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

Comments

[cozen]

You have.

[ A blind yet very confident agreement. But the fact that Byerly isn't arguing that he isn't due any faith, only downplaying how much, makes Bastien settle down a bit, cinching his arm tighter and resting his cheek against By's shoulder. ]

Did you work out what was wrong, before? Or only stop talking about it?

[bouchonne]

We worked it out. A bit.

[ He starts running his fingers through Bastien's hair, petting him fondly. ]

She thought I thought she was silly.

[cozen]

Mmm—oh, in the bad way? [ asks one semi-secret goofball of the other, as the petting turns him into a pliant new chair-cushion under and around Byerly. ] And she was that upset?

[ On one hand, he can see it: a rifter, a young woman, her wild-to-Thedas ideas and enthusiasm. It must be an uphill battle to be taken seriously. On the other hand, she seems to be handling herself quite well with most everyone else. ]

I am glad she cares what you think, at least. Ten points in her favor.

[bouchonne]

[ A beat, and then with a bit of sheepish surprise: ]

I...didn't really think of it that way. I suppose you're right. I guess it does mean she cares. Then again, she is generally quite sensitive.

[cozen]

Not something you can relate to at all, of course.

[bouchonne]

How dare you.

[ He's not offended. ]

My skin is thicker than my skull.

[cozen]

[ Bastien lifts his head and his hand to do an experimental tap-tap on Byerly’s forehead, gauging the thickness of the bone. Not that it matters: ]

Your armor is thick. That is not the same.

[bouchonne]

Isn't it?

[ He lifts an eyebrow, genuinely curious rather than challenging. ]

[cozen]

You come with skin. You build your own armor.

[ He moves his tapping hand to tap the tip of By's nose instead, before the tapping ceases entirely. ]

And you put it on every morning. Maybe it is such a habit you do not think about it anymore, it's not a choice—but you put it on. You can take it off, if you trust people. Even if you don't, there are places people can get past it. And every time a blow glances off, you know that it could have hurt.

[bouchonne]

Hm.

[ He taps back, fingertips on jaw. ]

Maybe so. Dreadful thing, when someone finds the uncovered spots, isn't it?

[cozen]

Usually. [ His smile forewarns he's about to be a little sappy. ] But sometimes they are only trying to touch you, and it is the best thing in the world.

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly rewards that sappiness by tilting up Bastien's chin and kissing him, deep and sweet. His hands cup the sides of his face. As he breaks away, he says: ]

Fortunate, the marriage of good heart and fleet fingers.

[cozen]

[ Bastien nods up at him, starry-eyed for a lingering moment in the wake of that kiss before he blinks it away. ]

Very.

[ He snuggles back in against By's shoulder. Maybe he'll just live like this. Change his Riftwatch job title to chair. ]

If you don't want me to talk to her, you should talk to her.

[bouchonne]

[ A half-laugh, half-groan. He drops his chin fondly atop Bastien's head. ]

You're relentless.

I don't want to talk to her.

[cozen]

So I can talk to her? [ is 60, maybe 70 percent tongue in cheek. Relentless. ]

[bouchonne]

[ Relentless! ]

If you wish to, you have my permission to talk to her.

[cozen]

[ Victory. ]

Merci. And if I make it worse, you have my permission to hold it over my head until Satinalia.

[bouchonne]

Till your next birthday.

[ He rubs tenderly at Bastien’s neck. ]

I’ll be able to ask for foot rubs on demand. No matter how stinky my feet are.

[cozen]

[ Bastien laughs and tilts his head to expose more neck, like a happy animal. ]

You can already do that. Unless you mean I'm not allowed to say anything or pretend to faint.

[bouchonne]

Absolutely you're still allowed to do that. You know I adore it when you have the vapours.

[ He scratches lightly at his neck, up and down, as one would to a beloved cat. Or fox. ]

I love catching you in a swoon.

[cozen]

[ Bastien grins, sighs happily— ] Mon héros. [ —and then hitches his gut and squirms when Byerly's fingers return to the upper region of his neck for the second or third time. The ghost of his ticklish past, taking advantage of how utterly unguarded he is to seize brief possession of his body.

It's not a bad thing. But it does surprise him, and once he's paying attention, there's no stopping the faint tension of control from seeping back in.

All very subtle, barely conscious. He's still grinning. ]

You might even be tied with the Black Fox.

[bouchonne]

What!

[ Byerly's gasp is theatrical, the playfulness undiminished. But he notices that tension; his hand drifts up, leaving Bastien's neck to return to the safer(?) region of his scalp. ]

This honor - Maker, I cannot - Never have I heard such a thing come from your lips. I need to get a tattoo. I need to get eight tattoos.

[ And then there's a slight ebbing of the mock-shock, and he narrows his eyes slightly and tips his head incrementally to the side - do you want to talk about that? is a signal subtly given, but it's Bastien. So. ]

[cozen]

[ In his tittering over the idea of Byerly with eight tattoos, each finding a new way to depict his equality with the Black Fox, Bastien could at least pretend not to notice the look. If it were something he didn't want to talk about, or if he were willing to maybe leave By with the impression he did something wrong or stumbled on something traumatic.

He shakes his head, but it doesn't mean no. ]

It's nothing. [ With the same faint embarrassment as if he were admitting to having a security blanket or silly childhood nickname: ] I used to be very ticklish.

[bouchonne]

[ Ah, that's so cute. ]

And you were tormented by your siblings, I suppose?

[cozen]

Ha. They wish.

[ He peels himself off of By's shoulder to lean forward, as far as he can without standing up, to see what's on his desk. Only enough nosiness to be sure he isn't interrupting something very important, before he gets into it.

It being: ]

Amina, Anis, Lyes, and Eliya. Those are their names. Amina is older—she was tired. Poor thing. The rest are younger. Anis was sickly and acerbic—sometimes you remind me of him, when you are in a mood. Lyes was the most like me. He followed me around whenever he could. And Eliya was seven the last time I saw her. She'll be— [ a pause, to fend off misery ] —Athessa's age now, give or take. She wanted to join the army for the hats.

[ Unceremonious, this disclosure, but he means it as a gift. Something only ever given away in brief comments and implications, held now in an open palm so the whole outline is visible. ]

I hope you get to meet them. [ Wryly, ] If they are alive. Anis threatened to die every time he was annoyed. Maybe he made good on it.