[ For a moment, a flicker, the interest recedes, replaced by a little bit of fear. Old childhood worries. Bastien’s put a lot of time and effort into ensuring he’d never wonder whether he could afford to eat.
But the way Byerly is looking at him—he can’t douse that. He doesn’t want to. For By’s sake and for his, for the life he used to want and still does when he isn’t feeling small and trying to be realistic.
He shifts into his side and squirms down to be face to face again. ]
I have money. From selling my shop in Val Royeaux, and I’ve saved nearly all of what Riftwatch pays me. It’s not enough for forever, but it would give us time to figure things out.
[ Simple. Light. No explanation—it’s not By’s fault he’s a nobleman with a noble wife and a noble mistress, or that Bastien feels obliged to be deferential to their wishes and tentatively semi-formal at the least in their presences, and that living on their charity would make that ten or twenty times worse. There’s nothing By could do about it. They all are who they are. So there’s no need to get into it.
He nestles his forehead in close enough to rest against Byerly’s. ]
You could, though, of course. That might be enough to keep you in brocade.
[ Bastien remembers Byerly’s little ghost in the Crossroads, as tattered as many of Bastien’s unkempt friends in the streets of Val Royeaux. More tattered than Bastien, whose father occasionally had fits of guilty paternal instinct and mended and tailored every article of clothing in their cramped little room.
He bumps their noses together, in place of a kiss. ]
No scraping. Not like that. If we can’t come by your clothes honestly, we’ll come by them dishonestly and do some extra good deeds to make up for it.
[ His fingers wriggle, playing back. ]
Enough about the money. [ He’ll put numbers together later. ] Say we can do anything. What do you want to do?
[ Byerly rubs his nose against Bastien's gratefully. His certainty...helps. And that enough about the money. If anyone will make it work, practical, steady Bastien will make it work. ]
I want to... [ He drums his fingers lightly on Bastien's stomach. ] I want to find the people who are trapped in corners, and help them get out. People who don't have power. It's what I wanted out of what I do now, but - What I do now, without having to worry about making sure that our side wins. Nothing like that.
[ Silly—all the epithets he trots out are, genuine feeling wrapped in teasing so no one has to feel too awkward about it—but Bastien whispers this one, eyes bright in the dark. His turn to wear all that infatuation on his face.
It will happen. It will happen if he has to clean boots after all to fund it. (He won’t have to, though.) ]
There are so many people whose lives don’t matter to one side or another to begin with.
[ He sets his chin on Bastien's chest, so he can gaze up into those loving eyes. So that he can stare with all infatuation right back. ]
Both lowborn and high. Rather like the Black Fox, honestly. Though likely with a bit less style. In my experience, truly helping people involves fewer daring swordfights poised above waterfalls, more methodically writing notes.
If we pass a waterfall we can have a sword fight for ourselves. At the bottom, though, Not the top. [ And in case he feels at all babied or embarrassed about his fear of heights, Bastien adds, ] And not during thunderstorms, [ for his own sake. ]
[ He combs his fingertips through By’s hair. ]
And you can teach me that shorthand of yours. For the notes. Or if it is some Fereldan spy secret, we can come up with our own.
[ Bastien squirms into range to give him one kiss, long and lazily handsy, that means he’s happy.
When he stops, he says into By’s mouth, ]
I want to write.
[ A little bashful, as he settles back onto the pillow. He’s not used to saying I want anything. But By having a dream he’s willing to take risks for—it’s emboldening. And it’s important to him, to have something of his own. ]
I want to help you with this, and I want to write.
[ The moonlight catches his bright-white teeth in their ecstatic grin. His voice is more measured than his expression, cautious, the way one would speak to a friendly but shy dog - ]
I think, [ a little haltingly, ] both? That’s arrogant.
[ He pushes a finger against By’s front teeth. Half to stave off any argument that it is not arrogant; half because he’s thinking, with a fraction of his brain, about that evening a few years ago, when Byerly felt up his teeth and Bastien first (sort of, indirectly) propositioned him.
He revises to, ] Pamphlets. Mostly. If we are out there finding people who are being hurt, maybe I can write about some of it. When it’s the rules that are wrong.
[ Hedging is habit, but really, he’s never felt so encouraged in his life. ]
Maybe I’ll start now. Working on it, I mean. Get my first mediocre effort out of the way so I can move on to a better one faster.
[ He tugs on By’s lower lip in parting and then leaves his teeth and mouth alone. ]
Will you wait until the war is over to tell your spymaster to— [ kiss your ass, is where that sentence was headed, but it occurs to him it might not be that easy. ] Will they let you just leave like that?
[ That doesn’t mean they’ll let anyone leave without issue. But Byerly sounds confident. And if they need to hide a little, that won’t be so bad. They could grow beards. ]
And we are going to save the world. They will have to give you some leeway for that.
[ Bastien huffs a little laugh, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, because he’s sure she’d agree. Proudly. Although— ]
Don’t let her fool you too much. She did sneak off to marry a pirate. I would bet you anything she had stars in her eyes while she did it.
[ He’d like to know more about this spymaster. What’s his name. Where does he live. Is he old. Does Byerly think Bastien could take him in a fistfight, hypothetically. But there are still things it’s better not to pry into, if only to avoid being told it’s a secret. ]
You would think he was...unkind, and acid-tongued, but that he was good at recognizing the skills I do have. There is much to be said in favor of someone who can see that you have some worth.
[ It’s easy to understand. He relates, of course—his bardmaster was demanding, harsh when she needed to be, and judicious with praise. But that meant she really meant it. Or it felt like it meant she really meant it, anyway. It meant he could please her, unlike his parents, and nothing made him prouder than managing to do it.
And that was just him. Hungry for affection and approval, sure, but still with higher self-regard than he suspects Byerly has ever had at any point in his life, much less ten or so years ago, rejected and alone and selling off his violin to survive. ]
I’m glad someone did. I’m glad you had it when you needed it. [ He tugs on the shorter hairs on the back of By’s neck, gently. ] So I won’t track him down and coat his clothes with powdered blood lotus before his most important meeting.
He is one of those people who...Well. Normally, I don't give a shit whether someone likes me or not, let alone whether they think I'm smart. But he's one of those people where - It's involuntary.
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But the way Byerly is looking at him—he can’t douse that. He doesn’t want to. For By’s sake and for his, for the life he used to want and still does when he isn’t feeling small and trying to be realistic.
He shifts into his side and squirms down to be face to face again. ]
I have money. From selling my shop in Val Royeaux, and I’ve saved nearly all of what Riftwatch pays me. It’s not enough for forever, but it would give us time to figure things out.
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[ And, a bit hesitantly, because he did see that faint flicker of distress - ]
And if Sidony were willing - or Alexandrie - Perhaps we might have some income from their estates.
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I couldn’t do that.
[ Simple. Light. No explanation—it’s not By’s fault he’s a nobleman with a noble wife and a noble mistress, or that Bastien feels obliged to be deferential to their wishes and tentatively semi-formal at the least in their presences, and that living on their charity would make that ten or twenty times worse. There’s nothing By could do about it. They all are who they are. So there’s no need to get into it.
He nestles his forehead in close enough to rest against Byerly’s. ]
You could, though, of course. That might be enough to keep you in brocade.
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[ By plays with Bastien's fingers. After a moment, he says: ]
My father was a dreadful miser. Kept us in rags. I don't care for the idea of scraping.
[ But. ]
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He bumps their noses together, in place of a kiss. ]
No scraping. Not like that. If we can’t come by your clothes honestly, we’ll come by them dishonestly and do some extra good deeds to make up for it.
[ His fingers wriggle, playing back. ]
Enough about the money. [ He’ll put numbers together later. ] Say we can do anything. What do you want to do?
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I want to... [ He drums his fingers lightly on Bastien's stomach. ] I want to find the people who are trapped in corners, and help them get out. People who don't have power. It's what I wanted out of what I do now, but - What I do now, without having to worry about making sure that our side wins. Nothing like that.
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[ Silly—all the epithets he trots out are, genuine feeling wrapped in teasing so no one has to feel too awkward about it—but Bastien whispers this one, eyes bright in the dark. His turn to wear all that infatuation on his face.
It will happen. It will happen if he has to clean boots after all to fund it. (He won’t have to, though.) ]
There are so many people whose lives don’t matter to one side or another to begin with.
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[ He sets his chin on Bastien's chest, so he can gaze up into those loving eyes. So that he can stare with all infatuation right back. ]
Both lowborn and high. Rather like the Black Fox, honestly. Though likely with a bit less style. In my experience, truly helping people involves fewer daring swordfights poised above waterfalls, more methodically writing notes.
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[ He combs his fingertips through By’s hair. ]
And you can teach me that shorthand of yours. For the notes. Or if it is some Fereldan spy secret, we can come up with our own.
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[ He laughs, not remotely offended by the reference to his phobia. ]
And I'm enchanted by the idea of coming up with our own shorthand. Two kisses mean danger, three mean safety...
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When he stops, he says into By’s mouth, ]
I want to write.
[ A little bashful, as he settles back onto the pillow. He’s not used to saying I want anything. But By having a dream he’s willing to take risks for—it’s emboldening. And it’s important to him, to have something of his own. ]
I want to help you with this, and I want to write.
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Writing pamphlets? Or novels?
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[ He pushes a finger against By’s front teeth. Half to stave off any argument that it is not arrogant; half because he’s thinking, with a fraction of his brain, about that evening a few years ago, when Byerly felt up his teeth and Bastien first (sort of, indirectly) propositioned him.
He revises to, ] Pamphlets. Mostly. If we are out there finding people who are being hurt, maybe I can write about some of it. When it’s the rules that are wrong.
But a novel for fun. For myself.
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Novels are a good way to make a bit of coin on the side, too. Especially serialized ones.
[ His voice is nearly trembling from how delighted he is. ]
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[ Hedging is habit, but really, he’s never felt so encouraged in his life. ]
Maybe I’ll start now. Working on it, I mean. Get my first mediocre effort out of the way so I can move on to a better one faster.
[ He tugs on By’s lower lip in parting and then leaves his teeth and mouth alone. ]
Will you wait until the war is over to tell your spymaster to— [ kiss your ass, is where that sentence was headed, but it occurs to him it might not be that easy. ] Will they let you just leave like that?
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Oh, I should think so. They're not like the Crows or anything of the sort.
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[ That doesn’t mean they’ll let anyone leave without issue. But Byerly sounds confident. And if they need to hide a little, that won’t be so bad. They could grow beards. ]
And we are going to save the world. They will have to give you some leeway for that.
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[ By smiles a little crookedly. ]
I'll probably just tell him I quit. He's positively Yseult-like in his distaste for sentiment.
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Don’t let her fool you too much. She did sneak off to marry a pirate. I would bet you anything she had stars in her eyes while she did it.
[ He’d like to know more about this spymaster. What’s his name. Where does he live. Is he old. Does Byerly think Bastien could take him in a fistfight, hypothetically. But there are still things it’s better not to pry into, if only to avoid being told it’s a secret. ]
Is he hard on you?
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[ His emphatic nuzzle hints at his feelings on the topic of hotness when it comes to Bastien. ]
But...He certainly doesn't think he is.
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What do you think? [ No. ] What would I think?
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You would think he was...unkind, and acid-tongued, but that he was good at recognizing the skills I do have. There is much to be said in favor of someone who can see that you have some worth.
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And that was just him. Hungry for affection and approval, sure, but still with higher self-regard than he suspects Byerly has ever had at any point in his life, much less ten or so years ago, rejected and alone and selling off his violin to survive. ]
I’m glad someone did. I’m glad you had it when you needed it. [ He tugs on the shorter hairs on the back of By’s neck, gently. ] So I won’t track him down and coat his clothes with powdered blood lotus before his most important meeting.
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[ He laughs. Then, a bit reflectively: ]
He is one of those people who...Well. Normally, I don't give a shit whether someone likes me or not, let alone whether they think I'm smart. But he's one of those people where - It's involuntary.
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[ A joke, but laidback and contemplative; it's just another way of saying tell me more. ]
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