[ He’s flexible. He’s also not serious. The real answer, right now, would be melancholy, and he doesn’t even think about it long enough to decide not to say it. He thinks around it, neatly as stepping over an uneven cobblestone. ]
—in need of a tutor for their eleven unruly children, each won over by a different song, until at the end of the line the widow-or-widower says, Bastien, we cannot imagine life without you here, please stay forever and read all of my books. And they kiss very well.
[ She purses her lips and hums thoughtfully. Her real answer would also be somewhat bleak, so what she comes up with is as much a fabrication as his. ]
Maybe after some aging noble takes a shine to me for my singing and my refreshing honesty, she'll leave me her estate and there'll be enough room for me and all my many petit amies without anyone feeling tied down or stifled.
Only on the very rare occasion that everyone is home at the same time and they all want my company at the same time.
[ A schedule, then, since a first-come-first-serve queue smacks too much of what she left behind with Ciara. ]
Otherwise I expect most of them to be out in the world doing what pleases them, same as me. Because this is an ideal scenario, of course, there wouldn't be a war to fight after this one, and the world would be a nicer place, so everyone would be free to do as they wish.
[ There's a moment where something cuts through the veneer of daydreaming, when she actually has to think about what it'd be like for someone to simply want to be with her for more than a few hours, a night, a day. A novel concept, really. Then the introspection is smoothed over again. ]
I guess that depends on if they'll come with me when I wander, or if they'd want me to stay put.
Oh, nonsense and rubbish. Whole shelves of mysteries and adventures—and a hidden trove of romances that stretch the boundaries of good taste, where the eleven children could not find them. Or where we could all pretend they had not found them. Of course they would. Children are clever.
[ Barely paying attention to what he's saying, because share a bed and actually sleep is such a simple thing to want. And he sympathizes.
But they're talking about happy things. ]
And once I had finished them all, a new crate every month.
I'd visit often, and whenever you tired of a book I'd take it and read it and the next we visited I'd tell you about my favorite parts and purposefully mispronounce your favorite character's name.
[ It's the simplest wants that break her, time and time again. She doesn't want much, and yet it always seems to be too much. ]
[ A lethal blow! Athessa hams it up, letting her head fall back and her body slump slowly towards the ground. For the drama, she reaches up past the edge of the bench, clasping at nothing before her arm falls with a soft paff when her wrist hits grass. And thus, she dies. ]
Death rattle. [ Because it's funnier to say death rattle than to just make one. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ She shrugs again, unless that's too many shrugs in too little time in which case she doesn't. ]
I dunno if I'd be an amazing mother, though. Or if I even want babies. I'm definitely nowhere near ready to settle down.
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What would be the ideal settling-down scenario for you, Baz? If there is one.
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[ He’s flexible. He’s also not serious. The real answer, right now, would be melancholy, and he doesn’t even think about it long enough to decide not to say it. He thinks around it, neatly as stepping over an uneven cobblestone. ]
—in need of a tutor for their eleven unruly children, each won over by a different song, until at the end of the line the widow-or-widower says, Bastien, we cannot imagine life without you here, please stay forever and read all of my books. And they kiss very well.
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Athessa whistles appreciatively. ]
Eleven children? Sounds like this widow-widower does more than just kiss very well.
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Mmmmhm.
[ With an abbreviated eyebrow wiggle, just once up and down. ]
What about you?
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Maybe after some aging noble takes a shine to me for my singing and my refreshing honesty, she'll leave me her estate and there'll be enough room for me and all my many petit amies without anyone feeling tied down or stifled.
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Would there be a schedule posted outside your bedroom? Or a queue? First come, first served?
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[ A schedule, then, since a first-come-first-serve queue smacks too much of what she left behind with Ciara. ]
Otherwise I expect most of them to be out in the world doing what pleases them, same as me. Because this is an ideal scenario, of course, there wouldn't be a war to fight after this one, and the world would be a nicer place, so everyone would be free to do as they wish.
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[ There's a moment where something cuts through the veneer of daydreaming, when she actually has to think about what it'd be like for someone to simply want to be with her for more than a few hours, a night, a day. A novel concept, really. Then the introspection is smoothed over again. ]
I guess that depends on if they'll come with me when I wander, or if they'd want me to stay put.
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[ Instead of laying awake with nothing but the sound of her own heartbeat in the dark. ]
What books would your widow-widower have for you to read?
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[ Barely paying attention to what he's saying, because share a bed and actually sleep is such a simple thing to want. And he sympathizes.
But they're talking about happy things. ]
And once I had finished them all, a new crate every month.
Would you come visit me?
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I'd visit often, and whenever you tired of a book I'd take it and read it and the next we visited I'd tell you about my favorite parts and purposefully mispronounce your favorite character's name.
[ It's the simplest wants that break her, time and time again. She doesn't want much, and yet it always seems to be too much. ]
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[ Preemptive, good-natured. ]
Never mind. You are not invited.
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And to think I gave you a key to my estate!
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Death rattle. [ Because it's funnier to say death rattle than to just make one. ]
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She died as she lived, [ he says to no one, since Athessa is dead; ] ridiculous and endearing.