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]

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.

[bouchonne]

Oh, I am amply pretentious about everything.

[ He walks his fingers up Bastien's arms a moment, the two of them doing a poncy little strut, before he withdraws his hand to grab his coffee cup. He thinks about that a moment. And he wonders if he hates Giliana, or if he worships her, to teach Bastien that bit of wisdom - that perhaps saved him, or perhaps just made him put far too much emphasis on something rather irrelevant until it became nearly neurotic.

For his part, though - ]

Sometimes I feel like what I show people isn't me. They get to see things that confirm their suspicions, that Byerly is no one to be feared - that he's a loud fool, sharp-tongued but not anyone dangerous, but nothing substantial. Sometimes I think that the person I show to them is a complete lie. That Byerly Rutyer is actually, in his heart, a sturdy fellow - romantic but dependable, kind, just a bit melancholic. But then I find myself dizzyingly happy when I'm out reveling, so it's clear enough that that's not really the case.

[cozen]

[ Bastien polishes off his sandwich while he listens, save a piece of bacon sticking out beyond the edge of the bread. ]

You can have a sturdy, kind, dependable heart and still love a good night out.

[ Which is good, because Bastien wants this from him—sweet nights, slow mornings, coffee in bed, long conversations—but not only this. Despite sharing Byerly with a war and a mistress and whatever else he gets up to on his own, and therefore maybe getting laid less than Bastien would aspire to in peacetime and/or monogamous circumstances, he still doesn't drag By straight to bed every night he lays claim to him. Not when there are weddings to crash, strangers to fluster with double-team flirting, card games to win and to lose in the funniest ways they can arrange with bard sign, operas to accompany and impromptu concerts to perform, acting troupes to befriend, assholes to undermine, private garden locks to pick in the middle of the night—

He takes that last bit of bacon and holds it toward Byerly in offering. He has right of first refusal before it goes to the dog. ]

But even the simplest person is at least five different people, I think, from moment to moment, and you are not simple. Letting people think you are—maybe that is the lie.

[bouchonne]

Maybe.

[ He leans forward and eats the bacon directly from Bastien's hand. Chews it meditatively and swallows before saying: ]

Not a lie I'm particularly ashamed to tell, though. There aren't many people with a right to my soul. [ Well. ] I'm usually not ashamed to tell it. Maker, Bastien, sometimes it's so hard to be Fereldan. Everyone down there is so damned honest.

[cozen]

[ With playacted despair: ]

Oh no.

[ What is he getting himself into. Except the truth can’t be any worse than an Orlesian’s preconceptions of forthright barbarian farmers, which he already decided he could handle. It’s only a joke.

Then he shifts and wriggles and leans back against Byerly’s chest and shoulder, and he goes on more seriously. ]

Your work—

[ It’s the sort of question he feels like he should already know the answer to, at this point, but also one he’s still worried he shouldn’t ask. ]

You were spying on your countrymen, weren’t you? Not only foreigners and all of that.

[bouchonne]

[ His smile turns a little more melancholy as he wraps his arm around Bastien. ]

Almost exclusively my own countrymen. Searching for sedition, ferreting out treason. There are many hostile to the Queen - to any Queen, to this Queen - and many hungry for power...The peculiar structures down South mean that we have fewer schemers, but the schemers we do have can get rather a lot further. So: yes. My enemies and my friends, my kith and my kin.

[cozen]

[ Bastien nods to himself, cheek squashing up and down against Byerly’s chest. The easy thing—the Orlesian thing—would be to shrug at that. Orlesians are always out to get one another, up to and including the Empress. It’s expected. Your cousin might ruin you for your title, but that’s not a betrayal of cherished national values. It’s a fulfillment of them.

But Fereldans are honest, like Byerly said. Not immune to back room deals and treachery, because no nation is, but their idealized image of themselves isn’t masked and scheming. It’s hashing things out with words or fists in broad daylight. Going the Landsmeet (Bastien’s been reading up on those) and saying their piece in front of everyone and seeing a fair outcome.

So to be masked and scheming in the midst of them— ]

That sounds lonely.

[ He rests his hand on Byerly’s knee. ]

Do you have to do it all alone? Other than reporting in.

[bouchonne]

[ There's only a very, very brief flicker of paranoia, of all of this has been to entrap me - It flies quickly away, and By sighs and reaches out to play with those fingers on his knee. ]

There are others. Even some seeming ne'er-do-wells who move in the same circles as me. That was how I was recruited originally, you know - I stumbled back from Antiva, and fell in with a bad crowd. Only one of them wasn't actually as bad as he seemed to be. And he saw that I wasn't, either, and so he started giving me little tasks here and there, until I was a spy in all but name.

[ His voice sounds amused, and a little proud, rather than betrayed. ]

There's a full network focusing on domestic affairs. Nothing like what Orlais has. Certainly nothing like what the Chantry has. But for something crafted largely just in the reign of Queen Anora, it's not too bad.

[cozen]

[ Untaken roads don’t interest Bastien very much, once they’re behind him. Not fifteen waking minutes of his life have been cumulatively devoted to wondering what might have happened if he’d stayed with his family, if Vincent had said yes, if he’d never quit as a bard, if Byerly had stayed in Orlais—any of it. None of that happened. Who cares. The future is much more interesting.

But he gives a good fifteen seconds of thought to the thought of Byerly, good-hearted in a bad crowd, fresh from two heartbreaks and a murder, with his penchants for misery and drinking. Fifteen seconds imagining who he might have become if he hadn’t been offered something steady to turn his energy toward. That’s plenty for Bastien to decide he’s glad. ]

It sounds—well, you know. If I praise it too much they will come take away my antiroyalist card.

[ A joke. Mostly. Kind of. It isn’t only Byerly’s you’re mine that would make Bastien refuse even very good recruitment efforts. ]

But it sounds like a perfectly respectable arm of a reasonably benevolent government. [ That is sincere. ] And I am glad you were not out there alone.

[ He holds the fingers Byerly is playing with out flat over his leg. Piano keys. ]

Do you think it will be the same when you go back, after you have done all of this?

[bouchonne]

[ By doesn't play a chord. Instead, he interlaces his fingers with Bastien's and squeezes. He doesn't say it aloud, but in his mind is an echo of Bastien's words - Thank you for understanding. Because others, they've heard the cruelty and squalor of his work, and they've struggled to comprehend why he doesn't leave. But Bastien understands.

His tight grip releases a moment later, and he smiles, and goes back to playing idly. This time, it is a chord - major, minor, major again, the web of muscle between each knuckle serving as the black keys. ]

No. I was really quite dependent upon my reputation as a lout. I fear that's quite spoiled, now.