We only have so many days of life, Byerly. Only so many cups of coffee we will drink—and then it is over. Nothing but Fade juice. Every bad cup of coffee takes the place of a good one.
But—
[ His puffed-up offense deflates a touch. ]
—there are also only so many days we can sit there, [ with a gesture to a small mountain of crates, three deep and unattended, high enough that they can lord over the passers by in the street but hopefully not so high as to trigger anyone’s acrophobia, ] and watch Kirkwall’s harbor over breakfast.
[ He's nodding mock-solemnly through Bastien's sermon, clasping his hands over his heart at fade juice - yes, yes, so tragic, yes - then finally breaks into a grin at getting permission to be tacky. ]
I can stand it. And I think you don't need more coffee today.
[ He does. He’s fully aware of the unnecessary energy level he’s bringing to foisting his basket into Byerly’s hands, with, ]
I’ll buy it. My treat—sort of. Can we call it a treat? Don’t peek.
[ In the basket, because he’s leaving it behind to dive into the small crowd attempting to obtain their Medieval Fantasy Starbucks—which btw how DARE you hahahaha. He manages to go right to the front of the disorganized little line without seeming to cut at all.
(The basket, if peeked into, really doesn’t contain anything more exciting than pastries. Only Whiskey’s promised link of sausage and his other morning market buys: two books, good ink, the kind of oil he puts in his hair and the kind of oil he keeps in his bedside table.)
He returns promptly with a wooden cup. Bows low to hold it out. ]
[ He's taken the time Bastien was gone to arrange a proper perch for them - boxes set upon a not-too-high height, some burlap arranged to provide scratchy cushioning, a smaller crate to serve as a makeshift table. He reaches down to accept the cup joyously, then offers Bastien a hand up into their little crow's nest. ]
Oh, it smells rancid. Thank you.
[ And, proud of himself, because he's telling the truth - ]
I didn't peek.
[ Like a child reporting a rare instance of good behavior. ]
[ Still on his knees from his ascent up the crates, Bastien leans forward to examine By's eyes for lies (the mischievous kind, fully permissible) and feel his forehead for fever. He finds neither, and he smiles. ]
[ He sits on his burlap cushion throne and pulls his basket onto his lap to begin unpacking its contents onto the crate-table. The promised pain au chocolat, of course, but also a half-dozen others, each different, three herbed and savory and three sweet.
Ten altogether, and generously portioned. He surveys this collection, once it’s laid out, with the look of someone who’s just now realizing he went overboard. ]
Some can keep until tomorrow.
[ Better. Back on board. ]
And I will tell you my second best lover if you tell me your third.
[ Byerly's lips part in appreciation of the variety. More than anything, his weakness is that variety: he has no love for eating the same thing time and again. Instead, having little nibbles of something different, a mouthful here and a mouthful there that's never the same - it's his favorite thing. These may keep, but they'll be keeping in bits and pieces, with chunks taken out here and there. ]
[ He sits at an angle that lets his ankle touch By's leg, companionably, while he looks out at the street. On the crates, they're only half above it. A good view, with no risk of jostling or having their pockets picked, without feeling detached from the people. Best castle. Best company. He couldn't be happier. ]
Was there ever anyone who almost worked? Who was almost enough?
[ Maybe two years ago, he'd have hemmed and hawed. Two years ago, there were a few who he'd have thought might have been enough.
That was before he'd known what it was like to be loved. ]
But - Don't laugh about this one. I think, of everyone, I enjoyed the Comtesse de Bayard - [ A woman who Bastien might remember as having been fifty years their senior when they were in Val Royeaux - ] the most.
[ Bastien doesn't laugh, obediently, but his eyebrows do go a full half inch. ]
Really.
[ He tries to remember her clearly, through the fog of at least nine years, since he might have seen her at a dinner or a wedding somewhere. There's no face to go with the memory; like most nobles', he never saw it. ]
[ He nibbles at one of the savory buns, and gives a little Hm! of approval. Then: ]
Maybe it was a matter of expectations. I'd anticipated it being excruciating, something to be endured, but then - She had the most interesting mind. She'd lived a different life, and so the assumptions she made always surprised me. And she loved to tell me stories, and she was an incredible storyteller. She was funny.
[ His smile is deeply fond. ]
So many of my lovers over the years have been - Well, there's been so little to them. They've endeavored to show me so little. But she was a complete person.
She must have. I could have been taking advantage of her. But - [ He rolls his shoulders and gives an easy shrug. ] It wasn't love, of course, but it was a pleasant time when I needed something pleasant.
[ He tears off a piece of the roll and places it on Bastien's lips. ]
[ The flick of his tongue against Byerly's fingers, as he pulls the bread into his mouth, is entirely unnecessary. Or maybe actually it is entirely necessary. Depends on how one looks at these things. He makes an ooh, good face while he chews and swallows, which hasn't completely faded by the time he says, ] Jaquet Geiger. He's a bookseller.
[ No one By would have met, except by chance encounter. ]
He's... I don't know. He was sweet. And funny. [ A nod to mark their mutual preference for laughing. ] Kind of fussy—he would go around unfolding all the dog ears in my books. He held the record, though, until you. We lasted almost a whole year.
[ Such a strange thought - anyone ever allowing Bastien to slip away. Who would be the fool who'd break up with him, or allow him to break up with them? Absurd. ]
And you weren't just using him to get at those books?
[ Because there's something so charmingly right about Bastien falling in love with a bookseller. ]
[ He leans in to pinch a second bite off the roll. ]
I told him so. I was very upfront, about that. Pretty much only that. That's what happened. We were coming up on a year, he was going to ask me to live with him. He thought he was going to surprise me, but, you know. [ He wiggles his fingers at his perceptive face. ] And I thought, I can't be Edouard all the time, forever. So if I love him, if I want this, I have to tell him the truth.
[ Ah. A twist of pain in his heart - for Bastien, for his unrequited love. For this choice, poorly-made, self-defeating. Byerly reaches out and caresses the back of Bastien's neck - fond, sympathetic.
[ Bastien begins to nod, then gives a hedging head wobble instead. ]
I could have been less of a dick about it. But that is the only part I regret. I did like it—you know I like it. Having lie-ins and eating toast and reading. But that is all he wanted.
[ And it’s only half of what Bastien wants. He nudges By, who is funnier and sweeter, but who’s also exciting, mischievous, adventurous, restless, endlessly reaching. Who knows what it’s like to be hungry. ]
[ Why does that make Byerly feel better? He wasn't aware of the little twist of anxiety till it relaxed. What, is he so jealous that he'll scowl in the direction of a bookseller that Bastien left years ago? What a fool he is - but a fool who feels that intoxicating swell of adoration and loves every moment of it. ]
You need someone dangerous, eh?
[ He puffs out his chest. This is silly and mocking - not his real anxiety over being dangerous, the madness in his family, but an ironically swaggering sort of thing. ]
[ Bastien grins, but his familiarity with that anxiety makes him pause, searching By's silly expression for the seams of a mask.
Seems genuine. Still: ]
Dangerous and safe. Ma chère contradiction.
[ He can't resist his pinch of bread anymore, so he puts it in his mouth, over to one side, and talks around it. ]
Someone who will burgle and blackmail the wicked and save imperiled innocents, and then come home and snuggle— [ no avoiding that absurd word, might as well lean into it with relish ] —with me and our forty-seven dogs. What a rare gem.
[ The number does go up every time. By bumps Bastien's shoulder fondly, delighted at that little idyll.
Then, thoughtfully: ]
I think it's not dissimilar. Why I love you so - intensely. [ A little smile at the inadequacy of language. ] That marriage of kindness and care with the wisdom of a life lived.
[ Bastien's smile stretches out slowly, while the pleasure of that seeps in. Things he is not always sure he is, but that he hopes to be. He's trying. He's learning to trust Byerly's good opinion of him, too.
He leans his head over against By's shoulder. He's still too hyped on coffee for it to be a rest; it's pure affection, permitted by some of that borrowed boldness and the safety of their crate fort. ]
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But—
[ His puffed-up offense deflates a touch. ]
—there are also only so many days we can sit there, [ with a gesture to a small mountain of crates, three deep and unattended, high enough that they can lord over the passers by in the street but hopefully not so high as to trigger anyone’s acrophobia, ] and watch Kirkwall’s harbor over breakfast.
If you can stand to do that to your poor tongue.
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I can stand it. And I think you don't need more coffee today.
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[ He does. He’s fully aware of the unnecessary energy level he’s bringing to foisting his basket into Byerly’s hands, with, ]
I’ll buy it. My treat—sort of. Can we call it a treat? Don’t peek.
[ In the basket, because he’s leaving it behind to dive into the small crowd attempting to obtain their Medieval Fantasy Starbucks—which btw how DARE you hahahaha. He manages to go right to the front of the disorganized little line without seeming to cut at all.
(The basket, if peeked into, really doesn’t contain anything more exciting than pastries. Only Whiskey’s promised link of sausage and his other morning market buys: two books, good ink, the kind of oil he puts in his hair and the kind of oil he keeps in his bedside table.)
He returns promptly with a wooden cup. Bows low to hold it out. ]
Your shit.
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[ He's taken the time Bastien was gone to arrange a proper perch for them - boxes set upon a not-too-high height, some burlap arranged to provide scratchy cushioning, a smaller crate to serve as a makeshift table. He reaches down to accept the cup joyously, then offers Bastien a hand up into their little crow's nest. ]
Oh, it smells rancid. Thank you.
[ And, proud of himself, because he's telling the truth - ]
I didn't peek.
[ Like a child reporting a rare instance of good behavior. ]
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[ Still on his knees from his ascent up the crates, Bastien leans forward to examine By's eyes for lies (the mischievous kind, fully permissible) and feel his forehead for fever. He finds neither, and he smiles. ]
You didn't peek. And you built us a castle.
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[ He grins, even as he also reaches up to feel his own head for illness. ]
Am I not the best lover you've ever had?
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[ He sits on his burlap cushion throne and pulls his basket onto his lap to begin unpacking its contents onto the crate-table. The promised pain au chocolat, of course, but also a half-dozen others, each different, three herbed and savory and three sweet.
Ten altogether, and generously portioned. He surveys this collection, once it’s laid out, with the look of someone who’s just now realizing he went overboard. ]
Some can keep until tomorrow.
[ Better. Back on board. ]
And I will tell you my second best lover if you tell me your third.
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My third.
[ He hums in thought. ]
Are we talking skill in bed, or general interest?
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[ He sits at an angle that lets his ankle touch By's leg, companionably, while he looks out at the street. On the crates, they're only half above it. A good view, with no risk of jostling or having their pockets picked, without feeling detached from the people. Best castle. Best company. He couldn't be happier. ]
Was there ever anyone who almost worked? Who was almost enough?
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[ Maybe two years ago, he'd have hemmed and hawed. Two years ago, there were a few who he'd have thought might have been enough.
That was before he'd known what it was like to be loved. ]
But - Don't laugh about this one. I think, of everyone, I enjoyed the Comtesse de Bayard - [ A woman who Bastien might remember as having been fifty years their senior when they were in Val Royeaux - ] the most.
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Really.
[ He tries to remember her clearly, through the fog of at least nine years, since he might have seen her at a dinner or a wedding somewhere. There's no face to go with the memory; like most nobles', he never saw it. ]
Why?
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[ He nibbles at one of the savory buns, and gives a little Hm! of approval. Then: ]
Maybe it was a matter of expectations. I'd anticipated it being excruciating, something to be endured, but then - She had the most interesting mind. She'd lived a different life, and so the assumptions she made always surprised me. And she loved to tell me stories, and she was an incredible storyteller. She was funny.
[ His smile is deeply fond. ]
So many of my lovers over the years have been - Well, there's been so little to them. They've endeavored to show me so little. But she was a complete person.
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That is a dangerous thing for a noble in Orlais to be, with handsome young men. She must have really liked you.
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[ He tears off a piece of the roll and places it on Bastien's lips. ]
Now you. Second-best.
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[ No one By would have met, except by chance encounter. ]
He's... I don't know. He was sweet. And funny. [ A nod to mark their mutual preference for laughing. ] Kind of fussy—he would go around unfolding all the dog ears in my books. He held the record, though, until you. We lasted almost a whole year.
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And you weren't just using him to get at those books?
[ Because there's something so charmingly right about Bastien falling in love with a bookseller. ]
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[ He leans in to pinch a second bite off the roll. ]
I told him so. I was very upfront, about that. Pretty much only that. That's what happened. We were coming up on a year, he was going to ask me to live with him. He thought he was going to surprise me, but, you know. [ He wiggles his fingers at his perceptive face. ] And I thought, I can't be Edouard all the time, forever. So if I love him, if I want this, I have to tell him the truth.
And then I stood him up.
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But his words are light. ]
Thank the Maker you did.
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I could have been less of a dick about it. But that is the only part I regret. I did like it—you know I like it. Having lie-ins and eating toast and reading. But that is all he wanted.
[ And it’s only half of what Bastien wants. He nudges By, who is funnier and sweeter, but who’s also exciting, mischievous, adventurous, restless, endlessly reaching. Who knows what it’s like to be hungry. ]
He never would have broken into a house with me.
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You need someone dangerous, eh?
[ He puffs out his chest. This is silly and mocking - not his real anxiety over being dangerous, the madness in his family, but an ironically swaggering sort of thing. ]
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Seems genuine. Still: ]
Dangerous and safe. Ma chère contradiction.
[ He can't resist his pinch of bread anymore, so he puts it in his mouth, over to one side, and talks around it. ]
Someone who will burgle and blackmail the wicked and save imperiled innocents, and then come home and snuggle— [ no avoiding that absurd word, might as well lean into it with relish ] —with me and our forty-seven dogs. What a rare gem.
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[ The number does go up every time. By bumps Bastien's shoulder fondly, delighted at that little idyll.
Then, thoughtfully: ]
I think it's not dissimilar. Why I love you so - intensely. [ A little smile at the inadequacy of language. ] That marriage of kindness and care with the wisdom of a life lived.
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He leans his head over against By's shoulder. He's still too hyped on coffee for it to be a rest; it's pure affection, permitted by some of that borrowed boldness and the safety of their crate fort. ]
Are you calling me old?
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[ By grins. ]
It's so odd, dating a man so much older than I am.
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[ He nudges his head forward, without removing it from By's shoulder, for inspection. ]
Grey hair and wrinkles. It is good it was not love, with Comtesse de Bayard, or we would be fighting over you with our canes by now.
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