[ He gives Whiskey an extra-good skritch between the shoulder blades in parting before rising to his feet and stepping closer. Mostly because he wants a better look at Byerly's performance. It's great. ]
You have to promise me not to hate them. They were only trying to do what was right.
Amador said it had to be done. Edgard held the blade. And Nikos Averesch— [ the worst crime of all; he needs a moment to gather himself to say it ] —Nikos Averesch seemed to think it was funny.
[ Byerly lifts a trembling hand to Bastien's upper lip. And then, when he touches the naked skin, he bursts into tears. Real ones! Not a full waterfall, but he gets a few very respectable drops rolling down his cheeks. ]
[ Bastien could keep a straight, solemn face, of course. But as silly as it obviously all is, it still twinges to see Byerly cry, so for a moment he cracks and grins in a quick burst. The same impulse that makes some people laugh during the tensest part of a scary story. A reminder it isn't real.
But then he gathers his face back into the correct position, tous vite, and reaches up to wipe one of those tears with his thumb. ]
Don't cry, darling. It will be alright. I'll grow it back as quick as I can, you'll see, and until then... I'll paint one on every morning.
[ It's good that he cracks, too: Whiskey, who is a very clever girl, is wagging her tail in a rather worried way, evidently tuning into the heightened (fake) emotions on display. Once Bastien has cracked, it gives Byerly permission to do the same; he leans his cheek against Bastien's hand, but grins and says: ]
[ Bastien smiles when By grins, and he's shifting his hand and his feet—the first half-second of pulling him down to kiss hello—when that proclamation makes him burst out laughing. ]
Oh no, [ through the laughter. He covers his mouth and as much of his face with his hand as he can. ] Oh, I am not leaving this room until it's back. Tell everyone I am sick.
[ He slips his hand out of the way to snatch a proper kiss, longer than a peck but shorter than an invitation to go to bed, and catches Byerly by his beautiful, lush, enviable scruff to give his chin a little wiggle. ]
I missed you. [ Not bashful, exactly, but in the same equally-proud-and-hushed tone due to some juicy gossip or a filthy joke. ] You ham.
Now sit down. [ That goes for Whiskey too; he stoops sideways to pat her head. ] I brought things. And one more bit of good news.
[ And, obediently, he sits down. Then he clicks his tongue and points, and Whiskey, likewise, drops onto her haunches. Both stare at Bastien with near-identical expressions of treats? ]
[ Which might have sounded like a Fereldan Joke if it weren't all soggy with affection for the both of them.
But he wipes the besotted look off his nug-bare face forthwith and pulls the first of the gifts from the bags on his bed with whippy flourish. It's a wide, woven leather collar, three fingers thick, studded with small silk flowers in Val Royeaux's favorite colors of the month-or-three. It is something that, in a smaller size, would look more appropriate on one of the frilly little dogs the nobles carry. But it's not as garish as it could have been. ]
Pour la mademoiselle. [ He holds it at dog-level for her appraisal and talks to her as if he isn't actually talking to Byerly. ] There was another with big, ruffly petals to make you look like one big dog-flower, but I thought: you may be a fashionable young lady, but you are also a huntress. You needed something a little more sleek.
[ He grins as he takes the collar from Bastien, then removes the old collar from Whiskey's neck. She snuffles at it, fascinated by something that smells so much like her, which gives By the opportunity to fasten the new one around her neck. ]
The flowers seem appropriate. She is, after all, more than half Orlesian.
[ The collar will be horribly unfashionable in six months at most, but for now, she's stylin'. Bastien rubs one of her silly ears and is beaming at her so much that he doesn't put much effort into deciphering By's meaning. ]
What, have you been feeding her baguettes and cheese for two meals a day? [ He drops his voice to stage-whisper a secret to the dog: ] That is how I became Orlesian.
[ It's only one step back to his bed to root around for the next thing. ]
Oooh, [ with an extra snooty and stereotypical accent, ] c’est vrai?
[ He is pulling out another colorful floral strip. But this one is satin instead of leather, its flowers embroidered. A cravat like a spring meadow. It doesn’t match the collar exactly, made by a different person from different materials, but it’s close enough for the intention to make man and dog wear matching outfits to be obvious.
Bastien loops it around Byerly’s neck. He looks very pleased with himself. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ His solemn affect his dampened somewhat by the fact that Whiskey is snuffling his ear, but his eyes shine with unshed tears just the same. ]
We must all make sacrifices.
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[ His voice is weak. Trembling. ]
This is too great.
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[ He gives Whiskey an extra-good skritch between the shoulder blades in parting before rising to his feet and stepping closer. Mostly because he wants a better look at Byerly's performance. It's great. ]
You have to promise me not to hate them. They were only trying to do what was right.
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Who was it? Give me their names again. I must sear them into my memory.
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Amador said it had to be done. Edgard held the blade. And Nikos Averesch— [ the worst crime of all; he needs a moment to gather himself to say it ] —Nikos Averesch seemed to think it was funny.
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Bastien!
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But then he gathers his face back into the correct position, tous vite, and reaches up to wipe one of those tears with his thumb. ]
Don't cry, darling. It will be alright. I'll grow it back as quick as I can, you'll see, and until then... I'll paint one on every morning.
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Your face looks like a nug, now.
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Oh no, [ through the laughter. He covers his mouth and as much of his face with his hand as he can. ] Oh, I am not leaving this room until it's back. Tell everyone I am sick.
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[ Even as he's speaking, he's kissing all the spots where there are gaps between Bastien's fingers, pecking at tip of nose and jaw and chin. ]
You can be my odalisque till it's back. Just stay in here and lounge nakedly.
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[ He slips his hand out of the way to snatch a proper kiss, longer than a peck but shorter than an invitation to go to bed, and catches Byerly by his beautiful, lush, enviable scruff to give his chin a little wiggle. ]
I missed you. [ Not bashful, exactly, but in the same equally-proud-and-hushed tone due to some juicy gossip or a filthy joke. ] You ham.
Now sit down. [ That goes for Whiskey too; he stoops sideways to pat her head. ] I brought things. And one more bit of good news.
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Things!
[ And, obediently, he sits down. Then he clicks his tongue and points, and Whiskey, likewise, drops onto her haunches. Both stare at Bastien with near-identical expressions of treats? ]
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[ Which might have sounded like a Fereldan Joke if it weren't all soggy with affection for the both of them.
But he wipes the besotted look off his nug-bare face forthwith and pulls the first of the gifts from the bags on his bed with whippy flourish. It's a wide, woven leather collar, three fingers thick, studded with small silk flowers in Val Royeaux's favorite colors of the month-or-three. It is something that, in a smaller size, would look more appropriate on one of the frilly little dogs the nobles carry. But it's not as garish as it could have been. ]
Pour la mademoiselle. [ He holds it at dog-level for her appraisal and talks to her as if he isn't actually talking to Byerly. ] There was another with big, ruffly petals to make you look like one big dog-flower, but I thought: you may be a fashionable young lady, but you are also a huntress. You needed something a little more sleek.
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[ He grins as he takes the collar from Bastien, then removes the old collar from Whiskey's neck. She snuffles at it, fascinated by something that smells so much like her, which gives By the opportunity to fasten the new one around her neck. ]
The flowers seem appropriate. She is, after all, more than half Orlesian.
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What, have you been feeding her baguettes and cheese for two meals a day? [ He drops his voice to stage-whisper a secret to the dog: ] That is how I became Orlesian.
[ It's only one step back to his bed to root around for the next thing. ]
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[ Mock-offended: ]
I believe you'll find that cheese is a Fereldan national dish, thank you.
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[ He is pulling out another colorful floral strip. But this one is satin instead of leather, its flowers embroidered. A cravat like a spring meadow. It doesn’t match the collar exactly, made by a different person from different materials, but it’s close enough for the intention to make man and dog wear matching outfits to be obvious.
Bastien loops it around Byerly’s neck. He looks very pleased with himself. ]
I think we are honor-bound to fight now.