[ The best he'd had, or has had, in a while, at least at first, before he stretched it out too long and thin in an attempt to make it last forever and the last beans went rancid. Maybe there's a lesson he should be learning there.
Anyway, Bastien leans into that arm a bit, same as he would have before he wanted to lean further. He'd told him the night of Eshal's drinking competition—when Byerly put his mouth on the glass just where Bastien's had been, and he'd thought that's interesting, all curiosity and no investment—that he'd blame Byerly if they slept together and it ruined their friendship. So fuck if he's going to let it be his fault now. ]
Worth what I'm sure was a great hardship, for you to play for those audiences and befriend those musicians. [ Later, another day, he'll try to extract a promise that Byerly will inform him the next time he's filling in anywhere, so he can attend the performances while the music is at its best. But for now, ] Did you ever think about just changing your name and joining them? Before you found your calling.
[ But. By smiles, the emotion maybe wry or maybe sad, and mimes the tugging of a leash attached to his throat. It's become a dreadfully convenient shorthand, Bastien's metaphor. Easier to reference than it is to give these feelings a name. ]
What a loss for the arts. [ A little mournful, too. But he pats Byerly’s shirt front—near the collar but not quite high enough, because as previously mentioned, the man is unfairly tall—and brightens a bit. ] But a gain for everyone else. I am very proud to know you, you know.
[ Not I’m proud of you, because that feels like something he doesn’t quite have a claim to. And then, to save Byerly from having to actually respond to that, he hops down into the pit. ]
What would you like to play? I will even let you have the cello.
[ I am proud to know you is so completely fucking unexpected. It is - staggering. He doesn't know what to do with himself, or with that sentiment, and so he stands there silent and scrabbling as Bastien hops down and - ]
I, ah -
[ I am proud to know you. ]
Yes. I wouldn't want...Maybe I'll take the pianoforte.
[ He swallows and tries to recover. A breath. He steadies himself. He puts a smile on his face, and clambers down after. ]
Feel like playing anything in particular? Or just improvising?
[ If he notices the prolonged recovery time (and he does, obviously), he has the mercy not to acknowledge it, busy helping himself to the cello before Byerly has even agreed not to take it from him—he’d still want to have a look at it regardless—and testing the tuning as soon as he does. ]
Let’s start with “Un Sourire sous un Masque”— [ a simple staple of a waltz ] —and see where we wind up.
[ He seats himself, stretches his hands, and starts to play. The playing is soft and unornamented, more percussive than anything else; By's intent is to give Bastien a chance to really take up the musical line, show off a little if he wants to. ]
[ He needs a few bars to settle in. And it isn't false modesty, when he professes to have limitations: workmanlike technique that isn't enough to dazzle on its own, and not enough artistry to stand out in a crowd of hypothetical cellists. He knows how to have fun, though, and how to collaborate. So when he realizes Byerly isn't going to run away with things, he gets a little more daring. A bit of flair here and there. A playful staccato stutter where it doesn't belong, a sliding swoop on a low note.
They're barely halfway through the song when he gives into the siren call of improvisation, but he leaves his short little deviations from the melody unresolved, like questions demanding an answer, or the set-up for a punchline. ]
[ Well, if Bastien insists. When given leeway, By will often really get flashy - but he's on the piano, which is less familiar than the violin, and also he doesn't want to turn this into a solo.
So instead, he only does little improvisations when Bastien initiates: an unresolved melody gets a little echo with the last chord resolved; the set-ups get answered with their punchlines. He lets Bastien lead, but he answers every question. ]
[ Several minutes after they’ve wandered away from the waltz’s beaten path, the question does occur to him. If all of this is Byerly not loving him—his face against Bastien’s neck, his bashfulness and flattering sash, kissing him despite swampy jungle mouth and blowing him through a hangover, the honesty and attention, coffee and jaw harps, knowing just the thing and just the place to make Bastien feel capable of something monumental—then who gives a shit about the semantics? Who cares what By does or doesn’t think his heart has the strength for? When it comes to awareness of his own abilities, Byerly is frequently, with all due affection, a fucking idiot.
But the answer is: Bastien cares. Or if he doesn’t quite care tonight, he will later. When Alexandrie returns from Antiva, and time and attention—finite resources even at the best of times, however boundless someone’s heart—are in shorter supply. When Byerly is joking again about noble wounds taken for love. When he’s tender or troubled and needs someone to talk to about what it means for him to be with her.
It also occurs to Bastien that he could just, like, ask. To be sure. It’s what he’d tell someone else to do.
But he’s done that before, and it sucked. And it would be a waste right now anyway, with Alexandrie in Antiva and everything that might change on her return held in suspense.
So. ]
We are geniuses, [ as he winds down. They aren’t—or he isn’t, anyway—but he’s pleased enough to pretend. ] When the war is over and there is no more wrongdoing or pain anywhere in Thedas for you to worry about, we must go on tour. Or we can tour to where the pain is. It’s funny, I think there is a word—some profession, I’ve heard, for people who use music as a cover for other endeavors—
Birds. [ Byerly asserts that with full confidence, not even winking. Then he tips his hand cheerfully towards Bastien. ]
A virtuosic performance, my dear Bastien. You really are talented. And don't blush or demur; it is true, and when you say otherwise I want to shave off your mustache in spite.
[ He sets the cello aside with all the careful respect it deserves. ]
would you truly want to start down that path? It could only end one way. [ He joins Byerly on the piano bench, nudging as necessary, and dramatically plonks down a single low, dramatic chord—incorrectly first. He adjusts a finger to the correct key and plonks it again. ] Both of us shaven clean, head to toe. You, mourning your eyebrows—how will anyone know how skeptical you are being without them? And me, devastated by the loss of my chest hair. It would not be pretty.
[ Bastien thinks about that for a moment, hand lifting with a contemplative curl, then balls it into a fist that he drop onto the keys and drags down to the lowest octave. ]
[ He walks his fingers back up the keys—like little marching legs, not with anything resembling proper finger placement. Pianos are a little difficult to carry on one's back, so everything he knows about the piano he learned from periodically fooling around, much like this. The extent of his actual two-handed song-playing ability would be the Thedosian equivalent of "Mary Had A Little Lamb." ]
What, to make me agree that I have talent? Or do you long for a glimpse of my...
[ He taps the hair-obscured cleft beneath his nose. ]
[ There are no elegant words for the laugh that earns, which is probably fitting, because it's not an elegant laugh. Let's go with guffaw. Once he's collected himself, he says—with a few halting pauses to think, not too fluently— ]
Byerly Rutyer, that rascal and cad—there’s nothing that he’d shy away from. So he strode to the Empress, compelled by a dare, and kissed her right on her facial perineum.
[ Bastien takes it as a demonstration and copies him, while he makes a gentle sort of scoffing sound. ]
She knows you, doesn’t she? If it is a gift, it is one she chose. She went to the market and turned you this way and that, and she said yes, I want this one.
No, no, madam, we told you when you made your purchase before that we don't do returns or refunds here at the Indelible Shitstain stand. So we're sorry, but - What's that? You don't want a refund? Instead, you want another one? Well, all right...
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[ The best he'd had, or has had, in a while, at least at first, before he stretched it out too long and thin in an attempt to make it last forever and the last beans went rancid. Maybe there's a lesson he should be learning there.
Anyway, Bastien leans into that arm a bit, same as he would have before he wanted to lean further. He'd told him the night of Eshal's drinking competition—when Byerly put his mouth on the glass just where Bastien's had been, and he'd thought that's interesting, all curiosity and no investment—that he'd blame Byerly if they slept together and it ruined their friendship. So fuck if he's going to let it be his fault now. ]
Worth what I'm sure was a great hardship, for you to play for those audiences and befriend those musicians. [ Later, another day, he'll try to extract a promise that Byerly will inform him the next time he's filling in anywhere, so he can attend the performances while the music is at its best. But for now, ] Did you ever think about just changing your name and joining them? Before you found your calling.
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[ But. By smiles, the emotion maybe wry or maybe sad, and mimes the tugging of a leash attached to his throat. It's become a dreadfully convenient shorthand, Bastien's metaphor. Easier to reference than it is to give these feelings a name. ]
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[ Not I’m proud of you, because that feels like something he doesn’t quite have a claim to. And then, to save Byerly from having to actually respond to that, he hops down into the pit. ]
What would you like to play? I will even let you have the cello.
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I, ah -
[ I am proud to know you. ]
Yes. I wouldn't want...Maybe I'll take the pianoforte.
[ He swallows and tries to recover. A breath. He steadies himself. He puts a smile on his face, and clambers down after. ]
Feel like playing anything in particular? Or just improvising?
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Let’s start with “Un Sourire sous un Masque”— [ a simple staple of a waltz ] —and see where we wind up.
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[ He seats himself, stretches his hands, and starts to play. The playing is soft and unornamented, more percussive than anything else; By's intent is to give Bastien a chance to really take up the musical line, show off a little if he wants to. ]
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They're barely halfway through the song when he gives into the siren call of improvisation, but he leaves his short little deviations from the melody unresolved, like questions demanding an answer, or the set-up for a punchline. ]
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So instead, he only does little improvisations when Bastien initiates: an unresolved melody gets a little echo with the last chord resolved; the set-ups get answered with their punchlines. He lets Bastien lead, but he answers every question. ]
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But the answer is: Bastien cares. Or if he doesn’t quite care tonight, he will later. When Alexandrie returns from Antiva, and time and attention—finite resources even at the best of times, however boundless someone’s heart—are in shorter supply. When Byerly is joking again about noble wounds taken for love. When he’s tender or troubled and needs someone to talk to about what it means for him to be with her.
It also occurs to Bastien that he could just, like, ask. To be sure. It’s what he’d tell someone else to do.
But he’s done that before, and it sucked. And it would be a waste right now anyway, with Alexandrie in Antiva and everything that might change on her return held in suspense.
So. ]
We are geniuses, [ as he winds down. They aren’t—or he isn’t, anyway—but he’s pleased enough to pretend. ] When the war is over and there is no more wrongdoing or pain anywhere in Thedas for you to worry about, we must go on tour. Or we can tour to where the pain is. It’s funny, I think there is a word—some profession, I’ve heard, for people who use music as a cover for other endeavors—
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A virtuosic performance, my dear Bastien. You really are talented. And don't blush or demur; it is true, and when you say otherwise I want to shave off your mustache in spite.
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[ He sets the cello aside with all the careful respect it deserves. ]
would you truly want to start down that path? It could only end one way. [ He joins Byerly on the piano bench, nudging as necessary, and dramatically plonks down a single low, dramatic chord—incorrectly first. He adjusts a finger to the correct key and plonks it again. ] Both of us shaven clean, head to toe. You, mourning your eyebrows—how will anyone know how skeptical you are being without them? And me, devastated by the loss of my chest hair. It would not be pretty.
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[ By, in return, sets his hand upon the keyboard and plays a high, fluttering, arpeggio, evocative of a bird in a trap. ]
Maker have mercy! Would I at least get to keep my eyelashes?
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No. No mercy. No survivors.
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[ His voice is a high, thready gasp. And yet, he concludes: ]
But it will be worth it.
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What, to make me agree that I have talent? Or do you long for a glimpse of my...
[ He taps the hair-obscured cleft beneath his nose. ]
What is this called?
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Facial perineum.
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Byerly Rutyer, that rascal and cad—there’s nothing that he’d shy away from. So he strode to the Empress, compelled by a dare, and kissed her right on her facial perineum.
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Flawless meter. You're a poet beyond compare, my cabbage.
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[ All right, he might have said, for silly couplets. But he thinks better, and shields his mustache from spiteful shaving with his hand. ]
—very good.
[ And he cautiously lowers his hand. ]
Do you want me to do the drums for you?
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No. I think I've emptied out my soul lately. Nothing bottled up that needs release.
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[ He resumes picking at the piano keys, trying to remember some less basic chords. Softly, so it doesn't drown him out. ]
How happy was she? No details, I'm sure they are private, but on a scale one to ten. I would put money on... a twelve?
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[ He looks down and plays a chord - C major, modulated into C minor, resolved to C major once more. ]
She looked like I'd given her a gift. It was terrifying.
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She knows you, doesn’t she? If it is a gift, it is one she chose. She went to the market and turned you this way and that, and she said yes, I want this one.
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[ In a passable imitation of a dwarven accent: ]
No, no, madam, we told you when you made your purchase before that we don't do returns or refunds here at the Indelible Shitstain stand. So we're sorry, but - What's that? You don't want a refund? Instead, you want another one? Well, all right...
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Now whose mustache needs to be shaved?
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