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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[dastardly]

Much like the mouse he had first appeared to be on arrival, Josias' residence in the Diplomacy offices has been as tucked away and unseen as possible. A desk chosen as far into one corner without simply becoming part of the wall, with a steadily growing barricade of books and ledgers across the front edge. Quiet and unobtrusive, he can be there hours or even possibly days without anyone overtly noticing. All a simple bookkeeper could want - quiet, and several years worth of ledgers to pore over.

And all Josias could want of this position - to be able to observe, and think, and yes, do some work occasionally, when it was warranted. Some of it Diplomacy. Most of it his own.

So it is that he is stationed there when the Ambassador returns. Tucked behind his fortress of books, he nevertheless has a clear view of the man, and so comes the best part of being in Riftwatch that he has found so far. Observing the members of this strange collection of people, their manners and interactions. He is quite sure he wouldn't have been able to find similar anywhere else in the world.

[bouchonne]

The Ambassador, most days, enters whistling. Even when things are bad, he walks into the office with an obvious (feigned?) joie de vivre, projecting some sort of ultimate confidence in all circumstances, greeting people with self-assured cheer.

Not today, though. Perhaps it's because something has happened, or perhaps it is because Byerly thinks he's alone, having not searched the room thoroughly enough. Today, he comes in with a smile that drops away almost immediately, giving way to a hand dragged through his hair, and eyes pressed shut. He closes the door behind him, leans against it a moment, the muscles in his jaw flexing -

And then he goes to the liquor cabinet. He strides towards it in a great burst, but slows as he draws near, steps progressively getting shorter, his manner getting more hesitant. When he reaches it, he lays a hand atop it and stands there several long moments, like he's having some conversation with it. Then his hand goes and opens it, and he reaches down slowly to pull out a decanter -

And then maybe Josias makes some sound, or maybe it's simply that some half-glimpsed thing twigs something in his mind. He shoves the decanter back and turns around and sees Josias, and then he curses outright, and then he stares, and then he smooths down his mustache.

"You," he says, "scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here?"

[dastardly]

As if Byerly had just zapped him with a static shock, Josias shoots straight upwards from his chair as soon as addressed. Wide-eyed, he looks faintly guilty, albeit unsure why, and mostly terrified.

"Purchase orders," is his answer to the question, blurted out hastily after a moment of just standing their ramrod straight. Then, as if that were the cue to start any motion that had been stalled, he abruptly sweeps up an armful of ledgers and crosses the room to Byerly. "Years old, you see? Never closed."

There is something close to enthusiasm in his tone, the frantic flicking of pages and pointing to tiny scribbled figures. A flurry of movement that stands as good distraction for Josias to examine Byerly more closely from the corner of his eyes.

He had witnessed a moment he was not meant to, that much was very clear, and he feels it now like a prized piece of jewellery between his fingers - the need to turn it over and over, pry it's ornamentation and facets apart, learn their origin.

[bouchonne]

It feels dreadful to snap at Josias. Even if it weren't a sign that he'd lost control - embarrassing in and of itself - it'd still make him feel a monster. It's like snarling at a puppy - or, no, not even that, because in time that pup will grow up. It's like snarling at a nug. The creature just becomes confused and distressed.

And so Byerly does his best to swallow down his anger and distress, tries to clamp his teeth down on his frustration that there's someone here. (Doesn't allow himself to think about what he would have done if there were not someone here, the promise he would have broken.) He tries to be civil.

"You don't need to be working all the time," Byerly says. It comes out sullen - the best he can do in this moment. "You can go out. Make friends. Enjoy your wife."

[dastardly]

"Oh, no," he replies swiftly, with a shake of his head. "It's better here." Simple, delivered as though it's the most reasonable and complete argument against Byerly's other suggestions available. Incontestable. "And you're still working too, yes?"

Earnestly, looking at Byerly expectantly. That's why he was here, of course. Not for any other matter, such as the aborted attempt on the liquor cabinet, or a need for solitude.

[bouchonne]

What can he say to that? No, fuck off, I'm here to get away from the pieces of shit who cling to my feet - But in addition to being witless and nasty, di Jaconissa simply doesn't deserve that. He's a sweet and earnest lad; snapping at him would feel akin to smacking a puppy.

So he tries to let his fury and misery go. "Yes," he replies. "Of course." This at least sounds a bit less miserable as he reassembles the pieces of his mask and pulls himself together. "But just because I work too much doesn't mean that you should do the same."

And he crosses over to his desk, and he sits, and he unlocks the top drawer and pulls out some of his outstanding correspondence.

[dastardly]

Josias, sweet and earnest, apparently misses the unspoken prompt to leave - if not the office, then at least Byerly's immediate presence. He trails after him to his desk, instead, lingering awkwardly beside it before offering:

"Then we both stop. There is evening still. Ah, young?"

A look for confirmation, this phrase he's apparently only recently learnt, as confident in it as the rest of his Trade: not much.

[bouchonne]

"The night is young," he corrects. It's damned annoying, how endearing it is to hear a well-intentioned young man butchering Trade idioms. And he has that adorable Antivan accent, too. Byerly wants to be furious, longs for fury, but it's hard to maintain it when the only object within reach is so round-cheeked and wholesome.

"For whatever reason, evenings cannot be young. Just the night."

He looks down at that correspondence. On top is a request for aid, and the fact that he wants to write fuck off on it without even looking at who it's aid for tells him that, yes, he probably should not be working right now.

"What do you do with your evenings, anyway, di Jaconissa? I cannot imagine you spend much time in dance halls or gambling dens."

[dastardly]

A thoroughly focussed frown as he absorbs this correction, complete with a soft muttered repeat of evenings cannot be young to fully bed it in. There is very much the impression that he'll still get it wrong next time, though.

"Ah, well, working," he answers, though for once with a look of self-awareness at how the answer fits in this discussion and situation they've both been caught in. "But otherwise, reading. Walking. But that is not as good here, I get lost."

A glance at Benedict's empty desk, there, a touch of colour climbing his cheeks. He pulls his attention back to Byerly. "Is that what you do? Gamble and dance?"

[bouchonne]

Byerly's eyes flick briefly between the desk and the blush. Has his assistant been seducing the handsome young bookkeeper when the fellow gets lost? Seems like the sort of thing Benedict would do. But Josias seems a bit too awkward to be easily seduceable.

"At times," Byerly says. And then he thinks a moment and amends, with just the lightest rime of bitterness, "I used to."

His subsequent glance towards his own desk holds a measure of loathing. No question what has gotten in the way of said gambling and dancing.

"You should try it. While you're still young. Sin a little."

[dastardly]

"A bookkeeper gambling is not for trusting."

He looks mildly horrified at the idea. Also probably the idea of dancing, too, seeing as he doesn't mention it at all. Instead, further diversion, focussing on Byerly's tone - to a level probably not so usual for Josias. Subtle reactions and glances don't tend to be things he picks up on, but here, now, a little flexibility must be applied. His true, hungry curiosity for Byerly's poor mood hasn't yet been sated.

"You used to because you aren't young, or because you're ambassador?" he asks, still with that regular earnestness, awkwardly oblivious to the potential insult couched in the question.

[bouchonne]

The accidental insult makes Byerly laugh. It's not a particularly merry sound, but that is to be attributed to his mood rather than any real offense. In a better time, he'd actually be quite buoyed by the young man's faux pas.

"Because I'm ambassador," he answers.

Then, perhaps from some sympathy to the poor fellow, he switches over to Antivan. His command of the language certainly isn't as strong as his knowledge of Orlesian or of Trade, but it's decent enough: though he errs frequently in the grammar, mis-conjugating his verbs and mis-gendering his nouns, he speaks with such fluent confidence that a listener might not even notice.

"I want to keep dancing and gambling until I die," he says. "We'll be old men whose hearts give out in front of Wicked Grace."

[dastardly]

Something like delight blooms on Josias' face as the first syllables of Antivan cross Byerly's lips. As he continues talking, however, the expression becomes more rigid, no longer genuine, held in place so as not to appear rude. A little hypocritical, it seems, towards anyone struggling with the one language he's fluent in.

"Surely the two go hand in hand," he replies in Antivan, and though his words come faster and more confidently, it doesn't seem to alleviate much of his general awkward demeanour. "All I've seen most ambassadors do is drink and gamble."