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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[coquettish_trees]

Je ne sais pas! The moment after I understood what it was, I shut it immediately and tucked it away.

[ It puts wings in her heart to see the bright clarity of his interest. His eyes are always beautiful, always; but like this... there is no-one in the world who would not fall in love. ]

I wanted to think with you.

[ She leans her head against his so she can peer at it from as similar an angle as she can. ]

If it was made for this purpose— the inscription original, the painting of an age with it— I think you are right to doubt. We have not yet ruled out the possibility of it being an heirloom locket with a newer inscription, however.

[ He'll feel the spread of her smile where her cheek is pressed. ]

Have you a magnifying glass?

[bouchonne]

Ah - yes, I do.

[ He goes to his desk drawer and pulls one forth. An item that was purchased purely because handwriting can be so dreadfully small - certainly not in deference to aging eyes.

He trains it on the portrait. ]

Are those Antivan fashions?

[coquettish_trees]

[ Obediently she looks— ]

Y-es? Not modern ones, but there is too much colour for Nevarra or Tevinter. Too much volume in the dress for Rivain, I think, but not enough for Orlais unless perhaps she was more moderate than most. Or maybe she is an more immoderate Fereldan than most?

[ Affectionately said, from her position in the lap of a Fereldan more immoderate than most. ]

[bouchonne]

Ha.

[ He gives her a squeeze of appreciation. ]

No, she needs to look far more louche to be a properly immoderate Fereldan. And the hairstyle looks more Northern - [ He taps lightly with his fingernail. ] It's pinned up, atop the head. Southern women wear their hair loose or pinned low.

[coquettish_trees]

[ She hums acknowledgement. ]

So we shall say she is Antivan—or at the very least making a home there. Enough to be so represented.

And her beloved? [ A quirk of eyebrow, a click of her tongue. ] He would be almost stylish now, were the top of his trunk hose shorter and more voluminous.

[ She nudges him gently with her cheek. ]

You cut a fine figure, mon coeur. I do not suppose such sartorial concern means you recall offhand the last time that was en vogue?

[bouchonne]

How dare you even ask that.

[ He nibbles on that cheek in revenge. ]

That looks - hm. Actually, I think that was reasonably stylish when I was in Antiva.

[coquettish_trees]

[ She squeaks in mock-protest, immediately giggling afterwards.

And then she is settling back into him with a little more weight, remembering the conversation she’d had with Bastien before she’d left. ]

When was that?

[ The sound of how it feels to need to ask is in her voice. ]

[bouchonne]

Ah.

[ He clears his throat. ]

After I left Orlais.

[ He tries to keep the grimace out of his voice. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ Maybe it will be easier to begin like this. Close, but in a way such that she does not have to see his face, nor he hers, looking at the story of some other lovers in her hand.

Softly: ]

We have not spoken of it, what happened after. After you left that night, or the days and years that followed.

I know bits and pieces, but so few from you. Even fewer that did not come with some amusing story attached. I think I have been afraid to ask. To hear. But— I would like to. When you would like to tell me.

[ A breath, self-steadying. ]

If you would like to tell me.

[bouchonne]

[ He's quiet a moment. He doesn't want to ruin this. And he doesn't want this to become...something for her to use against herself. A source of guilt and misery. ]

It is not - charming. It is not delightful. For the most part.

[coquettish_trees]

[ She doesn’t know what it is, but she knows it will break her heart.

How long has it been breaking his? ]

We are neither of us as we were.

[ She does not draw back to look at him, only angles her head into his a little more. ]

I want to love you as you are, and... this is a part of you as you are. I do not need it to be charming.

[bouchonne]

[ It's at least easier like this. None of her looking at him with her limpid eyes, her beautiful eyes, no need to see them fill with tears or recriminations or self-loathing or whatever she'd end up feeling. No need to see her face press into lines of pain. Just her back against him, his arm around her waist, resting on her thigh. ]

I made mistakes.

[ His voice is low. Quiet. ]

I - was in desperate poverty. I'd thought that making my way to Antiva would be easy as making my way to Orlais had been, but I overestimated my friendships. They'd had their sport, after all, and so what use was I then?

[ He clears his throat. ]

I thought I had the most phenomenal luck when a particular lady picked me out and helped me. Took me as a lover. I loved her immensely. But she - Well, her only desire was to make use of me, as well.

[ His hand smooths across her knee. He hopes she stops him. Why would she want to hear this? Maker, he doesn't want to tell it. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ She doesn't want to hear it, and she does. Needs to, maybe.

Alexandrie lowers the locket slowly, lets it hang again around her neck so she can reach to hold the hand that smooths across her knee as she listens. ]

[bouchonne]

[ The silence, though, makes him lose his nerve. He gives a short laugh, says - ]

What a dreadful topic.

[coquettish_trees]

You need not speak upon it, if you do not wish to.

[ A low murmur, meant to be soothing. She threads her fingers between his, curls them slightly. ]

We could return to our scrutiny of our new acquaintances who may indeed yet live, if this were to have been painted ten years or so ago. Or I could tell you of the morning that brought me home early, when the wind was so strong I felt as if I were a sail. As if I spread my arms wide enough I would fly.

But if you ever wish to, and to be held—

[ She turns her head against his like a cat or dog might; the simplicity of an animal's love— ]

Then I wish to hear and hold you.

[bouchonne]

I just...

[ He doesn't know what to say. Awkwardly: ]

I want to bring you happiness. That's all.

[coquettish_trees]

Happiness is only half a heart, and that if one is lucky.

[ Byerly Rutyer has not been lucky.

She wants to say this is why I envy him. You build walls with locked doors and give him the keys, then tell me to stay outside in the sun. What do you think that makes me feel I mean to you? But she doesn't know how to say it without it being a fight, and she doesn't want to fight, and so she is quiet instead. Quiet, and a little lonely. She rubs her thumb against his, to remember he is there, and then finally: ]

I want to be let to love you.

[bouchonne]

I -

[ There's a lump in his throat. He feels helpless. ]

I hope I am not preventing that.

[coquettish_trees]

[ If she doesn't breathe she is going to cry, and so Alexandrie closes her eyes and breathes as she was taught— slow, even, somewhere slightly apart— until frustrated tears are no longer a threat.

And then she does it a little longer, so that when she speaks it is steady. ]

Do you wish only happiness of me?

To know only what of me is charming and delightful, and that if I am ashamed and think there is something in me that would be painful, or sorrowful, or ugly for you to see you would be well pleased for me to show those parts of myself, of my heart, to another that I love but not to you?

[bouchonne]

[ He feels so utterly helpless. ]

That - That was not my meaning. I meant that I only want to give you happiness.

[coquettish_trees]

I do not want only happiness, unless you are only happy.

[ Still not tearful, for a blessing; but a little plaintive even so. ]

I want you.

[bouchonne]

[ He tries even harder to swallow. Still doesn't succeed. ]

You will blame yourself for the things that happened. [ And also - ] And I'm not that good, Lexie.

[coquettish_trees]

[ It makes her want to pinch him viciously, and so she does.

In her mind.

Truly, the only reproof is a light squeeze of his hand. ]

You may say so all the rest of the day, but when the sun sets your love for yourself will still little determine mine.

[ The first she ponders a moment, and then sighs through her nose. ]

If you tell me I should not blame myself, then... I will believe you and try not to. If it is such that I should, why do I deserve to be protected from the guilt that is rightly mine?

[bouchonne]

Because it's not rightly yours. It's - You'll assign yourself too much of it.

[ But - All right. All right, then. He presses his eyes closed, and rests his forehead against her a moment, and takes a breath. ]

I was - I ended up killing her husband. Because of what she talked me into. A man who was no saint, but who didn't deserve that fate, either.

[coquettish_trees]

[ It is such a quick shift that for a moment she is lost, left holding onto the thread and balance of her side of a conversation that of a sudden has ceased.

Antiva. We are in Antiva. He is young, and he has killed a man.

She draws the hand she holds to her lips for a moment, then shifts in his lap so she can curl herself closer. Can wind an arm up over his shoulder and cradle his head against hers. ]

Ah, mon coeur.

[ A soft sorrow, yes, but not of her guilt. It is for him, and a life forever changed. ]

She left you to bear it alone?