[ He lets out a breath, shaky. The certainty in Bastien's voice helps. Speaking that taboo thing aloud helps. It's so damned hard, when you're the only one in a room, and everyone else looks at you like that...Ah, Maker. ]
She infuriates me.
[ Some admission that it's not truly strategy driving much of this. ]
Her in particular. She's so smug and righteous - when she's a nasty little thing. Treated Athessa like shit.
We only have Athessa’s side of that, [ Bastien says, with a fairness he would not have possessed at the time, ] and in the end Athessa treated all of us like shit, so…
[ Stubbornly breezy. He doesn’t have the right to resent anyone else for vanishing without a word, leaving people to believe them dead. He’s done it himself. More than once. He knows that. But feelings don’t care about rights. ]
[ Byerly takes a moment to grasp Bastien's hand, and to pull it to his lips, and to kiss it with the gentlest adoration. He knows how Bastien feels about it. He knows, too, that Bastien doesn't want to talk about it too much, so Byerly just gives a soft: ]
I adore you, my love.
[ An affirmation: Bastien deserved much, much better than that. Byerly did too, but especially Bastien, who had shown the girl nothing but kindness. Bastien, who has such vulnerability about being discarded.
But - ]
I suppose Petrana is, too. Similar self-righteousness. Similar smugness, all hidden behind pretty petticoats and doe eyes. Rowntree at least acknowledges he's a bastard. I don't care for him, but I respect him.
[ Bastien smiles and turns his hand to momentarily pinch By’s mouth between his knuckles. He appreciates it. ]
Madame de Cedoux,
[ is an offhand correction. Habit of the Game, to keep tabs on what everyone prefers to be called and be sure you only offend exactly who you mean to. ]
She was an Empress, you know, where she came from. I saw some of it during one of the bullshit Fade incidents. So I’m sure she is used to a certain amount of deference.
Petrana, [ Byerly says, the name a little act of defiance towards a woman who expects deference ] can go drown in the sea. She's not even a real mage. A proper poseur. Imagine - an empress pretending to be part of the downtrodden underclass. Disgusting.
[ The noise Bastien makes is a cross between a hiss and a laugh. ]
Don't you pander to me.
[ He pinches with his knuckles again. Byerly's nose, this time. ]
All of the rifters are stuck with the mages now whether they like it or not. That will be the Chantry's error, I think, in the end.
[ But that's all the argument he's going to make, after the day Byerly has had, on behalf of someone who's never taken the slightest interest in him. Not something he actively minds, or he'd have to mind nearly everyone he knows, but she lacks the handful of points Derrica acquired through the unusual action of seeming to give a damn what he thought about something, once or twice—and saving his life, that too—and so Bastien won't subject Byerly to his habit of sort of liking everyone, more inclined to figure them out than to write them off, when he's been so recently close to tears. Maybe another day.
He wiggles his legs to make remaining lying on them unpleasant. ]
[ Bastien doesn’t hide the flicker of disappointment. It carries into, ]
It wouldn’t be the worst thing, you know. We could—
[ Leave. He stops just short of being that selfish. ]
—find a place in Lowtown. [ The next best thing. ] We’d only have to be here to work. We could take assignments elsewhere sometimes. Orlais—you could see Alexandrie that way. We’d have time, we could start on what we want now. If you got out of that chair, your ass might unflatten. And I would still be so proud of you.
[ He musses the hair all his petting had smoothed back. Speech over. And it’s not as if he doesn’t understand ego. ]
But alright. Work. Give me something to help you with.
[ That last comment - not the offer, the pride - makes him let out a shaky breath, and reach out to pull Bastien over so he can bury his face in his midriff. His grip is tight, like he wants to press himself in there and curl up inside his beloved. ]
I want you to be proud of me. I want you to think I'm a good man. You are - the person that I try for.
You were trying a long time before you cared what I thought of you.
[ He sets his cigarette in the ash tray so both hands are free to rub By’s shoulders. ]
But I am proud of you, and you are a good man, and the title and the authority don’t have a damned thing to do with that—except that I’m proud that you tried something you had never done before, when we needed someone to try. I’m proud of that. I’m proud you’ve kept us fed and out of serious trouble despite half the company’s worst efforts. But the prestige and the desk, I am only tolerating.
[ Byerly has enough presence of mind to move his hand so there's no risk of accidentally setting Bastien alight with his own cigarette. He recovers enough of himself to murmur against Bastien's stomach: ]
So you're not staying with me because of my easy access to coffee?
If I thought you were shitty at the job—I don't know. Maybe I wouldn't tell you unless you asked me. I'd cry about the weather, [ comment punctuated helpfully by a gentle roll of thunder, ] and say I can't stand it anymore and you have to take me away from here. I would get myself into enough trouble with the city guard that even you couldn't get me out of it, so we'd have to leave. I'd make my eyes all big and sad.
[ He demonstrates—perhaps to empty air, if Byerly does not extract his face from Bastien's middle to look, but regardless. He has ways, see? ]
I do want you to leave it sometimes. Because you hate it, and I hate that I talked you into doing something that you hate. I hate when people treat you like an enemy because you don't kiss their asses enough in the process of giving them nearly everything they ask for. I miss us being the problems instead of the people dealing with them. And I love you as you are, and I think—I think the situation has changed, these last years, and to stay in this office you might have to change along with it. And I would rather you didn't.
But I don't want you run out, either, so—if you want it, we fight for it. I am with you either way.
[ By doesn't extract his face, but he does give an appreciative squeeze to Bastien's ass. As good as a hug. Then he takes a breath and pulls back. ]
I don't want to be run out, either. Pride, of course. I'm a very proud man. I need everyone to like me.
[ True and not true: Byerly takes pleasure in being hated. But he takes pleasure in being hated by villains and fools, and the people in this place are, regrettably, neither. Even the worst of them is decent, in their way. ]
And - [ Reluctantly: ] I don't want to abandon them. [ A frustrated huff. ] Pride, perhaps, but all I can think is - if not me, then who? If I'm run out, then I'm just stuck with this feeling that they're going to be fucking themselves. Because who else can do this job? What other fool would? And in that way, then, it'd come back to me - I'd be guilty in my own way of losing us this war, because I didn't do enough to stay in it.
[ Bastien retrieves his cigarette. Thinks about that. ]
John Silver,
[ he settles on. ]
He's on the mage's side, and I'm sure Commander Flint would enjoy having his vote in the room. Or it has been long enough since Madame de Cedoux's resignation that she might be convinced to have another go at it. Enchanter Julius—I am sure the mages are not happy about not having one of their own in the room, and he would solve that, with ties to the nobility to boot.
They will not remove you and leave an empty chair again. Your position can't be that you are the only option. It has to be that you are the best one.
They're all terrible choices, in their own ways. [ A moment, then, as he thinks. And then he allows: ] Well, Julius wouldn't be so bad, if he didn't allow himself to be utterly dominated by his two lovers - But that's a big if.
[ Then: ] Stark accused me of taking that as my defense. There's no one else. But it's not a defense; it's a fear.
[ It's a good call. Byerly, after all, isn't really capable of that kind of clinical detachment, and so new anxiety and insecurity is bubbling up in him in response to even these few words. His heart is wild by nature, and even wilder tonight. ]
I want a drink.
[ It's an apology. A confession. ]
We should go out. Just so I can get away from that bloody liquor cabinet.
[ Bastien accepts that information with an exhale and little surprise. He didn't expect it to be easy, for By to give up the drinking. That's why he's so grateful he's done it. ]
We should.
[ To get away from the liquor cabinet, sure. To get away from the Gallows. To remind Byerly they have friends ashore even if they have very few here, and the world is much bigger than what the people on this speck of rock think about him, and there are things they are better at than anyone, like— ]
Sure, if you are prepared to carry me home tomorrow.
[ Because it will be tomorrow. It's late enough there's no time to go ashore for any length of time and still catch a ferry back to the Gallows. They will have to sleep in their clothes in the stables, or something—as the Maker intended.
But first they'll dance. They do find somewhere, a hall with its chairs and tables pressed along the perimeter to give its Lowtown crowd somewhere to entertain themselves while the weather's so awful. For half an hour they're caught up in the tail end of a series of country dances. After that, though, it's late enough for no one to have the energy for choreographed lines or spinning quartets, half of the musicians retire and leave only two stubbornly carrying the music onward, and the dancers who linger do so in lazily waltzing pairs.
Bastien's not lazy. Footwork still crisp. Not bothered if they stand out or look like show-offs. He's leading, this go-around, and he has to stand on his toes to give By a little twirl. ]
[ By lets himself be twirled. He's happier out here. He's forgotten some of it, dancing with Bastien, letting himself get absorbed into just loving this man. There is life outside of the Gallows, after all.
As he twirls, he murmurs into Bastien's good ear: ]
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She infuriates me.
[ Some admission that it's not truly strategy driving much of this. ]
Her in particular. She's so smug and righteous - when she's a nasty little thing. Treated Athessa like shit.
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[ Stubbornly breezy. He doesn’t have the right to resent anyone else for vanishing without a word, leaving people to believe them dead. He’s done it himself. More than once. He knows that. But feelings don’t care about rights. ]
She is smug, though.
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I adore you, my love.
[ An affirmation: Bastien deserved much, much better than that. Byerly did too, but especially Bastien, who had shown the girl nothing but kindness. Bastien, who has such vulnerability about being discarded.
But - ]
I suppose Petrana is, too. Similar self-righteousness. Similar smugness, all hidden behind pretty petticoats and doe eyes. Rowntree at least acknowledges he's a bastard. I don't care for him, but I respect him.
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Madame de Cedoux,
[ is an offhand correction. Habit of the Game, to keep tabs on what everyone prefers to be called and be sure you only offend exactly who you mean to. ]
She was an Empress, you know, where she came from. I saw some of it during one of the bullshit Fade incidents. So I’m sure she is used to a certain amount of deference.
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Don't you pander to me.
[ He pinches with his knuckles again. Byerly's nose, this time. ]
All of the rifters are stuck with the mages now whether they like it or not. That will be the Chantry's error, I think, in the end.
[ But that's all the argument he's going to make, after the day Byerly has had, on behalf of someone who's never taken the slightest interest in him. Not something he actively minds, or he'd have to mind nearly everyone he knows, but she lacks the handful of points Derrica acquired through the unusual action of seeming to give a damn what he thought about something, once or twice—and saving his life, that too—and so Bastien won't subject Byerly to his habit of sort of liking everyone, more inclined to figure them out than to write them off, when he's been so recently close to tears. Maybe another day.
He wiggles his legs to make remaining lying on them unpleasant. ]
Get up. We're going ashore.
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I - do have work -
[ And then, after a moment of self-analysis, a sigh. ]
Well. My ego wants me to be even fucking better than usual at my work, so that they feel small and petty for even thinking about driving me out.
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It wouldn’t be the worst thing, you know. We could—
[ Leave. He stops just short of being that selfish. ]
—find a place in Lowtown. [ The next best thing. ] We’d only have to be here to work. We could take assignments elsewhere sometimes. Orlais—you could see Alexandrie that way. We’d have time, we could start on what we want now. If you got out of that chair, your ass might unflatten. And I would still be so proud of you.
[ He musses the hair all his petting had smoothed back. Speech over. And it’s not as if he doesn’t understand ego. ]
But alright. Work. Give me something to help you with.
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I want you to be proud of me. I want you to think I'm a good man. You are - the person that I try for.
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[ He sets his cigarette in the ash tray so both hands are free to rub By’s shoulders. ]
But I am proud of you, and you are a good man, and the title and the authority don’t have a damned thing to do with that—except that I’m proud that you tried something you had never done before, when we needed someone to try. I’m proud of that. I’m proud you’ve kept us fed and out of serious trouble despite half the company’s worst efforts. But the prestige and the desk, I am only tolerating.
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So you're not staying with me because of my easy access to coffee?
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[ ominously hesitant. But he’s teasing. ]
—if I recall correctly, the first time you acquired coffee for me, it was not by being an ambassador for anything. It was by being a violinist.
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A middling fiddler can only bring you so much luxury in life, though. Alas.
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[ Absurd. ]
I don't want luxury, By. Not any more of it than we'll be able to scrounge up on our own. All I want is for this war to end so we can get out of here.
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[ He's quiet a moment, then says: ]
And you are...not just saying this because you think I'm shitty at this job, and think I should leave it, but you want to preserve my feelings.
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[ He demonstrates—perhaps to empty air, if Byerly does not extract his face from Bastien's middle to look, but regardless. He has ways, see? ]
I do want you to leave it sometimes. Because you hate it, and I hate that I talked you into doing something that you hate. I hate when people treat you like an enemy because you don't kiss their asses enough in the process of giving them nearly everything they ask for. I miss us being the problems instead of the people dealing with them. And I love you as you are, and I think—I think the situation has changed, these last years, and to stay in this office you might have to change along with it. And I would rather you didn't.
But I don't want you run out, either, so—if you want it, we fight for it. I am with you either way.
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[ By doesn't extract his face, but he does give an appreciative squeeze to Bastien's ass. As good as a hug. Then he takes a breath and pulls back. ]
I don't want to be run out, either. Pride, of course. I'm a very proud man. I need everyone to like me.
[ True and not true: Byerly takes pleasure in being hated. But he takes pleasure in being hated by villains and fools, and the people in this place are, regrettably, neither. Even the worst of them is decent, in their way. ]
And - [ Reluctantly: ] I don't want to abandon them. [ A frustrated huff. ] Pride, perhaps, but all I can think is - if not me, then who? If I'm run out, then I'm just stuck with this feeling that they're going to be fucking themselves. Because who else can do this job? What other fool would? And in that way, then, it'd come back to me - I'd be guilty in my own way of losing us this war, because I didn't do enough to stay in it.
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John Silver,
[ he settles on. ]
He's on the mage's side, and I'm sure Commander Flint would enjoy having his vote in the room. Or it has been long enough since Madame de Cedoux's resignation that she might be convinced to have another go at it. Enchanter Julius—I am sure the mages are not happy about not having one of their own in the room, and he would solve that, with ties to the nobility to boot.
They will not remove you and leave an empty chair again. Your position can't be that you are the only option. It has to be that you are the best one.
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They're all terrible choices, in their own ways. [ A moment, then, as he thinks. And then he allows: ] Well, Julius wouldn't be so bad, if he didn't allow himself to be utterly dominated by his two lovers - But that's a big if.
[ Then: ] Stark accused me of taking that as my defense. There's no one else. But it's not a defense; it's a fear.
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[ For the moment he is a bard, not a paramour. ]
They took a chance on you when you had no experience. They could do the same for someone new. You have to—
[ A bard with someone he loves wrapped around his middle, red-eyed and hurt. He stops. ]
We should talk about this more tomorrow.
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I want a drink.
[ It's an apology. A confession. ]
We should go out. Just so I can get away from that bloody liquor cabinet.
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We should.
[ To get away from the liquor cabinet, sure. To get away from the Gallows. To remind Byerly they have friends ashore even if they have very few here, and the world is much bigger than what the people on this speck of rock think about him, and there are things they are better at than anyone, like— ]
We can find somewhere to dance.
[ He wiggles his legs again. Get up. ]
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Till our feet bleed.
[ He needs a little suffering in this. ]
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[ Because it will be tomorrow. It's late enough there's no time to go ashore for any length of time and still catch a ferry back to the Gallows. They will have to sleep in their clothes in the stables, or something—as the Maker intended.
But first they'll dance. They do find somewhere, a hall with its chairs and tables pressed along the perimeter to give its Lowtown crowd somewhere to entertain themselves while the weather's so awful. For half an hour they're caught up in the tail end of a series of country dances. After that, though, it's late enough for no one to have the energy for choreographed lines or spinning quartets, half of the musicians retire and leave only two stubbornly carrying the music onward, and the dancers who linger do so in lazily waltzing pairs.
Bastien's not lazy. Footwork still crisp. Not bothered if they stand out or look like show-offs. He's leading, this go-around, and he has to stand on his toes to give By a little twirl. ]
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As he twirls, he murmurs into Bastien's good ear: ]
I love you.
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