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]

[ Still no jump reflex, even drunk. It's long long gone. But he laughs, while he takes Byerly's hand to hold. ]

It is pretty good, huh?

[ He bumps him with his hip before pulling him along for a walk. A walk toward the other tower, the one he lives in, even though it means leaving the cushions and shirts and open bottle on the floor upstairs. (He's not subtle about avoiding Byerly's room, especially after that morning in Wintermarch, but he's also not secretly even slightly miserable about it.) The rain is still gentle beyond their overhangs, Whiskey is still precious, and Bastien's getting tired and heavy but is still buzzy with affection. If he hadn't already decided to be stubborn about his given name, this would be the moment—but he has, and he's very good at not changing his mind once he's really made it up, so the impulse to give something to Byerly comes out instead as, ]

I'm going with you after the war. Did you already know that?

[bouchonne]

[ There's a twitch of his hand in Bastien's. A sign of surprise. And then - a squeeze, tight and warm. ]

I - didn't. When did you decide? [ Because he needs to make a little bit of a joke of it - ] You just want to stay with Whiskey.

[cozen]

Exactly. And honestly, I like stew. It has so many different parts, it cannot get boring. And Fereldans love me. Even the ones who hate Orlesians, they can’t hate me. I don’t know what it is.

[ Jokes. They’re wonderful things. Bastien’s mostly looking ahead, watching Whiskey trot ahead of them, but he keeps hold of By’s hand. ]

I have a whole list. [ Of reasons to go. Whiskey, stew, being probably universally adored by his neighbors, etc. ] I’ve been thinking about it for a while.

[bouchonne]

[ With a considerable dose of honesty, Byerly says: ] I think you've more in common with a Fereldan nobleman than you have with an Orlesian one. And certainly more in common with a Freeman than a Comte.

[ Then: ]

Do you want to tell me the list? Or do you want to give it to me bit by bit when my mood is sour.

[cozen]

[ Bastien hums, considering. On one hand: the way being drunk makes saying everything in his head seem like the best. On the other: the imagined tense lines of some future Byerly’s sour face and the way they might relax for him. ]

Bit by bit.

[ He doesn’t contemplate Ferelden all the way to his room. He contemplates it partway, but then he looks up at the sky and gets a raindrop up his nose, so that’s a whole thing, and halfway up the stairs he stumbles and has to explain to Byerly how sludgy his legs feel like he’s the first person to ever experience it. But once they’ve made it, and while he’s drafted By into helping him construct a dog bed out of extra blankets (as if he’ll actually make Whiskey sleep on it if she prefers their feet) his mind wanders back to Fereldans, and what he has in common with them, and what it might be like to live there, and— ]

Your father—it’s not common there, is it? For people to mind that much about sex and men and… men.

[bouchonne]

It's -

[ He wishes he could lie to Bastien. Because it gives him a sudden frisson of fear. By had already been imagining it - him and Bastien together, leaning against one another, in a little apartment in Denerim, crossing up to Val Royeaux, popping over to Kirkwall, never staying in the same place long enough to be properly known by anyone, always a mystery and always a delight. But the truth of the matter...What if it makes Bastien rethink it? Because the truth is, he remembers it well. The way the Chantry mothers had paled with horror at the liberties he'd taken. The way that the villagers had muttered about him with innuendo and condemnation. Even in Denerim, there'd been one or two people who'd gritted their teeth. ]

It depends. On the person, and on where you are. Most people see it as an odd little habit, like eating raw onions or fishing with your bare hands or something of the like. Obviously no one really cares too much - it's Ferelden, after all; what you do is your business. So. But. [ He works up his courage and admits: ] It's not like Orlais.

[ The look he shoots Bastien gives information enough, to be sure: wincing, uncertain, like he's ready for horror in return. Not the face of a man who's been persecuted, but the face of a man who's asking his lover to move into less comfortable circumstances. ]

[cozen]

[ Horror, no. Worry, yes. The boy who rewrote himself and erased his family to please Val Royeaux would have hidden this, too, given half a reason. And if Bastien’s not that boy anymore, he also isn’t Byerly, willing and able (though not genuinely happy, Bastien would guess) to wink at revulsion.

But it doesn’t sound like revulsion. It sounds like unfamiliarity and mild judgment and being mostly left alone. ]

Well.

[ No lying; he can’t say he doesn’t care, and he needs a minute to finish deciding how much.

But he hates Byerly’s wince, so he smiles and tries, ] It is like fishing with your bare hands, [ with a moderately obscene downward grabbing gesture to illustrate. ]

[bouchonne]

[ And By wants Bastien not to care. He wants him to throw his shoulders back and declare, damn them all, then, and laugh in the face of societal disapproval. But Bastien is...certainly less dramatic than Byerly is. To say the least. ]

No, no.

[ By tries to joke as well. ]

Fishing with your hands involves delving into unknown holes and using your fingers to lure out the creatures - [ He extends one hand, crooks a finger, and makes an extraordinarily obscene caressing gesture. ] Women with women, that's fishing.

[cozen]

[ Bastien snickers like a prurient teenager, pauses to deem the dog bed complete, and turns on By to wrap his arms around his hips. ]

Fine. Then it is like eating raw onions.

[ Nonsense, but a good excuse for shoving his face into Byerly’s shoulder and giving it a few noisy, painless chomps. Afterwards he leaves his cheek there, and he makes up his mind about how much he cares. ]

You’re worth anything anyone could say.

[bouchonne]

[ He lets out a breath. He feels like he's taken a gulp of something warm. ]

You know, until recently, I don't know if anyone thought I was worth anything at all.

[ He ruffles Bastien's hair. ]

My family will torment you, of course. But we'll just stay clear of them.

[cozen]

[ Then everyone is stupid, Bastien nearly says, but he's too comfortable to muster the necessary petulance, so instead it's expressed with some tighter squeezing. ]

I’m fantastic at staying clear of families.

[ His earliest talent.

If he hadn’t slipped on the stairs earlier, he’d be cocky enough to sweep Byerly up, absurdly long legs and all, and (awkwardly) carry him (most of the way) to the bed (before falling over and bruising them both). But he did slip, so he settles for shuffling him in that direction in little baby steps, arms still around his waist and cheek still glued to his shoulder. ]

Are there very many of them? Is Ferelden crawling with Rutyers?

[bouchonne]

[ He laughs. The topic is among his least favorite, yes, this is true, but the little baby steps are just so charming. He turns it into a shuffly little dance, helping Bastien along to the bed. ]

Maker preserve us, yes. Hundreds of them. That's not an exaggeration. The family is cursed in many ways, but we are blessed in sheer fecundity.

[cozen]

Mm, if that is what lets you keep up with two bards who can't get enough of you...

[ Then he's happy about it. Goes without saying, especially since they've shuffle-danced their way to the edge of the bed, and he can't talk while he's falling onto it and dragging By along with him. ]

That is the problem with nobles. [ One of them. He's only teasing, while he does the wriggling and reaching required to put a pillow and a blanket in the correct place. ] You keep track. Peasants have a dozen babies, and they go to different farms, and in a few generations everyone in the area is marrying their cousins, but they don't know. Your lot writes it down and hangs it on the wall. You can't forget you are related to anyone.

[bouchonne]

And then we deliberately marry our cousins.

[ He squirms himself on top of Bastien, hooking his limbs over him. A very fine bed indeed.

A moment of quiet, then: ]

When we go, my spymaster will likely try to recruit you. But he can't have you. You're mine.

[cozen]

[ An odd tangle of feeling, at that. Mostly good, but if he were to pull it apart there would be threads of defiance. Not belonging to anyone has always been a matter of pride for him, not lonely regret. Threads of some species of shame, as well, like he’s turned his nose up at a common food for a long time, mocked people who enjoyed it, and has now had a bite and discovered it’s delicious.

But there’s a purring sort of pleasure, too. An odd relief.

And most of all he is drunk, and he is drowsy, and he is practical, and he knows offhand that it’s no little thing for Byerly to deny Ferelden something it might want from him. Bastien lets the mostly-good tangle remain untangled and only nods his agreement. ]

I will have to do something with myself besides lie around gazing at you, but—I’ll figure it out. [ He rubs his fist down By’s spine, knuckles bumping on vertebrae. ] If they aren't good to you, they can't have you, either. You can tell them I said so.

[bouchonne]

They're - not dreadful to me.

[ Which is close enough to good. Best not to dwell on that. ]

You could be a writer.

[cozen]

Maybe.

[ It isn’t his usual sort of maybe, when someone says something like that to him. Not the sort that really means that sounds impossible and I don’t want to talk about it. This maybe really means maybe. Maybe he will. Maybe he can. Byerly makes him feel like he could—another reason on his Denerim list, second from the top. ]

If I keep the press, no one can stop me. I could write about our knights, [ the heroic and honest bisexuals, he means, from forever ago, ] to go with their song.

[bouchonne]

In which our intrepid heroes get a dog -

[ He yawns sleepily - ]

And move in together, and discover they share all the same kinks.

[cozen]

[ The yawn is contagious. Through it, Bastien says, ] Yes.

[ He puts his hand in Byerly’s hair. It’s heavier and clumsier-fingered than past attempts to pet him to sleep, but the idea is there. ]

That is the beginning. But they have barely settled into a routine before there is an urgent letter from an old friend…

[ And he wanders off with a meandering quest story that doesn’t have an end, just improvised mysteries and obstacles, until he falls asleep himself in the middle of a sentence.

He wakes up with the headache he anticipated, and aches and nausea he did not. He holds very still and tries to breathe it away until he feels By moving, too, and then he whispers, sounding calm and distant: ]

Why?

[bouchonne]

Mm.

[ Byerly has slept uncommonly well, for a drunk night. He stays for a long while after Bastien wakes up, his head pillowed on Bastien's chest, legs entangled, fingers curled. The change in breathing patterns wakes him gradually, gently, until he stirs, and stretches, and sighs, and ponders that question. ]

Why what?

[cozen]

Suffering.

[ Bastien doesn’t sound like he’s suffering. It’s not a moan or a whine. But that’s the bard thing—the way he was taught to accept pain and discomfort without thrashing against it.

He doesn’t sound very coherent though, either. Why suffering. He tries again, arm lying heavy over By to encourage him not to move too much. ]

The Maker could have made us without stomachs.

[bouchonne]

Ohhh.

[ Of course. How long would it have been since Bastien had a proper hangover? And never as an adult, no doubt. By grins lazily to himself - not without sympathy, but: ]

This is part of the ritual. The mutual suffering is a key part of our bonding.

[ By's head, likewise, is throbbing, and his stomach is sour, and his mouth is dry. A horrible feeling. All the better for the company he keeps. ]

[cozen]

[ That gets a noise less dignified than his philosophizing, both pleased and miserable—bonding! great! suffering? bad—and therefore completely incoherent. ]

You do this. You do this. [ Regularly. Why. And with a hint of awe: ] You gave me a blow job like this.

[ Bastien will not be giving any blow jobs. Taking a full breath is treacherous enough. But he did promise to give By something else. He hasn't forgotten. He'll only stall a little.

His fingers find Byerly's earlobe and rubs it like a worry stone. ]

Do you, ah. Do you want to take any of it back?

[bouchonne]

[ With pride that borders on smugness: ]

Yes, I did. A rather good one, if I do say so myself. [ Byerly isn't suffering any less - or at least isn't suffering much less, he does have that barbarian ancestry that probably makes him stand strong against the evils of sack mead and all that - but he is well practiced at this. And so he's the one who extricates himself from Bastien's limbs (gingerly, so as to disturb him as little as possible) and goes to where, presumably, a pitcher of water is kept. ]

I've a clear mind from last night, and I said not a single thing I regret. What about you?

[ An easy, graceful offer of escape. If Bastien has forgotten what he promised, or wants to pretend he's forgotten, By won't know the difference. It'll be all right. ]

[cozen]

[ The earlobe-rubbing turns into a pinch when By is smug—correct, but smug—and Bastien doesn’t protest when he gets up. He turns his head to watch him, aching and nauseated and awfully fond. ]

No, nothing. [ He sits up against the headboard. ] There is elfroot— [ to chew, not to smoke, for stomach ailments and pains ] —in the drawer there, under the hat.

[ His accent turns all of those ths into dzs. So while Byerly’s not looking, he mouths the name to himself to make sure. Yseult’s taught him how to make a Marcher th sound natural again, instead of like he’s trying to spit his tongue out. So he can do it. One syllable. Simple. He’s not going to mispronounce his own damn name.

It’s only a short pause. ]

Do you ever feel overdramatic, By?