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]

[ Bastien laughs, so tickled he nearly gurgles. (He’s also full up on earnest declarations of feeling for the evening, so they’re both spared an explanation of how unnecessary that interference would be.) It takes him a good thirty seconds to laugh, take another drink, and mosey back to the point. ]

Uhhh. What was…

[ The question. But he remembers on his own. ]

Mmm. I don’t know what would guarantee it. Sometimes people are upset [ or drunk ] and they say things they probably don’t mean. Like Alexandrie.

[ He would never mention it, if not for the liquor seeping in. Even with it, he realizes he shouldn’t have, and there’s a puzzled, frustrated pause before he resumes. ]

But if they mean it, if it’s a—a pattern. I had a friend once. Sort of. You know. [ A friend, and one who barely knew anything honest about him. ] He was one of those… aspiring tortured geniuses. A writer. Kind of an asshole, but I hung in there.

Then he was unhappy with something he’d written, and I told him I thought it was good, and he went off about—how of course I liked it, I didn’t know any better, I didn’t know anything, I… All of that. So I dumped a box of his drafts out of his window. Just into the street. I think he got most of them back. But we were finished.

[ And, with belated defensive embarrassment, ] I was young. If it happened now I’d do something subtler.

[bouchonne]

No, [ By declares, ] that's good. Fuck him. I'd cut off his fingers, too, to keep him from ever writing anything else. Not that it'd make any difference. He'd probably be a failure even if he had four hands to write with and all the time in the world.

[ Ride or die, motherfucker.

(they'll come back to Alexandrie, now that the thought is in his head.) ]

[cozen]

[ Bastien grins, touched by this imaginary violence, and raises the arm By isn’t lying on to press the back of his hand to his forehead in a pantomime swoon. ]

My hero.

[ The cushions were smart. If they were on their feet, he might try to make Byerly actually catch him. ]

He was good, though.

[bouchonne]

Mm.

[ Skeptical. ]

Have I heard of him?

[cozen]

Galois Bacque?

[ A Royan merchant’s son known (if at all) for a handful of poems, a somber essay on the death of Grand Duke Gratien, a charming laugh, and a habit of taking way way way too long when it’s his turn at cards. ]

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly, with his encyclopedic knowledge of artists and artistes, knows of him. But he won't give the fucker the phantom satisfaction of acknowledging the fact. ]

His name sounds like a shitty cake.

[cozen]

That would be some revenge. Bribe a baker to name a cake the Galois. Something dry.

And beside it in the window, [ with a hand lifted for a sweeping look at this imaginary shop window gesture, ] the Byerly—a perfect tart.

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly makes an indecent face of wanton ecstasy, and then licks his fingertip and uses it to draw a circle around his nipple. It's filthy, but also so filthy that it's not really all that sexy any more. ]

And yet an extraordinarily cheap tart, despite its splendor.

[ He laughs, then, and leans down and nibbles at his collarbone. A moment of quiet, then: ]

I'm sorry I fucked things up between you and Lexie.

[cozen]

[ The journey from snickering at the nipple bit to being nibbled to being serious is a little more difficult to keep up with than it would be sober, but Bastien catches up in time to only be a few beats late with, ]

Oh, By, you didn’t.

[bouchonne]

Yes, I did.

[ He swallow, his throat suddenly obscurely tight. Then, an attempt at lightness: ]

No lying, remember?

[cozen]

No lying.

[ He tries to squirm to see Byerly’s face better. It’s not very effective. ]

Things are not fucked up. They are complicated. And you are some of the reason why. But you’re also why we… We know one true thing about each other. That’s what she said.

[ Wrote, actually, and he’s misquoting a little. For the record. ]

More than one now. You are the reason for that too.

[bouchonne]

What - that you're Bards, and...?

[cozen]

And we love you.

[ He lifts his head to talk into the side of Byerly’s, with drunk earnest urgent bossiness: ]

Don’t be sad.

[bouchonne]

[ Oh. ]

I'm not sad.

[ But he says that with his voice thick with tears. ]

[cozen]

[ Bastien pulls further away from him (which is terrible) so he can push him by the shoulders and expose his face. He points beneath one of By’s eyes like there. Proof. It’d be triumphant if he didn’t also look concerned. ]

[bouchonne]

Stop.

[ It's more petulant than angry, and certainly not truly upset with Bastien. But those tears are real. And he confesses rawly: ]

I just love you both so much.

[cozen]

Oh.

[ The melting is visible in a way it never would be sober. His face is gloopy puddle of warmth.

There’s an ache too, attached to a jumble of half-thoughts about Alexandrie, about the day she’ll leave and there will be another wound that Bastien can’t soothe. And about the day maybe she won’t leave after all, about the husband who has been gone for an awfully long time—

He can’t grip onto any of it. Not while he’s drunk and melting. He pulls Byerly in instead, onto his chest and into his neck. ]

That’s all right, then. [ The crying. ] If you’re not sad.

[bouchonne]

I'm not sad.

[ Or. ]

Or maybe I am, or...I just want to be good to you.

[ He's crying more freely now, pressing his face mopily into Bastien's chest. ]

I want to make you happy. You make me so happy, and it hurts so much. Like swallowing the sun.

[cozen]

[ Bastien rubs Byerly’s bare back with his palm and bent fingertips, overwhelmed and puddly but unrestrained enough to try muddling through anyway. ]

You are great to me. The greatest. You don’t need to worry. I’m sorry it hurts.

[bouchonne]

[ The muddle helps. By hums in acknowledgment, and sighs, and tips his head to look blearily at Bastien. ]

You're the greatest.

[cozen]

No, [ Bastien says, perfectly and sincerely serious. ] I’m the drunkest.

[ He’s not. There are several levels of drunk he has yet to reach. But he’s not joking, exactly, either, and he doesn’t crack a smile while he strains up and holds By’s chin and firmly kisses one of his damp cheeks. ]

[bouchonne]

Not even close to being true. You could be so much drunker.

[ He settles down with a sigh, though, resting his head on Bastien's chest. ]

I mean it, though. You're so - special. You've noticed it, haven't you?

[cozen]

[ He puts a boneless hand on the back of By's head. Flops a leg up and hooks it over his thigh, too. A puddle with a prisoner. ]

I noticed you think so.

[ It's not a coy demurral. He's too drunk to be coy, and he's very pleased. ]

The luckiest again.

[bouchonne]

No. I don't think so.

[ He nuzzles down. ]

I think that remarkable people attract people with talents. Like me - I have an eye for people. How could I not be completely enchanted by you?

[ One hand plays over Bastien's stomach. ]

The rabble don't always appreciate the subtleties of great art. That's the fault of the rabble, not the art.

hit ffwd if they aren’t derailing (or I can next tag) xoxo

[cozen]

[ In another timeline with less liquor in it, Bastien says are you trying to seduce me, Monsieur le chevrier, and slips free of really feeling what Byerly is saying before it’s too much. In this one, he’s still damp where Byerly cried about loving him so much, tears washing away the defenses the alcohol hadn’t already swept to sea. So it lands on his chest like a square blow, remarkable reverberating all the way to his fingers and toes, and he says, ]

Oh.

[ This is the feeling that makes some people crash into each other, desperate and grasping. Bastien doesn’t move that quickly—the control, the divorce of sex and helplessness, they’re deeper than drinking can undo—but he does put his hand over Byerly’s on his stomach. It’s not allowed to go anywhere except lower. ]

By? [ A request. But wait, shit— ] Where’s Whiskey?