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]

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?

hee hee

[bouchonne]

She's -

[ Oh. Hell. She's over in the corner, snuffling around in the way she does when it's clear she needs to take a shit. Byerly groans, massively dissatisfied with this turn of events. ]

That monster. Why can't she just use the chamberpot like a civilized woman?

[ Things were getting good, dammit. - Well, no, that's not true; they'd been good through and through, all along. Fucking, with Bastien, is just like an etched wine bottle - very nice, but not actually really what's important here. ]

Do you think we'll die if we go downstairs?

[cozen]

[ Bastien twists his head around to locate her, too, and he can't be disappointed or irritated, because look at her. She's so cute. She's the best dog in the world. So he lets that swell of want recede for now, he laughs, he pulls Byerly's hand up off his belly after all, he kisses his knuckles, he says, ] Yes, [ and he starts the laborious and wriggly and wobbly process of getting onto his feet. ]

You hear, Whiskey? We will die for you. We will... Shirts.

[ Where are they. ]

[bouchonne]

Bleh.

[ A dismissive hand. ]

Who needs them.

[ He's already tottering over to the door. ]

[cozen]

[ Bastien makes a noise that can only be described as a whimper, in protest, but he only looks around for a moment before settling for wearing a blanket like a cloak and following Byerly and Whiskey.

They don't die on the stairs. But it is still raining outside (in a gentler way than before, without the thunder and lightning) so there's hope for drowning. ]

I think there is still a point, [ he says without segue once they're in the nearest courtyard. He's hiding from the rain under an overhang, himself. ] If we are all beyond saving in the end, and you try anyway.

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly, dramatic as ever, has stepped out into the rain with arms spread, hoping he cuts a fine image that way. Well, and also, being rained on feels nice when you're drunk.

It takes him a moment to catch up, especially as he's distracted by praising Whiskey for being such a good girl for pooping so well. Once he does - ]

What, standing at the Maker's side?

[cozen]

[ No, but— ]

Would you like that? Maybe He's handsome.

[ Bastien leans against the column beside him, cheek squashing on stone. Byerly does cut a fine figure, wet and shirtless and moonlit, and somehow even a finer one when he's being sweet and effusive with his dog. ]

[bouchonne]

Yes, but I imagine He's handsome like that Ellis fellow. Handsome, but no fun at all.

[ And then, with a laugh - ]

Besides, I don't really think that's where I'll end up.

[cozen]

[ Bastien frowns. That second part is very important and all, he’s not going to forget it, but first of all, ]

I like Ellis. He gives me things to read.

[bouchonne]

[ Delightedly jeering: ]

Teacher's pet!

[cozen]

[ Bastien makes a face and a disgruntled noise of vague disagreement. ]

I was going to say the Maker will want you, right here—

[ He crooks his arm. It’s meant to suggest the Maker putting his arm around Byerly and keeping him snuggled right up to His Divine Hip, but the blanket cloak might make it hard to tell. ]

—but if you are going to be mean, then I don’t know.

[bouchonne]

I'm not being mean!

[ The delight persists as he gathers up Whiskey and brings her back under shelter. ]

I love that about you. It's cute.

[cozen]

[ Bastien can’t just drop his sulk in an instant. It’s a matter of pride. But it does begin to thaw. ]

You have to stop calling me cute, [ to find something else to hang that sulk on, while he crouches to pet the wet dog, ] when I’m forty.

Until then it’s fine.

[ Sober, he’d be more cautious about presuming out loud that Byerly will be calling him anything in three years. Or maybe he wouldn’t be anymore, after swallowing the sun.

In any case, he’s fully thawed by now. ]

Why don’t you think the Maker will take you? [ He takes a guess and argues with it unprompted: ] Andraste’s army—they must have hurt all kinds of people, for the cause.

[bouchonne]

Mm.

[ He smiles down at his feet, his expression strange in that way it gets. ]

I think it's fairly universally acknowledged that there are certain types of villainy that are more righteous than others. My work is slimy. No one likes slime.

[cozen]

I’m not sure I should be letting you talk about my lover that way.

[ Gentler than his pouting about Ellis, but not because he cares less. He cares more. He cares about what Byerly thinks—about himself and the world and what’s beyond it—too much to cover his mouth (metaphorically) and say I love you so shut up. Same reason he sounds more curious than argumentative as he goes on, scratching Whiskey’s neck and looking up at him and his strange expression. ]

You think what you do is worse than burning a village?

[bouchonne]

Well.

[ The strange little smile twitches a bit. ]

No. But I don't think there's necessarily a direct relationship between what's worse and what's more despised, eh? Just think of all the Chevaliers you know of. Dripping in glory.