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]

[ 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. ]

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly wants to protest Bastien going and tending to their breakfast; it feels, after all, quite uncomfortable, having the two nobles lounging in bed while the commoner fetches and then refreshes their breakfast. But Lexie already lashed out once for - what, for Byerly asking Bastien to join him in bed and giving him the warm spot. And so By knows that if he reaches out and insists that Bastien do nothing of the sort, Lexie will utterly fracture.

Maybe all of this isn't tenable. Maybe he really can't have them both at once. He'd thought - Lexie was so assured that she could have both him and Loki. And he'd thought that the fact that her attentions were split meant that he could split his attentions safely, as well. But maybe that's not the case.

And there is that truth, as well. He can give all of himself to Bastien without fear. Or, well, without much fear - there's always a bit of paranoid chatter in the back of his mind, wondering if perhaps Bastien is just using him, reminding him of what it is that Bards do - but he's largely relaxed with Bastien. But Lexie...It feels dangerous to mouth reassurances with her. Because she has proven herself dangerous. Because the more he allows himself to remember how they were, once, the riskier it feels.

(And always there will be that memory of her saying that she rid herself of him because she thought he'd be like Rolant. That will never leave him.)

Maybe this really won't work.

The thought makes his hands tighten on her. He wants her. But Maker, she tears his soul to ribbons.

He wants to make a joke. What a terrible birthday, he'd crack, to break the tension. But that also doesn't feel especially safe, because again, that's paying Bastien heed in her presence. So he just stays silent. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ She is thinking it too, even as his arms tighten around her and she closes her eyes to better feel it.

My Lexie he had called her, but not his like a lover. His like an old broken home to which he cannot return. Always his, and never.

It is soft, and sad: ]

Do we frighten each other too much to love each other well, my Byerly? Do we hold one another only because we are afraid to let go?

[ Is she the cold forbidding ocean of Ferelden's coast, braved over and over because there is something in him that cannot stop? ]

I love you. I love you so terribly that it makes me wild.

[ It is not like this, in Loki's arms. Even both of them prone to fits of temper, to sweeping dramatics, he quiets her heart. He makes her still. There is nothing of doubt in her, even now. No restlessness, no fear. Perhaps Bastien is the same, for Byerly.

Is it cruel of her, to hold him? She was helpless not to, could not make herself stop, but was it cruel to chase him at all? ]

Can we have this? It will be so much. So hard. We will not be able to paint over the pain of it with laughter and pretend it is not there. It will be speaking with terrible honesty, the slow and careful build of trust, and you do so much already. You work so hard.

[ She strokes his temple still, turns her face to kiss his hair. Patience, he had asked.

A little louder then, to include Bastien: ]

You need say nothing of it now. We may eat twice warmed breakfast and be triple charming— although with twice warmed breakfast perhaps we must be twice that.

But... think upon it. It breaks my heart to hurt you as well, and if that is all I do, if I do not make you happy...

[ She cannot say the rest without falling apart, and so instead it is: ]

I want you to be happy.

[bouchonne]

The first thing -

[ His voice is rough. He clears his throat. ]

Is that you cannot - react like that to how I treat Bastien.

[ Byerly lifts his head to meet Bastien's eyes directly. His expression is concerned. Are you all right? ]

How I feel about each of you - it doesn't interfere with how I feel about the other. [ To Lexie: ] Which is nearly what you said to me about your relationship with Loki. So.

If there is tension between us, he is not the root of it. And I cannot - [ A breath. ] I cannot navigate you doing...that when I actually manage to force out a decently romantic sentiment. It's hard enough to do it as it is.

[ And then, tensely, painfully: ]

I - love you both. All right?

[cozen]

[ Bastien has felt better. Less cold, less uncomfortable, less embarrassed, less minimized, less dreading the prospect of anyone patronizingly forcing themselves to be charming over reheated eggs to humor him. The sole reason he’s holding breakfast over the fire, while they’re entwined on the bed, instead of sneaking out the door to find somewhere less miserable to be is because he hasn’t had a moment to touch Byerly or tell him that he loves him and stupid dreams to the contrary are just that. He can’t leave until he has.

But he turns at his name in time to catch Byerly’s concern, and it’s odd to have someone worry about whether he’s all right. Or, no—it’s odd to have someone worry and for that to make Bastien feel comforted, rather than bothered that his armor cracked. For being defended to make him feel something other than regret that he appeared to need it.

He answers Byerly’s worried look and proclamation with a smile, genuine and surprised and a little confused (at himself, at the solid unfluttery warmth in his chest). ]

I love you, too. [ While he’s been given a chance to say it. And, more cheerfully, before he turns back to the fire: ] That is the only reason I have not thrown the food out the window.