[ 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...
Please. It is not even your fifteenth best feature.
[ He hits one key with repetitive rhythm, unable/unwilling to resist the temptation to make a little noise with a noisemaker right in front of him, but also not paying enough attention to do something more complex than that. ]
She’s lucky to have you. Especially if her husband is as awful as you say.
[ Some sudden, strange, obscure desire leads him to reach out to take Bastien's hand. It stops that music; he compensates by taking up the noisemaking, using his free hand to tap out a high quavering note. ]
[ Byerly takes his hand. For a moment he thinks his repetitive plinking is just obnoxious, and he puts up no resistance. ]
No. I have already told. Time can get fucked.
[ All cheekily serious authority.
Byerly still has his hand. Bastien glances at his profile, then grips back, in a settling-in way, fingers shifting and getting comfortable, like it’s nothing. It shouldn’t be anything.
After that pause, his tone mellows to more measured optimism. ]
Even if it goes wrong, it will not be because you are some hideous blight on her life. It will be because you are a person, and she is a person, and sometimes that it how it goes. And afterwards both of you will be all right.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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—
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
No. No mercy. No survivors.
no subject
[ His voice is a high, thready gasp. And yet, he concludes: ]
But it will be worth it.
no subject
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?
no subject
Facial perineum.
no subject
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.
no subject
Flawless meter. You're a poet beyond compare, my cabbage.
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
No. I think I've emptied out my soul lately. Nothing bottled up that needs release.
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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 subject
[ 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...
no subject
Now whose mustache needs to be shaved?
no subject
[ He covers it up with both hands, trying to make this out as a joke. ]
no subject
[ He hits one key with repetitive rhythm, unable/unwilling to resist the temptation to make a little noise with a noisemaker right in front of him, but also not paying enough attention to do something more complex than that. ]
She’s lucky to have you. Especially if her husband is as awful as you say.
no subject
[ Some sudden, strange, obscure desire leads him to reach out to take Bastien's hand. It stops that music; he compensates by taking up the noisemaking, using his free hand to tap out a high quavering note. ]
no subject
[ Byerly takes his hand. For a moment he thinks his repetitive plinking is just obnoxious, and he puts up no resistance. ]
No. I have already told. Time can get fucked.
[ All cheekily serious authority.
Byerly still has his hand. Bastien glances at his profile, then grips back, in a settling-in way, fingers shifting and getting comfortable, like it’s nothing. It shouldn’t be anything.
After that pause, his tone mellows to more measured optimism. ]
Even if it goes wrong, it will not be because you are some hideous blight on her life. It will be because you are a person, and she is a person, and sometimes that it how it goes. And afterwards both of you will be all right.
no subject
Maker, I don't want to pressure you. But I hope that you will say yes.
[ To the query. To the desire to continue. ]
(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)