There’s no outward sign. He’s a professional. But inwardly, Bastien considers realigning his understanding of the situation. Gifts, advice from Athessa. Colin not liking to talk about himself but doing so for a fairly long period of time anyway, without making or taking any opportunity to change the subject.
Altogether, it’s within the realm of possibility—not a certainty, especially when they aren’t in Orlais, but a reasonable chance—that Colin wants something. Something other than getting to know each other.
Which would be fine. Bastien would prefer to be told outright what it is and maybe paid for it, all things equal, and if Athessa knows he might have liked a warning, but he’s not offended by the possibility. People usually want something.
He dips his hand deeper into the water, waves rolling over high enough to wet the cuff on his shirt sleeve, and says, “That is always hard.”
If Bastien were to ask, he might find he is neither wrong nor right, exactly. But my friend told me to make friends with you before she has a funeral for her clan isn't a great conversation starter.
Colin's eyes are on the water as it forms like gathered silk at the edges of the boat.
Bastien inhales deeply, as if preparing to confess something somber, then says: “No, not really.”
He doesn’t usually have many friends, first of all, and secondly, he generally proceeds with telling people anything serious about himself like someone walking on ice, listening, careful not to put too much weight where it might cause a crack. But I was just being polite would probably not be the best thing to say to someone this skittish, however good-humored the delivery. So.
“I have seen it, though. I once saw a poor man exiled from his entire social circle for overestimating how much they were prepared to know about his marital problems.”
"Unless she uninvites me," Bastien says. It's news to him that Colin is coming, but he doesn't act like it, in case it might insult him not to have been mentioned yet. "I am trying to wait until she's worked everything out to start panicking about what I should wear. Hopefully she will tell us."
"I was a bard," he says—repeats, actually, but he says it like it's new—"so: music. Now it is a hobby instead of a profession. I think I like it better that way." The ferry is nearing the docks, so he starts gathering himself to climb out of it, straightening up and checking around the bench to make sure nothing's fallen out of his pockets. "Have you ever sold your art or your food?"
He has to pause there—for the ropes and the rowboat sliding wood-on-wood against the slip, for thanking the ferryman and sending well-wishes to his family, for climbing up onto the pier and giving a quick but enthusiastic hello and how are you to a familiar dockworker on his way past.
With with that all out of the way, he says to Colin, "Perhaps if things go well for everyone in the end, you can be a healer and churro salesman, ouais? Ailments cured and snacks provided, all in one."
"The cello and the lute. First the lute and then the cello, but now the cello is my favorite. And every now and then someone will let me borrow something else and make a fool of myself—in a fun way, you know."
He mimes holding up a flute, as best he can without dropping the package he's carrying under his arm, and whistles sharply to evoke making it shriek. It earns them a few glances from passersby, which he answers by smiling apologetically and dropping his hands.
"I am putting myself in charge of the music if we manage to have a Satinalia party this year, so if you have a favorite dance, you should let me know."
"I haven't learned any dances," he admits. "Though I suppose I could learn something before then. I'm not usually one for crowds, but I'm trying a whole new 'facing my fears' thing, so."
"I mean I've never liked them." A shrug. "It got really out of hand after some things happened at the Circle. Then it got worse again after Lutair. Places and crowds just...don't feel safe. So I spend most of my time outside work in my flat. Not, um, not great for making friends. Which is why I'm trying to be better about it."
Bastien nods a little at the explanation. Understandable.
"Well, if we do manage to have a party, I hope you come. Do you know what might help you if you did? We could try to make sure there is a separate room set aside for talking if people want to get away from the dancing and the noise, or... Do you have any conversation games you like, for making friends?"
"If I did, I probably wouldn't be in this mess." He glances away as he thinks for a moment. "Have some of the party in the garden or the courtyard. That sounds like it'd be lovely anyway."
"You know, before you and Athessa, I don't think I've ever had anyone ask me something like that. At the Circle it was sort of...after Uldred, absolutely everyone was a mess, and it's hard to accommodate about two hundred peoples' simultaneous and completely unique messes. So I kind of just had to make do."
Which isn’t really untrue. Being helpful is a pastime. But happy might be overstating things a little, at the moment, given that maintaining his good face is already taking more effort than usual, and he feels like he’s carrying this conversation on his back through a swamp full of traumatic sinkholes, and he still isn’t sure Colin doesn’t want something.
But that’s why they left his room. They’re walking past a few fish stalls, now, and one of the vendors has a large conch set next to the fish. Bastien stops in his tracks and secures permission to pick it up with a look and a gesture. He rubs the pearly interior and then holds it to his ear for a moment, listening to the resonance—the sea, they say.
It’s not meant as a permanent interruption or subject change. It just cheers him up, a sustaining little bit.
He holds it out to Colin in case he’d like a try.
“That was during the Blight, wasn’t it? You must not have been very old.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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“By not talking about yourself?”
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Altogether, it’s within the realm of possibility—not a certainty, especially when they aren’t in Orlais, but a reasonable chance—that Colin wants something. Something other than getting to know each other.
Which would be fine. Bastien would prefer to be told outright what it is and maybe paid for it, all things equal, and if Athessa knows he might have liked a warning, but he’s not offended by the possibility. People usually want something.
He dips his hand deeper into the water, waves rolling over high enough to wet the cuff on his shirt sleeve, and says, “That is always hard.”
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Colin's eyes are on the water as it forms like gathered silk at the edges of the boat.
"That's happened to you?"
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He doesn’t usually have many friends, first of all, and secondly, he generally proceeds with telling people anything serious about himself like someone walking on ice, listening, careful not to put too much weight where it might cause a crack. But I was just being polite would probably not be the best thing to say to someone this skittish, however good-humored the delivery. So.
“I have seen it, though. I once saw a poor man exiled from his entire social circle for overestimating how much they were prepared to know about his marital problems.”
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"This wasn't over anything you don't already know. I don't just...talk forever. Unless it's about food."
He hesitates.
"Athessa says you're coming to the funeral."
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"So. You know I paint and cook. Do you have an art? A discipline?"
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He has to pause there—for the ropes and the rowboat sliding wood-on-wood against the slip, for thanking the ferryman and sending well-wishes to his family, for climbing up onto the pier and giving a quick but enthusiastic hello and how are you to a familiar dockworker on his way past.
With with that all out of the way, he says to Colin, "Perhaps if things go well for everyone in the end, you can be a healer and churro salesman, ouais? Ailments cured and snacks provided, all in one."
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And it sort of does, even to him. Occasionally he wonders if he really wants as peaceful a life as he strives for.
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"I might do that," he says with a chuckle. "So do you play an instrument?"
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He mimes holding up a flute, as best he can without dropping the package he's carrying under his arm, and whistles sharply to evoke making it shriek. It earns them a few glances from passersby, which he answers by smiling apologetically and dropping his hands.
"I am putting myself in charge of the music if we manage to have a Satinalia party this year, so if you have a favorite dance, you should let me know."
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"I haven't learned any dances," he admits. "Though I suppose I could learn something before then. I'm not usually one for crowds, but I'm trying a whole new 'facing my fears' thing, so."
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"Well, if we do manage to have a party, I hope you come. Do you know what might help you if you did? We could try to make sure there is a separate room set aside for talking if people want to get away from the dancing and the noise, or... Do you have any conversation games you like, for making friends?"
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"You know, before you and Athessa, I don't think I've ever had anyone ask me something like that. At the Circle it was sort of...after Uldred, absolutely everyone was a mess, and it's hard to accommodate about two hundred peoples' simultaneous and completely unique messes. So I kind of just had to make do."
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Which isn’t really untrue. Being helpful is a pastime. But happy might be overstating things a little, at the moment, given that maintaining his good face is already taking more effort than usual, and he feels like he’s carrying this conversation on his back through a swamp full of traumatic sinkholes, and he still isn’t sure Colin doesn’t want something.
But that’s why they left his room. They’re walking past a few fish stalls, now, and one of the vendors has a large conch set next to the fish. Bastien stops in his tracks and secures permission to pick it up with a look and a gesture. He rubs the pearly interior and then holds it to his ear for a moment, listening to the resonance—the sea, they say.
It’s not meant as a permanent interruption or subject change. It just cheers him up, a sustaining little bit.
He holds it out to Colin in case he’d like a try.
“That was during the Blight, wasn’t it? You must not have been very old.”
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"It sounds...like air?"
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link included for cia spies not because i think you need it