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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[bouchonne]

It's not that I would prefer another. I simply - We were talking about you, not about me.

[coquettish_trees]

[ It is as soft as her hands: ]

If you believe I have ever thought you similar to him, then we are speaking of us.

[bouchonne]

[ He lets out a soft breath. Now, he raises his eyes to hers. ]

It is the same fear. You say that loving me makes you afraid, but what you're afraid of is a fear of your own vulnerability. That you could be hurt again by someone you trust.

[ By me. He hesitates, then, and admits: ]

I could not even think to compare, but - Leander terrifies me, and I know that some part of it is that he's like Richars. That some part of it is the shadow of another man. These things stay with you.

[coquettish_trees]

Yes. It is that.

The same fear, but not a fear of you. It is the openness necessary to love, and to be loved, and what I was taught that leads to.

[ Her eyes are doleful and sincere. ]

I will flinch, my Byerly. I will be afraid. But when I do, when I am, it is due to what is in me, not what is in you.

[ She smiles, small, and it matches her eyes. ]

Will it hurt you too much to see it, while I am letting myself learn something new?

[bouchonne]

[ He swallows, looks away again. ]

But it is something in me. Others have seen it. Many others. Even recently. Maker, Athessa - Athessa accused me, before, of - monstrous things. Jenny Lou. Others.

[coquettish_trees]

Oh.

[ It is soft and full of heartache for him, more breath than anything. Her hands move from his cheeks to take his and gently tug at them in an attempt to pull him back to bed so she can better hold him. ]

Come tell me.

[bouchonne]

It's foolishness.

[ Though he does allow himself to be pulled. ]

Nothing of note. Nothing I should wail about.

[coquettish_trees]

It is of note. You hold on to these things— or they to you.

[ She walks herself backwards with him until her legs hit the bed and she can sit, settle herself back against the pillows, and keep pulling to see if she can get him to settle against her. ]

What anyone thinks one should wail about has long been irrelevant to me, [ she sounds wryly self-aware rather than apologetic, ] I do it when there is wailing in me and I think that the proper order of things.

[ And soft again, for him. ]

But you may whisper instead, if you like.

[bouchonne]

[ A beat, and then a long breath out. ]

It shouldn't bother me. I profit when someone thinks me villainous. It's to my advantage.

[ He does allow it, lets himself be pulled back. There's stiffness in his muscles, but he leans lightly on her, like a hunting dog. ]

And when someone says, what a louse, what a useless drunken fool, it's amusing. But when someone says that -

[coquettish_trees]

[ She could guess, she thinks—what it is, why it stays—but instead she is quiet and waits to see if he will tell her instead. ]

[bouchonne]

[ He doesn't. The agonized humiliation is too much for him to speak it aloud unbidden. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ It is cruelty, she knows. Cruelty feared by women, that she knows at least Athessa knows, and the accusation that took a home.

Surely they could not have known when they spoke. Surely they spoke in anger, in fear of their own shadows, but to wear those shadows so often how could he not begin to believe that parts of them must be his. Especially when it comes from ones thought friends; ones he perhaps thought knew enough of him.

She turns her face into his hair and pulls his head gently into the press of her lips before murmuring there. ]

You could never. I know it as I know the sun rises. That there are two moons. That roses cut will wither, and if I drop a cup it falls. That is how I know.

[ His hair smells like the last fading notes of her perfume, and of his, and she holds herself to him and him to her. ]

But it is poison in you and you should say it if you can.

[bouchonne]

[ Her certainty is a balm, and it isn't. It soothes him, and it also makes him think, how have I fooled her? How is it that I've deceived her, that she thinks only well of me? How evilly, skillfully fraudulent is he, that he's able to mislead even a Bard? No liar is as skilled as he is, that he's managed to make her believe him good. ]

It was just...small things. Athessa thinking that I was proposing something truly dreadful when I was encouraging her to pursue Sidony. Jenny Lou thinking that my tumbles when I was a lad was me forcing our freemen into places where they couldn't refuse. It's -

[ He lets out a breath. ]

I don't think I even knew what screwing was yet, the first time I was accused of perversion.

[coquettish_trees]

Do not say they are small.

[ She shakes her head slightly, stirring his hair with the movement. ]

They are not small to you, and they are not small to me. It must have wounded you deeply to have someone say such a thing was part of you.

[bouchonne]

It shouldn't.

[ A strained attempt at a laugh. ]

If I cared what others said about me, then I'd certainly not be like I am.

[coquettish_trees]

But it is not merely others, it is those you have allowed yourself to care for, no? Those who you have shown that you are other than the self you have crafted to achieve your aims.

[ There are masks outside of Orlais; they are just not worn so openly, paraded about with such pride. It is the single kind thing that might be said of the Game: the players all know they are playing, that everyone is playing. No-one ever mistakes the mask for the man. ]

[bouchonne]

A compelling reason not to care.

[ It's a joke, but it's also very much not a joke. ]

[coquettish_trees]

Byerly.

[ It’s chiding, but the same amount as he jokes. ]

But you are right, it is a decision one must make.

[ She turns her face so she can rest her cheek against his head and muses. ]

Sometimes I think choosing to open oneself to care for another... it is the same as choosing who can hurt you— knowing sometimes they will, even if they do not wish to. Hoping they did not wish to. Hoping they will stay and care for you when it happens.

[ Her hand stirs, fingers curling gently into his hair. ]

I have decided to love and sometimes be hurt.

I should miss you, should you decide otherwise.

[bouchonne]

[ He takes a breath. But he also tilts his head into her hand. ]

Perhaps I should be more selective, at least. But I...do find that my heart is often - rather weak.

[coquettish_trees]

It is not.

[ She smiles, and turns her head just enough to kiss his hair again. ]

No, you are like me. Resilient. [ She laughs, silent save for the puffs of air through her nose. ] And you shall be just as cross with me for saying so as I was cross with you, and it shall be just as true. If it were not, you should have given up and stopped choosing people to let in long ago.

[ A little sigh. ]

We wish too much to be loved, I think, to have it be otherwise.

[bouchonne]

I was doing pretty well for a long while there.

[ An unhappy little smile downwards. ]

Until I came here, really. Maybe I can blame you.

[coquettish_trees]

I should have said I was doing well too.

[ Power. Influence. Vengeance. The brittle safety of being feared. She would trade them again. Sooner. ]

I was not. Not in any way that mattered. But you may blame me if you like.

[bouchonne]

What, you think I was indifferent to you?

[coquettish_trees]

I meant before I came here I thought I was... what passed for happy. But—

[ She shakes her head a little. ]

I do not know what I thought you were. I did not think we should ever have crossed paths again, and I did not know what to do when I heard you. How to speak with you in any way but indirectly. To dance around it, to play, to mean everything and say nothing, and the moment we strayed from that we fought.

I could not bear to see you, or to not see you. To touch you, or to not. You traced the line of my throat at Ghislain and I could feel it for weeks when I closed my eyes, but you did not come to me. and when finally I made myself tell you I loved you still you said nothing of your own heart but that you could not give it, I—

I have never felt so lost for so long.

[bouchonne]

[ And he's quiet a moment. Then he confesses: ]

I don't understand it. I'm no prize.