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]

[ 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. ]

[cozen]

[ Byerly's wiggling and invitation broaden Bastien's smile, while he's unfastening his boots one-handed. A swell of grateful affection, manifested in eye-crinkles. But when he stands to step out of them, Alexandrie is unmoving, and the smile smooths out.

Perhaps she's uncomfortable; she'd seemed to silently suggest something far saucier than sharing blankets and breakfast, not long ago, but they did just share a dream where Bastien was instrumental in kidnapping her, binding her, and drugging her. It would be fair. Perhaps it's to do with what she said before, that she was jealous, but he can't imagine in the moment what she might be jealous of. Perhaps she feels the way Bastien sometimes feels—the way he spent the whole walk up the stairs trying to convince himself not to feel. That he's the guest here, that Byerly belongs to her, that when she shares she is generous and when he asks he is presumptuous and when he takes outright he is a thief. Or perhaps—

There's no time to consider every option before his pause becomes awkward, and if it becomes awkward then that's one more step toward his inclusion—here now, or in general—becoming a problem for them that seems most easily solved by not including him anymore. So he steps out of the first of his boots and says lightly, ]

Too many blankets for me, Byerly. [ Fully dressed as he is, anyway. It could be true. ] I would melt.

[bouchonne]

[ And for a moment, By is confused. And then he follows Bastien's gaze, and sees Lexie looking like she wants to die, and - and just a moment before, just a moment before, it had been all right. They'd been lightly joking, and there was talk of sharing a meal, and then this. And maybe it's because he's exhausted, or maybe it's because he's miserable, but he turns to Alexandrie and grates out - ]

Maker's breath, Lexie. You suggested this.

[ There's not real anger behind it. Just frustration. Just desperation, and misery. He just wants to do a single thing that isn't completely wrong. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ She flinches, as if rather than delivering a handful of desperate words he'd struck her, and everything she had been holding in her stillness comes through the crack. Now she snatches her hand back, is on her feet quick enough that the tray rattles in her wake and is moving swiftly for the door heedless of her state of dress, of her feet hitting the stones bare.

Let them eat cake, be happy. What is she but impediment to their better lives. ]

[cozen]

[ If the thought of his role in her dreamed confinement weren’t so fresh in his mind, Bastien might try to block the door—not because he feels it’s essential or kind to force her to stay and explain herself if she’s so desperate to. But it’s very cold outside, and cold in the corridors, and cold on the stairs, and she isn’t wearing any shoes.

But it the thought is fresh, and he’s only wearing one loosened boot that’s liable to trip him if he darts, and it’s happening very fast, so he only turns in her wake and says: ]

Alexandrie, your toes.

[bouchonne]

[ It speaks well of Bastien, that his response is so sympathetic. Byerly's is a lot sharper. Perhaps it is still the memory of that dream, the way she'd wept about her love as justification for trying to have him killed. Perhaps it's just his short-temperedness over the lack of sleep. But when he speaks, it's snappish, brittle. ]

Stop being so dramatic. Sit down.

[ It takes quite a lot to get a show of real, honest anger from Byerly. Not something cool or facetious, but something hot and harsh. So this is an accomplishment in and of itself. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ It's different than the whipcrack of Loki's temper; the strict, keen-edged Alexandrie. that can so often slice through the brushfire of her anger and drain it. When it doesn't, when she pushes past it, they fight with elemental passion: equal, matched, two dragons rending until they are spent and holding each other in silence, her face pressed tightly against his chest, his in her hair, both of them secure in the absolute knowledge that through all of it and here again is love. Love every bit as fierce and far more enduring than their anger. It is always left, shining, when everything else is burnt away.

She does not know what is left on the other side of this. She does not know what she has, or had, or will have. But his anger gives hers permission. Turns her from flight to round on him with an aspect that could almost make the air that touches her ignite. She opens her mouth and draws breath to scorch the earth to bedrock and—

—how often I have let fear turn me into an animal—

—stops.

It is, perhaps, like watching someone struggle against possession. A rider hauling back on the reins of a horse spooked to full bolt. Her eyes shut tightly. Her fists clench, her teeth, her shoulders; release, then clench again. She hunches, shuddering with the effort of grinding herself to a halt, and finally she sags, exhausted.

They are the same words, but instead of spat with acid vehemence they are only tired. ]

Why. So I may listen to you be impatient with my desperate fear like it is foolish childish nothing and then turn immediately to wrap the very thought of his in cotton and eager attentive warmth if he but hesitates half a breath too long?

[cozen]

[ Bastien's been in the middle of dozens of arguments. Many of them he was paid to cause. And nearly all of them were funny, because he didn't care about the outcome, and because when they were done he'd take his five or twenty crowns and leave.

This isn't funny. This is humiliating.

His pride wants him to buckle back into his boots. Square his shoulders and lift his chin. Refuse to be a silent, largely invisible plot device in whatever story is being told over his head, for the time it takes for him to escape with all his dignity on. As much of it as he can salvage, anyway, given that he can feel himself flushing pink like some sort of amateur. But he looks again at Byerly. He hasn't yet had a moment to ask if he's all right, to touch his hand or kiss his forehead and try to brush any lingering sense of dread or isolation off his shoulders. So Bastien can't bring himself to move, and he stays quiet and still—and lopsided, one foot still in one low-heeled boot. ]

[bouchonne]

When have I ever been impatient with you? When have you ever heard me say, Lexie, I can't deal with this right now? Name me one time I have dismissed you.

[ He sets the coffee aside. By miracle of the Maker, it doesn't topple off his side table. ]

I am sorry I have not turned out to be the - apostate you desired, with the ability to read minds. But you cannot simply giggle and smile and then run weeping from the room because I was not able to divine your needs.

[ By gestures towards Bastien, who's flushing and awkward and visibly miserable. ]

He's told me. I know when he's miserable, because he's made it clear to me. If you want me to tend to you, you need to fucking say what you need.

[ And then he looks to Bastien. ]

I am sorry. I am. You do not need to stay for this.

[ And then back to Lexie. With brimming anger, he demands: ]

Do you want me to work you? Manipulate you to be happy and content? Because I can. I've left scores of women behind who think they loved me because I made them feel warm and comforted and listened to. I can do that for you, too, if that's what you crave.

[ Because perhaps that's the worst part, the most maddening part. His awkward fumbling is all due to the fact that he doesn't want to play her. And now, what, he's too impatient. To imperfect. ]

[coquettish_trees]

I told you. I told you even this morning! 'Loving you makes me afraid,' I said. 'I am afraid now you have him I am unnecessary and if I left you would not miss me,' I said. 'I am afraid you made me fight you so hard for this chance because you do not truly want me, you are only allowing me to be with you,' I said. 'Tell me I am wrong.'

And you did not. You said nothing but to make sure I had meant to ask Bastien be included. Offered me no reassurance, did not reach even for my hand. You lift no covers, spread no arms for me to make sure that I know I am welcome. What shall I think but that I am right to have feared?

[ She looks at Bastien with a flash of her own shame, and speaks softly. ]

You have done nothing wrong. Stay. We have all had terrible dreams and you are kinder than I can be, now. Someone should be kind to him.

[ And back to Byerly. ]

Let me go home. I am tired, and hurt, and I wish to weep, and I have had enough of simply being watched at it.

[bouchonne]

You don't give me any time!

[ He spreads his hands out desperately. Leans forward so that the blankets fall away from his thin, scarred torso. The wounds of many battles he was ill-suited to fight. ]

I need time to think with you. Maker, you always want me to have a response immediately, and it must be the right one. [ And then, with a shake of his head - ] How am I supposed to respond to that? I make you afraid. You're afraid of me. Do you know how it cuts me to hear that? I must be a fucking beast if you're afraid of me. So, what, I'm supposed to just smile and tell you, it's all right, there's nothing to be afraid of? Like a liar? Like a predator? Like him?

[ Sometimes a fellow doesn't even have the ability to truly hear what's being said. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ I'm supposed to just smile and tell you, it's all right, there's nothing to be afraid of? Like a liar?

And there it is, the little voice: Right. You were right. You were right to run.

She does not run. She only stares, wide-eyed and still, a tear escaping the swell of them to roll down her cheek. And then she nods slowly, her voice distant. ]

Said again now you will deny none of it.

I am right, then.

[cozen]

[ The whiplash of Byerly's you don't need to stay—a dismissal? he doesn't have time to decide—and Alexandrie's stay, which makes him feel like a prop being posed to hold Byerly up in her absence, left with instructions to be kind—it all squares Bastien's shoulders and lifts his chin after all, on the verge of telling them he'll be going or staying, whichever he chooses, because he wants to, and he doesn't need either of their assistance deciding.

He doesn't say it. They're moving on too quickly; first he is thinking of Byerly, that first night in his bed, cracked and crumbling over how many people in his life have so quickly thought the worst of him, ever since he was a child. And before that can properly turn into irritation at Alexandrie for adding to that mountain of hurt, she's quiet and crying.

So Bastien's straight-backed impetus to speak up channels elsewhere. ]

That is not what she means, Byerly.

[ He thinks. He hopes. He says it like he's sure, though, with confidence that's more gentle than scolding. ]

And I don't know what happened this morning— [ to Alexandrie ] —but before—he had me. Before he said yes to you. We weren't deciding whether to start something, we were deciding whether to continue it. [ An oversimplification, perhaps, but now's not the time for details. ] And you were missing and necessary enough then to make it a question, so—so cross that one off of your list, at least, please.

[bouchonne]

[ It's good that Bastien speaks up. Because the misery that her I'm right engenders is - immense. Right to fear him. Right to think him a beast. That's what she means, isn't it? That's what she'd said to him in the dream, too: that he reminded her of him, of Rolant. That when she looked at him, when he was kind to her, that was what she saw. A monster, a rapist - And how could she not? For someone as horribly misused as she was, how could she ever trust the hands of another man, ever? Let alone someone as fucking awful as he is?

And yet: how could he live with someone that looks at him like that? How could he live with someone so afraid of him that she'd betrayed him once, when she's confirmed that fear won't go away?

Byerly turns away. He hunches over, his muscles tense, his eyes narrowed, as he stares at the window, far away from both of them. That is not what she means. Bastien had sounded so certain when he said it; that, and that alone, keeps him from dismissing Alexandrie then and there. Bastien's certainty that perhaps it's not...fear of that sort.

Still. What does he say? He doesn't know what to say. So he stays silent, and puts all his strength into convincing himself that the pain he's feeling is indigestion. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ Alexandrie is quiet too, save for the soft sound of distress she makes when Byerly turns away.

See? Leaving. You are right. Does not want you.

Perhaps if she'd known what Bastien had said before— if he had said it, if Byerly had— but now it is not enough to fill the yawning silence of Byerly's response to the rest. That even when he had told her to say what she needed, and she had, the response was anger. Anger about something she had not even— is that what Bastien meant?

What is he hearing, when she speaks?

She sits down slowly, her back against the door, knees pulled to her chest. How many times will she give him room to drive the stake in a little deeper? One more, it seems. ]

I am not afraid of you. [ Quiet, clear. ] I am afraid you do not want me, and I am afraid I am right because you will not deny it.

[cozen]

[ For a moment, when the silence is broken by Alexandrie addressing Byerly again, Bastien feels small. Because that’s what it always comes around to. Ignored and insignificant in the face of their cymbal-crashing storm of history and feelings.

But there’s no slinking out the door unnoticed now, even if he wanted to, with Alexandrie sitting in front of it. So Bastien shoots another worried look at Byerly, at the curve of his back and turned head. He only narrowly manages to smother the desire to crawl across the bed to straighten him out, since Alexandrie isn’t doing it, but he does manage. Then he steps out of his boot, finally, and crouches to fuss with putting his shoes and his scarf into neat arrangement, for the sake of not just standing there looking as foolish as he feels. ]

[bouchonne]

That's not true.

[ His voice is low and miserable. ]

You said it in the dream, Lexie. That you betrayed me because you were afraid I'd be like him. That I would destroy you.

[ He looks up at her, and his eyes are utterly desolate. ]

The one thing that causes me misery, more than any other, is causing you misery. [ And here, his gaze shifts to Bastien, as well, still awkward and unhappy and tense. ] Either of you. If you cannot feel safe, then - [ Then how could he possibly want to be with her? If he does not bring her happiness, he has no value at all. ]

[coquettish_trees]

What is it you think destroyed me, Byerly.

[ She meets his gaze with her own, helpless and sorrow-weary. ]

It was not his violence. Not the painting. Not the salon. It was that before that, for a year, he sent me letters. A hundred. More. All of them full of ardent declarations of feeling, then of love. Promises to marry me despite my being far below his station, to care for me always. It was that before he did those things, he knelt at my feet and kissed my hand like I awed him. He carried me to bed, touched me with incredible gentleness.

What destroyed me was that I loved him, that I believed with every part of myself that he loved me, and I was nothing to him.

Cruelty is everywhere in Orlais. I could have borne only his cruelty. What I could not bear is the thought that I might love where I thought I was loved, and have it not be so. And so, the moment I loved you...

[ She drops her eyes, picks at the threads in her robe. ]

It— he ruined me. Made it so that any time I feel safe and loved it is a sign that I am neither. Soothing myself into believing that I am, truly believing, is— it is more difficult than anything else I have ever done, and it breaks so easily. I am trying. [ Her eyes raise again, pained and earnest. ] I want so much to not be as I am. To not do this to you. [ to Bastien: ] Or to you.

But this— the three of us— it is new. It is a new affair, and I— I must needs be held as if I am new too, or...

[ She makes a little half-hearted gesture at the room. Or this. ]

[bouchonne]

[ But he shakes his head, still caught up in the thorniness of it. Not that simple desire to be held, but the greater pains. ]

If true villainy was pretending at love when there was none, then all three of us in this room are villains as evil as he. You cannot stand there and tell me his true crime was lying to you, or we are all three damned.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Alexandrie drops her head and presses her face into her knees. He cannot understand her; the part at the center of everything, and he cannot understand. She looks up, looks like she is fraying at the edges again. ]

He did it for nothing but fun, he not only lied and revealed it but revealed it through public shame and horrors, and I am damned.

[ And her face goes back into her knees. ]

Why must what hurts me make sense to you before you care for it. You tell me to tell you what I need and make me say it and say it and say it and each time I do you fight me instead.

[bouchonne]

[ Why indeed? ]

Because -

[ His voice catches. And he says, roughly: ]

Because I have given you sympathy without guardedness before, Lexie. I am trying, but trust cannot simply appear from the Fade.

[ He shakes his head. His hand fists in the blanket. ]

What you fear from me, you did to me. But I am still here. At least grant me patience.

[coquettish_trees]

No, trust cannot simply appear from the Fade.

[ She nods slowly into her knees. ]

Say that then. Say it is hard, and you are hurt, and you are trying. Do not say you will tend to me if I tell you how when you will not. It makes me mistrust you, and begging to be cared for makes me feel small.

[ A pause, and then ]

Do you want me or not.

[ Another pause. ]

If you do not know, say so.

[bouchonne]

Of course I want you.

[ He grows tenser and tenser with every moment. But he has said it, at least. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ A headshake, now. ]

You cannot say 'of course' if I do not know.

[ She is quiet again, but eventually she will unfold and pad back across the stone floor to climb up and kneel on the bed so she can hold his head to her chest, rest her own atop it, stroke the hair at his temple, and murmur to him. ]

I am sorry. That I did you great harm. That I continue to hurt you. I am trying. I am trying to be a better woman than I was.

[ She angles her head so she can look at Bastien and his truly meticulously arranged scarf and boots. ]

And I am sorry to you, Bastien. I will swear to it that I meant only well by my invitation, but... I did not know. How poorly things were between Byerly and I.

I have ruined breakfast, I think. I shall go and replace it, if the two of you should like something warm.

[cozen]

[ Bastien’s final arrangement involves sliding one rolled-up end of his scarf into one boot and the other into the other so it makes a little bridge between them. In the meantime he’s been watching without watching, mostly pleased for them working their way down to something short of outright catastrophe, like cats out of trees, and a little lonely for himself. At Alexandrie’s apology, he raises his head and smiles, shakes his head: it’s nothing. No need to talk about it.

The offer to fetch more food is what opens his mouth. ]

No, no. I can—

[ He pops up from the ground with honest relief to have something new to occupy himself with. Of course she shouldn’t go out in the cold to fetch more—she’s not nearly dressed enough, to start with—but even if that weren’t a concern, he can’t stand wasting food.

So he swipes the tray off the bed, but only to carry it as far as the fireplace that’s presumably keeping the room tolerable.

The little ash shovel next to the fire poker is too narrow to hold the plates and bowls over the fire, he decides on inspection, but if he flips it and balances carefully, the flat back will do. ]