[ Bastien nods, matter of fact. Nothing to be embarrassed about. He’s looking out the window.
He blows on and swallows a spoonful of the soup. Makes a murmuring sound of approval. Thinks. ]
We should find out.
[ He looks at By, now. ]
We could start with your good cousin. Or your sister. Anyone. And if they don’t have answers, we can start working our way to the rotten core until we find them.
[ Bastien sets his spoon in his bowl, freeing himself to twist a few inches in By’s direction and plant his elbow on the table to hold his head in one hand and continue to look at him, attentive and patient. Mostly patient. He also reaches over to fidget with the shell of By’s ear in a way that’s intended to be mostly affectionate but also a little annoying, just for a moment, before it segues into fingertips petting the short hair near his neck. ]
[ The laugh makes him smile, and the explanation doesn't make him stop. It only subdues a bit. He keeps looking at him. Hand on his neck, fingers stroking his hair. ]
That's a good question.
[ Time is already coming for them, with grey hairs and little wrinkles and misbehaving joints. And time can have them—their bodies, eventually their minds, finally their breath. That's alright. But it can't have By's heart. Bastien's made his mind up about that. ]
[ He lets go of By's neck, but only to relocate to By's thigh. (His legs are too long; his knee would be awkward for Bastien to reach.) ]
Worrying about it has to be a little distracting too, though, right? Wondering if this is the first thing, or this—and if we knew, we could do something.
[ He returns to his soup, too. The fact that his hand stays on By’s leg would be casual and thoughtless, maybe, if it didn’t require eating with his off hand.
The reasons he’s not worried are awfully sentimental. Awfully open to argument from By, who’s always resisted being labeled a good man with a good heart—and even if he cedes that point, Bastien thinks he’ll likely point out love and protectiveness can always be twisted into possession and jealousy and hurting people out of the belief it’s the only way to keep them safe.
But he wouldn’t. That’s what Bastien’s so sure of. If anyone he cared about said he was hurting them, he’d more likely walk into the sea than keep it up.
Bastien doesn’t press the matter. Not that matter, anyway. ]
I do have to meet your sister now. Even if it is not to ask her what she knows about the family curse. It’s only fair. I will give you, [ hmm, ] to the end of the year before I decide you are embarrassed of me and become very dramatic about it.
[ The pinch earns a wiggle—one that he could have suppressed, of course, but the impulse behind it is genuine, and the lack of suppression unguarded. ]
Earliest opportunity, [ he agrees, agreeably, ] and if a good one hasn't come by August, we go even if it is inconvenient. Yeah?
[ Bastien rubs Byerly's knuckles with his interlaced fingers. ]
You never let me doubt it. I am only teasing.
[ Still pleasant to hear, of course. ]
Although if we are traveling through much of Ferelden—the little villages and places, you know—maybe I will be your Marcher instead of your Orlesian. Depending on how things feel.
[ without any real offense. But he says it in a Marcher accent. Keyword being a. There are as many Marcher accents as city-states, and as Bastien continues mimicking this one, he doesn’t sound like his family. Or really like a Kirkwaller. He sounds east and coastal—the accent Yseult taught him. ]
I am much better than I was.
[ And, fine, he does still sound a little Orlesian. But not in a way isolated southern villagers would notice. ]
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[ By follows with their little wooden spoons and settles down. He bumps Bastien's shoulder with his own as he sits. ]
And sometimes it's hard to know what's madness and what's simply people behaving badly because the reputation for madness gives them license.
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Shamelessness works just as well.
[ He angles his knee to rest against By's beneath the table. ]
What are the signs? The early ones. Are there any?
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Truthfully, I...don't quite know. I've never actually seen someone go mad before.
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He blows on and swallows a spoonful of the soup. Makes a murmuring sound of approval. Thinks. ]
We should find out.
[ He looks at By, now. ]
We could start with your good cousin. Or your sister. Anyone. And if they don’t have answers, we can start working our way to the rotten core until we find them.
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[ It's a slightly noncommittal noise. He fidgets just a bit with his spoon and looks out the window. ]
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It's gross hypocrisy, to say the least. I just feel a bit of anxiety around - oh, you know - what happens if I have those signs.
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That's a good question.
[ Time is already coming for them, with grey hairs and little wrinkles and misbehaving joints. And time can have them—their bodies, eventually their minds, finally their breath. That's alright. But it can't have By's heart. Bastien's made his mind up about that. ]
What does happen?
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[ What does happen? By swallows his first, grim, self-sacrificing response, knowing it'll be roundly rejected by Bastien. ]
Well, it robs me of my ability to ignore it, I suppose. Which would be - distracting, to say the least.
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[ He lets go of By's neck, but only to relocate to By's thigh. (His legs are too long; his knee would be awkward for Bastien to reach.) ]
Worrying about it has to be a little distracting too, though, right? Wondering if this is the first thing, or this—and if we knew, we could do something.
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[ At least he can joke. ]
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[ Why not? ]
Or something smaller. Something we can do to help anchor you to what is true and what you believe—who you are. Find ways to help you keep hold of it.
Or something bigger. We brought you back from the dead, By.
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[ He smiles wistfully. It is true. ]
All right. Maybe.
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[ He squeezes By’s thigh. Companionable, not saucy. Yet. ]
I am not worried, though. You can be worried, until we know for sure—I know I can’t stop you. But I’m not afraid.
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[ He nuzzles his head against Bastien's, then straightens up and returns to his soup. ]
We've gotten dreadfully off-topic.
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[ He returns to his soup, too. The fact that his hand stays on By’s leg would be casual and thoughtless, maybe, if it didn’t require eating with his off hand.
The reasons he’s not worried are awfully sentimental. Awfully open to argument from By, who’s always resisted being labeled a good man with a good heart—and even if he cedes that point, Bastien thinks he’ll likely point out love and protectiveness can always be twisted into possession and jealousy and hurting people out of the belief it’s the only way to keep them safe.
But he wouldn’t. That’s what Bastien’s so sure of. If anyone he cared about said he was hurting them, he’d more likely walk into the sea than keep it up.
Bastien doesn’t press the matter. Not that matter, anyway. ]
I do have to meet your sister now. Even if it is not to ask her what she knows about the family curse. It’s only fair. I will give you, [ hmm, ] to the end of the year before I decide you are embarrassed of me and become very dramatic about it.
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[ He blows out a breath and pinches Bastien's waist in revenge for the very idea - then reaches his hand down to interlace their fingers. ]
But - yes. We should go. And soon, before the weather truly turns nasty down there.
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Earliest opportunity, [ he agrees, agreeably, ] and if a good one hasn't come by August, we go even if it is inconvenient. Yeah?
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[ Sentimentally: ]
I’m very proud of you. Of having you in my life.
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You never let me doubt it. I am only teasing.
[ Still pleasant to hear, of course. ]
Although if we are traveling through much of Ferelden—the little villages and places, you know—maybe I will be your Marcher instead of your Orlesian. Depending on how things feel.
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Well, they won’t have met Marchers. So your accent might pass.
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[ without any real offense. But he says it in a Marcher accent. Keyword being a. There are as many Marcher accents as city-states, and as Bastien continues mimicking this one, he doesn’t sound like his family. Or really like a Kirkwaller. He sounds east and coastal—the accent Yseult taught him. ]
I am much better than I was.
[ And, fine, he does still sound a little Orlesian. But not in a way isolated southern villagers would notice. ]
I could be your manservant, Ben.
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[ Even in play, By remembers well how Bastien feels about taking on the role of a servant. ]
No one would believe that. But I could be your manservant.
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The finest in the world.
[ But as much of a kick as they both might get out of it for a moment—or an evening, privately— ]
Or we could both be traveling musicians who can't afford servants at all.
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