Do not say he has lovely hair, say wondrous. Do you think the sea is the only view I come here for? I invited you entirely so you might see and I might have cause to continue to speak to—
[ abruptly she makes a sort of shushing noise with the sort of dramatic abandon that means— ]
Ah! Two Antivan coffees if you will, one of those late season strawberry tarts, and one of those wonderful little chocolate ones. Oui! With the cream and the little shavings.
[ back to the very inefficacious “whisper”: ]
How can I come to this cafe anymore, now he knows I am looking!
When you get here, we can see which one of us he tries hardest not to look at.
[ Speaking of when he gets there; Alexandrie is, as usual, a beacon of white and copper (featuring the return of shawls against the crispness of the air) at the table she's chosen out in the sun (with an umbrella, of course). She waves a handkerchief when she spots him, having been keeping watch. ]
[ Bastien, dressed greys and a little blue and the muted style that lets him not particularly stand out no matter what level of the city he’s in, smiles when he sees her.
He would smile whether he meant it or not, of course, but he does. (There’s a weight, not a pain, and he can feel more than one thing at a time.) Before he sits he stops alongside her chair to hold out a hand for hers—to kiss the back, if she’ll play along, with a friendly peck that’s not a nearly so daring as a hug. ]
It will be you, [ he says, mindful of the volume this time. ] Even if we were not embarrassing him. It is like looking into the sun.
[ The hand is duly offered, as is the requisite entirely false fluttering modesty at his flattery. She gestures grandly to the seat across from her, and their new favourite waiter will appear shortly thereafter. He still looks a bit melancholic, but given the way his step has a bit more verve and the placement of the coffees and sweets accomplished with somewhat more flourishing ceremony than absolutely necessary, that may simply be his face. A small crisp bow— including a "surreptitious" look at the lady which she "surreptitiously" returns and then quickly looks away from— and off he goes.
She presses her lips together and gives Bastien the international "I'm not going to laugh but—" look while daintily retrieving her drink, blowing into the steam to amuse herself with its shifting. ]
You know, I absolutely abhorred this style of coffee once.
[ He takes a deep breath of his own steam, for the scent, with contentment that’s half for the coffee and half for their having soothed Serah Sadface’s hurt feelings. ]
Did you acquire the taste with practice or come to your senses all at once?
[ Bastien smiles and gives a wobbly half-agreeing sort of nod. He loves it alone, but it certainly isn’t harmed by contrast with something sweeter. ]
I hope he is doing well, [ he says, instead of asking whether he is, to leave her the option of keeping quiet without lying. ] And your journey back was calm?
[ She hopes so too. Very much. And so she will take the offered escape and smile as if it were a casual rhetorical well-wishing, and moves on. ]
It was, save that it began to rain a day before we made port and it was disagreeable and did not stop as it ought have to allow me to be like the sun instead of wrapped up in a travelling cloak.
[ He’s waited as long as he’s willing to for the coffee to cool, which is fortunately long enough. It doesn’t scald. ]
Thank you for this. You are right, it is a perfect day. And this looks amazing.
[ The pastry, he means, which he prods but doesn’t yet taste. Instead he asks a few more questions—about Antiva, the state of things there, the mood in the street, opinions on the war, nothing exciting—before arriving at more important business. ]
So. Our project, which is unfortunately not secret. Although I did refuse to name you—of course he knows anyway, but you could get away with being coy about it if you like.
Edited (being less useless and progression, SORRY) 2020-09-24 21:49 (UTC)
[ A flip of her hand for "making it work" that could either mean of course I did or it was terrible and I don't want to talk about it ever again. ]
Perhaps I will be coy and see if he lets me.
[ Her sip is shortly followed by a small bite of strawberry tart, which serves to both improve the coffee and give her a little time to think before she responds. ]
I admit, I have little experience planning intimate affairs that are not, shall we say, intimate affairs.
[ Raised eyebrows over another sip that chases after the remaining taste of sugared fruit. Small quiet gatherings had been for subterfuge until she had made her first true friends, and after that if she wished quiet she had preferred to meet with people alone, each relationship in a little separate box; parcels of curated truth. ]
[ Bastien nods and has to swallow (slowly, savoring) before he says, ]
Yes, that sounds clever. So we know who are working with.
[ He might have brought something to write with, if he'd planned to be here, doing this, but it would have only been for show, so he could play the fussy secretary. He'll remember without one. Alexandrie surely will too. ]
[ A pause then, as she looks down to offer her plate a small smile. To chase a crumb around it with the tip of a tine, careful not to let the fork touch the porcelain. After ushering it in a careful circle: ]
I think you have been a far better friend to him than I have these years.
[ She turns the smile on Bastien and dips her chin in acknowledgement of that pride of place; a little seated curtsy. ]
I do not know if he keeps other truly amiable company. Is there anyone else you know of?
[ Bastien wrinkles his nose a little at the acknowledgment—in a friendly, what can you do sort of way—and then hums. ]
That is everyone I know he keeps comfortable company with, without watching his step so much.
[ As of now. Alexandrie is obviously a new addition to the list—he assumes. Perhaps Byerly still watches his step with her. As of this moment in the timeline, Bastien hasn’t seen them together. But he’s comfortable making the assumption. ]
Perhaps not everyone he might have a good time with. [ He cuts into his pastry, finally, with the bite balanced on his fork instead of eating it. ] Jenny Lou, for example. She adores him, and she would probably love the chance to participate, but I think he is—you know. Careful.
We could always do more than one thing. Invite a bigger list for just a drink, or something that will not drag on all night, and then a more private dinner.
[ A considering hum for that. Her forehead wrinkles; a tiny line of thought. ]
What think you of the few of us meeting wherever it is we meet for 'something that will not drag on all night' slightly earlier than those on the larger list? Then we shall all be comfortable to begin with, with an expected return to—
[ She cuts herself off with an interjection that's as much aggrieved huff as word, ]
Alors, je me prends pour qui— it is less than a month and I mantle wings over him and hiss and snap at... [ Exasperated with herself, she picks up her fork and gestures emphatically with it, ] shadows of shadows.
[ Thinning her lips, she wiggles a strawberry back and forth until it is free from the crust and then lets it sit and stick itself back down with a quiet sigh. ]
[ A smile for that, while he chews his long-delayed chocolate. It's a little smaller than his usual, but fonder for it. As she wrote: they know one true thing of each other. ]
No, [ he says once he's swallowed, ] I think you are right. Not that either of us have to right to fuss over him like he is a child, but he asked for something quiet. We know he would not be shy about saying so if he wanted something loud. So quiet is what he should have. Honestly, I cannot think of a better gift for anyone than a room of people they do not have to pretend for.
[ Having not received outside aid in chiding herself for being overbearing— not that Bastien would have shown it, even if he had thought her so— Alexandrie slicks her ruffled feathers back into place and nods. ]
A rare gift indeed.
[ For anyone, really. She reacquires the strawberry she'd been fussing with and eats it, thinking again. ]
Does Lady Rutyer play an instrument? She is well-born, she must, no?
I shall ask Lady Barra if she has, and you may ask...
[ s i g h ]
I ought to ask Lady Rutyer. It would perhaps be...
[ Her glance to the heavens is more of a glance to the umbrella. Its fringe wafts innocently in the breeze, unworried by things like the interpersonal relationships between immensely-flirtatious-apparently-lesbian-wives and envious-former-lovers-who-refuse-to-admit-that's-why-they're-being-catty. ]
genteel of me to make an effort to...
Elle me casse le fan! [ Immediately illustrated by the swift displeased snap of Alexandrie's fan opening to flutter crossly for a moment before she thwacks it shut again against her hand. ] If I go to make peace between us she is going to be smug at me and I shall have to endure it patiently.
[ Bastien—whose absent surname is perhaps Endurance, but middle name certainly not Patient—grins for a moment, sympathetic and charmed. And close-mouthed, because he’s swallowing some pastry. ]
—worth it, though, don’t you think?
[ For Byerly.
Still: ]
We could ask them both together if you’d prefer. Use the crystals so you can do whatever you like with your face.
[ It is, really. Kind. She had tried, at the beginning, to make of Sidony an amiable acquaintance— she had not had friends, then— but she had begun to soften, and the Lady Venaras had stayed sharp and careless and, unforgivably, would not deign to caretake Alexandrie's tentative new fragility at all. And then she had been Lady Rutyer, and so deeply and obviously important to Byerly that the very sound of her voice had made Alexandrie want to grind glass with her teeth.
They had stopped seeking each other's company.
She picks up her coffee cup just to have something to hold and presses her lips together, looking mildly miserable. ]
I do not like to pretend that things do not matter to me anymore, when they do.
[ For a moment—it isn't resentment. Just a moment of grim humor, an unspoken comment on the irony, that he's found himself talking to Alexandrie about how to handle someone whose place in Byerly Rutyer's life she might envy.
It passes. ]
Perhaps if you are forthright about that, she will take it well. She is Nevarran. But—I do not know her very well. Byerly might have advice for you, now that you're in a better position to ask him.
[ Alexandrie smiles wryly into her coffee and sips it, letting it be bitter and unmitigated on her tongue. Raises eyebrows and shoulders and then drops them. ]
But I do not like to tell the truth about the things that matter to me either. Not to anyone who I do not think will hold it softly.
[ And then she is examining him curiously over the rim of the cup with the hawkish interest she has when people do something that makes her want to pick them up and turn them around in her hands to see if she can figure out how they work. ]
Have you always listened like an heirloom trunk in the attic, or were you taught?
[ Not to be too difficult. There's good humor in his eyes, not feigned confusion about her meaning, while he sticks his fork into his pastry carefully enough that it can stand straight up without being held.
Hand thus free for a careless little gesture, he answers honestly: ] I don't know. Some of both. Perhaps you could say cultivated.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Do not say he has lovely hair, say wondrous. Do you think the sea is the only view I come here for? I invited you entirely so you might see and I might have cause to continue to speak to—
[ abruptly she makes a sort of shushing noise with the sort of dramatic abandon that means— ]
Ah! Two Antivan coffees if you will, one of those late season strawberry tarts, and one of those wonderful little chocolate ones. Oui! With the cream and the little shavings.
[ back to the very inefficacious “whisper”: ]
How can I come to this cafe anymore, now he knows I am looking!
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You will have to change your name and dye your hair. It is the only thing.
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[ Speaking of when he gets there; Alexandrie is, as usual, a beacon of white and copper (featuring the return of shawls against the crispness of the air) at the table she's chosen out in the sun (with an umbrella, of course). She waves a handkerchief when she spots him, having been keeping watch. ]
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He would smile whether he meant it or not, of course, but he does. (There’s a weight, not a pain, and he can feel more than one thing at a time.) Before he sits he stops alongside her chair to hold out a hand for hers—to kiss the back, if she’ll play along, with a friendly peck that’s not a nearly so daring as a hug. ]
It will be you, [ he says, mindful of the volume this time. ] Even if we were not embarrassing him. It is like looking into the sun.
[ You look nice is for Marchers. ]
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She presses her lips together and gives Bastien the international "I'm not going to laugh but—" look while daintily retrieving her drink, blowing into the steam to amuse herself with its shifting. ]
You know, I absolutely abhorred this style of coffee once.
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[ He takes a deep breath of his own steam, for the scent, with contentment that’s half for the coffee and half for their having soothed Serah Sadface’s hurt feelings. ]
Did you acquire the taste with practice or come to your senses all at once?
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My lord favors it, and so acquiring the taste was rendered necessary.
[ Or post-coffee morning kisses would have been forever awful.
A few things flit across her face: fondness, her own light melancholy, the re-establishment of the smile. ]
But it is still a little bitter for my tastes without something sweet to accompany it.
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I hope he is doing well, [ he says, instead of asking whether he is, to leave her the option of keeping quiet without lying. ] And your journey back was calm?
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It was, save that it began to rain a day before we made port and it was disagreeable and did not stop as it ought have to allow me to be like the sun instead of wrapped up in a travelling cloak.
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[ He’s waited as long as he’s willing to for the coffee to cool, which is fortunately long enough. It doesn’t scald. ]
Thank you for this. You are right, it is a perfect day. And this looks amazing.
[ The pastry, he means, which he prods but doesn’t yet taste. Instead he asks a few more questions—about Antiva, the state of things there, the mood in the street, opinions on the war, nothing exciting—before arriving at more important business. ]
So. Our project, which is unfortunately not secret. Although I did refuse to name you—of course he knows anyway, but you could get away with being coy about it if you like.
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Perhaps I will be coy and see if he lets me.
[ Her sip is shortly followed by a small bite of strawberry tart, which serves to both improve the coffee and give her a little time to think before she responds. ]
I admit, I have little experience planning intimate affairs that are not, shall we say, intimate affairs.
[ Raised eyebrows over another sip that chases after the remaining taste of sugared fruit. Small quiet gatherings had been for subterfuge until she had made her first true friends, and after that if she wished quiet she had preferred to meet with people alone, each relationship in a little separate box; parcels of curated truth. ]
Perhaps a guest list, first?
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Yes, that sounds clever. So we know who are working with.
[ He might have brought something to write with, if he'd planned to be here, doing this, but it would have only been for show, so he could play the fussy secretary. He'll remember without one. Alexandrie surely will too. ]
Us, of course. Lady Barra. And his wife.
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[ A pause then, as she looks down to offer her plate a small smile. To chase a crumb around it with the tip of a tine, careful not to let the fork touch the porcelain. After ushering it in a careful circle: ]
I think you have been a far better friend to him than I have these years.
[ She turns the smile on Bastien and dips her chin in acknowledgement of that pride of place; a little seated curtsy. ]
I do not know if he keeps other truly amiable company. Is there anyone else you know of?
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That is everyone I know he keeps comfortable company with, without watching his step so much.
[ As of now. Alexandrie is obviously a new addition to the list—he assumes. Perhaps Byerly still watches his step with her. As of this moment in the timeline, Bastien hasn’t seen them together. But he’s comfortable making the assumption. ]
Perhaps not everyone he might have a good time with. [ He cuts into his pastry, finally, with the bite balanced on his fork instead of eating it. ] Jenny Lou, for example. She adores him, and she would probably love the chance to participate, but I think he is—you know. Careful.
We could always do more than one thing. Invite a bigger list for just a drink, or something that will not drag on all night, and then a more private dinner.
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What think you of the few of us meeting wherever it is we meet for 'something that will not drag on all night' slightly earlier than those on the larger list? Then we shall all be comfortable to begin with, with an expected return to—
[ She cuts herself off with an interjection that's as much aggrieved huff as word, ]
Alors, je me prends pour qui— it is less than a month and I mantle wings over him and hiss and snap at... [ Exasperated with herself, she picks up her fork and gestures emphatically with it, ] shadows of shadows.
[ Thinning her lips, she wiggles a strawberry back and forth until it is free from the crust and then lets it sit and stick itself back down with a quiet sigh. ]
He is not a child, and I have little right.
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No, [ he says once he's swallowed, ] I think you are right. Not that either of us have to right to fuss over him like he is a child, but he asked for something quiet. We know he would not be shy about saying so if he wanted something loud. So quiet is what he should have. Honestly, I cannot think of a better gift for anyone than a room of people they do not have to pretend for.
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A rare gift indeed.
[ For anyone, really. She reacquires the strawberry she'd been fussing with and eats it, thinking again. ]
Does Lady Rutyer play an instrument? She is well-born, she must, no?
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[ He likes Sidony, Nevarran or not. ]
And Lady Barra does not. I bought her a flute to try to learn, but I'm not sure if she has made any progress with it.
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[ s i g h ]
I ought to ask Lady Rutyer. It would perhaps be...
[ Her glance to the heavens is more of a glance to the umbrella. Its fringe wafts innocently in the breeze, unworried by things like the interpersonal relationships between immensely-flirtatious-apparently-lesbian-wives and envious-former-lovers-who-refuse-to-admit-that's-why-they're-being-catty. ]
genteel of me to make an effort to...
Elle me casse le fan! [ Immediately illustrated by the swift displeased snap of Alexandrie's fan opening to flutter crossly for a moment before she thwacks it shut again against her hand. ] If I go to make peace between us she is going to be smug at me and I shall have to endure it patiently.
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—worth it, though, don’t you think?
[ For Byerly.
Still: ]
We could ask them both together if you’d prefer. Use the crystals so you can do whatever you like with your face.
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[ It is, really. Kind. She had tried, at the beginning, to make of Sidony an amiable acquaintance— she had not had friends, then— but she had begun to soften, and the Lady Venaras had stayed sharp and careless and, unforgivably, would not deign to caretake Alexandrie's tentative new fragility at all. And then she had been Lady Rutyer, and so deeply and obviously important to Byerly that the very sound of her voice had made Alexandrie want to grind glass with her teeth.
They had stopped seeking each other's company.
She picks up her coffee cup just to have something to hold and presses her lips together, looking mildly miserable. ]
I do not like to pretend that things do not matter to me anymore, when they do.
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It passes. ]
Perhaps if you are forthright about that, she will take it well. She is Nevarran. But—I do not know her very well. Byerly might have advice for you, now that you're in a better position to ask him.
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[ Alexandrie smiles wryly into her coffee and sips it, letting it be bitter and unmitigated on her tongue. Raises eyebrows and shoulders and then drops them. ]
But I do not like to tell the truth about the things that matter to me either. Not to anyone who I do not think will hold it softly.
[ And then she is examining him curiously over the rim of the cup with the hawkish interest she has when people do something that makes her want to pick them up and turn them around in her hands to see if she can figure out how they work. ]
Have you always listened like an heirloom trunk in the attic, or were you taught?
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[ Not to be too difficult. There's good humor in his eyes, not feigned confusion about her meaning, while he sticks his fork into his pastry carefully enough that it can stand straight up without being held.
Hand thus free for a careless little gesture, he answers honestly: ] I don't know. Some of both. Perhaps you could say cultivated.
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A box you find secreted beneath the floorboards by the last tenant of the room you rented, then, filled with their memories.
[ Her fork falls down, and she laughs quietly; the strawberries are not so good at holding as the chocolate.
Then: ]
Do you think it curse or blessing to have been so cultivated?
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