[ Revenge—is it revenge? Maybe it’s more defense. Holding down a fort that’s Bastien’s by rights. Whichever it is, it comes at a delay. Bastien can rhyme off the cuff, but achieving sincerity without sliding into jokes out of embarrassment and habit—that takes effort. And revisions. Several. And once it’s done, he delays more, until he’s off on Riftwatch business outside of Kirkwall, and even more specifically until the morning hours when he can usually rely on By to be asleep. ]
Do not let anyone else hear this.
[ His voice is hushed, avoiding being overheard by his hosts, and stays hushed when he begins singing in Orlesian, accompanied by lute plucking so discreet it is more like a hint of music than the real thing. The song is Orlesian in structure and melody, but it steals from Monsieur Presley (vis-a-vis Stark) the direct address, the frank and aching simplicity of feeling, and it adds—by Orlesian standards—a little bit more indecency. Quand je souffle mes bougies je te sens dans la fumée, that sort of thing.
It isn’t long. When it’s over, Bastien pauses for a few seconds, clears his throat, and says, ]
Now that better be the horniest thing you have ever heard.
[ He doesn’t expect an answer. He timed it to avoid one. ]
[ There isn't any spoken response to this. No recording. Nothing. Bastien might be made to feel self-conscious by the silence, save that the intimacy between them is great enough that he's quite unlikely to think that it comes from judgment.
The response, instead, comes on paper. It is left in his room when he gets back. And it is a portrait, specifically of Bastien, done in pencil. And what is most telling of all about what this gesture signifies: it is amateurish. Unpolished, unprofessional - not something done because there's some hidden talent here bursting to get out, but just as a simple act of unselfconscious love. A contrast to Byerly's normal shame, his reluctance to share the more earnest and awkward parts of himself. Just simple love and trust. ]
[ Despite the simplicity, Bastien spends as long looking at it as he would a gallery painting. Soaking in the earnestness of the gesture, basking in the obvious love and attention in the inexpertly rendered details.
He doesn't say anything in response, either. Not immediately, and never really much. Later, when he's half-asleep in the tangle of Byerly's spindly limbs, he'll murmur I missed your face, too, and leave it at that. But weeks or months or years from now, when he's been asked to fetch something from a drawer or is helping pack for relocation or aiding in the search for something Bastien's misplaced, Byerly will come across the drawing again, protected between clean pages of a book chosen solely for its adequate size, with an added coat of wax and resin to preserve it. And not by Bastien, who doesn't know the first thing about doing that. He had to take it to one of their art friends, awkward and proud and pleased and slightly horrified by the first hint of smudging on the drawing, and ask them to help. ]
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a gift.
Do not let anyone else hear this.
[ His voice is hushed, avoiding being overheard by his hosts, and stays hushed when he begins singing in Orlesian, accompanied by lute plucking so discreet it is more like a hint of music than the real thing. The song is Orlesian in structure and melody, but it steals from Monsieur Presley (vis-a-vis Stark) the direct address, the frank and aching simplicity of feeling, and it adds—by Orlesian standards—a little bit more indecency. Quand je souffle mes bougies je te sens dans la fumée, that sort of thing.
It isn’t long. When it’s over, Bastien pauses for a few seconds, clears his throat, and says, ]
Now that better be the horniest thing you have ever heard.
[ He doesn’t expect an answer. He timed it to avoid one. ]
I love you, mon chevrier. Have a good day.
no subject
The response, instead, comes on paper. It is left in his room when he gets back. And it is a portrait, specifically of Bastien, done in pencil. And what is most telling of all about what this gesture signifies: it is amateurish. Unpolished, unprofessional - not something done because there's some hidden talent here bursting to get out, but just as a simple act of unselfconscious love. A contrast to Byerly's normal shame, his reluctance to share the more earnest and awkward parts of himself. Just simple love and trust. ]
no subject
He doesn't say anything in response, either. Not immediately, and never really much. Later, when he's half-asleep in the tangle of Byerly's spindly limbs, he'll murmur I missed your face, too, and leave it at that. But weeks or months or years from now, when he's been asked to fetch something from a drawer or is helping pack for relocation or aiding in the search for something Bastien's misplaced, Byerly will come across the drawing again, protected between clean pages of a book chosen solely for its adequate size, with an added coat of wax and resin to preserve it. And not by Bastien, who doesn't know the first thing about doing that. He had to take it to one of their art friends, awkward and proud and pleased and slightly horrified by the first hint of smudging on the drawing, and ask them to help. ]