[ 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: ]
[ Words that make Bastien glow, without his face changing much at all, like the sun's just come out. ]
I love you, too.
[ A pivot, and he hitches Byerly in closer. ]
I told Alexandrie once—when she was going to Antiva, you know, and she thought you'd said no, and she was half-destroyed. I told her nothing is the end of the world except the end of the world. Everything short of that, we mend it or we get through it or we turn it into something new.
You'd be a lovely bird. And you can rest on me any time. But it's—I learned it. Maybe I was disposed toward learning it, I don't know, but it is something that I do. Not something that I am.
Is there a difference, now? If something is done so often and so well that it becomes second nature, is there a difference between that and one's true nature?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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I love you, too.
[ A pivot, and he hitches Byerly in closer. ]
I told Alexandrie once—when she was going to Antiva, you know, and she thought you'd said no, and she was half-destroyed. I told her nothing is the end of the world except the end of the world. Everything short of that, we mend it or we get through it or we turn it into something new.
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[ The music changes, something slower. Something that allows Byerly to drape his arms over Bastien's shoulders and sigh into the crook of his neck. ]
I wish I had your calm. Sometimes I feel like a flighty little bird resting on an oak.
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Am I the oak?
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[ He taps his head over against By's. ]
You'd be a lovely bird. And you can rest on me any time. But it's—I learned it. Maybe I was disposed toward learning it, I don't know, but it is something that I do. Not something that I am.
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Is there a difference, now? If something is done so often and so well that it becomes second nature, is there a difference between that and one's true nature?
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