[ Bastien doesn’t mind the way Byerly has always squirmed against praise, like an animal covered in burrs and thorns resisting efforts to pull them out. Sad, but charming, too. If tomorrow—or ten seconds from now—he has to be pinned down to be told he’s wonderful, that will be all right.

But it feels like something, that he’s asking instead of ducking away. Holding out one thorny paw. For a moment Bastien is too touched to smile, his chest very still under Byerly’s fidgeting fingers. Then he does smile, faintly, and proceeds with confident fluidity that comes from not needing any time to think about it at all. ]

I’m proud that you are so much yourself, when it might have been easier for you to put your head down and be more of what everyone expected from you. And I’m proud that people without power, who can’t do anything for you, can come to you for help and find it. And when a problem is too big—when it’s the end of the world, or if the problem is the world—I would like to give up, you know. Find a sunny island and let the world do whatever it likes with itself. But you take whatever piece you can get your arms around and you do something about it, and then you pick up another. It makes me want to be more like you.

[ There’s more. But it might be asking a lot from Byerly, to make him listen to all of that in one go, so he lands on something he hopes is easier. ]

And you are one of the finest musicians I have ever heard. Whenever you play or sing I want to tug on everyone’s sleeves and say that’s—

[ my, would be the next word, but he doesn’t know what word would come after it, so instead: ]

—you know he lets me kiss that mouth? Those very fingers.