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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[cozen]

And then you started the war, to draw us all together again. How clever.

[ He twists his played-with fingers to catch Byerly's, to fight back, and—like shoving someone who's hemming and hawing at the edge of a pier into the water—uses that both of you to shove the question out of his mouth. ]

Can I ask you something sort of silly? And then can we pretend I didn't, because I'm very self-assured and collected?

[bouchonne]

[ Bastien doesn't ask those sorts of things often, but when he does, it makes Byerly feel quite foolish and silly himself, and warm, like he's taken a big sip of brandy. He bites down a smile, then lifts his eyebrows and says - ]

A moment -

[ And then he mimes uncorking a little vial and fake-pouring it into a fake wineglass, which he then pretends to drain. ]

Ahh. A memory potion, so that I will immediately forget what we're about to discuss.

[cozen]

[ While Byerly mimes and then explains, Bastien’s face shifts from confused curiosity to a wide smile, and then his laugh is quiet but chest-deep. At least he’s not being silly alone.

Though it’s a somewhat different flavor of silliness: ]

When you said, before—when you said you weren’t sure that your heart was strong enough for one person and—

[ —other things. But imaginary memory potion or not, he’d rather toss himself down the stairs than use the word love right now, even just to quote Byerly and speak hypothetically. ]

Is that still what you think? It’s all right if it is. I decided it was all right before I said yes. I just…

[ He shrugs the shoulder Byerly’s wrapped under. Very self-assured, very collected. ]

[bouchonne]

[ Ah. The smile fades at that. He looks away. There's a moment of silence as he struggles for words - not even the perfect words, just any words that aren't fucking awful.

Finally: ]

I - am not thinking about it, now. [ He takes a very slight breath. ] Not much, in any case. When I do, I mostly think, what the fuck are you doing, you're going to - [ Break his heart is another phrase that is not really fair game for being uttered now. Instead, he just trails off, and asks a question of his own: ] You'd tell me if I ever started being a monster to you, though. Wouldn't you? You wouldn't just accept it.

[cozen]

No, I would tell you.

[ This he’ll accept, even if it comes with a flash of an ache. This isn’t Byerly being cruel, just Byerly being honest, and that’s what Bastien wanted. Steady footing. Now he knows what to do with the stray looks and turns of phrase that try to tempt him to think too much of them. ]

But you wouldn’t. And this is nice. I’m happy.

[ And he puts his hand over Byerly’s face, fingers splayed to cover as much of it as he can, and grins. ]

Now forget.

[bouchonne]

[ He takes that hand, though, and pulls it away from his face to let loose with one last bit of earnestness. ]

If you are happy, that's - a very important thing to me. Tell me when you're happy. Because that's what makes me happy, as well.

[ And then a little disgusted noise. ]

Maker, I sound like an idiot. What a poet.

[cozen]

You don't sound like an idiot.

[ He squeezes his shoulders again and kisses his hairline. ]

But you also don't sound like a poet. Just so you know I am being honest. Sweet, perfectly intelligent, and not poetic.

[bouchonne]

The opposite of sweet.

[ He tries to make a joke of it. ]

I just admitted that I only want you to be happy because it makes me happy. Eh?

[cozen]

[ A chuckle. It’s a terrible word, but that’s what he does. ]

And so if I make a point of being happy because I want you to be happy, does that make me selfless? Or if I am happy because you are happy because I am happy—selfish.

[bouchonne]

[ The chuckle (terrible word) lightens some of his tension. ]

Maker help us. Is this what love is? Endless cycles of selfishness like this?

[cozen]

[ This noise isn't a chuckle. It's sort of like a laugh, but also sort of like the exhale of someone who's been unexpectedly doused in cold water. ]

Damn it, Byerly.

[ He'd just steadied his footing.

But he only needs a couple of seconds to think back and amend to, ]

No, all right. This one is my fault. It sounded like I was asking you if you thought you would—not fuck up.

[bouchonne]

[ His brows draw down, startled by that noise. ]

What were you asking?

[ As if it weren't transparent. But words are difficult, and easy to mistake. Particularly when it comes to feelings. And you often end up answering questions you weren't asked. ]

[cozen]

If, uh...

[ No talking carefully around it now. But he leans his head against the back of the couch and talks to the ceiling, instead, sounding casual and faintly, sheepishly amused, ready to shrug this entire conversation off if necessary for anyone’s dignity. ]

If you think you could love me. Generally speaking. If you think it’s within the realm of possibility that you could love us both.

[bouchonne]

[ A breath out - a little sharp, a little awkward. But his words are direct. ]

Maker, Bastien, of course I love you. [ Or - ] Rather, I feel about you so much, all the time. Maybe it's not love. But I'm altogether obsessed with you, and want to fight everyone when you're away. Which is how I feel about Lexie. Both of you. And I'm assuming that's love. It might be, instead, something completely terrible, and that's the issue; I don't know that I won't fuck you up. But you're always in my head. If I can feel love, you have it.

[cozen]

[ Bastien has flipped his head back up from the back of the couch well before Byerly finishes talking, to look at him instead, trying to respectfully keep up with all of the very serious and conversation-worthy concerns that come after that first sentence, rather than hauling him in and kissing him. He succeeds, of course, but it's a nearer miss than usual.

He puts his hand on the side of Byerly's face as soon as he seems finished, thumb toying with the upper shell of his ear, and he takes a moment to gather his thoughts, and then he says, ]

Oh.

[ He's much better at this sort of thing when he cares less. ]

We can talk about all of that, if you want. I don't want to brush it off. But I need you to give me a few minutes to smile like an idiot first.

[bouchonne]

I thought you knew all that already.

[ Though, he supposes, he'd never said any of it aloud. He's said these sorts of things to Alexandrie, and about Alexandrie, true enough, but that isn't necessarily enough for Bastien to know that he has all the same anxieties about him. And Byerly had never really specified what they were to continue, that the question wasn't just about idly screwing around -

Well, it doesn't matter now. What does matter is this: he reaches out and strokes Bastien's cheek: ]

Smile for an hour. It makes me happy to look at it.

[cozen]

I could do an hour.

[ He wants to comb back over the last few months with new lenses, relive the moment he said yes to fully appreciate the look on Byerly’s face for what it was, find Alexandrie and very improperly and presumptuously spin her around by the waist in apology for ever thinking her gain was his loss—but none of that quite as much as he wants to be here, smiling and leaning his cheek into Byerly’s hand. ]

I kept thinking you might. But that’s how I fucked up before, you know. He tried to tell me he couldn’t but I took every little thing as a sign he was wrong, so I...

[ Overcorrected. A little. Possibly. But he’s too pleased to spend much time feeling sorry or stupid about it. ]

I love you, too, [ with a cheerful sort of self-mockery, ] by the way, in case I’m being too subtle.

[bouchonne]

Maker.

[ It's not the first time he's been told that - far from it - but in the past, it's almost always been from a mark, or a sop, or a fool of some sort. The first time it meant anything, it was from Lexie; the second time, now, here. It still holds its dizzying, dangerous appeal. He loves it, even as it scares the everloving shit out of him. ]

You'll turn a girl into a proper romantic. Fill her heart with all these dreams.

[cozen]

[ Bastien hopes so—to an extent, an extent he can satisfy, or at least do his half to satisfy. But he’s also suddenly capable of empathizing with Byerly’s threats to pop if he was ever too happy. So that’s enough earnest confession, at least for a few minutes.

He turns his head to kiss Byerly’s palm, then leans over to kiss him on the cheek, where he keeps his nose pressed while he says, ]

I want a spring wedding, nineteen dogs, and a castle on a mountain high enough to be above the clouds.

[bouchonne]

[ He laughs - warmed by the whole situation, by all of this, and grateful for the gentle release of tension. ]

The latter two are doable. But not a spring wedding. All those blooming flowers make my nose run.

[cozen]

[ Bastien hums and straightens up to be able to consider his face. ]

Your nose is one my top fifteen favorite things about you. What about the dead of winter? Does the cold make your nose run too?

[bouchonne]

No, not a bit. And it could allow me to demand that I be dressed entirely in furs, like a barbarian prince.

[cozen]

[ Bastien gives that concept its due consideration, which involves some contemplation of Byerly’s jaw and neck and shoulders, accompanied by a particularly Orlesian and lascivious hum, before he decides: ]

Yes. But then I get to throw you over my shoulder—

[ while he does whatever grappling and manhandling is required to drag Byerly over and down to lie on him, as a demonstration ]

—so we do not play into stereotypes.

[bouchonne]

[ He laughs as he allows himself to be maneuvered. It's a genuine laugh, silly and unselfconscious. A rare thing. By laughs often, but it's usually through his teeth. ]

Augh. Yes, well done, you've proven your might -

[cozen]

[ A good sound. A good sight. Bastien kisses him—quick and giddy, made a little sloppy by the fact that he’s laughing too—and settles both arms around him.

He’s quiet for a moment after, and comfortable and content, and then he says, ]

I can’t see inside your head, By. I don’t know if your feelings are something you should worry about or if they’re—if you think there is something wrong about you, so you think there has to be something wrong about whatever you feel. But you won’t hurt me.

—or, I mean, maybe a little. I plan to do a lot of rolling around with you, and you have those pointy elbows.