[ He sweeps the cards back to himself on the table to reorganize and shuffle. ]
I am afraid of storms. Not horribly. I can deal with it. They wake me up, I go back to sleep, it is fine. But whenever there is thunder, I am, you know. [ He raises one of his hands to indicate a slight elevation of anxiety. ] A little nervous.
I think it is probably because of the canals in the city. [ Deep, with their edges providing walkways and shelter for vagrants and les gamins—a category he fell into, even though he wasn't an orphan. ] They flood very quickly sometimes. I was never caught in it, or I would probably be afraid of the water instead. But peopled drowned often enough, so when it stormed everyone would start scrambling and panicking. I suppose it rubbed off.
No, never. I have told it to fuck off, but that was more of a grumble. Leave me alone, [ hissed, as he draws and trades, ] into my pillow. That sort of thing.
[ Bastien grins back and doesn't demand an explanation. He enjoys going somewheres and surprises both, so he gathers the cards into a pile to stack and tie, finishes his drink, and meets Byerly at the door. ]
[ The walk is one of medium length - this is neither a destination around the corner, nor one that's an overly demanding distance. It's made in a mixture of companionable silence and idle chatter - not long enough to create a remarkable amount of either.
Their destination is a theater, apparently. By leads Bastien around the side, and thumps on the door until a caretaker pushes it open. The caretaker knows Byerly, apparently, greeting him affably and letting them both in. ]
Come on.
[ By leads Bastien in with a cheerful grin over his shoulder. ]
I respect your urge, but you haven't the hips for Blanche, dear Bastien. I am truly sorry to hear a dream unfulfilled.
[ There are only a few lanterns around illuminating the stage, giving it a rather ghostly feeling. But it's all empty, devoid of any tripping hazards, making it safe to move freely in that dim light - ]
Between shows, at the moment.
[ But the heaviest instruments, the ones that cannot be moved, sit still in the orchestra pit. The harp, the pianoforte - and there, the snare drums. By grins, and hops down, taking his place before them, giving a few experimental thumps. They produce a deep, resonant boom. ]
Prepare yourself for what you want to shout into the thunder.
[ Previously busy looking down at his hips on the stage, hands flattening his clothes over them in consideration of their width, Bastien looks up–or looks slightly less down, anyway, at Byerly in the pit below—at the first sound of the drum.
He's never been much for shouting. Playing a role, it's fine; he can be Alardus Bombelles, who shouts when his soup is not the correct temperature, or Guillot the Ferrier, who was once kicked in the head and now shouts every word. For his own sake, though, he's quiet. And between that thunder-evoking booming and the eerie cavern of the theater, shouting seems like it could invite something to come closer, unheard and unseen in the noisy dark.
But it's the sort of nervousness that's just to the left of thrilled. And he trusts Byerly, both in general and specifically not to make a fool of him intentionally, or to only tease him as much as he deserves, no more or less, if he makes one of himself.
So he thinks for a moment, and then he nods, braced and taking a preparatory deep breath. ]
[ It's precisely that quiet, that restraint, that gave By this impulse. Bastien is always so controlled, in his own way. Always so friendly and affable. When pain is shown, it's shown only to a trusted few, and even then the display is quite cautious.
In Byerly's messy, sloppy, excessive opinion, there is something incredibly valuable in - sometimes - being loud and egregious and unrestrained. He's not entirely confident that this'll do it for his friend, but maybe it'll help. Perhaps. Maker, he hopes so.
The drumsticks are raised. And then By brings them down, putting all his strength into it, starting a deafening tattoo that drowns out any and all noise in the theater. Even bellowing would make itself audible only to the person doing the yelling, and even then only faintly. ]
[ That’s what he’d planned. But the words disappear into the cacophony, and the cacophony continues around and beyond them, and his there’s a catching sensation in his chest, the same as when Marcoulf’s griffon first dove off the tower with them on her back.
So he sucks in another lungful of air and improvises. ]
YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE ANY FEET.
[ Childish, for a childish fear. And another breath—but this time he’s quieter than a bellow, not quite trusting the cover of the drums, with his head tipped back to face the ceiling as much to hide his mouth from any lip-reading as to enjoy the gesture of shouting toward the sky: ]
I am so fucking tired of not being good enough.
[ But even as he shouts it, he doesn’t quite feel it. Not in the moment. Byerly was right—with the fake thunder vibrating in his chest and throat and his words disappearing into it, it nearly feels like the drumbeats are his voice instead, translating his shouts into something rawer, filling up the theater. Enormous.
He stops there, but it’s to laugh. A little self-conscious, a little giddy, and covering his ears to signal that he’s had enough. ]
[ And Byerly stops, with three slow resonant beats on the drum - like this was something ceremonial, like this is the dismissal of the spirits they've summoned. Perhaps it was something rather ceremonial. Voice and drum - some believe that was all it took to summon the Maker, no? That Andraste's holy work required nothing more than the vibration of air.
Those vibrations taper off into nothing. The space feels enormous, almost boundless, in the absence of noise; it feels like there's some music in that silence, like nothingness is playing some sort of coda. He smiles at it.
And then he scrambles out of the orchestra pit (ten years ago, it would have been a daring leap; this is more of an awkward hop-and-roll onto the stage) and joins Bastien on the stage. ]
There's a cello down there.
[ No questions about what he shouted. No cheeky congratulations on a job well done. If Bastien got anything out of it, found anything freeing, the way that Byerly does in a storm, that's between him and the noise. ]
[ Bastien looks in that direction, but his air is a little distracted—even with a cello in play—while he's still settling back onto the ground and into his skin in the relative quiet.
Yesterday he might have let the exhilaration sweep him forward and hauled Byerly in by the collar. Today he drifts closer more like a leaf, on his way to the edge of the stage. He catches By's arm for a moment when he's close enough. Holds it, for a passing moment, and rocks sideways to knock his cheek to his shoulder. He's done it before, now and then–the impulse behind a hug, satisfied without any arm-winding or body-pressing.
Then he steps further away to lean over the pit, not quite committed to the idea of jumping down into it, yet, and having to climb back out, but certainly considering it. ]
Do you come here a lot? The man at the door likes you.
One of the stage managers is a friend of mine. We knew each other back in Denerim, before the Blight - he came here as a refugee. Ran into each other by chance last year, and he introduced me to the whole troupe. I've filled in in the orchestra a time or two.
[ An arm comes out to wrap around Bastien's neck. ]
'Twas the playing of the fiddle some months ago that led to an introduction between me and a certain Antivan merchant who was convinced, through the application of some Fereldan whiskey, to bear hence a packet of coffee which later found its way into your very belly.
[ 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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Make sure not to repeat that where Sabine can hear you. She might take you up on it.
[ He lays out his cards, which are very bad, but it's not completely impossible to do worse. ]
no subject
A secret from you, now.
no subject
[ He sweeps the cards back to himself on the table to reorganize and shuffle. ]
I am afraid of storms. Not horribly. I can deal with it. They wake me up, I go back to sleep, it is fine. But whenever there is thunder, I am, you know. [ He raises one of his hands to indicate a slight elevation of anxiety. ] A little nervous.
no subject
[ By smiles, his expression fond. ]
Do you know why?
no subject
[ Obviously. He's joking. Half joking. ]
I think it is probably because of the canals in the city. [ Deep, with their edges providing walkways and shelter for vagrants and les gamins—a category he fell into, even though he wasn't an orphan. ] They flood very quickly sometimes. I was never caught in it, or I would probably be afraid of the water instead. But peopled drowned often enough, so when it stormed everyone would start scrambling and panicking. I suppose it rubbed off.
no subject
What a misery it was for you, then. That month of rain.
[ After the execution. ]
no subject
[ Another secret. Two for the price of one. He scoops up his cards and shoots a smile up at Byerly while he considers them. ]
But I unpacked it. [ Fanning his cards, ] Are you one of those who likes storms? Because they are dramatic?
no subject
Storms are excellent for making one feel as though one is larger than one's true size. To yell at thunder - you might be a giant.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Put away the cards. I'll settle up. We need to go somewhere.
no subject
no subject
Their destination is a theater, apparently. By leads Bastien around the side, and thumps on the door until a caretaker pushes it open. The caretaker knows Byerly, apparently, greeting him affably and letting them both in. ]
Come on.
[ By leads Bastien in with a cheerful grin over his shoulder. ]
no subject
What are we doing? The Heir of Verchiel? Death in the Mansion? I want to be Blanche, the Chambermaid.
no subject
[ There are only a few lanterns around illuminating the stage, giving it a rather ghostly feeling. But it's all empty, devoid of any tripping hazards, making it safe to move freely in that dim light - ]
Between shows, at the moment.
[ But the heaviest instruments, the ones that cannot be moved, sit still in the orchestra pit. The harp, the pianoforte - and there, the snare drums. By grins, and hops down, taking his place before them, giving a few experimental thumps. They produce a deep, resonant boom. ]
Prepare yourself for what you want to shout into the thunder.
no subject
He's never been much for shouting. Playing a role, it's fine; he can be Alardus Bombelles, who shouts when his soup is not the correct temperature, or Guillot the Ferrier, who was once kicked in the head and now shouts every word. For his own sake, though, he's quiet. And between that thunder-evoking booming and the eerie cavern of the theater, shouting seems like it could invite something to come closer, unheard and unseen in the noisy dark.
But it's the sort of nervousness that's just to the left of thrilled. And he trusts Byerly, both in general and specifically not to make a fool of him intentionally, or to only tease him as much as he deserves, no more or less, if he makes one of himself.
So he thinks for a moment, and then he nods, braced and taking a preparatory deep breath. ]
no subject
In Byerly's messy, sloppy, excessive opinion, there is something incredibly valuable in - sometimes - being loud and egregious and unrestrained. He's not entirely confident that this'll do it for his friend, but maybe it'll help. Perhaps. Maker, he hopes so.
The drumsticks are raised. And then By brings them down, putting all his strength into it, starting a deafening tattoo that drowns out any and all noise in the theater. Even bellowing would make itself audible only to the person doing the yelling, and even then only faintly. ]
no subject
[ That’s what he’d planned. But the words disappear into the cacophony, and the cacophony continues around and beyond them, and his there’s a catching sensation in his chest, the same as when Marcoulf’s griffon first dove off the tower with them on her back.
So he sucks in another lungful of air and improvises. ]
YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE ANY FEET.
[ Childish, for a childish fear. And another breath—but this time he’s quieter than a bellow, not quite trusting the cover of the drums, with his head tipped back to face the ceiling as much to hide his mouth from any lip-reading as to enjoy the gesture of shouting toward the sky: ]
I am so fucking tired of not being good enough.
[ But even as he shouts it, he doesn’t quite feel it. Not in the moment. Byerly was right—with the fake thunder vibrating in his chest and throat and his words disappearing into it, it nearly feels like the drumbeats are his voice instead, translating his shouts into something rawer, filling up the theater. Enormous.
He stops there, but it’s to laugh. A little self-conscious, a little giddy, and covering his ears to signal that he’s had enough. ]
no subject
Those vibrations taper off into nothing. The space feels enormous, almost boundless, in the absence of noise; it feels like there's some music in that silence, like nothingness is playing some sort of coda. He smiles at it.
And then he scrambles out of the orchestra pit (ten years ago, it would have been a daring leap; this is more of an awkward hop-and-roll onto the stage) and joins Bastien on the stage. ]
There's a cello down there.
[ No questions about what he shouted. No cheeky congratulations on a job well done. If Bastien got anything out of it, found anything freeing, the way that Byerly does in a storm, that's between him and the noise. ]
no subject
Yesterday he might have let the exhilaration sweep him forward and hauled Byerly in by the collar. Today he drifts closer more like a leaf, on his way to the edge of the stage. He catches By's arm for a moment when he's close enough. Holds it, for a passing moment, and rocks sideways to knock his cheek to his shoulder. He's done it before, now and then–the impulse behind a hug, satisfied without any arm-winding or body-pressing.
Then he steps further away to lean over the pit, not quite committed to the idea of jumping down into it, yet, and having to climb back out, but certainly considering it. ]
Do you come here a lot? The man at the door likes you.
no subject
One of the stage managers is a friend of mine. We knew each other back in Denerim, before the Blight - he came here as a refugee. Ran into each other by chance last year, and he introduced me to the whole troupe. I've filled in in the orchestra a time or two.
[ An arm comes out to wrap around Bastien's neck. ]
'Twas the playing of the fiddle some months ago that led to an introduction between me and a certain Antivan merchant who was convinced, through the application of some Fereldan whiskey, to bear hence a packet of coffee which later found its way into your very belly.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
[ 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.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)