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.
[ 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. ]
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Put away the cards. I'll settle up. We need to go somewhere.
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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. ]
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What are we doing? The Heir of Verchiel? Death in the Mansion? I want to be Blanche, the Chambermaid.
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[ 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.
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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. ]
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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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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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. ]
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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.
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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.
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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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