bouchonne | contact part deux

[ Byerly wants to protest Bastien going and tending to their breakfast; it feels, after all, quite uncomfortable, having the two nobles lounging in bed while the commoner fetches and then refreshes their breakfast. But Lexie already lashed out once for - what, for Byerly asking Bastien to join him in bed and giving him the warm spot. And so By knows that if he reaches out and insists that Bastien do nothing of the sort, Lexie will utterly fracture.

Maybe all of this isn't tenable. Maybe he really can't have them both at once. He'd thought - Lexie was so assured that she could have both him and Loki. And he'd thought that the fact that her attentions were split meant that he could split his attentions safely, as well. But maybe that's not the case.

And there is that truth, as well. He can give all of himself to Bastien without fear. Or, well, without much fear - there's always a bit of paranoid chatter in the back of his mind, wondering if perhaps Bastien is just using him, reminding him of what it is that Bards do - but he's largely relaxed with Bastien. But Lexie...It feels dangerous to mouth reassurances with her. Because she has proven herself dangerous. Because the more he allows himself to remember how they were, once, the riskier it feels.

(And always there will be that memory of her saying that she rid herself of him because she thought he'd be like Rolant. That will never leave him.)

Maybe this really won't work.

The thought makes his hands tighten on her. He wants her. But Maker, she tears his soul to ribbons.

He wants to make a joke. What a terrible birthday, he'd crack, to break the tension. But that also doesn't feel especially safe, because again, that's paying Bastien heed in her presence. So he just stays silent. ]

[ She is thinking it too, even as his arms tighten around her and she closes her eyes to better feel it.

My Lexie he had called her, but not his like a lover. His like an old broken home to which he cannot return. Always his, and never.

It is soft, and sad: ]

Do we frighten each other too much to love each other well, my Byerly? Do we hold one another only because we are afraid to let go?

[ Is she the cold forbidding ocean of Ferelden's coast, braved over and over because there is something in him that cannot stop? ]

I love you. I love you so terribly that it makes me wild.

[ It is not like this, in Loki's arms. Even both of them prone to fits of temper, to sweeping dramatics, he quiets her heart. He makes her still. There is nothing of doubt in her, even now. No restlessness, no fear. Perhaps Bastien is the same, for Byerly.

Is it cruel of her, to hold him? She was helpless not to, could not make herself stop, but was it cruel to chase him at all? ]

Can we have this? It will be so much. So hard. We will not be able to paint over the pain of it with laughter and pretend it is not there. It will be speaking with terrible honesty, the slow and careful build of trust, and you do so much already. You work so hard.

[ She strokes his temple still, turns her face to kiss his hair. Patience, he had asked.

A little louder then, to include Bastien: ]

You need say nothing of it now. We may eat twice warmed breakfast and be triple charming— although with twice warmed breakfast perhaps we must be twice that.

But... think upon it. It breaks my heart to hurt you as well, and if that is all I do, if I do not make you happy...

[ She cannot say the rest without falling apart, and so instead it is: ]

I want you to be happy.

The first thing -

[ His voice is rough. He clears his throat. ]

Is that you cannot - react like that to how I treat Bastien.

[ Byerly lifts his head to meet Bastien's eyes directly. His expression is concerned. Are you all right? ]

How I feel about each of you - it doesn't interfere with how I feel about the other. [ To Lexie: ] Which is nearly what you said to me about your relationship with Loki. So.

If there is tension between us, he is not the root of it. And I cannot - [ A breath. ] I cannot navigate you doing...that when I actually manage to force out a decently romantic sentiment. It's hard enough to do it as it is.

[ And then, tensely, painfully: ]

I - love you both. All right?

[ Bastien has felt better. Less cold, less uncomfortable, less embarrassed, less minimized, less dreading the prospect of anyone patronizingly forcing themselves to be charming over reheated eggs to humor him. The sole reason he’s holding breakfast over the fire, while they’re entwined on the bed, instead of sneaking out the door to find somewhere less miserable to be is because he hasn’t had a moment to touch Byerly or tell him that he loves him and stupid dreams to the contrary are just that. He can’t leave until he has.

But he turns at his name in time to catch Byerly’s concern, and it’s odd to have someone worry about whether he’s all right. Or, no—it’s odd to have someone worry and for that to make Bastien feel comforted, rather than bothered that his armor cracked. For being defended to make him feel something other than regret that he appeared to need it.

He answers Byerly’s worried look and proclamation with a smile, genuine and surprised and a little confused (at himself, at the solid unfluttery warmth in his chest). ]

I love you, too. [ While he’s been given a chance to say it. And, more cheerfully, before he turns back to the fire: ] That is the only reason I have not thrown the food out the window.

[ And now she feels—

Judged. Lesser. Thought a poorer love because she cannot be what Bastien is and simply say she loves and make a joke without feeling like she lies because there are still other words she needs to say, more knots to untangle.

For the first time, and knowing it is petty, she resents him. That he can be kind and still and reassuring instead of a storm. That he and Byerly can love simply and warmly and everything hurts her, and that makes her want to leave again but she cannot, and she wants to explain it but she cannot, and that makes her want to scream but she cannot, and she cannot cry, and she cannot even be still because that is too much discomfort expressed.

So what? What else is there to do right now in this moment? ]

And I love you as well.

[ She raises her head, and sinks slowly to sit back against her pillow so that she won't be breaking contact if Byerly does not wish to let her go. To him: ]

I feel as if I cannot speak anymore, that if I do I will be imposing. But I also feel that if I do not speak, I shall either need to go away for a time to collect myself or begin dissembling, and I neither wish to cause you to feel abandoned nor to lie to you.

[ And to Bastien: ]

If I am kind to you now I worry you shall think me patronizing. If I ignore you, I worry you shall think me cold and unwelcoming.

[ She pulls up her knees again, looking a bit lost. ]

And so I do not know what to do at all.

Edited 2021-02-18 01:15 (UTC)

[ The slight joke about the food takes some of the tension out of Byerly; the impassioned declaration about her right to speak drives it right back into him. Is it always going to be like this with her? Always so raw and fraught, so that any step feels like it risks dragging one down into the abyss? He cannot dismiss her, or she'll feel abandoned and brokenhearted; he cannot encourage her to just take the time in silence, because she'll feel voiceless. And if she does speak, she's likely going to say something that'll make Byerly just feel even worse.

Well. One of those things is the least bad option, he thinks. ]

Just - have some breakfast. And talk about - something that makes you happy.

[ On his way back with the tray, Bastien considers reassuring her, but he doesn’t. Partly because Byerly is already talking. Partly because Bastien doesn’t quite know what to do, either. If she can wake up beside Byerly, and have Bastien track down cake at breakfast, and be half-dressed and domestic on the bed when he arrives, and have them both take time to try to comfort her, and still consider Byerly’s attempt to be welcoming to him a balance-tipping moment worthy of running barefoot for the door—

He doesn’t know. He’ll figure it out later. In the meantime, his Orlesian(ish) feet are very used to eggshells.

Bastien slides the tray back onto the bed, without flourish, because flourish would make him look like a server at a cafe. Instead he shakes his hands, as if it were heavy, and smiles. ]

The serving plates are hot. Try not to touch them.

[ Why is she so miserable? Why is kindness making her furious? Why must she be asked to be anything other than what she is in the very moment that she is it?

Alexandrie had strayed from all the exercises Emile had taught her when she'd come. The ones that had made her still, able to breathe again when she could not, let her find and release every single place in her body that her abject misery had clawed into and tensed. All she could think of was that she had used her skills as a Bard to ruin. That her hiding and her lies had only cost.

She'd forgotten that before she had used it to lie, she had used it to live again.

So she closes her eyes, and she breathes her storm away in the old patterns. It's not quite the smooth quick wave through her body it had used to be— if one happened to be a Bard, and one happened to be looking, one might be able to see the individual pieces come together— but at the end of it she is no longer curled into herself, and she has set the bramble of hurt aside. Not locked away. (She thinks of touching it gently to reassure it.) Not forgotten. Just not now.

She picks up a fork again. ]

It makes me happy that I have seen birds taking the hair I put out for them to make their nests with, and that cake is delicious at any temperature at all.

[ The shame in the bramble makes her want to wince when she looks at Bastien, but it is quiet enough off to the side that there is only a small embarrassed smile to accompany the dip of her head she uses in place of curtsies when she is sitting: ]

Thank you.

Edited 2021-02-18 03:51 (UTC)

[ And the tension drains away again. He tries not to let it be too dreadfully obvious, but there's an audible little breath that escapes nevertheless. He and Alexandrie are going to have to talk. Clearly. But it seems that they can do it later, when Bastien isn't present. Thank the Maker. ]

I've never tried cake frozen.

[ He forgoes a fork, reaching out to pinch off a piece of it. ]

We could put a slice outside the window and see how it turns out.

[ Bastien smiles and gives a return tip of his head at Alexandrie's thanks, and then—shouldering through the invisible barrier his manners insist exists around them and the bed unless he's explicitly invited, because he was, before, by Alexandrie first and Byerly second, and since Byerly's invitation seemed to the problem he's not going to make him repeat it—sits down on Byerly's other side.

But on the edge, with his feet still on the floor, and not too close. Reaching Byerly's shoulders requires fully extending his arm. The bracing squeeze Bastien gives the back of his neck would look brotherly if not for the two seconds of lingering thumb-stroking, and before he lets go a tap-tap with the finger that signals that nothing is wrong, that everything is all right.

It's barely-conscious habit and not particularly hidden, not an effort to sign-whisper behind Alexandrie's back. He saw her, pulling herself together, and he's not sure whether to be glad or sorry for it. Either way, he doesn't want to give her any additional hurts swallow, if he can avoid it. ]

I think your cake would end up in the birds' curly ginger nests.

And so the taste of frozen cake shall forever be a mystery to us, and I shall choose to believe it is the finest of all.

Perhaps the second finest, so I am not made too cross by not having had it.

[ Alexandrie reaches for her coffee again, carefully, lest it be too hot now, and sits back such that she can touch her shoulder to Byerly's. ]

Do move over. [ A nudge with that shoulder, pushing him gently toward Bastien. ] I am sure you shall not have noticed this happening, as it was quiet and unobtrusive, but in a passion I stepped all over the cold floor and then sat on it and felt sorry for myself and now I wish your warm spot.

I do owe it to you.

[ He moves over easily enough. And this is...very nice, in a supremely self-indulgent kind of way: Bastien's warmth on one side, Lexie's warmth on the other. Luxurious. There's still a lump of pain in his throat, and he dreads what will come later, but this is very nice.

To Bastien, as he licks frosting from his fingertip: ]

And don't say curly ginger nests. It sounds dirty in your accent.

Nnno, it doesn’t, [ Bastien says contemplatively. ] You just have a weird thing for Orlesians.

[ The secret of his lifelong levity: Byerly’s shoulder nudges up against his, and as far as Bastien’s mood is concerned, the last several minutes might as well have never happened. He doesn’t forget them, and later he’ll them back out of their drawer to examine. But the misery that might have lingered and colored things afterwards, in someone else, slides off of him like water off of glass.

He keeps one foot on the floor, but he folds the other up so he doesn’t have to twist his spine too much to lean a little weight against Byerly’s shoulder. ]

It sounds dirty in your accent.

[ He leans his head forward to give Alexandrie a hopeful look around the Fereldan between them. Back him up, please. ]

[ Alexandrie is sipping her coffee with exaggerated primness beneath elegantly arched eyebrows and demurely lowered lashes. ]

Cake in curly ginger nests sounds dirty in any accent, but that may be easily alleviated by cleaning up after oneself once finished.

[ Demureness ruined by Byerly purring: ]

Kinky.

[ And then, to Bastien: ]

It does not sound dirty in my accent. My accent is normal. Yours is erotic.

[ Nothing Oedipal here. Nope. ]

[ No, not remotely.

Bastien laughs, and doesn't say the things he might say if he were less disoriented by the shifts in the mood and three-way dynamic—not disoriented in a troubled way, really. Not at this specific moment. Only unsure where the boundaries are and not the type to risk blindly slamming into one. Again.

Instead, he leans up and over to fetch himself a sausage. He does not eat it erotically, unless chomping it in half immediately is erotic to someone. And when he sits back he does it in a lower slump, with his cheek squashed against Byerly's skinny pokey shoulder. ]

I don't want to live in a swamp.

[ Not to change the subject.

A little to change the subject. ]

If do we have to flee south, can it be somewhere less wet?

Edited 2021-02-18 23:55 (UTC)

[ Low-hanging fruit, that, but she's not one to make the same jest twice— especially not that, and especially not right now— and so she only smiles a little impishly into her coffee and waits for Byerly to defend the merits of Ferelden's awful mires. ]

[ Innocently: ]

You don't like a wetland, Bastien?

[ He steals the second half of the sausage and nibbles it far more sensually. ]

[ Bastien opens his mouth to explain the merits of dry socks, but he looks up in time. Byerly’s sensual sausage eating. And he can’t see the look on Alexandrie’s face, quite, at this angle and with Byerly in the way, but maybe he can feel a vibe.

So he puts his hand on Byerly’s face to push his face gently, slowly, solidly toward her, until it means pushing them both, because they deserve it. ]

[ And Byerly, obediently, tips over in Alexandrie's direction and (slowly, carefully, in a controlled fashion) smooshes himself into her. ]

[ At first it is just a little pressure, and she smiles and presses back. Looks up, to turn the smile on him, because it is a warm one... and then her eyes widen and she squeaks in protest when he keeps going. Shortly the squeak becomes more of a squawk. ]

Mon café!

[ Laughing, she raises her arm to keep the cup level as she is smooshed. ]

Céleri coquin!

[ Bastien huffs laughter at celery and leans further to find Byerly again where he’s been thoroughly pushed and smooshed sideways, until his head is awkwardly but decisively resting on skinny ribs or pointy elbow or whatever else it finds.

It would be painted the other way, Bastien thinks. Narrow Byerly against Bastien’s broader chest, dainty Alexandrie against Byerly, like a set of nesting dolls. The painter would probably take a few inches off of Byerly’s height to give to Bastien, too, to make it look orderly, because the typical painter in his imagination is sort of staid and dull that way.

The thought goes nowhere poetic, once Bastien’s had it. That’s the extent of it. He settles in for the long term with a joint-adjusting wiggle. His small revenge for the you can go and the stay: he’s the boss of sitting, and this is how they’re sitting now. ]

[ And Byerly laughs aloud, and whispers into Lexie's ear - ]

Crunch, crunch.

[ Because that's the sound that celery makes. He hooks one leg around Bastien's knees to lock him in place, nestles his head down into Lexie's bosom, and settles in as well. As punishments go, this is a pleasant one. ]

I suppose altogether we make a ratatouille, no?

You put pine trees in your ratatouille in Ferelden?

[ Laboriously, Alexandrie manages to set her cup on the bedside table. ]

Or am I tomatoes now.

[ It's advantageous that he's already nestled in her bosom so she can use her freed hand to aid in briefly, illustratively, squashing him between her breasts before doing her own small adjustments for comfort's sake. ]

[ Bastien huffs again—unable to see, or else he might laugh for real. He wonders how much she’s happy and how much she’s pretending. But if she’s pretending she’s doing it for Byerly, who’s gone warm and silly between them, and Bastien can’t disapprove.

So he stays quiet and makes an dogged attempt to leech shadows out of Byerly’s chest through his cheek. Only the ones that belong to him: the contempt and threats and indifference he gave Byerly in one dream, the absence and uncertainty and fragility he left him with in the other, countered by being solid and steady and adoring now. For a moment he wants to leave part of it undisturbed—the everything in me and never let go of you bit, that was a lot but sort of a nice lot—but it can’t be real unless the quiet sobs before it are real, so he presses a little more firmly against Byerly’s ribs and imagines brushing that away, too.

Of course there’s no literal leeching or brushing. But it makes Bastien feel better to slouch here and try. ]

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