There are people, at times, who are tolerable on their own, but monsters when they're in love. You never really had known me when I had something to lose.
[ But it's not an unfair point. He could have been a beast far more vicious than the one he became. ]
But...I am glad that you felt so - [ Well. ] That you came to feel that you could say yes. You are...the wealth of my life. The only thing I need to make kings envious.
[ More stubborn protests threaten to bubble up, more explanations for what it was he was deciding during that month’s delay, what it was he was afraid of before he decided on his yes. It was never that Byerly would be a beast.
But what By says next sweetly steals all the wind from those sails. At least for now. Bastien sighs, in a good way, and melts more heavily into Byerly’s arm and shoulder. ]
I love you.
[ He says it like thank you. Buzzing with happiness. And after a beat, ]
Do you know what else I have in common with wealth?
[ That pulls him out of his sentimental little reverie - he laughs, a buoyant ha! ]
You filthy little minx.
[ He nuzzles the side of Bastien's neck. He's certainly never been bad at sweet nothings, but - Maker, Bastien turns him into a poet. How intolerable.
The seagulls, emboldened by the two of them being so utterly lost in one another, swoop down. The first one to arrive misses the mark, but the second one manages to make off with a whole bun all on its own. Byerly turns his face towards it, says with mingled delight and fury - ]
[ Bastien dissolves into snickering, even though he’s also pulling their crate-table closer and putting a few of the remaining rolls and pastries back into his basket. Not all of them. Just enough to know a few are safe. ]
Thieves. Now I have to like them. We should—
[ Adopt them, he was going to say, but the squawking kerfuffle being caused by the two seagulls and the big roll in the street attracts the attention of a dozen more. For the moment they’re all focused on the one scraggly gull and its prize, but— ]
Shit.
[ Bastien holds his arm over the others, fingers spread wide, like a shield. ]
[ Byerly clutches at Bastien in mock-panic. (Though, to be altogether fair, there is some meanness in their beady eyes. And those wings could probably do damage.) ]
[ What a loss. But less of a loss than the others, maybe, yes—he gives a shuddering nod and retrieves the picked-at mixed berry pastry from his basket. He cradles it. ]
We will remember your sacrifice, Mixed Berry.
[ He looks up at By with grim resolve while he tears it into pieces. The seagulls who have given up on wresting the stolen roll from the winners are hopping and fluttering closer. The street is teeming with people who will look at them like they've gone mad, but he finds he doesn't care even a little. ]
[ Byerly grips Bastien's forearm and looks into his face with passionate, resigned intensity. It's all veryLes bandits Cassidé et l'Enfant du Soleil Dansant, that classic play. ]
One...two - Augh -
[ The drama is ruined somewhat by the fact that an emboldened seagull has already swooped down and gone for that roll with a great flap of its wings. Byerly gives a rather seagullish squawk of alarm and waves his free arm while tugging Bastien down behind him. ]
[ It's the squawk that breaks him, all his somber drama giving way to peals of laughter while they make their way off the crates. The seagulls scream and scatter and swoop back in, trying to stay close to the food but far from the giants holding it at the same time. The crowd milling around Ye Olde Starrbuckes turns to look, all at once, with varied expressions of confusion and amusement and exhausted judgment.
Bastien turns on his heels to fling his handful of bread-bits in an arc behind them. The gulls descend. They aren't pursued at all, on their run down the street, but Bastien still pulls By sharply into a side alley and presses him against the wall to hide. Breathless and still grinning, despite some attempts around the eyebrows and in his voice to be serious and dramatic again: ]
[ Doing slightly better at maintaining a face of Dramatic Distress, though there's a sparkle in his eyes. He grips Bastien's shoulders and cranes his neck, trying to catch a glimpse out of the alley. ]
But they're cunning bastards. They could be lying in wait. We may need to find an alternate route.
[ It takes an unusual amount of effort, for him, but he's just so happy, and for all the emotions he's had to suppress on a job, unencumbered joy has never been one to worry about. Still, he manages. His face settles back into the high-drama sobriety from before. ]
It is not far to the smugglers' passage.
[ A few twists and turns away, and one twist and turn down through a trap door, into the twisty and turny tunnels in the stone beneath their feet. Would they be markedly increasing the odds of someone trying to stab them, for real, to avoid an imaginary bird threat?
[ Is it stupid? Immensely. Incredibly! But who cares? It's hilarious.
He grabs Bastien by the wrist and pulls him down the alley...and then turns in the completely wrong direction. (It's been a minute since he's done something this cheerfully dumb, and has perhaps forgotten the way.) ]
[ Bastien follows. For the first two steps in the wrong direction, it's his habit of going along with things. For the third and fourth, it's thinking that perhaps it's on purpose—perhaps Byerly doesn't want to climb down into a drippy mining tunnel and say hello to Bonny Lem and his collection of knives.
On the fifth step he digs his heels in, arm twisting to hold By by his wrist, and tugs him— ]
Other left, mon beau péquenaud.
[ A very old term of elbow-to-the-ribs endearment, and even more outrageously unfair now than it was when they met in Val Royeaux. ]
[ The little tweak - one that had earned a few rotten fellows enmity back in the old days, but which is cute and fond and beloved coming from Bastien's lips - gets a little smile. But the correction - ]
Is it really? I swear...
[ Shaking his head, he lets Bastien drag him, laughing at his poor sense of direction. ]
It is because you are not used to seeing the city in the daylight.
[ True? Maybe.
He looks over his shoulder—for the birds, you know—but, predictably finding nothing, wraps his hand around Byerly's elbow and shifts halfway into a new game. ]
Close your eyes. Maybe you'll know it that way—left or right?
[ Bastien's gurgling choke turns into a laugh and his elbow swings out to nudge By in the ribs. ]
Coquin.
[ He also turns them left. A narrower street, even less populated. He glances at By, checking that his eyes are still closed, then just checking him out, and strokes fingers against the inside of his elbow in a way that somehow means, in Bard sign, to your right. ]
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[ He squeezes back, but says: ]
There are people, at times, who are tolerable on their own, but monsters when they're in love. You never really had known me when I had something to lose.
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You had Alexandrie. And you lost her.
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[ But it's not an unfair point. He could have been a beast far more vicious than the one he became. ]
But...I am glad that you felt so - [ Well. ] That you came to feel that you could say yes. You are...the wealth of my life. The only thing I need to make kings envious.
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But what By says next sweetly steals all the wind from those sails. At least for now. Bastien sighs, in a good way, and melts more heavily into Byerly’s arm and shoulder. ]
I love you.
[ He says it like thank you. Buzzing with happiness. And after a beat, ]
Do you know what else I have in common with wealth?
[ He doesn’t make By guess the punchline. ]
You leave me spent.
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You filthy little minx.
[ He nuzzles the side of Bastien's neck. He's certainly never been bad at sweet nothings, but - Maker, Bastien turns him into a poet. How intolerable.
The seagulls, emboldened by the two of them being so utterly lost in one another, swoop down. The first one to arrive misses the mark, but the second one manages to make off with a whole bun all on its own. Byerly turns his face towards it, says with mingled delight and fury - ]
Little bastard! After I fed you -
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Thieves. Now I have to like them. We should—
[ Adopt them, he was going to say, but the squawking kerfuffle being caused by the two seagulls and the big roll in the street attracts the attention of a dozen more. For the moment they’re all focused on the one scraggly gull and its prize, but— ]
Shit.
[ Bastien holds his arm over the others, fingers spread wide, like a shield. ]
We’re outnumbered.
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[ Byerly clutches at Bastien in mock-panic. (Though, to be altogether fair, there is some meanness in their beady eyes. And those wings could probably do damage.) ]
Run, Bastien. I'll hold them off.
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I'm not leaving you.
[ He evaluates their positions and defenses with a few quick glances. ]
If you are done with your coffee— [ serious battle plan consideration ] —we can sacrifice a roll to distract them and make a run for it.
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Which one, though? They were all devastatingly good. Maybe the mixed berry?
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[ What a loss. But less of a loss than the others, maybe, yes—he gives a shuddering nod and retrieves the picked-at mixed berry pastry from his basket. He cradles it. ]
We will remember your sacrifice, Mixed Berry.
[ He looks up at By with grim resolve while he tears it into pieces. The seagulls who have given up on wresting the stolen roll from the winners are hopping and fluttering closer. The street is teeming with people who will look at them like they've gone mad, but he finds he doesn't care even a little. ]
On three?
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[ Byerly grips Bastien's forearm and looks into his face with passionate, resigned intensity. It's all very Les bandits Cassidé et l'Enfant du Soleil Dansant, that classic play. ]
One...two - Augh -
[ The drama is ruined somewhat by the fact that an emboldened seagull has already swooped down and gone for that roll with a great flap of its wings. Byerly gives a rather seagullish squawk of alarm and waves his free arm while tugging Bastien down behind him. ]
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Bastien turns on his heels to fling his handful of bread-bits in an arc behind them. The gulls descend. They aren't pursued at all, on their run down the street, but Bastien still pulls By sharply into a side alley and presses him against the wall to hide. Breathless and still grinning, despite some attempts around the eyebrows and in his voice to be serious and dramatic again: ]
Were we followed?
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[ Doing slightly better at maintaining a face of Dramatic Distress, though there's a sparkle in his eyes. He grips Bastien's shoulders and cranes his neck, trying to catch a glimpse out of the alley. ]
But they're cunning bastards. They could be lying in wait. We may need to find an alternate route.
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It is not far to the smugglers' passage.
[ A few twists and turns away, and one twist and turn down through a trap door, into the twisty and turny tunnels in the stone beneath their feet. Would they be markedly increasing the odds of someone trying to stab them, for real, to avoid an imaginary bird threat?
Maybe. But look, it's not Darktown. ]
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[ Is it stupid? Immensely. Incredibly! But who cares? It's hilarious.
He grabs Bastien by the wrist and pulls him down the alley...and then turns in the completely wrong direction. (It's been a minute since he's done something this cheerfully dumb, and has perhaps forgotten the way.) ]
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On the fifth step he digs his heels in, arm twisting to hold By by his wrist, and tugs him— ]
Other left, mon beau péquenaud.
[ A very old term of elbow-to-the-ribs endearment, and even more outrageously unfair now than it was when they met in Val Royeaux. ]
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[ The little tweak - one that had earned a few rotten fellows enmity back in the old days, but which is cute and fond and beloved coming from Bastien's lips - gets a little smile. But the correction - ]
Is it really? I swear...
[ Shaking his head, he lets Bastien drag him, laughing at his poor sense of direction. ]
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[ True? Maybe.
He looks over his shoulder—for the birds, you know—but, predictably finding nothing, wraps his hand around Byerly's elbow and shifts halfway into a new game. ]
Close your eyes. Maybe you'll know it that way—left or right?
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Left.
[ He reaches out to the left and (ever so accidentally, of course! his eyes are closed!) gropes Bastien's crotch. ]
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Coquin.
[ He also turns them left. A narrower street, even less populated. He glances at By, checking that his eyes are still closed, then just checking him out, and strokes fingers against the inside of his elbow in a way that somehow means, in Bard sign, to your right. ]