[ A chuckle. It’s a terrible word, but that’s what he does. ]
And so if I make a point of being happy because I want you to be happy, does that make me selfless? Or if I am happy because you are happy because I am happy—selfish.
[ As if it weren't transparent. But words are difficult, and easy to mistake. Particularly when it comes to feelings. And you often end up answering questions you weren't asked. ]
[ No talking carefully around it now. But he leans his head against the back of the couch and talks to the ceiling, instead, sounding casual and faintly, sheepishly amused, ready to shrug this entire conversation off if necessary for anyone’s dignity. ]
If you think you could love me. Generally speaking. If you think it’s within the realm of possibility that you could love us both.
[ A breath out - a little sharp, a little awkward. But his words are direct. ]
Maker, Bastien, of course I love you. [ Or - ] Rather, I feel about you so much, all the time. Maybe it's not love. But I'm altogether obsessed with you, and want to fight everyone when you're away. Which is how I feel about Lexie. Both of you. And I'm assuming that's love. It might be, instead, something completely terrible, and that's the issue; I don't know that I won't fuck you up. But you're always in my head. If I can feel love, you have it.
[ Bastien has flipped his head back up from the back of the couch well before Byerly finishes talking, to look at him instead, trying to respectfully keep up with all of the very serious and conversation-worthy concerns that come after that first sentence, rather than hauling him in and kissing him. He succeeds, of course, but it's a nearer miss than usual.
He puts his hand on the side of Byerly's face as soon as he seems finished, thumb toying with the upper shell of his ear, and he takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and then he says, ]
Oh.
[ He's much better at this sort of thing when he cares less. ]
We can talk about all of that, if you want. I don't want to brush it off. But I need you to give me a few minutes to smile like an idiot first.
[ Though, he supposes, he'd never said any of it aloud. He's said these sorts of things to Alexandrie, and about Alexandrie, true enough, but that isn't necessarily enough for Bastien to know that he has all the same anxieties about him. And Byerly had never really specified what they were to continue, that the question wasn't just about idly screwing around -
Well, it doesn't matter now. What does matter is this: he reaches out and strokes Bastien's cheek: ]
Smile for an hour. It makes me happy to look at it.
[ He wants to comb back over the last few months with new lenses, relive the moment he said yes to fully appreciate the look on Byerly’s face for what it was, find Alexandrie and very improperly and presumptuously spin her around by the waist in apology for ever thinking her gain was his loss—but none of that quite as much as he wants to be here, smiling and leaning his cheek into Byerly’s hand. ]
I kept thinking you might. But that’s how I fucked up before, you know. He tried to tell me he couldn’t but I took every little thing as a sign he was wrong, so I...
[ Overcorrected. A little. Possibly. But he’s too pleased to spend much time feeling sorry or stupid about it. ]
I love you, too, [ with a cheerful sort of self-mockery, ] by the way, in case I’m being too subtle.
[ It's not the first time he's been told that - far from it - but in the past, it's almost always been from a mark, or a sop, or a fool of some sort. The first time it meant anything, it was from Lexie; the second time, now, here. It still holds its dizzying, dangerous appeal. He loves it, even as it scares the everloving shit out of him. ]
You'll turn a girl into a proper romantic. Fill her heart with all these dreams.
[ Bastien hopes so—to an extent, an extent he can satisfy, or at least do his half to satisfy. But he’s also suddenly capable of empathizing with Byerly’s threats to pop if he was ever too happy. So that’s enough earnest confession, at least for a few minutes.
He turns his head to kiss Byerly’s palm, then leans over to kiss him on the cheek, where he keeps his nose pressed while he says, ]
I want a spring wedding, nineteen dogs, and a castle on a mountain high enough to be above the clouds.
[ Bastien gives that concept its due consideration, which involves some contemplation of Byerly’s jaw and neck and shoulders, accompanied by a particularly Orlesian and lascivious hum, before he decides: ]
Yes. But then I get to throw you over my shoulder—
[ while he does whatever grappling and manhandling is required to drag Byerly over and down to lie on him, as a demonstration ]
[ He laughs as he allows himself to be maneuvered. It's a genuine laugh, silly and unselfconscious. A rare thing. By laughs often, but it's usually through his teeth. ]
[ A good sound. A good sight. Bastien kisses him—quick and giddy, made a little sloppy by the fact that he’s laughing too—and settles both arms around him.
He’s quiet for a moment after, and comfortable and content, and then he says, ]
I can’t see inside your head, By. I don’t know if your feelings are something you should worry about or if they’re—if you think there is something wrong about you, so you think there has to be something wrong about whatever you feel. But you won’t hurt me.
—or, I mean, maybe a little. I plan to do a lot of rolling around with you, and you have those pointy elbows.
[ That draws a small huff of laughter out of him - more muted than before, but laughter nevertheless. Then he lapses into silence a moment, tracing the veins of Bastien's hands with one finger. ]
My father and my mother were a love match. That's what I've heard, anyway. And at some point, they turned into that. [ Another moment of quiet. ] And there've been plenty who've loved me, or been infatuated with me, at least - and I made use of their feelings, used them. Please don't trust me with all your heart, eh? Hold something in reserve.
[ —is not the romantic answer, and maybe not the reassuring one. He curls his hands to make the veins stand out more for tracing. ]
Not because of you. It is just how I am. It might be a character flaw.
And anyway, if you need something from me, you don’t need my feelings to get it. [ He uncurls his hand to wiggle his fingers instead. ] You only need a budget.
[ He lifts a finger to touch the lower side of Byerly's crooked smile, considering it for a moment, adding it to a catalog of other moments he's seen it. ]
I'm joking. I hope. [ But while they're on the subject. ] Will you tell your spymaster about this?
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And so if I make a point of being happy because I want you to be happy, does that make me selfless? Or if I am happy because you are happy because I am happy—selfish.
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Maker help us. Is this what love is? Endless cycles of selfishness like this?
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Damn it, Byerly.
[ He'd just steadied his footing.
But he only needs a couple of seconds to think back and amend to, ]
No, all right. This one is my fault. It sounded like I was asking you if you thought you would—not fuck up.
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What were you asking?
[ As if it weren't transparent. But words are difficult, and easy to mistake. Particularly when it comes to feelings. And you often end up answering questions you weren't asked. ]
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[ No talking carefully around it now. But he leans his head against the back of the couch and talks to the ceiling, instead, sounding casual and faintly, sheepishly amused, ready to shrug this entire conversation off if necessary for anyone’s dignity. ]
If you think you could love me. Generally speaking. If you think it’s within the realm of possibility that you could love us both.
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Maker, Bastien, of course I love you. [ Or - ] Rather, I feel about you so much, all the time. Maybe it's not love. But I'm altogether obsessed with you, and want to fight everyone when you're away. Which is how I feel about Lexie. Both of you. And I'm assuming that's love. It might be, instead, something completely terrible, and that's the issue; I don't know that I won't fuck you up. But you're always in my head. If I can feel love, you have it.
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He puts his hand on the side of Byerly's face as soon as he seems finished, thumb toying with the upper shell of his ear, and he takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and then he says, ]
Oh.
[ He's much better at this sort of thing when he cares less. ]
We can talk about all of that, if you want. I don't want to brush it off. But I need you to give me a few minutes to smile like an idiot first.
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[ Though, he supposes, he'd never said any of it aloud. He's said these sorts of things to Alexandrie, and about Alexandrie, true enough, but that isn't necessarily enough for Bastien to know that he has all the same anxieties about him. And Byerly had never really specified what they were to continue, that the question wasn't just about idly screwing around -
Well, it doesn't matter now. What does matter is this: he reaches out and strokes Bastien's cheek: ]
Smile for an hour. It makes me happy to look at it.
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[ He wants to comb back over the last few months with new lenses, relive the moment he said yes to fully appreciate the look on Byerly’s face for what it was, find Alexandrie and very improperly and presumptuously spin her around by the waist in apology for ever thinking her gain was his loss—but none of that quite as much as he wants to be here, smiling and leaning his cheek into Byerly’s hand. ]
I kept thinking you might. But that’s how I fucked up before, you know. He tried to tell me he couldn’t but I took every little thing as a sign he was wrong, so I...
[ Overcorrected. A little. Possibly. But he’s too pleased to spend much time feeling sorry or stupid about it. ]
I love you, too, [ with a cheerful sort of self-mockery, ] by the way, in case I’m being too subtle.
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[ It's not the first time he's been told that - far from it - but in the past, it's almost always been from a mark, or a sop, or a fool of some sort. The first time it meant anything, it was from Lexie; the second time, now, here. It still holds its dizzying, dangerous appeal. He loves it, even as it scares the everloving shit out of him. ]
You'll turn a girl into a proper romantic. Fill her heart with all these dreams.
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He turns his head to kiss Byerly’s palm, then leans over to kiss him on the cheek, where he keeps his nose pressed while he says, ]
I want a spring wedding, nineteen dogs, and a castle on a mountain high enough to be above the clouds.
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The latter two are doable. But not a spring wedding. All those blooming flowers make my nose run.
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Your nose is one my top fifteen favorite things about you. What about the dead of winter? Does the cold make your nose run too?
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Yes. But then I get to throw you over my shoulder—
[ while he does whatever grappling and manhandling is required to drag Byerly over and down to lie on him, as a demonstration ]
—so we do not play into stereotypes.
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Augh. Yes, well done, you've proven your might -
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He’s quiet for a moment after, and comfortable and content, and then he says, ]
I can’t see inside your head, By. I don’t know if your feelings are something you should worry about or if they’re—if you think there is something wrong about you, so you think there has to be something wrong about whatever you feel. But you won’t hurt me.
—or, I mean, maybe a little. I plan to do a lot of rolling around with you, and you have those pointy elbows.
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My father and my mother were a love match. That's what I've heard, anyway. And at some point, they turned into that. [ Another moment of quiet. ] And there've been plenty who've loved me, or been infatuated with me, at least - and I made use of their feelings, used them. Please don't trust me with all your heart, eh? Hold something in reserve.
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[ —is not the romantic answer, and maybe not the reassuring one. He curls his hands to make the veins stand out more for tracing. ]
Not because of you. It is just how I am. It might be a character flaw.
And anyway, if you need something from me, you don’t need my feelings to get it. [ He uncurls his hand to wiggle his fingers instead. ] You only need a budget.
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[ He smiles crookedly. I will, to him, was reassuring, if maybe not exactly what's good for him to hear. ]
That's the business we're in, isn't it? Making that which hasn't been available, available.
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[ He lifts a finger to touch the lower side of Byerly's crooked smile, considering it for a moment, adding it to a catalog of other moments he's seen it. ]
I'm joking. I hope. [ But while they're on the subject. ] Will you tell your spymaster about this?
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[ A pretty blatant dodge. Not that he won't answer - he just needs a moment. ]
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But if you make my dick look like a turnip, I might have to send them some corrections.
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[ Then - ]
They have been made aware that my judgment, when it comes to certain Orlesians, cannot be fully relied upon.
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Mm. Are they good to you? I mean—do they respect you and value your work and all of that?
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