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]

[ Now she rustles nervously, unhappily. ]

Why will you not let me say I do not know. I do not want to be on my feet pacing, or frowning, or any such thing when Bastien arrives because then he will think that it is him when it is not. If I knew what it was that makes me need to be reassured constantly that I am—

[ Ah. She looks down, silent for a moment as she fidgets with the cloth of the robe, and then begins softly again. ]

Why did you make me fight so hard, for so long? I was desperate for you to love me, begged of you to love me, and now... perhaps I am afraid you have only acquiesced.

You and Bastien found each other and grew something new and precious together and I am a jagged remnant— I— did you not want— [ finally she looks up, and when she continues it is small and plaintive. ] Why would you not fight for me?

[cozen]

[ There is a polite warning knock first, but no wait for an answer before the door opens.

This is mainly because Bastien has spent the eight flights of stairs preparing himself not to be shy about this. He's invited—not only delivering breakfast to his noble lover and noble lover's noble lover, promise the three sets of cups and silver on the tray—and there's no reason for them to have felt obliged.

It's also a little because he successfully balanced the heavy tray aloft on one hand before he knocked, and he wants to sweep through the door and show off. ]

If you happen to talk to anyone from the kitchen, it is my birthday today,

[ is how he came into the cake. It's accompanied by heaps of the dining hall's standard breakfast fare, all hidden under cloches for warmth. He's entering shoulder-first, and it isn't until the door has been shut behind him with his foot that he pivots to look at their faces. ]

[bouchonne]

[ Shit. ]

Ah.

[ Byerly's face looks a little guilty. Like he's been caught doing something naughty - or, more than that, even, because By usually has no self-consciousness whatsoever about naughtiness. So - what does he say? He can't ignore Bastien - Maker, no - to answer Lexie's question. But if he doesn't answer, Lexie will think he's dodging the question. Which, to be altogether fair, he is - because he has no good answer to it whatsoever. So in a way, this interruption is also beyond welcome.

He wants to stay silent and let Lexie handle the situation. No doubt she'll have the perfect, poised welcome for Bastien. But he knows in his heart that that is not the right thing to do: Bastien is his, and he's responsible in some way for mediating the two of them. Even if he'd really prefer that they both just take care of everything and let him simply lay back and enjoy them, he is responsible.

And so he blurts, the joke strained - ]

Happy birthday.

[ And then, even more strained, he says - ]

We're having a bit of a go of it because I think we were both driven mad by bad dreams.

[coquettish_trees]

[ That's not why.

Or... it's only part of why. It's enough of why that Alexandrie will let it be why. They are both exhausted.

Now that she'd found the edge of this particular hurt, knows where its border lies, she doesn't look agitated anymore; just tired. Particularly so because she is fresh-faced, with none of her usual applied cosmetic artistry. Even so she smiles for Bastien and the cake, and sings for him. ]

Bon anniversaire, nos vœux les plus sincères—

[ It is simple, unornamented, and sounds like she just woke up and her vocal warm-up was having a go of it, but it's a song all the same. ]

I will cut it, you ought not do too much hard labour on your birthday.

[cozen]

[ Bastien’s jaunty show-off smile slides into something more subdued, but it doesn’t disappear.

This isn’t what he expected, go-having or not. Alexandrie’s bare face and dressing gown, Byerly’s bare chest above the blankets of the bed he is still thoroughly in. It’s not bad—Bastien’s occasional shyness isn’t prudish, his bouts of jealous nerves never the sort that involve possessive hackle-rising over the thought of anyone seeing anyone else naked. It’s only different. A softer song than he’d been in position for.

And they’ve been having a go.

But he keeps smiling, in a more thoughtful way, and even does a little shoulder shimmy for Alexandrie’s song. ]

Oh, yes, my poor broken back.

[ He still has the tray lofted above his shoulder. He looks around for a table that might be dragged closer, but seeing nothing convenient, slides the tray down onto the bed before her.

He considers offering to leave and come back later, and he doesn’t decide he won’t. Only that he won’t yet. ]

My dreams were strange, too. Maybe someone broke something cursed in the basement again.

[bouchonne]

Maybe.

[ Because it wasn't really glibness that led him to say they're fighting over dreams. He's beginning to suspect that they had the same dream. That plea of Lexie's felt like it came from a place of - of miserably telling a man you loved him, that you betrayed him because you loved him. ]

One in which we were all horrible to one another, and one in which we were all merely miserable?

[coquettish_trees]

[ The very moment the tray slid onto the bed Alexandrie had begun lifting cloches, sorting through the selection with a look of dogged determination.

She stops, one of the domed lids still raised in her hand, and looks at Byerly sharply when he mentions he'd had two, all three of them in both. The look quickly transfers to Bastien as she awaits his answer. ]

[cozen]

[ Bastien tilts his head at Byerly in surprise, and his eyes swivel to Alexandrie before he says, slowly, ]

Yes.

[ The same themes? The same dreams? He hopes not. When he was freshly woken and staring into the fire, he spent a moment feeling sorry for himself about a dream where he was nothing to Byerly and to Alexandrie, watching them carry on their wretched drama like he wasn’t there. Then he moved on to feeling other things, like worried about having to live in a swamp if the war doesn’t end soon.

But if they saw something similar, they were nothing to him, too, and he has much more to be sorry for than his own feelings.

He shrugs, though, in a hopeful sort of way. ]

Or, well—I had one where we were horrible to each other, and one where I made a dramatic return from the dead and a lot of people were very happy to see me. That wasn’t so bad.

[ Joking. Of course it was miserable. ]

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly nods very slightly. And he looks to Alexandrie, waiting for her confirmation, the line between his eyebrows back. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ It was bad enough when she had thought them spirits. When she had thought the dreams reflection of her own worries: that she would leave and it would hurt both her and Byerly, that she would be happy and surrounded by love and he would be alone, that for a moment she would be gripped as if she meant everything in the world and then immediately be superseded by Bastien, who had better reason to be loved. That Byerly's sense of honour would always be more important than either of them.

And the other; that every stitch of her truth pulled out of her and examined would never be enough. That knowing she had shattered, knowing she had never ceased to love him even when it was inarguable would always be too little too late. It would never heal anything. Even cooler to each other they would be compatriots, she would beg to no avail, and—

And now? To have been seen? Not spirits at all?

Perhaps the fact that her eyes are wide and she is still holding the cloche is answer enough. ]

[cozen]

[ Bastien looks at Byerly's furrowed eyebrows, at Alexandrie's wide eyes, and then at the door beyond them both. ]

It must have been everyone. They would not only pick on us.

[ —is important, but also easier than thinking or talking about the more personal aspects, and if they are both going to sit there in silence, he's going to give himself a break.

He would like to sit down. But the nearest place to sit is the bed, so he settles for unwinding the scarf he'd wrapped around his neck for the trek from his tower to the dining hall tower and up to the top of this one. ]

Skyhold, and the Herald?

[bouchonne]

Mm.

[ A nod. ]

And someone calling themselves Fen'Harel - an old elf god, as I understand it - endeavoring to destroy the Veil? Bringing, by this act, death and destruction and all that.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Ah. So that is what the two of them had been looking for.

She places the cover carefully back in its place and busies herself with pouring coffee without looking up. ]

Cannot this Fen'Harel wait until Corypheus is done bringing his death and destruction? It seems rather vulgar to jostle one another so impatiently.

[ Once finished, she will pass each of them a cup— dressed as she knows preferred— only looking up inasmuch is as required to do so. Then, with dainty aplomb, and without bothering to cut it at all, she takes a fork to the cake.

Desperate times, etc. ]

[cozen]

And the Qun.

[ He takes the coffee (black, for him) and holds the cup in his hands to warm them up. ]

They should have to form a—a queue...n.

[ Get it. Queue. Qun. But the he sounds unsure of his own joke, looking between Byerly and Alexandrie again, and feeling suddenly terrible about going easy on himself. ]

I'm sorry. For... for dreaming about abducting you, [ Alexandrie, ] and about threatening to kill you and make sure it wasn't fun, [ Byerly. ]

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly relaxes infinitesimally as they both crack jokes. ]

And I am sorry for threatening you - [ And then, to Alexandrie, his voice softening - ] And I am sorry for - so very much.

[ He accepts the coffee as well (cream in his), pain in his face. ]

I cannot help but feel the deepest disgust, that my mind would even come up with any of that.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Cream and sugar for Alexandrie, given the origin of this particular coffee. She sets down her fork to hold the cup in her hands as Bastien does, wanting the warmth even though her hands are not cold, and looks over at Byerly. ]

I am sorry for how often I have let fear turn me into an animal; that all I have ever done when I am hurt or frightened is lash out cruelly or run. That I ask for things I shall never deserve, [ her gaze flicks over to Bastien, and then down into the cup, ] and that I am jealous of you for deserving them.

I wish I were disgusted, but I am only... I do not know yet.

[ She thumbs along the simple pattern on the cup's side. ]

What does it say of me, do you think, that my most present worries have never been for the world? Should I not be more concerned with this god and the Veil, or Corypheus and whatever the Gates were that caused us to lose this war?

[cozen]

[ Bastien head tilts again, at jealous of you, and in the next moment he lets his puzzlement bleed onto his face instead of keeping it so carefully clear as he would around anyone else—or around Alexandrie, most likely, were she not bare-faced and vulnerable.

He darts a look at Byerly. Whatever they were troubled by before he came in, he hopes it wasn't him. But he doesn't ask; Alexandrie is moving along, to something that he has a better idea what to do with. ]

Well, those are the simpler things to be concerned about, aren't they? They are not in the room with us. We don't have to wonder how to feel about them. Veil up. Gates closed. Easy. [ He brings his coffee up to drink. ] So maybe it says you have courage.

[bouchonne]

No one is kinder or better for being consumed with thoughts of the world rather than thoughts of people in it.

[ He holds put a hand for some cake. No plate needed. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ When Alexandrie looks up from the cup it is confused, unsure, and, of a sudden, bordering on tears.

What had she wanted? To have them agree that she was as selfish as she had felt herself to be, consumed so with only the upheaval of her little world, only the ache of her single heart, and then turn their talk to the near certainty of this new and present threat to them all? She would have understood that, but this? Whom is it who is good that could look kindly upon a creature that would burn her land at the mere thought it could be invaded and then murder to protect the clutched handful of barren soil that remained? To say courage for such a one?


How long?

How long is it she has hated herself?


The hand was reached for cake, but Alexandrie reaches back for it instead; to hold just the tips of his fingers. To set down her cup so she can bow her head and cover her mouth while she searches for composure. ]

[cozen]

[ Bastien takes a breath, preparing to say something, and then he looks away and lets the breath out in silence. It’s what he would want. To not feel gawked at.

But then, that might make him look like he’s embarrassed for her. Like it’s indecent. Maybe if he’d kept the tray and had something to arrange, so looking away didn’t mean standing there beside the bed with his head turned toward the wall—because he can’t look at Byerly, he would hate that even more than being gawked at, to feel people exchanging looks over his head—

And he thinks of her in the dream, the distant hazy picture of her furious with him for hiding his tears, and he looks back at her. ]

Tu vas bien, Alexandrie.

[bouchonne]

[ She does surprise him. He'd always assumed that the question of being good or not was, to Alexandrie, largely abstract. That she cared about being good - of course she did; everyone cares about that at some level - but largely in the way that she cared about being fashionable. More for the effect it brought about on others than out of any intrinsic desire. And moreover, Orlesian ideas of goodness - like Orlesian ideas of fashion - are often rather outrageous, as far as others are concerned.

So seeing her, visibly moved by the sentiment, is - disconcerting, to say the least. When is it that he'll understand her?

So - He curls his fingers around hers. ]

If you don't believe in yourself, at least believe in me. You know that I cannot abide evil people.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Still consolation comes from them both, and— it isn't about being good, really. Alexandrie has never thought herself to be good, or evil, or thought it useful to think in those terms at all. It is about harm and cruelty and retribution and how quickly she turns to them when she is hurt and frightened and feels alone. To everyone. To people she loves— especially to people she loves, for they are the only ones who can still hurt, frighten, make her feel alone. It is for those whom she blooms as a rose that she has the cruelest thorns, and she cannot make herself stop.

But kindness still. Kindness and soft voices even from those she bleeds. Why? Why? It is all of it unearned, and yet when she reaches for the one she's hurt the most he holds her hand and it is unbearable. It is unbearable to be this, to have been seen being this, and be loved.

She does not want to be crying, because she knows they will look at her with even more concern and try to soothe her and that will make it worse, but she does not want to smother her distress because they will know and still be concerned, and so she holds tighter to the hand in hers and manages to speak with a wavering voice. ]

Bastien, do come sit down. Breakfast will get cold, or soggy, or both, and I refuse to be responsible for rendering your thoughtfulness an atrocity on your birthday.

[cozen]

[ Bastien smiles, amused and appreciative and still a little worried-eyed above it. He has an excuse, put together without any effort the same way all three of them probably know where every room's exits are without deliberately deciding to note them. I need to go write down what I remember, he could say, retreating back into the irreproachable cowardice of thinking of the world instead. Before I forget.

But he won't forget. And he won't leave, because before he begins to say anything he looks at Byerly, whose mind gave him—what? A world where they'd both loved him and both left him, one way or another, and a world where being in a room with both of them meant nothing but pain and cruelty and indifference. Even if he thinks Alexandrie might feel better if he left, even if she hadn't just encouraged him to stay, Bastien couldn't have walked out now.

So. ]

Why don't you sit up next to By, [ he says, taking his unwound scarf all the way off before crouching to unfasten his boots. ] We can make him hold the tray.

[ Between them, where he ought to be—an idea Bastien can't take credit for, and while it's still muted by concern, he gives Alexandrie a shared-secret sort of look. Two cheeks. ]

[bouchonne]

Work!

[ He sounds affronted, but nevertheless holds out his other hand as well, offering to take up that tray. He...honestly still doesn't fully understand what all of this is all about, but he can understand Lexie's emotions being high. And even if Bastien isn't showing it - or isn't showing it much - he can imagine that his emotions are high, as well. By doesn't know quite so much of Bastien's heart as he does Lexie's; Lexie's heart is a wind-tossed ocean, and that has mysteries enough, but it scarcely compares to the deep cave where Bastien hides his soul. But what spelunking Byerly has done has taught him that Bastien is afraid of abandonment, afraid of isolation, afraid of loving someone who is indifferent to him (fucking Vincent). And so that dream of cold contempt must have been dreadful for him, too.

What a mess.

And so By wiggles over to make room, pulls back the blanket in a clear invitation to Bastien. And, just to make sure that there's absolutely no opportunity to pretend he didn't notice: ]

You can have my warm spot, dear Bastien.

[coquettish_trees]

[ And just like that, even with her fingers held, Alexandrie freezes. How can that be all it takes to make her want to snatch back her hand and flee? To go back to the estate, curl into a corner in the dark and tell herself stories of being perfunctory. Held for pity rather than wanted.

It doesn't matter than she herself has made special effort to include and reassure Bastien. It doesn't matter because Bastien need do nothing but seem vaguely hesitant, be silent a moment too long, and Byerly is all reassurance, all consideration, and when she names her fears aloud and all but weeps of them, asks for reassurance, she is met with seeming confusion.

Is it because Bastien is new? Because for some reason Byerly understands him and cannot fathom her? Or is it as she had questioned earlier: because Bastien is real and she... something, perhaps, he only thinks he ought to want.

He had not answered her.

She cannot go to sit with him on Bastien's invitation. How can she go at all? And now he will look at her again like he doesn't understand, or Bastien will think it is because he is here, or they both will, and everything feels impossible and she wants to scream. ]