[ 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.
[ And that–being the caretaker of a hope that Byerly needs to speak that softly—makes him feel—what?
Touched. Gutted. Tempted to say yes now, because what was the point of waiting again, or at least to put the whole thinking plan on hold for the night and start again in the morning.
Bastien settles for tightening his grip on Byerly's hand, and on second thought gathering his whole arm a little closer, and leaning his head against his shoulder. Another second and he pivots his cheek against said shoulder to be a little closer to his ear and whispers, like it's a scandalous little secret, ] Me, too.
[ Quiet stifled laughter at that fair and correct observation bleeds directly into a sympathetic aw. He hauls himself up, too, and then lies on the stage for a moment to recuperate before getting the rest of the way to his feet.
Despite that: ]
I don't.
[ Tonight. ]
This was great, By. All of it. [ It could have been a very shitty night. ] Thank you.
[ There'd been some aspects of it that were trying to soften the blow, perhaps. It's a strange and uncomfortable thing that he cannot consider directly, why there is a blow involved, but: there is, and so some of this had been an attempt to gentle it. But the bulk of this had just been because it was fun. Because Bastien is fun. ]
Thank you, dear - What is it Athessa calls you? Baz?
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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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[ He covers it up with both hands, trying to make this out as a joke. ]
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[ 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.
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[ 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. ]
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[ 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.
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Maker, I don't want to pressure you. But I hope that you will say yes.
[ To the query. To the desire to continue. ]
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Touched. Gutted. Tempted to say yes now, because what was the point of waiting again, or at least to put the whole thinking plan on hold for the night and start again in the morning.
Bastien settles for tightening his grip on Byerly's hand, and on second thought gathering his whole arm a little closer, and leaning his head against his shoulder. Another second and he pivots his cheek against said shoulder to be a little closer to his ear and whispers, like it's a scandalous little secret, ] Me, too.
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Then, a breath in. ]
Should we call it a night? Or do you want to keep carousing?
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We should go. If we miss the last ferry we will have to find a place to stay, and tavern rooms make me really slutty.
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[ A kiss to the crown of his head. Then By stands, and hauls himself from the orchestra pit - ]
Ahhh, I feel old.
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Despite that: ]
I don't.
[ Tonight. ]
This was great, By. All of it. [ It could have been a very shitty night. ] Thank you.
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Thank you, dear - What is it Athessa calls you? Baz?
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