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]

[ 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?

[bouchonne]

[ That makes him laugh so hard that it sets off his headache in an absolutely beastly way. ]

Is that a serious question?

[ He fetches out the elfroot and brings it over with the water. ]

[cozen]

[ Bastien smiles when By laughs, because yes, fine, it’s funny, but also— ]

Yes.

[ It’s serious. He scoots over a smidge to make sure there’s room for Byerly to sit again before he takes the water and the elfroot. (He’ll share.) ]

Of course you are dramatic. But do you ever feel it? [ He pushes two stringy slices of root into his mouth and talks around them. ] You know—like you shouldn’t have made all that fuss? Or are you thinking, this is my fuss, and I can make it if I want to.

[bouchonne]

Well -

[ By suspects he knows what this question is about, and so he resists the urge to answer facetiously. Instead: ]

It depends on what the effects of the fuss were. One time I ended up in a dreadful row with a friend over whether one could wear purple and green together, and we fell out, and we still don't talk. That's a time when I regret the fuss. But most other times? If I want to be fussy, I get to be fussy. No one else has the right to judge me.

[cozen]

[ Bastien looks sideways at Byerly, who is possibly deliberately trying to say what will make him feel better. But it works. Bastien kisses his cheek, then tears off some root and holds it out to him. ]

I like your dramatics. For the record.

[ He’s going to need more information about this purple and green incident, eventually. For now he leans against By’s shoulder. The root juice is soothing his stomach, decreasing the odds he’ll retch in the middle of any given sentence. So, ]

It’s Laith.

[ His jaw wants to tremble on his inhale, but he doesn’t let it, and once he’s had a good lungful of air the feeling is gone. ]

No family name, unless they forgot to tell me, which—not impossible, but I don’t think so.

[bouchonne]

[ Laith. That's a good name. Not a common one. By doesn't know any other Laiths, though he's heard of them before. But he knows plenty of Bastiens. Would that comment be well received? He wonders. Pointing out that this name is more special than the other?

No. Commonness isn't the point. The point is this: Byerly now knows a thing that fucking no one else knows. Even Yseult doesn't know this. And that gives him such a delicious frisson of delight. ]

I should have guessed.

[ By grins at him. ]

On the basis of you being such a great lay...th.

[cozen]

[ Bastien lets out a burst of air that turns into the silent, shoulder-shaking laughter. It makes his head throb, but he doesn’t mind.

And he doesn’t cry, exactly—and that’s not in some macho way where he is actually objectively emotionally crying but wouldn’t admit it. It really is just that one of his eyes leaks a little, in a physiological way, the way it might if he’d been hit in the face with a snowball or, more like what he’s actually feeling, if he’d finally taken off shoes that had been too warm and tight for hours and got to flex his cramped sweaty toes in the open air.

He’s not embarrassed. He doesn’t try to disguise wiping his eye dry with the side of his hand. ]

Hush, [ still laughing, no actual hushing wanted, ] Rutyer.

[bouchonne]

[ By chortles, a deliberately obnoxious hee-hee-hee, and kisses any remaining moisture away from the corner of his eye. Thank the Maker. Thank the Maker he's still happy, that he doesn't regret it, that there's no doubt or shame. ]

No wonder we both turned into such delicious perverts. It was fate.

[cozen]

[ Bastien turns his head to catch By's mouth, holds his jaw, and gives him a real kiss. It is not delicious, on account of the gurgly acidic elfrooty morning breath, and it's only a little perverted. Still good, though, in his opinion. Solid. Relieved and grateful and happy and not overlong, because his head still aches and he'd like to eat something and— ]

We need to take your dog out.

[ Très sexy. ]

[bouchonne]

A good papa to our dear daughter. Dog-hter.

[ He returns that real kiss with a playful series of light pecks, fluttering and silly and ending with a quick one on the tip of that solid, bony, charming nose. Then he pulls himself from the bed, fingertips light on Bastien's chest, gentle pressure to keep him put. ]

Let me do it. You bask and mope, and I'll return with bacon sandwiches.

[cozen]

[ Delighted confusion about our and delighted outrage about dog-hter collide on Bastien’s face all at once—so the double-dose of delight is the dominant visible emotion, for the second before he’s being peppered with kisses and his expression is irrelevant.

Anyway.

His natural urges to Go and Do (and give their dog a thorough skritching) are tempered by the joy of being cared for and the fact that he is a thirty-seven year old man with a hangover. He stays on the bed, lying flat at the urging of those fingers, and gestures toward his wardrobe—vague permission for Byerly to take a shirt, if he wants one. ]

And coffee.

[bouchonne]

The finest in all of Antiva.

[ In a rare show of decency (and sobriety), By does throw a shirt on over his shoulders and leaves Bastien to the traditional hangover meditation of if I drift back off to sleep, when I wake, will this headache be gone? Whiskey goes with him, of course, her love for Bastien no match for her awareness that mornings mean food.

Half an hour later, he's back with the roasty smell of coffee and the toasty smell of good smoked fatty bacon. ]

Bastieeen -

[ That comes out as a yodel. ]

[cozen]

Now you are showing off.

[ Bastien has finished his water; he has dealt with the chamber pot, evidenced by the laces on his trousers, retightened but not retied. Maybe he fell asleep for a few minutes, too, but he woke up as soon as there were footsteps outside the door.

He turns his head on the pillow with every intention of looking unimpressed. But Byerly’s such a beloved noisy show-off, bearing bacon and coffee and wearing Bastien’s shirt, and he can’t do it. Instead he sighs, more like a lovesick teenager than an exasperated tutor. ]

Maker.

[bouchonne]

No, but I see why you'd make that mistake.

[ Laden with coffee, he can't strike a very sexy pose, but he does an artful cock of his hip nevertheless.

Once the coffee is poured, and as he's handing over the bacon sandwich (the best hangover cure he knows), he follows up on what he's wondering: ]

So that's what I should still call you, yes? And how I should still think of you?

[ Bastien? ]

[cozen]

[ His nod is quick, eyebrows pinched together, an easy please and absolutely yes. ]

It's how I think of me.

[ But while he's chewing his first bite of bacon sandwich (and getting crumbs on his bed, like an animal, but it's better than rearranging his furniture to make a breakfast nook in this state) he eyes Byerly's face and looks a little more thoughtful. ]

Or I suppose— [ after he's swallowed ] —if you like it, and you are very sure we are alone. I mean, checking-under-the-bed sure. I don't mind. You can call me Laith if you want, and I'll call you... [ He was sincere before; now there's a mischievous crinkle. ] ... sweetcheeks.

[bouchonne]

You better start calling me that in public.

[ By flicks those crumbs down to Whiskey, who - well, the metaphor to be used in modern times would be vacuums them up, but of course there are no vacuums. Acts upon them like a Rift across the Veil, perhaps. Anyway, they disappear with a swiftness. ]

But - I like it - [ A smile - ] But I also want to think of you how you think of you. Only a little more swooningly, because I think you underestimate your swoonworthiness.

[cozen]

Says the gorgeous man who brought me bacon in bed. [ On which note: ] Thank you for breakfast. And for understanding.

[ —that a chosen name isn’t necessarily a false one, that identities can form alloys instead of only layers and veneers—but of course By would understand that.

Bastien could keep going. Thank him for the drinks, for the whole evening, for managing to accept the confessions and promises Bastien shoved into his unprepared hands without dropping any. For a share in Whiskey, for whom Bastien slips a bigger piece of bacon-dusted bread onto the floor. He could thank him all morning.

It’s simpler and probably less annoying to hold By’s jaw, look him in the eye, and reiterate: ] The greatest.

[ He lets go. Attention back to his perfect stomach-curing sandwich. ]

But you were on the side of purple and green together. Right?

[bouchonne]

Of course!

[ He looks horrified that Bastien would even question it. ]

First off, it takes a very simple understanding of color to think that there is but one green and one purple, and to not comprehend that there are crucial questions of saturation and hue that matter here. And second - [ And most importantly - ] A person can pull anything off with enough panache.

[ Then, with a little tickle to Bastien's earlobe, he says - ] Thank you, my darling sweet carrot, for trusting that I would understand.

[cozen]

[ Darling sweet carrot makes Bastien smile wide—a silent laugh sort of smile, mouth closed only to hide his mouthful of sandwich instead of his teeth. Once half-chewed food isn't an issue, he says, light and matter-of-fact, ]

There was a woman in my house, Giliana. I caught her in a mood once—not long before she died. Maybe she knew. But she told me to keep something—like a memory, something like that—and to never sell it or use it. That way if I ever couldn't tell the difference between who I was and what I did, and everything felt like a lie, I would have that much. And I took myself very seriously when I was a teenager, you know, so. Maybe I took it too much to heart.

[ But it means he has things, is the point he's not quite saying out loud, that have never been used to manipulate or harm anyone. It isn't as simple as being one person under the mask of another, but it matters to him. It matters a whole lot. Even if he's discussing it in the same tone he'd use to discuss ink varieties. ]

It isn't so different for you, is it? Maybe you are not so pretentious about it in your head, but what you show people—it is you, but not all of you.