Or at least avoid running into it four times in a row.
[ He turns his head so it's his cheek pressed close instead. He's smiling; it's audible, even if By can't quite see at this angle. The laugh and the back rubs have pulled him back from the precipice of dire. ]
It was great. It was—I like you, you know. You're funny and you're clever and you make everything interesting. Every time we talk for more than a few minutes it becomes a little adventure. What's over that hill, what's in that cave.
[ Even if he doesn't quite follow the reason for all this, this odd sentimentality, he answers it; his voice is warm and soft. ]
Sometimes it feels a bit like we're lads together. Not that either of us actually were able to really live out that sort of boyhood. It's being lads in the way we'd have wanted it to be.
[ He smiles. He is all right. On the whole. But, fine, it's kind of a sad smile. ]
I just want you to know that I like you. I don't want you to be me. I don't want you be anything but yourself. It's only—what I want, it's not all that matters.
[ The flattering thing would be to say that he would love to be Byerly, in exchange—but he wouldn't. Obviously he wouldn't. He'd have no tolerance for feeling so unhappy so often, for one thing.
So a truer thing, equally or perhaps more cheesy: ]
I would let you be me for a few minutes, I suppose, so you could see how great it is to be with you. But that's it.
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[ He laughs a little laugh at the memory. He might be a bit kinder - the man is dead, after all - save that the man was also a real shithead. ]
Though really, I like to think he made himself pass out. An animal can avoid a hunter’s trap if it is clever, after all.
[ And he rubs up and down Bastien’s back - unsure what has caused this turn in the conversation, but quite willing to talk him through it. ]
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[ He turns his head so it's his cheek pressed close instead. He's smiling; it's audible, even if By can't quite see at this angle. The laugh and the back rubs have pulled him back from the precipice of dire. ]
It was great. It was—I like you, you know. You're funny and you're clever and you make everything interesting. Every time we talk for more than a few minutes it becomes a little adventure. What's over that hill, what's in that cave.
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[ Even if he doesn't quite follow the reason for all this, this odd sentimentality, he answers it; his voice is warm and soft. ]
Sometimes it feels a bit like we're lads together. Not that either of us actually were able to really live out that sort of boyhood. It's being lads in the way we'd have wanted it to be.
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I can certainly think of a few people who'd agree that we're acting like children.
[ For example: everyone who's ever had to listen to them carry on over the crystals. ]
But I intend to carry on until we die.
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[ By scratches Bastien's scalp, and then asks, gently: ]
Are you doing all right, mon amour?
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[ He smiles. He is all right. On the whole. But, fine, it's kind of a sad smile. ]
I just want you to know that I like you. I don't want you to be me. I don't want you be anything but yourself. It's only—what I want, it's not all that matters.
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[ His smile is a little sad, too. But more wry. ]
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So a truer thing, equally or perhaps more cheesy: ]
I would let you be me for a few minutes, I suppose, so you could see how great it is to be with you. But that's it.
[ Gross.
Quiet, though. Still a little melancholy. ]
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Well, then. As long as you're still you, I suppose I'm contented to be myself. Under no other circumstances, though.
[ Then, with a kiss to his temple - ]
I have chosen everything that I'm doing, my love, and what I want to be. You have not bent me towards any aims I would not have had otherwise.