[ There’s no hesitation in Bastien’s smile, which is a perfectly calibrated and convincing grin. For anyone to know there was something amiss about it, they would have to know it from other contexts where he needs to buy a moment to control his face. When he shuts his finger in a cabinet, when he’s turned his ankle and has to dance on it anyway, when someone has said something unexpectedly unkind. When Vincent said he was sorry, but—
This is easier than that. Bastien has learned better. Little birds can get fucked, like he said, and Byerly said he loved her. He’d known. ]
Maker, By. I thought you were firing me or something.
[ Which is why he needs a long gulp of terrible ale, obviously, and not because the effort visible in Byerly’s expression—this whole set-up, really—is making him feel pitied and transparent and small. ]
That’s good—right? You feel good about it? [ He gestures with his drink to Byerly’s general sober, well-shaven person. ] You look good.
no subject
This is easier than that. Bastien has learned better. Little birds can get fucked, like he said, and Byerly said he loved her. He’d known. ]
Maker, By. I thought you were firing me or something.
[ Which is why he needs a long gulp of terrible ale, obviously, and not because the effort visible in Byerly’s expression—this whole set-up, really—is making him feel pitied and transparent and small. ]
That’s good—right? You feel good about it? [ He gestures with his drink to Byerly’s general sober, well-shaven person. ] You look good.