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 now she feels—

Judged. Lesser. Thought a poorer love because she cannot be what Bastien is and simply say she loves and make a joke without feeling like she lies because there are still other words she needs to say, more knots to untangle.

For the first time, and knowing it is petty, she resents him. That he can be kind and still and reassuring instead of a storm. That he and Byerly can love simply and warmly and everything hurts her, and that makes her want to leave again but she cannot, and she wants to explain it but she cannot, and that makes her want to scream but she cannot, and she cannot cry, and she cannot even be still because that is too much discomfort expressed.

So what? What else is there to do right now in this moment? ]

And I love you as well.

[ She raises her head, and sinks slowly to sit back against her pillow so that she won't be breaking contact if Byerly does not wish to let her go. To him: ]

I feel as if I cannot speak anymore, that if I do I will be imposing. But I also feel that if I do not speak, I shall either need to go away for a time to collect myself or begin dissembling, and I neither wish to cause you to feel abandoned nor to lie to you.

[ And to Bastien: ]

If I am kind to you now I worry you shall think me patronizing. If I ignore you, I worry you shall think me cold and unwelcoming.

[ She pulls up her knees again, looking a bit lost. ]

And so I do not know what to do at all.

[bouchonne]

[ The slight joke about the food takes some of the tension out of Byerly; the impassioned declaration about her right to speak drives it right back into him. Is it always going to be like this with her? Always so raw and fraught, so that any step feels like it risks dragging one down into the abyss? He cannot dismiss her, or she'll feel abandoned and brokenhearted; he cannot encourage her to just take the time in silence, because she'll feel voiceless. And if she does speak, she's likely going to say something that'll make Byerly just feel even worse.

Well. One of those things is the least bad option, he thinks. ]

Just - have some breakfast. And talk about - something that makes you happy.

[cozen]

[ On his way back with the tray, Bastien considers reassuring her, but he doesn’t. Partly because Byerly is already talking. Partly because Bastien doesn’t quite know what to do, either. If she can wake up beside Byerly, and have Bastien track down cake at breakfast, and be half-dressed and domestic on the bed when he arrives, and have them both take time to try to comfort her, and still consider Byerly’s attempt to be welcoming to him a balance-tipping moment worthy of running barefoot for the door—

He doesn’t know. He’ll figure it out later. In the meantime, his Orlesian(ish) feet are very used to eggshells.

Bastien slides the tray back onto the bed, without flourish, because flourish would make him look like a server at a cafe. Instead he shakes his hands, as if it were heavy, and smiles. ]

The serving plates are hot. Try not to touch them.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Why is she so miserable? Why is kindness making her furious? Why must she be asked to be anything other than what she is in the very moment that she is it?

Alexandrie had strayed from all the exercises Emile had taught her when she'd come. The ones that had made her still, able to breathe again when she could not, let her find and release every single place in her body that her abject misery had clawed into and tensed. All she could think of was that she had used her skills as a Bard to ruin. That her hiding and her lies had only cost.

She'd forgotten that before she had used it to lie, she had used it to live again.

So she closes her eyes, and she breathes her storm away in the old patterns. It's not quite the smooth quick wave through her body it had used to be— if one happened to be a Bard, and one happened to be looking, one might be able to see the individual pieces come together— but at the end of it she is no longer curled into herself, and she has set the bramble of hurt aside. Not locked away. (She thinks of touching it gently to reassure it.) Not forgotten. Just not now.

She picks up a fork again. ]

It makes me happy that I have seen birds taking the hair I put out for them to make their nests with, and that cake is delicious at any temperature at all.

[ The shame in the bramble makes her want to wince when she looks at Bastien, but it is quiet enough off to the side that there is only a small embarrassed smile to accompany the dip of her head she uses in place of curtsies when she is sitting: ]

Thank you.

[bouchonne]

[ And the tension drains away again. He tries not to let it be too dreadfully obvious, but there's an audible little breath that escapes nevertheless. He and Alexandrie are going to have to talk. Clearly. But it seems that they can do it later, when Bastien isn't present. Thank the Maker. ]

I've never tried cake frozen.

[ He forgoes a fork, reaching out to pinch off a piece of it. ]

We could put a slice outside the window and see how it turns out.

[cozen]

[ Bastien smiles and gives a return tip of his head at Alexandrie's thanks, and then—shouldering through the invisible barrier his manners insist exists around them and the bed unless he's explicitly invited, because he was, before, by Alexandrie first and Byerly second, and since Byerly's invitation seemed to the problem he's not going to make him repeat it—sits down on Byerly's other side.

But on the edge, with his feet still on the floor, and not too close. Reaching Byerly's shoulders requires fully extending his arm. The bracing squeeze Bastien gives the back of his neck would look brotherly if not for the two seconds of lingering thumb-stroking, and before he lets go a tap-tap with the finger that signals that nothing is wrong, that everything is all right.

It's barely-conscious habit and not particularly hidden, not an effort to sign-whisper behind Alexandrie's back. He saw her, pulling herself together, and he's not sure whether to be glad or sorry for it. Either way, he doesn't want to give her any additional hurts swallow, if he can avoid it. ]

I think your cake would end up in the birds' curly ginger nests.

[coquettish_trees]

And so the taste of frozen cake shall forever be a mystery to us, and I shall choose to believe it is the finest of all.

Perhaps the second finest, so I am not made too cross by not having had it.

[ Alexandrie reaches for her coffee again, carefully, lest it be too hot now, and sits back such that she can touch her shoulder to Byerly's. ]

Do move over. [ A nudge with that shoulder, pushing him gently toward Bastien. ] I am sure you shall not have noticed this happening, as it was quiet and unobtrusive, but in a passion I stepped all over the cold floor and then sat on it and felt sorry for myself and now I wish your warm spot.

[bouchonne]

I do owe it to you.

[ He moves over easily enough. And this is...very nice, in a supremely self-indulgent kind of way: Bastien's warmth on one side, Lexie's warmth on the other. Luxurious. There's still a lump of pain in his throat, and he dreads what will come later, but this is very nice.

To Bastien, as he licks frosting from his fingertip: ]

And don't say curly ginger nests. It sounds dirty in your accent.

[cozen]

Nnno, it doesn’t, [ Bastien says contemplatively. ] You just have a weird thing for Orlesians.

[ The secret of his lifelong levity: Byerly’s shoulder nudges up against his, and as far as Bastien’s mood is concerned, the last several minutes might as well have never happened. He doesn’t forget them, and later he’ll them back out of their drawer to examine. But the misery that might have lingered and colored things afterwards, in someone else, slides off of him like water off of glass.

He keeps one foot on the floor, but he folds the other up so he doesn’t have to twist his spine too much to lean a little weight against Byerly’s shoulder. ]

It sounds dirty in your accent.

[ He leans his head forward to give Alexandrie a hopeful look around the Fereldan between them. Back him up, please. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ Alexandrie is sipping her coffee with exaggerated primness beneath elegantly arched eyebrows and demurely lowered lashes. ]

Cake in curly ginger nests sounds dirty in any accent, but that may be easily alleviated by cleaning up after oneself once finished.

[bouchonne]

[ Demureness ruined by Byerly purring: ]

Kinky.

[ And then, to Bastien: ]

It does not sound dirty in my accent. My accent is normal. Yours is erotic.

[ Nothing Oedipal here. Nope. ]

[cozen]

[ No, not remotely.

Bastien laughs, and doesn't say the things he might say if he were less disoriented by the shifts in the mood and three-way dynamic—not disoriented in a troubled way, really. Not at this specific moment. Only unsure where the boundaries are and not the type to risk blindly slamming into one. Again.

Instead, he leans up and over to fetch himself a sausage. He does not eat it erotically, unless chomping it in half immediately is erotic to someone. And when he sits back he does it in a lower slump, with his cheek squashed against Byerly's skinny pokey shoulder. ]

I don't want to live in a swamp.

[ Not to change the subject.

A little to change the subject. ]

If do we have to flee south, can it be somewhere less wet?

[coquettish_trees]

[ Low-hanging fruit, that, but she's not one to make the same jest twice— especially not that, and especially not right now— and so she only smiles a little impishly into her coffee and waits for Byerly to defend the merits of Ferelden's awful mires. ]

[bouchonne]

[ Innocently: ]

You don't like a wetland, Bastien?

[ He steals the second half of the sausage and nibbles it far more sensually. ]

[cozen]

[ Bastien opens his mouth to explain the merits of dry socks, but he looks up in time. Byerly’s sensual sausage eating. And he can’t see the look on Alexandrie’s face, quite, at this angle and with Byerly in the way, but maybe he can feel a vibe.

So he puts his hand on Byerly’s face to push his face gently, slowly, solidly toward her, until it means pushing them both, because they deserve it. ]

[bouchonne]

[ And Byerly, obediently, tips over in Alexandrie's direction and (slowly, carefully, in a controlled fashion) smooshes himself into her. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ At first it is just a little pressure, and she smiles and presses back. Looks up, to turn the smile on him, because it is a warm one... and then her eyes widen and she squeaks in protest when he keeps going. Shortly the squeak becomes more of a squawk. ]

Mon café!

[ Laughing, she raises her arm to keep the cup level as she is smooshed. ]

Céleri coquin!

[cozen]

[ Bastien huffs laughter at celery and leans further to find Byerly again where he’s been thoroughly pushed and smooshed sideways, until his head is awkwardly but decisively resting on skinny ribs or pointy elbow or whatever else it finds.

It would be painted the other way, Bastien thinks. Narrow Byerly against Bastien’s broader chest, dainty Alexandrie against Byerly, like a set of nesting dolls. The painter would probably take a few inches off of Byerly’s height to give to Bastien, too, to make it look orderly, because the typical painter in his imagination is sort of staid and dull that way.

The thought goes nowhere poetic, once Bastien’s had it. That’s the extent of it. He settles in for the long term with a joint-adjusting wiggle. His small revenge for the you can go and the stay: he’s the boss of sitting, and this is how they’re sitting now. ]

[bouchonne]

[ And Byerly laughs aloud, and whispers into Lexie's ear - ]

Crunch, crunch.

[ Because that's the sound that celery makes. He hooks one leg around Bastien's knees to lock him in place, nestles his head down into Lexie's bosom, and settles in as well. As punishments go, this is a pleasant one. ]

I suppose altogether we make a ratatouille, no?

[coquettish_trees]

You put pine trees in your ratatouille in Ferelden?

[ Laboriously, Alexandrie manages to set her cup on the bedside table. ]

Or am I tomatoes now.

[ It's advantageous that he's already nestled in her bosom so she can use her freed hand to aid in briefly, illustratively, squashing him between her breasts before doing her own small adjustments for comfort's sake. ]

[cozen]

[ Bastien huffs again—unable to see, or else he might laugh for real. He wonders how much she’s happy and how much she’s pretending. But if she’s pretending she’s doing it for Byerly, who’s gone warm and silly between them, and Bastien can’t disapprove.

So he stays quiet and makes an dogged attempt to leech shadows out of Byerly’s chest through his cheek. Only the ones that belong to him: the contempt and threats and indifference he gave Byerly in one dream, the absence and uncertainty and fragility he left him with in the other, countered by being solid and steady and adoring now. For a moment he wants to leave part of it undisturbed—the everything in me and never let go of you bit, that was a lot but sort of a nice lot—but it can’t be real unless the quiet sobs before it are real, so he presses a little more firmly against Byerly’s ribs and imagines brushing that away, too.

Of course there’s no literal leeching or brushing. But it makes Bastien feel better to slouch here and try. ]

[bouchonne]

Tomatoes. Carrots.

[ He reaches up a lazy hand to tug at one of her locks in demonstration. ]

A perfect melange.

[ He knows he should, in some way, broach the painful topics they really should be discussing. The fraught dynamic among the three of them. The horrors of those dreams they shared. This will do nothing to solve any of their problems - lying together, laughing, teasing.

But it makes him feel better. For a short time, perhaps. But it soothes his coward's heart.

The other hand comes down to comb through Bastien's hair. The weight of his head is just so steadying. So wonderful. ]

You also, in addition to the cabbage, add a hint of basil, I think, dear Bastien. A bit of peppery brightness.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Alexandrie hums soft surprise from where she's settled: eyes closed, head pillowed on one arm, the other curved so she in turn can lightly stir the top layer of Byerly's hair. ]

Are you peppery, Bastien? I should have thought you more a sage.

[ A little earthy, a little sweet, understated but adds depth. ]

But I do not know so much as the chef.

[ It is a little pinch of her worries; she doesn't know how they are when they are together. Are they easier with one another than she and Byerly are? Happier? For some reason her fretful heart can't simply accept 'different', won't agree that making such comparisons is an unwinnable and foolish game.

She is smoothing those thoughts away into the bramble, though. For now she is being quietly affectionate. She is being warm, and soft, and breathing long steady breaths, and through this making her heart beat slow and even such that her body will tell the man with his ear to it that everything is all right. ]

[cozen]

[ Bastien nudges his head against Byerly’s hand, pleased—and then a bit less pleased, for a moment, feeling caught between who he is with Byerly and who he is with Alexandrie and Byerly.

With Byerly he’s forward, increasingly confident, happy to tease and be crude and bicker. He’ll take up space instead of trying to fit into what’s left empty for him. If they’d been alone, Bastien would have thrown himself onto the bed when he first walked in. He wouldn’t have stayed silent and pink about his discomfort. He’d have licked or bitten or blown a raspberry against the bare ribs pressed against his face by now.

Peppery. Sure.

But with Alexandrie— ]

I couldn’t tell you the difference between basil and sage. [ It’s kind of true. He’s no cook. He’s bought most of his hot meals from street vendors or taverns his whole life. ] But if I am mostly cabbage, I think I would like to be a little peppery too.

[ There. Diplomacy.

He lifts his chin to look at the underside of Byerly’s. ]

And you cannot only be celery. I know that. Long and crunchy works, but it doesn’t have half enough flavor.

[bouchonne]

What are you talking about? That's so flavorful.

[ Fereldan food jokes! They never get old. But, with an actual desire to be helpful: ]

Sage is the flavor you'll get in good pork breakfast sausage. [ And then he gives a playful little pinch to the cute little bit of soft skin under Bastien's chin. Pork sausage, see? ]

But...hmmm. I'd like to pretend that I'm a hot chili pepper. But I think it's more likely that I'm just paprika.

[ He tilts his head up to look at Lexie: ]

What about you?