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[cozen]

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anotherrrr (sorry) (not sorry)

[bouchonne]

[ A rap on Bastien's door. When he opens it, he'll find By with, shockingly, something that is not a bottle of alcohol. Instead: it's a thermos of something. ]

Let me in.

https://i.pinimg.com/originals/fd/a9/e4/fda9e40df85d42c9416d2dce4d14b2b3.gif

[cozen]

[ Bastien’s hand on his hip means his elbow blocks most of the way through the door—beyond which the room is in its usual semi-disarray, saved from outright messiness by the fact that there isn’t much to mess. ]

Say please.

[bouchonne]

[ He looks faintly confused. ]

Ploose?

[cozen]

[ Tilting his head back to demonstrate the movement of his mouth and tongue as clearly as possible— ]

Pleaaaaaase.

[bouchonne]

[ Hesitantly, like a child trying a new word - ]

Puh. Liz.

[cozen]

Très bien, [ Bastien says, with enthusiasm, and carries on speaking Orlesian as he drops his blocking elbow and moves out of the doorway to allow entry: ] We will have you fluent in Trade in no time at all, my lord Ambassador, just you wait.

[bouchonne]

[ Going on in Orlesian: ]

Thank you, my most honored teacher.

[ He comes into the room, shaking the thermos very lightly. ]

Glasses?

[cozen]

[ Bastien hums, turns a circle to survey the room, and—after a detour to toss some stale old water out of his narrow window—holds up a glass in one hand and a mug in the other.

The best he can do. He has the decency to look sheepish. ]

[bouchonne]

[ The fact that he looks sheepish, like By hasn't licked stale lager out of an unwashed tankard, like he has standards, is beyond charming.

Out of the thermos: hot chocolate. Pleasingly, it's the proper stuff, the sort you get in the eastern parts of Orlais, that goes well with fried dainties. He doesn't have any of those, but he does have the drink. ]

[cozen]

Oh.

[ The surprise and delight in that syllable are genuine, and only after a pause followed by exaggeration: a hand on his heart, another on Byerly’s arm for stability lest the scent make him faint dead away etc. ]

Where did it come from? Are we being bribed? —am I being bribed?

[bouchonne]

I'm being bribed. You're reaping the benefits.

[ Worth it, too. A little gift, thrown in to sway the Ambassador; By took the gift, and will decide later about how swayed he is. ]

I couldn't possibly drink it all myself, not and maintain my trim maidenly figure.

[cozen]

Bound to a desk as you are.

[ Bastien squeezes By’s arm—testing for body fat, see—before he releases it and goes to drag the chair he previously agreed to be tied to over to join the less comfortable one at the desk. ]

Will drinking it oblige you to do anything terrible?

[bouchonne]

[ He hums thoughtfully. ]

Sometimes milk makes me gassy. So perhaps fart.

[cozen]

[ His laugh comes mostly through his nose. ]

What horror! If the people learn, reputation might never recover.

[ He takes the less comfortable chair but the larger portion of hot chocolate, without apology. For By’s figure. ]

So I will of course write a song about it.

[bouchonne]

Ah.

[ A sigh. ]

So this is why Bards are truly feared.

[cozen]

Exactly so. The rest is only a distraction from fart songs.

[ He takes a sip and goes limp in the chair, turned to a sweets-loving puddle. ]

Maker.

[bouchonne]

[ By lifts his hand to hide his smile, but it crinkles the corners of his eyes. ]

The perks of corruption.

[ He thinks he could watch Bastien drinking hot chocolate all day. ]

[cozen]

[ What a coincidence! He could watch Byerly fail to hide smiles all day. But not drink hot chocolate. There’s a limit. He’d get sick. ]

I think I can taste the wickedness, [ after a considering second sip. ] And notes of malfeasance. It’s very good.

[bouchonne]

Adds a hint of spice.

[ He smiles. Then the smile grows a little bit less broad, and he says - ]

The other day, I had the most absurd experience.

[cozen]

Yeah? [ Still slumped half-bonelessly in his chair, he puts his feet up on the arm of Byerly's. ] Good absurd or bad absurd?

[bouchonne]

Dreadful absurd.

[ He reaches up and, if Bastien is wearing boots, starts unlacing them. And if he is not wearing boots, By starts rubbing his feet. ]

I felt awkward. At a party.

[cozen]

[ The statement promptly distracts Bastien from trying to decide how to argue, to himself, silently, that foot rubs are platonic. ]

You?

Was it being hosted by Chantry Mothers?

[bouchonne]

I've actually been to festivities hosted by Chantry Mothers. I did all right.

[cozen]

The Qun, then. Assigned a party role when you walk in the door, death if you deviate, and they decided your role was demure wallflower.

[bouchonne]

[ Hm. ]

That actually sounds a bit erotic, doesn't it?

[ weird boners. ]