[ He laughs. The topic is among his least favorite, yes, this is true, but the little baby steps are just so charming. He turns it into a shuffly little dance, helping Bastien along to the bed. ]
Maker preserve us, yes. Hundreds of them. That's not an exaggeration. The family is cursed in many ways, but we are blessed in sheer fecundity.
Mm, if that is what lets you keep up with two bards who can't get enough of you...
[ Then he's happy about it. Goes without saying, especially since they've shuffle-danced their way to the edge of the bed, and he can't talk while he's falling onto it and dragging By along with him. ]
That is the problem with nobles. [ One of them. He's only teasing, while he does the wriggling and reaching required to put a pillow and a blanket in the correct place. ] You keep track. Peasants have a dozen babies, and they go to different farms, and in a few generations everyone in the area is marrying their cousins, but they don't know. Your lot writes it down and hangs it on the wall. You can't forget you are related to anyone.
[ An odd tangle of feeling, at that. Mostly good, but if he were to pull it apart there would be threads of defiance. Not belonging to anyone has always been a matter of pride for him, not lonely regret. Threads of some species of shame, as well, like he’s turned his nose up at a common food for a long time, mocked people who enjoyed it, and has now had a bite and discovered it’s delicious.
But there’s a purring sort of pleasure, too. An odd relief.
And most of all he is drunk, and he is drowsy, and he is practical, and he knows offhand that it’s no little thing for Byerly to deny Ferelden something it might want from him. Bastien lets the mostly-good tangle remain untangled and only nods his agreement. ]
I will have to do something with myself besides lie around gazing at you, but—I’ll figure it out. [ He rubs his fist down By’s spine, knuckles bumping on vertebrae. ] If they aren't good to you, they can't have you, either. You can tell them I said so.
[ It isn’t his usual sort of maybe, when someone says something like that to him. Not the sort that really means that sounds impossible and I don’t want to talk about it. This maybe really means maybe. Maybe he will. Maybe he can. Byerly makes him feel like he could—another reason on his Denerim list, second from the top. ]
If I keep the press, no one can stop me. I could write about our knights, [ the heroic and honest bisexuals, he means, from forever ago, ] to go with their song.
[ The yawn is contagious. Through it, Bastien says, ] Yes.
[ He puts his hand in Byerly’s hair. It’s heavier and clumsier-fingered than past attempts to pet him to sleep, but the idea is there. ]
That is the beginning. But they have barely settled into a routine before there is an urgent letter from an old friend…
[ And he wanders off with a meandering quest story that doesn’t have an end, just improvised mysteries and obstacles, until he falls asleep himself in the middle of a sentence.
He wakes up with the headache he anticipated, and aches and nausea he did not. He holds very still and tries to breathe it away until he feels By moving, too, and then he whispers, sounding calm and distant: ]
[ Byerly has slept uncommonly well, for a drunk night. He stays for a long while after Bastien wakes up, his head pillowed on Bastien's chest, legs entangled, fingers curled. The change in breathing patterns wakes him gradually, gently, until he stirs, and stretches, and sighs, and ponders that question. ]
[ Bastien doesn’t sound like he’s suffering. It’s not a moan or a whine. But that’s the bard thing—the way he was taught to accept pain and discomfort without thrashing against it.
He doesn’t sound very coherent though, either. Why suffering. He tries again, arm lying heavy over By to encourage him not to move too much. ]
[ Of course. How long would it have been since Bastien had a proper hangover? And never as an adult, no doubt. By grins lazily to himself - not without sympathy, but: ]
This is part of the ritual. The mutual suffering is a key part of our bonding.
[ By's head, likewise, is throbbing, and his stomach is sour, and his mouth is dry. A horrible feeling. All the better for the company he keeps. ]
[ That gets a noise less dignified than his philosophizing, both pleased and miserable—bonding! great! suffering? bad—and therefore completely incoherent. ]
You do this. You do this. [ Regularly. Why. And with a hint of awe: ] You gave me a blow job like this.
[ Bastien will not be giving any blow jobs. Taking a full breath is treacherous enough. But he did promise to give By something else. He hasn't forgotten. He'll only stall a little.
His fingers find Byerly's earlobe and rubs it like a worry stone. ]
Yes, I did. A rather good one, if I do say so myself. [ Byerly isn't suffering any less - or at least isn't suffering much less, he does have that barbarian ancestry that probably makes him stand strong against the evils of sack mead and all that - but he is well practiced at this. And so he's the one who extricates himself from Bastien's limbs (gingerly, so as to disturb him as little as possible) and goes to where, presumably, a pitcher of water is kept. ]
I've a clear mind from last night, and I said not a single thing I regret. What about you?
[ An easy, graceful offer of escape. If Bastien has forgotten what he promised, or wants to pretend he's forgotten, By won't know the difference. It'll be all right. ]
[ The earlobe-rubbing turns into a pinch when By is smug—correct, but smug—and Bastien doesn’t protest when he gets up. He turns his head to watch him, aching and nauseated and awfully fond. ]
No, nothing. [ He sits up against the headboard. ] There is elfroot— [ to chew, not to smoke, for stomach ailments and pains ] —in the drawer there, under the hat.
[ His accent turns all of those ths into dzs. So while Byerly’s not looking, he mouths the name to himself to make sure. Yseult’s taught him how to make a Marcher th sound natural again, instead of like he’s trying to spit his tongue out. So he can do it. One syllable. Simple. He’s not going to mispronounce his own damn name.
[ Bastien smiles when By laughs, because yes, fine, it’s funny, but also— ]
Yes.
[ It’s serious. He scoots over a smidge to make sure there’s room for Byerly to sit again before he takes the water and the elfroot. (He’ll share.) ]
Of course you are dramatic. But do you ever feel it? [ He pushes two stringy slices of root into his mouth and talks around them. ] You know—like you shouldn’t have made all that fuss? Or are you thinking, this is my fuss, and I can make it if I want to.
[ By suspects he knows what this question is about, and so he resists the urge to answer facetiously. Instead: ]
It depends on what the effects of the fuss were. One time I ended up in a dreadful row with a friend over whether one could wear purple and green together, and we fell out, and we still don't talk. That's a time when I regret the fuss. But most other times? If I want to be fussy, I get to be fussy. No one else has the right to judge me.
[ Bastien looks sideways at Byerly, who is possibly deliberately trying to say what will make him feel better. But it works. Bastien kisses his cheek, then tears off some root and holds it out to him. ]
I like your dramatics. For the record.
[ He’s going to need more information about this purple and green incident, eventually. For now he leans against By’s shoulder. The root juice is soothing his stomach, decreasing the odds he’ll retch in the middle of any given sentence. So, ]
It’s Laith.
[ His jaw wants to tremble on his inhale, but he doesn’t let it, and once he’s had a good lungful of air the feeling is gone. ]
No family name, unless they forgot to tell me, which—not impossible, but I don’t think so.
[ Laith. That's a good name. Not a common one. By doesn't know any other Laiths, though he's heard of them before. But he knows plenty of Bastiens. Would that comment be well received? He wonders. Pointing out that this name is more special than the other?
No. Commonness isn't the point. The point is this: Byerly now knows a thing that fucking no one else knows. Even Yseult doesn't know this. And that gives him such a delicious frisson of delight. ]
[ Bastien lets out a burst of air that turns into the silent, shoulder-shaking laughter. It makes his head throb, but he doesn’t mind.
And he doesn’t cry, exactly—and that’s not in some macho way where he is actually objectively emotionally crying but wouldn’t admit it. It really is just that one of his eyes leaks a little, in a physiological way, the way it might if he’d been hit in the face with a snowball or, more like what he’s actually feeling, if he’d finally taken off shoes that had been too warm and tight for hours and got to flex his cramped sweaty toes in the open air.
He’s not embarrassed. He doesn’t try to disguise wiping his eye dry with the side of his hand. ]
Hush, [ still laughing, no actual hushing wanted, ] Rutyer.
[ By chortles, a deliberately obnoxious hee-hee-hee, and kisses any remaining moisture away from the corner of his eye. Thank the Maker. Thank the Maker he's still happy, that he doesn't regret it, that there's no doubt or shame. ]
No wonder we both turned into such delicious perverts. It was fate.
[ Bastien turns his head to catch By's mouth, holds his jaw, and gives him a real kiss. It is not delicious, on account of the gurgly acidic elfrooty morning breath, and it's only a little perverted. Still good, though, in his opinion. Solid. Relieved and grateful and happy and not overlong, because his head still aches and he'd like to eat something and— ]
[ He returns that real kiss with a playful series of light pecks, fluttering and silly and ending with a quick one on the tip of that solid, bony, charming nose. Then he pulls himself from the bed, fingertips light on Bastien's chest, gentle pressure to keep him put. ]
Let me do it. You bask and mope, and I'll return with bacon sandwiches.
[ Delighted confusion about our and delighted outrage about dog-hter collide on Bastien’s face all at once—so the double-dose of delight is the dominant visible emotion, for the second before he’s being peppered with kisses and his expression is irrelevant.
Anyway.
His natural urges to Go and Do (and give their dog a thorough skritching) are tempered by the joy of being cared for and the fact that he is a thirty-seven year old man with a hangover. He stays on the bed, lying flat at the urging of those fingers, and gestures toward his wardrobe—vague permission for Byerly to take a shirt, if he wants one. ]
[ In a rare show of decency (and sobriety), By does throw a shirt on over his shoulders and leaves Bastien to the traditional hangover meditation of if I drift back off to sleep, when I wake, will this headache be gone? Whiskey goes with him, of course, her love for Bastien no match for her awareness that mornings mean food.
Half an hour later, he's back with the roasty smell of coffee and the toasty smell of good smoked fatty bacon. ]
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Maker preserve us, yes. Hundreds of them. That's not an exaggeration. The family is cursed in many ways, but we are blessed in sheer fecundity.
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[ Then he's happy about it. Goes without saying, especially since they've shuffle-danced their way to the edge of the bed, and he can't talk while he's falling onto it and dragging By along with him. ]
That is the problem with nobles. [ One of them. He's only teasing, while he does the wriggling and reaching required to put a pillow and a blanket in the correct place. ] You keep track. Peasants have a dozen babies, and they go to different farms, and in a few generations everyone in the area is marrying their cousins, but they don't know. Your lot writes it down and hangs it on the wall. You can't forget you are related to anyone.
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[ He squirms himself on top of Bastien, hooking his limbs over him. A very fine bed indeed.
A moment of quiet, then: ]
When we go, my spymaster will likely try to recruit you. But he can't have you. You're mine.
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But there’s a purring sort of pleasure, too. An odd relief.
And most of all he is drunk, and he is drowsy, and he is practical, and he knows offhand that it’s no little thing for Byerly to deny Ferelden something it might want from him. Bastien lets the mostly-good tangle remain untangled and only nods his agreement. ]
I will have to do something with myself besides lie around gazing at you, but—I’ll figure it out. [ He rubs his fist down By’s spine, knuckles bumping on vertebrae. ] If they aren't good to you, they can't have you, either. You can tell them I said so.
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[ Which is close enough to good. Best not to dwell on that. ]
You could be a writer.
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[ It isn’t his usual sort of maybe, when someone says something like that to him. Not the sort that really means that sounds impossible and I don’t want to talk about it. This maybe really means maybe. Maybe he will. Maybe he can. Byerly makes him feel like he could—another reason on his Denerim list, second from the top. ]
If I keep the press, no one can stop me. I could write about our knights, [ the heroic and honest bisexuals, he means, from forever ago, ] to go with their song.
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[ He yawns sleepily - ]
And move in together, and discover they share all the same kinks.
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[ He puts his hand in Byerly’s hair. It’s heavier and clumsier-fingered than past attempts to pet him to sleep, but the idea is there. ]
That is the beginning. But they have barely settled into a routine before there is an urgent letter from an old friend…
[ And he wanders off with a meandering quest story that doesn’t have an end, just improvised mysteries and obstacles, until he falls asleep himself in the middle of a sentence.
He wakes up with the headache he anticipated, and aches and nausea he did not. He holds very still and tries to breathe it away until he feels By moving, too, and then he whispers, sounding calm and distant: ]
Why?
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[ Byerly has slept uncommonly well, for a drunk night. He stays for a long while after Bastien wakes up, his head pillowed on Bastien's chest, legs entangled, fingers curled. The change in breathing patterns wakes him gradually, gently, until he stirs, and stretches, and sighs, and ponders that question. ]
Why what?
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[ Bastien doesn’t sound like he’s suffering. It’s not a moan or a whine. But that’s the bard thing—the way he was taught to accept pain and discomfort without thrashing against it.
He doesn’t sound very coherent though, either. Why suffering. He tries again, arm lying heavy over By to encourage him not to move too much. ]
The Maker could have made us without stomachs.
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[ Of course. How long would it have been since Bastien had a proper hangover? And never as an adult, no doubt. By grins lazily to himself - not without sympathy, but: ]
This is part of the ritual. The mutual suffering is a key part of our bonding.
[ By's head, likewise, is throbbing, and his stomach is sour, and his mouth is dry. A horrible feeling. All the better for the company he keeps. ]
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You do this. You do this. [ Regularly. Why. And with a hint of awe: ] You gave me a blow job like this.
[ Bastien will not be giving any blow jobs. Taking a full breath is treacherous enough. But he did promise to give By something else. He hasn't forgotten. He'll only stall a little.
His fingers find Byerly's earlobe and rubs it like a worry stone. ]
Do you, ah. Do you want to take any of it back?
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Yes, I did. A rather good one, if I do say so myself. [ Byerly isn't suffering any less - or at least isn't suffering much less, he does have that barbarian ancestry that probably makes him stand strong against the evils of sack mead and all that - but he is well practiced at this. And so he's the one who extricates himself from Bastien's limbs (gingerly, so as to disturb him as little as possible) and goes to where, presumably, a pitcher of water is kept. ]
I've a clear mind from last night, and I said not a single thing I regret. What about you?
[ An easy, graceful offer of escape. If Bastien has forgotten what he promised, or wants to pretend he's forgotten, By won't know the difference. It'll be all right. ]
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No, nothing. [ He sits up against the headboard. ] There is elfroot— [ to chew, not to smoke, for stomach ailments and pains ] —in the drawer there, under the hat.
[ His accent turns all of those ths into dzs. So while Byerly’s not looking, he mouths the name to himself to make sure. Yseult’s taught him how to make a Marcher th sound natural again, instead of like he’s trying to spit his tongue out. So he can do it. One syllable. Simple. He’s not going to mispronounce his own damn name.
It’s only a short pause. ]
Do you ever feel overdramatic, By?
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Is that a serious question?
[ He fetches out the elfroot and brings it over with the water. ]
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Yes.
[ It’s serious. He scoots over a smidge to make sure there’s room for Byerly to sit again before he takes the water and the elfroot. (He’ll share.) ]
Of course you are dramatic. But do you ever feel it? [ He pushes two stringy slices of root into his mouth and talks around them. ] You know—like you shouldn’t have made all that fuss? Or are you thinking, this is my fuss, and I can make it if I want to.
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[ By suspects he knows what this question is about, and so he resists the urge to answer facetiously. Instead: ]
It depends on what the effects of the fuss were. One time I ended up in a dreadful row with a friend over whether one could wear purple and green together, and we fell out, and we still don't talk. That's a time when I regret the fuss. But most other times? If I want to be fussy, I get to be fussy. No one else has the right to judge me.
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I like your dramatics. For the record.
[ He’s going to need more information about this purple and green incident, eventually. For now he leans against By’s shoulder. The root juice is soothing his stomach, decreasing the odds he’ll retch in the middle of any given sentence. So, ]
It’s Laith.
[ His jaw wants to tremble on his inhale, but he doesn’t let it, and once he’s had a good lungful of air the feeling is gone. ]
No family name, unless they forgot to tell me, which—not impossible, but I don’t think so.
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No. Commonness isn't the point. The point is this: Byerly now knows a thing that fucking no one else knows. Even Yseult doesn't know this. And that gives him such a delicious frisson of delight. ]
I should have guessed.
[ By grins at him. ]
On the basis of you being such a great lay...th.
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And he doesn’t cry, exactly—and that’s not in some macho way where he is actually objectively emotionally crying but wouldn’t admit it. It really is just that one of his eyes leaks a little, in a physiological way, the way it might if he’d been hit in the face with a snowball or, more like what he’s actually feeling, if he’d finally taken off shoes that had been too warm and tight for hours and got to flex his cramped sweaty toes in the open air.
He’s not embarrassed. He doesn’t try to disguise wiping his eye dry with the side of his hand. ]
Hush, [ still laughing, no actual hushing wanted, ] Rutyer.
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No wonder we both turned into such delicious perverts. It was fate.
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We need to take your dog out.
[ Très sexy. ]
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[ He returns that real kiss with a playful series of light pecks, fluttering and silly and ending with a quick one on the tip of that solid, bony, charming nose. Then he pulls himself from the bed, fingertips light on Bastien's chest, gentle pressure to keep him put. ]
Let me do it. You bask and mope, and I'll return with bacon sandwiches.
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Anyway.
His natural urges to Go and Do (and give their dog a thorough skritching) are tempered by the joy of being cared for and the fact that he is a thirty-seven year old man with a hangover. He stays on the bed, lying flat at the urging of those fingers, and gestures toward his wardrobe—vague permission for Byerly to take a shirt, if he wants one. ]
And coffee.
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[ In a rare show of decency (and sobriety), By does throw a shirt on over his shoulders and leaves Bastien to the traditional hangover meditation of if I drift back off to sleep, when I wake, will this headache be gone? Whiskey goes with him, of course, her love for Bastien no match for her awareness that mornings mean food.
Half an hour later, he's back with the roasty smell of coffee and the toasty smell of good smoked fatty bacon. ]
Bastieeen -
[ That comes out as a yodel. ]
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