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]

[ A defeated, horselike exhale. ]

That's true. [ But he sheds some of the defeat as he goes on: ] Complaining about me is a terrible way for anyone to stay on your good side.

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly hums in affirmation. ]

Anyone who says something unkind about you? I'm immediately going and farting on their pillows.

So - why do you ask?

[cozen]

Mon chevalier en armure puante, [ warmly, but right, back to it. ] I don't know. I have been trying to—

[ Bond. Again. Kind of a pathetic thing for a professional charmer to admit. ]

I know he is going through something, with the drinking and everything, but he was so serious with me just now. Then he told me he was busy. And it was not 'I'm sorry, this is very urgent and I have to go' busy. It was 'I don't want to deal with you right now' busy. I know the difference.

I suppose that is fair, though.

[bouchonne]

You fought rather bitterly, didn’t you? When I was - [ hm. ] After Granitefell?

[cozen]

I guess. I mean—I said something about not wanting to tie his boots for him every morning. That was as bad as it got. And I thought we made up. We've been getting along. I thought.

Maybe he is only having a bad day.

[bouchonne]

[ Hmmmm. ]

The lad is moody. Still - may I have your permission to ask him about it?

[cozen]

[ How terrible, to be a manipulative con man by trade (and by nature) but still have to ask for his boyfriend’s help and intervention to figure out why an eminently bullyable Tevinter twink is mad at him.

But not knowing is worse. ]

Yeah. Alright.

[bouchonne]

[ And how terrible, to be a spy (heartless by requirement) with a great, soft, beating heart. ]

I adore you, my darling. Thank you for trying to get along with the lad.

[cozen]

Yeah, well—

[ Of course he's warmed and touched by this. It's audible beneath the dry upper layer of his tone. ]

—he is your kin.

[bouchonne]

[ A laugh, halfway between embarrassed and embarrassed. ]

Maker forbid. I do wonder how our strapping visitor got that idea.

[cozen]

Tall, slender, dark hair, dark eyes, air of decadence...

[bouchonne]

[ A raspberry. ]

Tevinter.

[cozen]

[ Conceding: ] Tevinter.

But you probably are the closest he has anymore.

[bouchonne]

Ugh. Don't say that.

[cozen]

You are probably the closest he has anymore.

[bouchonne]

I said don't say that.

[cozen]

I heard you.

[ But less cheekily: ]

I adore you, too. Do you think we could get away from all of these people later and, uh— [ lower, like it's hot ] —go out in the garden and build snowmen who look like us?

[bouchonne]

[ Hah. Lasciviously: ]

Ooooh. Do you think we could find some sort of brush that would represent our mustaches?

[cozen]

A pliable vine for yours, so we can shape it around his beautiful mouth, just so.

[bouchonne]

And for you, a wiggling caterpillar.

[cozen]

Yes. Perfect. A fat one.