuggled right up to His Divine Hip, but the blanket cloak might make it hard to tell. ]
—but if you are going to be mean, then I don’t know.
[ Bastien can’t just drop his sulk in an instant. It’s a matter of pride. But it does begin to thaw. ]
You have to stop calling me cute, [ to find something else to hang that sulk on, while he crouches to pet the wet dog, ] when I’m forty.
Until then it’s fine.
[ Sober, he’d be more cautious about presuming out loud that Byerly will be calling him anything in three years. Or maybe he wouldn’t be anymore, after swallowing the sun.
In any case, he’s fully thawed by now. ]
Why don’t you think the Maker will take you? [ He takes a guess and argues with it unprompted: ] Andraste’s army—they must have hurt all kinds of people, for the cause.
[ He smiles down at his feet, his expression strange in that way it gets. ]
I think it's fairly universally acknowledged that there are certain types of villainy that are more righteous than others. My work is slimy. No one likes slime.
I’m not sure I should be letting you talk about my lover that way.
[ Gentler than his pouting about Ellis, but not because he cares less. He cares more. He cares about what Byerly thinks—about himself and the world and what’s beyond it—too much to cover his mouth (metaphorically) and say I love you so shut up. Same reason he sounds more curious than argumentative as he goes on, scratching Whiskey’s neck and looking up at him and his strange expression. ]
You think what you do is worse than burning a village?
No. But I don't think there's necessarily a direct relationship between what's worse and what's more despised, eh? Just think of all the Chevaliers you know of. Dripping in glory.
[ Bastien looks a little befuddled. Byerly’s a smart drunk—he knew that, of course, but he’d always had his sneaky not-actually-drunk advantage helping him out.
He also looks a little afraid.
Then he wiggles his face free of it. (Literally. There’s nose wiggling.) What started this? Right— ]
You do this sort of thing to fix the world. [ He leans against By for the same reason Whiskey is leaning against him. ] And I think it matters even if you can’t.
[ By sees that fear. Doesn't really fully understand it. Is Bastien afraid of an unjust Maker? - Well, and rightly so. ]
I do this sort of thing because -
[ He strokes Bastien's hair, running his fingertips through it. ]
Everyone needs someone on their side. No one should ever go through life without anyone looking out for them. So even if it's quiet, even if they just think it was a good Fade spirit and never even notice the drunkard in the corner who was watching them and listening, it still matters. That good Fade spirit will bring them some joy. Everyone deserves that.
[ Bastien is afraid of the Void, on the rare occasion the thought of it feels real enough to be frightening, and if Byerly doesn't have hope for himself then there's certainly none for Bastien—
But he's already left the fear behind. He smiles, and he presses the smile into Byerly's shoulder while he nods. Byerly whose religion would be kindness and laughter, Byerly who loves the world too much to want the Maker's return, Byerly who thinks decency is more common than not—Bastien keeps those moments tucked somewhere safe in his chest. This one goes in with them. ]
Then it's not in vain, if that's all the good you do. It matters to someone.
[ Bastien leans back far enough to see the shyness on his face instead of only hearing it in his voice, because it’s sweet, and smiles. Outright beams, even, for a moment. ]
I think it’s easier for me, you know, to be genuine with people… sometimes… [ important qualifier ] when I know you have seen me and you want to keep looking. I hope I can be that for you.
[ That’s the selfless side of his love. Mixed with the prideful part, perhaps—the look what I have part—but mostly selfless, mostly the pure desire for Byerly to be known and appreciated.
And here’s the selfish one, confessed with self-aware amusement: ]
But I also want to sit on top of your secrets like a dragon.
[ Still no jump reflex, even drunk. It's long long gone. But he laughs, while he takes Byerly's hand to hold. ]
It is pretty good, huh?
[ He bumps him with his hip before pulling him along for a walk. A walk toward the other tower, the one he lives in, even though it means leaving the cushions and shirts and open bottle on the floor upstairs. (He's not subtle about avoiding Byerly's room, especially after that morning in Wintermarch, but he's also not secretly even slightly miserable about it.) The rain is still gentle beyond their overhangs, Whiskey is still precious, and Bastien's getting tired and heavy but is still buzzy with affection. If he hadn't already decided to be stubborn about his given name, this would be the moment—but he has, and he's very good at not changing his mind once he's really made it up, so the impulse to give something to Byerly comes out instead as, ]
I'm going with you after the war. Did you already know that?
Exactly. And honestly, I like stew. It has so many different parts, it cannot get boring. And Fereldans love me. Even the ones who hate Orlesians, they can’t hate me. I don’t know what it is.
[ Jokes. They’re wonderful things. Bastien’s mostly looking ahead, watching Whiskey trot ahead of them, but he keeps hold of By’s hand. ]
I have a whole list. [ Of reasons to go. Whiskey, stew, being probably universally adored by his neighbors, etc. ] I’ve been thinking about it for a while.
[ With a considerable dose of honesty, Byerly says: ] I think you've more in common with a Fereldan nobleman than you have with an Orlesian one. And certainly more in common with a Freeman than a Comte.
[ Then: ]
Do you want to tell me the list? Or do you want to give it to me bit by bit when my mood is sour.
[ Bastien hums, considering. On one hand: the way being drunk makes saying everything in his head seem like the best. On the other: the imagined tense lines of some future Byerly’s sour face and the way they might relax for him. ]
Bit by bit.
[ He doesn’t contemplate Ferelden all the way to his room. He contemplates it partway, but then he looks up at the sky and gets a raindrop up his nose, so that’s a whole thing, and halfway up the stairs he stumbles and has to explain to Byerly how sludgy his legs feel like he’s the first person to ever experience it. But once they’ve made it, and while he’s drafted By into helping him construct a dog bed out of extra blankets (as if he’ll actually make Whiskey sleep on it if she prefers their feet) his mind wanders back to Fereldans, and what he has in common with them, and what it might be like to live there, and— ]
Your father—it’s not common there, is it? For people to mind that much about sex and men and… men.
[ He wishes he could lie to Bastien. Because it gives him a sudden frisson of fear. By had already been imagining it - him and Bastien together, leaning against one another, in a little apartment in Denerim, crossing up to Val Royeaux, popping over to Kirkwall, never staying in the same place long enough to be properly known by anyone, always a mystery and always a delight. But the truth of the matter...What if it makes Bastien rethink it? Because the truth is, he remembers it well. The way the Chantry mothers had paled with horror at the liberties he'd taken. The way that the villagers had muttered about him with innuendo and condemnation. Even in Denerim, there'd been one or two people who'd gritted their teeth. ]
It depends. On the person, and on where you are. Most people see it as an odd little habit, like eating raw onions or fishing with your bare hands or something of the like. Obviously no one really cares too much - it's Ferelden, after all; what you do is your business. So. But. [ He works up his courage and admits: ] It's not like Orlais.
[ The look he shoots Bastien gives information enough, to be sure: wincing, uncertain, like he's ready for horror in return. Not the face of a man who's been persecuted, but the face of a man who's asking his lover to move into less comfortable circumstances. ]
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It takes him a moment to catch up, especially as he's distracted by praising Whiskey for being such a good girl for pooping so well. Once he does - ]
What, standing at the Maker's side?
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Would you like that? Maybe He's handsome.
[ Bastien leans against the column beside him, cheek squashing on stone. Byerly does cut a fine figure, wet and shirtless and moonlit, and somehow even a finer one when he's being sweet and effusive with his dog. ]
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[ And then, with a laugh - ]
Besides, I don't really think that's where I'll end up.
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I like Ellis. He gives me things to read.
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Teacher's pet!
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I was going to say the Maker will want you, right here—
[ He crooks his arm. It’s meant to suggest the Maker putting his arm around Byerly and keeping him snuggled right up to His Divine Hip, but the blanket cloak might make it hard to tell. ]
—but if you are going to be mean, then I don’t know.
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[ The delight persists as he gathers up Whiskey and brings her back under shelter. ]
I love that about you. It's cute.
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You have to stop calling me cute, [ to find something else to hang that sulk on, while he crouches to pet the wet dog, ] when I’m forty.
Until then it’s fine.
[ Sober, he’d be more cautious about presuming out loud that Byerly will be calling him anything in three years. Or maybe he wouldn’t be anymore, after swallowing the sun.
In any case, he’s fully thawed by now. ]
Why don’t you think the Maker will take you? [ He takes a guess and argues with it unprompted: ] Andraste’s army—they must have hurt all kinds of people, for the cause.
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[ He smiles down at his feet, his expression strange in that way it gets. ]
I think it's fairly universally acknowledged that there are certain types of villainy that are more righteous than others. My work is slimy. No one likes slime.
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[ Gentler than his pouting about Ellis, but not because he cares less. He cares more. He cares about what Byerly thinks—about himself and the world and what’s beyond it—too much to cover his mouth (metaphorically) and say I love you so shut up. Same reason he sounds more curious than argumentative as he goes on, scratching Whiskey’s neck and looking up at him and his strange expression. ]
You think what you do is worse than burning a village?
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[ The strange little smile twitches a bit. ]
No. But I don't think there's necessarily a direct relationship between what's worse and what's more despised, eh? Just think of all the Chevaliers you know of. Dripping in glory.
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[ He gives Whiskey a hug around the neck before he stands up. ]
That’s glory from us. We’re stupid.
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And the Maker is not, is the supposition? Perhaps not, but it is hard to argue that He is just.
[ And - ]
And a person shouldn't do this sort of thing because they're looking for some sort of treat in the afterlife.
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[ Bastien looks a little befuddled. Byerly’s a smart drunk—he knew that, of course, but he’d always had his sneaky not-actually-drunk advantage helping him out.
He also looks a little afraid.
Then he wiggles his face free of it. (Literally. There’s nose wiggling.) What started this? Right— ]
You do this sort of thing to fix the world. [ He leans against By for the same reason Whiskey is leaning against him. ] And I think it matters even if you can’t.
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I do this sort of thing because -
[ He strokes Bastien's hair, running his fingertips through it. ]
Everyone needs someone on their side. No one should ever go through life without anyone looking out for them. So even if it's quiet, even if they just think it was a good Fade spirit and never even notice the drunkard in the corner who was watching them and listening, it still matters. That good Fade spirit will bring them some joy. Everyone deserves that.
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But he's already left the fear behind. He smiles, and he presses the smile into Byerly's shoulder while he nods. Byerly whose religion would be kindness and laughter, Byerly who loves the world too much to want the Maker's return, Byerly who thinks decency is more common than not—Bastien keeps those moments tucked somewhere safe in his chest. This one goes in with them. ]
Then it's not in vain, if that's all the good you do. It matters to someone.
I am sorry about the agony, though.
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[ He's quiet a moment, and then says, a bit of shyness breaking through that clinical precision that alcohol brings to him - ]
It's nice to be seen, you know. I didn't really know how much until you started looking at me.
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I think it’s easier for me, you know, to be genuine with people… sometimes… [ important qualifier ] when I know you have seen me and you want to keep looking. I hope I can be that for you.
[ That’s the selfless side of his love. Mixed with the prideful part, perhaps—the look what I have part—but mostly selfless, mostly the pure desire for Byerly to be known and appreciated.
And here’s the selfish one, confessed with self-aware amusement: ]
But I also want to sit on top of your secrets like a dragon.
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A brainy little dragon with well-stocked bookshelves, and perhaps a pair of glasses perched upon his scaly nose. And a tight arse.
[ A pinch to said arse, for good measure. ]
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It is pretty good, huh?
[ He bumps him with his hip before pulling him along for a walk. A walk toward the other tower, the one he lives in, even though it means leaving the cushions and shirts and open bottle on the floor upstairs. (He's not subtle about avoiding Byerly's room, especially after that morning in Wintermarch, but he's also not secretly even slightly miserable about it.) The rain is still gentle beyond their overhangs, Whiskey is still precious, and Bastien's getting tired and heavy but is still buzzy with affection. If he hadn't already decided to be stubborn about his given name, this would be the moment—but he has, and he's very good at not changing his mind once he's really made it up, so the impulse to give something to Byerly comes out instead as, ]
I'm going with you after the war. Did you already know that?
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I - didn't. When did you decide? [ Because he needs to make a little bit of a joke of it - ] You just want to stay with Whiskey.
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[ Jokes. They’re wonderful things. Bastien’s mostly looking ahead, watching Whiskey trot ahead of them, but he keeps hold of By’s hand. ]
I have a whole list. [ Of reasons to go. Whiskey, stew, being probably universally adored by his neighbors, etc. ] I’ve been thinking about it for a while.
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[ Then: ]
Do you want to tell me the list? Or do you want to give it to me bit by bit when my mood is sour.
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Bit by bit.
[ He doesn’t contemplate Ferelden all the way to his room. He contemplates it partway, but then he looks up at the sky and gets a raindrop up his nose, so that’s a whole thing, and halfway up the stairs he stumbles and has to explain to Byerly how sludgy his legs feel like he’s the first person to ever experience it. But once they’ve made it, and while he’s drafted By into helping him construct a dog bed out of extra blankets (as if he’ll actually make Whiskey sleep on it if she prefers their feet) his mind wanders back to Fereldans, and what he has in common with them, and what it might be like to live there, and— ]
Your father—it’s not common there, is it? For people to mind that much about sex and men and… men.
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[ He wishes he could lie to Bastien. Because it gives him a sudden frisson of fear. By had already been imagining it - him and Bastien together, leaning against one another, in a little apartment in Denerim, crossing up to Val Royeaux, popping over to Kirkwall, never staying in the same place long enough to be properly known by anyone, always a mystery and always a delight. But the truth of the matter...What if it makes Bastien rethink it? Because the truth is, he remembers it well. The way the Chantry mothers had paled with horror at the liberties he'd taken. The way that the villagers had muttered about him with innuendo and condemnation. Even in Denerim, there'd been one or two people who'd gritted their teeth. ]
It depends. On the person, and on where you are. Most people see it as an odd little habit, like eating raw onions or fishing with your bare hands or something of the like. Obviously no one really cares too much - it's Ferelden, after all; what you do is your business. So. But. [ He works up his courage and admits: ] It's not like Orlais.
[ The look he shoots Bastien gives information enough, to be sure: wincing, uncertain, like he's ready for horror in return. Not the face of a man who's been persecuted, but the face of a man who's asking his lover to move into less comfortable circumstances. ]
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