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]

Maybe.

[ Why not? ]

Or something smaller. Something we can do to help anchor you to what is true and what you believe—who you are. Find ways to help you keep hold of it.

Or something bigger. We brought you back from the dead, By.

[bouchonne]

You did.

[ He smiles wistfully. It is true. ]

All right. Maybe.

[cozen]

I’ll take maybe.

[ He squeezes By’s thigh. Companionable, not saucy. Yet. ]

I am not worried, though. You can be worried, until we know for sure—I know I can’t stop you. But I’m not afraid.

[bouchonne]

Perhaps I'll permit that to give me some courage. Perhaps.

[ He nuzzles his head against Bastien's, then straightens up and returns to his soup. ]

We've gotten dreadfully off-topic.

[cozen]

No such thing.

[ He returns to his soup, too. The fact that his hand stays on By’s leg would be casual and thoughtless, maybe, if it didn’t require eating with his off hand.

The reasons he’s not worried are awfully sentimental. Awfully open to argument from By, who’s always resisted being labeled a good man with a good heart—and even if he cedes that point, Bastien thinks he’ll likely point out love and protectiveness can always be twisted into possession and jealousy and hurting people out of the belief it’s the only way to keep them safe.

But he wouldn’t. That’s what Bastien’s so sure of. If anyone he cared about said he was hurting them, he’d more likely walk into the sea than keep it up.

Bastien doesn’t press the matter. Not that matter, anyway. ]

I do have to meet your sister now. Even if it is not to ask her what she knows about the family curse. It’s only fair. I will give you, [ hmm, ] to the end of the year before I decide you are embarrassed of me and become very dramatic about it.

[bouchonne]

Maker preserve me. You dramatic little minx. One of these days, those histrionics of yours are going to get us into trouble.

[ He blows out a breath and pinches Bastien's waist in revenge for the very idea - then reaches his hand down to interlace their fingers. ]

But - yes. We should go. And soon, before the weather truly turns nasty down there.

[cozen]

[ The pinch earns a wiggle—one that he could have suppressed, of course, but the impulse behind it is genuine, and the lack of suppression unguarded. ]

Earliest opportunity, [ he agrees, agreeably, ] and if a good one hasn't come by August, we go even if it is inconvenient. Yeah?

[bouchonne]

Yes.

[ Sentimentally: ]

I’m very proud of you. Of having you in my life.

[cozen]

[ Bastien rubs Byerly's knuckles with his interlaced fingers. ]

You never let me doubt it. I am only teasing.

[ Still pleasant to hear, of course. ]

Although if we are traveling through much of Ferelden—the little villages and places, you know—maybe I will be your Marcher instead of your Orlesian. Depending on how things feel.

[bouchonne]

[ uhh ]

Well, they won’t have met Marchers. So your accent might pass.

[cozen]

Hey,

[ without any real offense. But he says it in a Marcher accent. Keyword being a. There are as many Marcher accents as city-states, and as Bastien continues mimicking this one, he doesn’t sound like his family. Or really like a Kirkwaller. He sounds east and coastal—the accent Yseult taught him. ]

I am much better than I was.

[ And, fine, he does still sound a little Orlesian. But not in a way isolated southern villagers would notice. ]

I could be your manservant, Ben.

[bouchonne]

Absolutely not.

[ Even in play, By remembers well how Bastien feels about taking on the role of a servant. ]

No one would believe that. But I could be your manservant.

[cozen]

[ Good answer. Bastien grins, successfully indulged, and returns to sounding Orlesian. ]

The finest in the world.

[ But as much of a kick as they both might get out of it for a moment—or an evening, privately— ]

Or we could both be traveling musicians who can't afford servants at all.

[bouchonne]

We could be bad musicians. Trade instruments? I take your cello, you take my violin, we see how we do.

[cozen]

If you promise to put some effort into being bad. Otherwise I will be bad and you will be slightly less good.

[bouchonne]

You can play the fiddle! I know you can.

[cozen]

A tiny bit. Not as well as you can play the cello.

[bouchonne]

Well, the cello is just kinder and more forgiving. The fiddle is mercurial.

I wonder if that says something about us.

[cozen]

That I am a little lazy and you love to be punished?

[bouchonne]

Oh, I was thinking we had the souls of our instruments. But that could work as an interpretation, too.

[cozen]

Either.

[bouchonne]

Either.

[ Then: ]

I want you to do whatever makes you feel…fulfilled. At the end of the day. I want you to feel satisfied with your life.

[cozen]

[ Bastien nods, stirring his soup, and takes a few seconds to decide that the appropriate response to that is to stand up, take Byerly by the chin to turn and tilt his head, and give him a kiss that's firm and sure and reasonably lengthy.

When he stops he stays close. Nose to nose. His breath is soup-scented, but at least they have that in common. ]

If I don't get to watch you go grey, I won't be satisfied. So I will have to be careful. For my own sake.

[bouchonne]

I can't wait for you to be toothless.

[ There's a little bit of innuendo in that. Not too much. ]

We'll have to eat all our soups mashed up.

[cozen]

Slurry,

[ whispered seductively, punctuated by shifting his head the inch required to bite the tip of By's nose. Gently. A toothy beep beep, if Thedas had things that went beep beep. ]

You know how the project offices are mostly empty now?