contact part deux

[bouchonne]

if this were modern times byerly would probably make you listen to total eclipse of the heart before you were able to leave a message

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[cozen]

[ 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. ]

[bouchonne]

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

[coquettish_trees]

[ 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!

[cozen]

[ 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. ]

[bouchonne]

[ 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?

[coquettish_trees]

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. ]

[cozen]

[ 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. ]

[bouchonne]

Tomatoes. Carrots.

[ He reaches up a lazy hand to tug at one of her locks in demonstration. ]

A perfect melange.

[ He knows he should, in some way, broach the painful topics they really should be discussing. The fraught dynamic among the three of them. The horrors of those dreams they shared. This will do nothing to solve any of their problems - lying together, laughing, teasing.

But it makes him feel better. For a short time, perhaps. But it soothes his coward's heart.

The other hand comes down to comb through Bastien's hair. The weight of his head is just so steadying. So wonderful. ]

You also, in addition to the cabbage, add a hint of basil, I think, dear Bastien. A bit of peppery brightness.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Alexandrie hums soft surprise from where she's settled: eyes closed, head pillowed on one arm, the other curved so she in turn can lightly stir the top layer of Byerly's hair. ]

Are you peppery, Bastien? I should have thought you more a sage.

[ A little earthy, a little sweet, understated but adds depth. ]

But I do not know so much as the chef.

[ It is a little pinch of her worries; she doesn't know how they are when they are together. Are they easier with one another than she and Byerly are? Happier? For some reason her fretful heart can't simply accept 'different', won't agree that making such comparisons is an unwinnable and foolish game.

She is smoothing those thoughts away into the bramble, though. For now she is being quietly affectionate. She is being warm, and soft, and breathing long steady breaths, and through this making her heart beat slow and even such that her body will tell the man with his ear to it that everything is all right. ]

[cozen]

[ Bastien nudges his head against Byerly’s hand, pleased—and then a bit less pleased, for a moment, feeling caught between who he is with Byerly and who he is with Alexandrie and Byerly.

With Byerly he’s forward, increasingly confident, happy to tease and be crude and bicker. He’ll take up space instead of trying to fit into what’s left empty for him. If they’d been alone, Bastien would have thrown himself onto the bed when he first walked in. He wouldn’t have stayed silent and pink about his discomfort. He’d have licked or bitten or blown a raspberry against the bare ribs pressed against his face by now.

Peppery. Sure.

But with Alexandrie— ]

I couldn’t tell you the difference between basil and sage. [ It’s kind of true. He’s no cook. He’s bought most of his hot meals from street vendors or taverns his whole life. ] But if I am mostly cabbage, I think I would like to be a little peppery too.

[ There. Diplomacy.

He lifts his chin to look at the underside of Byerly’s. ]

And you cannot only be celery. I know that. Long and crunchy works, but it doesn’t have half enough flavor.

[bouchonne]

What are you talking about? That's so flavorful.

[ Fereldan food jokes! They never get old. But, with an actual desire to be helpful: ]

Sage is the flavor you'll get in good pork breakfast sausage. [ And then he gives a playful little pinch to the cute little bit of soft skin under Bastien's chin. Pork sausage, see? ]

But...hmmm. I'd like to pretend that I'm a hot chili pepper. But I think it's more likely that I'm just paprika.

[ He tilts his head up to look at Lexie: ]

What about you?

[coquettish_trees]

I?

[ She raises her eyebrows without opening her eyes. ]

I think I am coriander leaves. Some people think me fresh and spicy and wonderful, others think me truly awful, and everyone is correct in their opinion.

[cozen]

[ The joke makes him snort, the pinch makes him grin, and Alexandrie's explanation makes him make a dismayed sort of sound. Not too dismayed. Conversationally dismayed. ]

No they aren't.

[bouchonne]

[ He makes a warm little noise. ]

Agreed. Anyone who doesn't like coriander is an accursed fool whose tongue should be cut out, because he clearly isn't using it to its full potential.

[coquettish_trees]

[ She hums, pleased, and raises her hand from Byerly's hair to blindly pat around until she can find Bastien's head and pat it in friendly appreciation. The hand returns to its original posting by way of tweaking Byerly's earlobe affectionately. ]

The coriander or his tongue?

[cozen]

[ Bastien sees the head pat coming in time to not be startled, exactly, but he is surprised, in a comfortable and unmoving sort of way. ]

That's a good point. Maybe cooking lessons before dismemberment, By? For mercy's sake. One chance.

[bouchonne]

Ugh. Mercy is for weaklings.

[ But: ]

Lexie, your verdict? Cooking lessons or right to dismemberment?

[coquettish_trees]

Cooking lessons, but! [ She taps Byerly’s nose for emphasis. ] Not for the sake of mercy.

It is because I am amenable to giving chances to discover I am in fact fresh and spicy and wonderful before I resort to violence.

[cozen]

[ From the weakling corner: snickering and a leg-stretch. ]

[bouchonne]

But then if they fail, summary execution, yes?

[ He sounds positively hopeful. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ Thoughtful humming. Then, definitively: ]

Exile. The Queen of Coriandria shall not suffer even the ashes of detractors in her realm.

They may come back if they pen her an extensive apology for their previously demonstrated poor taste which includes an exhaustive and earnest paean— sheet music included— to her unparalleled beauty and virtue.

[ A pause. ]

Vices may be included, but only if they are cast in the most flattering light.

[cozen]

No executions for you, Monsieur le Piment Sanguinaire.

[ Bastien pats Byerly’s blanket-covered belly consolingly, because it’s easier to reach than his head. ]

Unless you wait at her borders with a garrote.

[bouchonne]

Ooh. That's a brilliant idea.

[ He grins up at Lexie. ]

You'll still get to seem merciful, while I am able to slake my bloodthirst.

[coquettish_trees]

[ She laughs, heartily enough that it will bounce Byerly's head a bit. ]

Mais oui, how could I be responsible in the slightest for what transpires outside my borders?

But I fear that would lead to far fewer exhaustive and earnest paeans being sent me, and so for every misguided fool you garotte, you must write me one.

[cozen]

[ Bastien laughs again (more quietly), and he lifts his head to check the window—the brightness of the light, the length of the shadow—and then collapses it back onto Byerly's torso in a silent ugh before sliding off the bed with as minimal a disturbance as he can manage. ]

To be fair, you should allow for the ones who would never try to return from exile—the greatest fools. And the ones who would be eaten by bears before they could try. Maybe one paean for every two garroted fools.