[ A peasant on her estate receives an upward tic of Bastien’s eyebrows that means yes, it does sound like that, doesn’t it, how odd. She likes you receives a smile. ]
I like her, too.
[ It has the tone of a beginning. Something that’s about to be followed by a but.
But. ]
I don’t want to put you in the middle of anything. That’s only—it’s why I have been so ridiculous about everything, I suppose. I am trying to stop.
[ He considers Byerly’s face, watching for any sign he might be exhausting his restraint. ]
It just, ah. It comes out, you know? The way she thinks things ought to go, the way she can stop seeing me at all. And she said she wanted Rolant de Ezoire to hang like a common dog.
[ He’d meant to leave it at that, but it feels so small in his mouth, compared to how large it is in his chest, that he has to explain. ]
She was upset, of course she was upset, but—the worst punishment she could imagine for the worst man she’s known was the insult of dying like we do. Like I would if I were caught stealing the wrong jewels.
[ He wants to protest that - that it's an idiom and nothing more and she wasn't thinking about the implications when she said it - that the point was that she wanted him to die, it wasn't really about how he died...But does Byerly know for sure? And what would it accomplish, to voice those protests? The only thing that would happen would be that he'd make Bastien feel embarrassed and uncertain of his perception of things. So he bites his tongue.
Instead: ]
People like - [ Her? No. More accurate to say: ] Us. Do end up having certain attitudes drilled into our heads, I suspect. It doesn't reflect what someone's character would have been - or beliefs would have been - if they hadn't been surrounded by that way of thinking.
[ Bastien expected more of a protest, half-consciously. Which is conscious enough that the absence of one makes him faintly smile, pleased to have been listened to. To have been offered an explanation instead of a denial. It’s enough. ]
Yes. I wouldn’t think it was cruelty.
[ Only, as he said, the way things are.
But he knows he’s asking a lot. By, who comes to the defense of the people he loves with sneers and interminable grudges, having to listen to one say something even mildly critical of another—miserable, Bastien imagines. He strokes his goatee with his thumb and tries to make up for it: ]
And it is a small thing. She is also fun, witty, terrifyingly clever, beautiful, passionate, charming company, and she loves you so much.
[ Byerly leans his head against Bastien's, grateful beyond measure for that respite. Because, yes - to admit fault in a loved one is agony.
So. He takes a moment, considering, then says: ]
When it comes down to it, dearest Bastien, I am yours. Alexandrie has her husband, and she will always choose her husband. [ His voice is steady, but there's a little squeeze at Bastien's hand that hints at how agonizing that is. The pain that still lingers from her embrace not just of her husband, but of a dream that wore his face. ] I have no love for speaking of claims, but - Well. Yours is the stronger claim by far.
[ Bastien squeezes his hand back, and for a few moments doesn’t relent. He’d like to be a good enough person to not be pleased about this or, barring that, a cool enough person not to need it.
But he’s neither. He smiles. Soothed at first, peaceable and content, but then it slides by degrees into something just a little wolfish, while his hand slips down By’s neck to curl fingers into his shirt collar. ]
You are mine. You’ll go to visit Alexandrie, and you’ll check in on your wife, and you’ll have adventures without me—sometimes—rarely— [ teasing ] —and do all the things you were born to do. I want you to have everything. But when you say you are going home, you’ll mean that you’re coming to me. Promise.
[ He’s said it before—but they were talking about sex, mostly. About whether Bastien might continue sleeping with other people. Less important than what he’s trying to say now: ]
And there is nothing fragile about it. Not anymore. I promise.
Mmm, you can fuss, [ with fake, self-deprecating magnanimity and a smile—he might like it, too.
He also likes the nuzzling, but he suspects he’ll like the vulnerable look By is hiding in his neck more, so he extracts him gently with one hand to look him in the face. ]
But you don’t have to worry that this will end. It won’t.
[ Bastien gets exactly what he wants, the bastard: the look on Byerly's face is, indeed, sentimental bordering on misty, gratitude painful enough that it looks a bit like sorrow. He acknowledges that softness with a little quirk of his lips, a half-amused agreement to something unspoken. ]
[ He pores over By’s face as well as he can by fire- and brazier-light—like it’s a painting, not anything in need of searching or deciphering. Just something lovely. ]
Even then.
[ And it’s not his usual habit to have sex like this, when everything is heavy and sincere. Sex is fun, funny, often turned into some kind of game, rarely had in positions where eye contact is easy, let alone mandatory. Unless he’s pretending to be someone serious, it’s a rare thing for him not to be grinning and joking when he goes for By’s buttons and laces.
But he is now, one-handed and deft as he begins the process of undressing him within the cocoon. Partly because words, for once, don’t feel like enough. And partly because having Byerly underneath him, looking at him like that, belonging to him, hands held down and with nowhere to hide, seems like the perfect way to permanently eradicate every silly nervous fear Bastien’s had about this bed. ]
I want,
[ is as far as he gets, but it’s at least halfway clear from the look on his face as he pauses, waiting for confirmation it’s alright and the work left behind on By’s desk can continue to wait.
CUT TO: Some amount of time and negotiation later, two men not entirely undressed (because it's cold) and burrowed deeper into blankets. Bastien's been quiet, with his face in By's hair and an arm wrapped around him with a firmness that's more protective than possessive, to whatever extent there's a difference. But he lifts his head and twists around to look when the door creaks further open and Whiskey—apparently realizing Byerly would not be coming back into the office anytime soon—trots over to hop up onto the foot of the bed.
It's not bad.
Bastien settles back down and murmurs, ] This doesn't mean we should start fighting all the time.
Edited (sex scene mercy / better ending) 2023-01-25 16:16 (UTC)
hey!!! i was fully capable of modestly cutting to black myself
[ Byerly, boneless and thoroughly pleasantly warmed from their activities, stretches luxuriously like a cat. The effect is further enhanced by the way he rubs his cheek possessively against Bastien's shoulder. If he were perhaps a little less buzzing and ecstatic, he might take the time to check with Bastien when Whiskey noses her way in - but he has no presence of mind at the moment. ]
[ Quiet; he's only speaking above a whisper at all because of his ear. If he'd acquired this armful of warm, feline putty through the usual means, with a metaphorical mask and professional finesse, he might be smug about it. But he earned it more honestly than that. He keeps him close without poking or pinching. His chest feels hollow—in a good way, like something's shaken loose and now there's more space inside of him than he thought. The fingers brushing up and down By's back are reverent. ]
But I missed you.
[ Self-inflicted. Silly. He knows that, so after that moment of simple sincerity, some self-aware joking worms back in: ]
Matthias and Tertia told me I didn't have a sense of humor. It is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, and I couldn't even make you tell me they were wrong.
[ The answer to that complaint is an elegant snort. ]
Maker, when did Flint start attracting such idiots? Those two must have the wits of a rotten cabbage split between them.
[ Byerly's tart words are accompanied also by a soothing rub to Bastien's chest, a little bit of physical softness to balance the verbal hardness. After a moment: ]
Why were you upset that day? When you made that offer about Bard-sign. It wasn't just our fight.
[ Wits of a rotten cabbage and a comforting pet from the person whose opinion matters more than anyone's, and it is as if the horrible thing never happened. Bastien smiles at the ceiling. It fades, though, for— ]
I don't know. It was.
[ A huff that's probably easier to feel than to hear. ]
It was the right thing to do. To teach them. If I'm—
[ Another pause, before he acknowledges for the first time that he has given any thought at all to Byerly's suggestion that he stay out of danger. ]
—if I'm not going to be there myself when bards are likely to show up. It would be awful if something happened to one of them and I could have prevented it that easily. So I offered, you know, but—
[ He is not used to doing things he doesn't particularly want to do or sacrificing things he doesn't particularly want to sacrifice because it's right. ]
—now they all know. And I am old and everything is harder, [ with his hearing, ] and I know there are other uses for me, you don't need to tell me that. I just—
[ That's all the self-examination he can manage for the moment. He falls silent rather than scrounging up a completion for that thought. ]
[ Byerly listens to that, tracing a finger over Bastien's stomach. He'd thought - Well. He'd thought, truly, that something had gone wrong. (And why, then, did he allow his pride to keep him from tracking Bastien down - Ah, he doesn't deserve apologies. It's fine. Stay focused.) But all it was was Bastien's discomfort - over being seen for what he is. Over being obsolete. ]
You know that you're just going to seem cooler now, right? You're not just Bastien, the nice fellow in the corner. Now you're Bastien, the roguish ex-villain with deep secrets. They're going to be so horny for you.
[ It's a little bit teasing and a little bit sincere. Not, probably, the main issue, to be fair, but hopefully it'll cheer him a little. ]
[ He doesn't believe it, but it matters that By says it. It makes his smile come back anyway. ]
Too bad for them.
[ Byerly's finger almost tickles. The urge to squirm comes out through his feet, and he wiggles his toes under Whiskey's warm weight. ]
No, I don't think anyone cares. [ Which is almost worse, isn't it, than if they were horrified? Having secrets at least lets a fellow pretend he could be interesting if he wanted to be. ] It only made me feel a bit naked. And defeated. I wanted—after the war, you know, I wanted to be able to help you with your intrigue. But it's alright now.
[ That's not true. And he's dedicated enough to his long streak of not lying to Byerly to walk it back, just a bit: ]
[ He rubs his nose affectionately against Bastien's collarbone. ]
You're already turning into quite the pamphleteer - but your style is charming instead of self-righteous, and so people want to read what you've written. That's a start. And through your clear vision, as well - I have many of the blinkers of my caste, and overlook the common folk. You've cured me of some of that, but not nearly all. Shall I go on?
[ It's simultaneously a lovely thing to hear and exactly what he was afraid of. Which isn't fair. If that had been the choice, if the spirit had asked him to give up either his facility with thievery or his—well, his dream of facility with a pen, at least—he'd have given up the thieving. The spying. He already tried to trade in the daggers for books on his own, before the war pulled him back in, and it's still want he wants, in some other form, something that means more and bores him less than printing vanity projects for the wealthy, but—
But it's an awful thing, admitting he can't do everything. That maybe he can't write by day and climb through upstairs windows at night. And the awfulness of that seeps into the future, when he pictures it, turning his very own most cherished dream into an endless series of desks.
He might not be able to stomach it. He might be back in the training yard tomorrow, throwing knives, scheming up ways to minimize the risk enough to tell By there's nothing to worry about. He hasn't made any promises.
For now he says, ]
Thank you.
[ He means it. It really is a lovely thing to hear. In any other context he'd be glowing and bolstered instead of feeling small and cut off—and it's hardly sporting to ask Byerly to overcome the context.
So. ]
You are curing yourself, I think. Maybe it helps that you think of me, and it reminds you to think of the rest of them, but I haven't done anything except stand about being common while you loved me. Your sweet heart is doing all the work.
Edited (changed my mind!!! alexandrie subject for some other moment) 2023-01-27 04:48 (UTC)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
I like her, too.
[ It has the tone of a beginning. Something that’s about to be followed by a but.
But. ]
I don’t want to put you in the middle of anything. That’s only—it’s why I have been so ridiculous about everything, I suppose. I am trying to stop.
no subject
I don't think you can put me in the middle of my own affaires de coeur, my love.
no subject
I am a commoner. And she does think that makes me her lesser. We can be friends, but—that is how it is.
no subject
Has she said that to you?
no subject
[ He considers Byerly’s face, watching for any sign he might be exhausting his restraint. ]
It just, ah. It comes out, you know? The way she thinks things ought to go, the way she can stop seeing me at all. And she said she wanted Rolant de Ezoire to hang like a common dog.
[ He’d meant to leave it at that, but it feels so small in his mouth, compared to how large it is in his chest, that he has to explain. ]
She was upset, of course she was upset, but—the worst punishment she could imagine for the worst man she’s known was the insult of dying like we do. Like I would if I were caught stealing the wrong jewels.
no subject
Instead: ]
People like - [ Her? No. More accurate to say: ] Us. Do end up having certain attitudes drilled into our heads, I suspect. It doesn't reflect what someone's character would have been - or beliefs would have been - if they hadn't been surrounded by that way of thinking.
no subject
Yes. I wouldn’t think it was cruelty.
[ Only, as he said, the way things are.
But he knows he’s asking a lot. By, who comes to the defense of the people he loves with sneers and interminable grudges, having to listen to one say something even mildly critical of another—miserable, Bastien imagines. He strokes his goatee with his thumb and tries to make up for it: ]
And it is a small thing. She is also fun, witty, terrifyingly clever, beautiful, passionate, charming company, and she loves you so much.
no subject
So. He takes a moment, considering, then says: ]
When it comes down to it, dearest Bastien, I am yours. Alexandrie has her husband, and she will always choose her husband. [ His voice is steady, but there's a little squeeze at Bastien's hand that hints at how agonizing that is. The pain that still lingers from her embrace not just of her husband, but of a dream that wore his face. ] I have no love for speaking of claims, but - Well. Yours is the stronger claim by far.
no subject
But he’s neither. He smiles. Soothed at first, peaceable and content, but then it slides by degrees into something just a little wolfish, while his hand slips down By’s neck to curl fingers into his shirt collar. ]
You are mine. You’ll go to visit Alexandrie, and you’ll check in on your wife, and you’ll have adventures without me—sometimes—rarely— [ teasing ] —and do all the things you were born to do. I want you to have everything. But when you say you are going home, you’ll mean that you’re coming to me. Promise.
no subject
[ Unhesitating. There might, once, have been some uncertainty. But there's none now. ]
No matter where you are. You'll always be my safe haven.
[ And he kisses his neck to seal the oath. ]
no subject
I’m yours, too.
[ He’s said it before—but they were talking about sex, mostly. About whether Bastien might continue sleeping with other people. Less important than what he’s trying to say now: ]
And there is nothing fragile about it. Not anymore. I promise.
no subject
It's all right. If there is. [ A nuzzle. ] I want you to trust me, of course. But I do like fussing over you.
no subject
He also likes the nuzzling, but he suspects he’ll like the vulnerable look By is hiding in his neck more, so he extracts him gently with one hand to look him in the face. ]
But you don’t have to worry that this will end. It won’t.
no subject
Even if we fight.
little nsfw
Even then.
[ And it’s not his usual habit to have sex like this, when everything is heavy and sincere. Sex is fun, funny, often turned into some kind of game, rarely had in positions where eye contact is easy, let alone mandatory. Unless he’s pretending to be someone serious, it’s a rare thing for him not to be grinning and joking when he goes for By’s buttons and laces.
But he is now, one-handed and deft as he begins the process of undressing him within the cocoon. Partly because words, for once, don’t feel like enough. And partly because having Byerly underneath him, looking at him like that, belonging to him, hands held down and with nowhere to hide, seems like the perfect way to permanently eradicate every silly nervous fear Bastien’s had about this bed. ]
I want,
[ is as far as he gets, but it’s at least halfway clear from the look on his face as he pauses, waiting for confirmation it’s alright and the work left behind on By’s desk can continue to wait.
CUT TO: Some amount of time and negotiation later, two men not entirely undressed (because it's cold) and burrowed deeper into blankets. Bastien's been quiet, with his face in By's hair and an arm wrapped around him with a firmness that's more protective than possessive, to whatever extent there's a difference. But he lifts his head and twists around to look when the door creaks further open and Whiskey—apparently realizing Byerly would not be coming back into the office anytime soon—trots over to hop up onto the foot of the bed.
It's not bad.
Bastien settles back down and murmurs, ] This doesn't mean we should start fighting all the time.
hey!!! i was fully capable of modestly cutting to black myself
[ Byerly, boneless and thoroughly pleasantly warmed from their activities, stretches luxuriously like a cat. The effect is further enhanced by the way he rubs his cheek possessively against Bastien's shoulder. If he were perhaps a little less buzzing and ecstatic, he might take the time to check with Bastien when Whiskey noses her way in - but he has no presence of mind at the moment. ]
It seems to have its benefits.
too bad!!
[ Quiet; he's only speaking above a whisper at all because of his ear. If he'd acquired this armful of warm, feline putty through the usual means, with a metaphorical mask and professional finesse, he might be smug about it. But he earned it more honestly than that. He keeps him close without poking or pinching. His chest feels hollow—in a good way, like something's shaken loose and now there's more space inside of him than he thought. The fingers brushing up and down By's back are reverent. ]
But I missed you.
[ Self-inflicted. Silly. He knows that, so after that moment of simple sincerity, some self-aware joking worms back in: ]
Matthias and Tertia told me I didn't have a sense of humor. It is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, and I couldn't even make you tell me they were wrong.
and another torture. you monster
Maker, when did Flint start attracting such idiots? Those two must have the wits of a rotten cabbage split between them.
[ Byerly's tart words are accompanied also by a soothing rub to Bastien's chest, a little bit of physical softness to balance the verbal hardness. After a moment: ]
Why were you upset that day? When you made that offer about Bard-sign. It wasn't just our fight.
>)
I don't know. It was.
[ A huff that's probably easier to feel than to hear. ]
It was the right thing to do. To teach them. If I'm—
[ Another pause, before he acknowledges for the first time that he has given any thought at all to Byerly's suggestion that he stay out of danger. ]
—if I'm not going to be there myself when bards are likely to show up. It would be awful if something happened to one of them and I could have prevented it that easily. So I offered, you know, but—
[ He is not used to doing things he doesn't particularly want to do or sacrificing things he doesn't particularly want to sacrifice because it's right. ]
—now they all know. And I am old and everything is harder, [ with his hearing, ] and I know there are other uses for me, you don't need to tell me that. I just—
[ That's all the self-examination he can manage for the moment. He falls silent rather than scrounging up a completion for that thought. ]
no subject
You know that you're just going to seem cooler now, right? You're not just Bastien, the nice fellow in the corner. Now you're Bastien, the roguish ex-villain with deep secrets. They're going to be so horny for you.
[ It's a little bit teasing and a little bit sincere. Not, probably, the main issue, to be fair, but hopefully it'll cheer him a little. ]
no subject
Too bad for them.
[ Byerly's finger almost tickles. The urge to squirm comes out through his feet, and he wiggles his toes under Whiskey's warm weight. ]
No, I don't think anyone cares. [ Which is almost worse, isn't it, than if they were horrified? Having secrets at least lets a fellow pretend he could be interesting if he wanted to be. ] It only made me feel a bit naked. And defeated. I wanted—after the war, you know, I wanted to be able to help you with your intrigue. But it's alright now.
[ That's not true. And he's dedicated enough to his long streak of not lying to Byerly to walk it back, just a bit: ]
Mostly. It will be.
no subject
[ Byerly cozies up even closer to Bastien. ]
You think all you have to offer is your covert Bardic skills? Please. That's the least of you.
no subject
And lets it out all at once with a sound not unlike a horse. ]
I can't believe I am making you reassure me about every Maker-damned thing under the sun, after the way I've behaved. This is the last thing.
[ He turns his head, cheek against By's forehead. ]
How can I help?
no subject
[ He rubs his nose affectionately against Bastien's collarbone. ]
You're already turning into quite the pamphleteer - but your style is charming instead of self-righteous, and so people want to read what you've written. That's a start. And through your clear vision, as well - I have many of the blinkers of my caste, and overlook the common folk. You've cured me of some of that, but not nearly all. Shall I go on?
no subject
No.
[ It's simultaneously a lovely thing to hear and exactly what he was afraid of. Which isn't fair. If that had been the choice, if the spirit had asked him to give up either his facility with thievery or his—well, his dream of facility with a pen, at least—he'd have given up the thieving. The spying. He already tried to trade in the daggers for books on his own, before the war pulled him back in, and it's still want he wants, in some other form, something that means more and bores him less than printing vanity projects for the wealthy, but—
But it's an awful thing, admitting he can't do everything. That maybe he can't write by day and climb through upstairs windows at night. And the awfulness of that seeps into the future, when he pictures it, turning his very own most cherished dream into an endless series of desks.
He might not be able to stomach it. He might be back in the training yard tomorrow, throwing knives, scheming up ways to minimize the risk enough to tell By there's nothing to worry about. He hasn't made any promises.
For now he says, ]
Thank you.
[ He means it. It really is a lovely thing to hear. In any other context he'd be glowing and bolstered instead of feeling small and cut off—and it's hardly sporting to ask Byerly to overcome the context.
So. ]
You are curing yourself, I think. Maybe it helps that you think of me, and it reminds you to think of the rest of them, but I haven't done anything except stand about being common while you loved me. Your sweet heart is doing all the work.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)