[ He relaxes when he sees that lack of concern. A few months ago, he wouldn't have been assuaged, certain instead that Bastien was simply hiding his displeasure. But now, he knows that Bastien makes an effort to show him. To share his thoughts. ]
[ Give you a discount, he nearly says, but Vincent’s name flickers at the edge of his mind again, and Bastien shifts course with barely a hiccup of a pause. ]
—send the bill to Ferelden.
[ There are a number of benefits to having an armful of Byerly. One of them is easier access to his back, which Bastien resumes searching one-handed for lingering strain and tension. ]
It must be hard to, uh... I have thought the same of Alexandrie. The nobles, they are playing the Game for something that never stops mattering. Their names, their families. It is all one game. Every move matters. Every piece you lose stays lost for the rest of your life.
For us—the bards like I was, I mean—it is more like a tournament. We play one game, then we get a fresh board and a new opponent, so as long as we win it doesn’t matter what pieces we have left.
We had our own problems, of course, but I think that part of it must be easier for us. To not be playing one single unending game.
[ Anyway, ]
Your work seems more like that. Everything always matters. You don’t get to say that you protected your country from this or that like you were told to, so you are done and you will worry about it again when they give you something new to do.
[ By reaches out and traces the line of Bastien's cheekbone as he thinks. A moment, and then he agrees - ]
Yes.
[ But: ]
But...If Ferelden fell, or if it swept away all other nations in the world and become like the Tevinter of old, there'd still be work to do. I was hungry for this before I was ever recruited. Because it's not fully about her. [ A little shrug of one shoulder. ] Even if all threats to Ferelden were defeated, this game would continue on.
[ A little wry. A little—not regretful, but something like it, because that’s it for him too. He’s not ready to say so, and maybe he’ll never say it plainly, because the last thing he wants, if that dream had any real prophecy to it and he does go off and get himself stupidly shot in the throat with an arrow sometime, is for Byerly to have anything to use as evidence that it was his fault.
But he thinks it. That as long as By will have him, he’s not going anywhere without him. That Alexandrie, in their private dream, was right.
He turns his head to nudge his mouth against Byerly’s wrist, not quite a kiss, and brightens. ]
Well. I will love you just the same if you grow a beard or if you don’t, but if you do, you have to promise to do it while I can watch it happen. No surprising me with it. And if you want to be a leader or don’t want to be a leader—that’s all fine. Practically chaste... you would have to allow me a mourning period, but we would be alright.
But if you ever start wearing such dull colors, we will have to have a conversation. I don’t care if you are living in a swamp. That’s no excuse.
[ And By smiles, grateful for the jokes, and even more grateful for the understanding. A thumb comes up to smooth his eyebrow. ]
Well, I certainly wouldn't be chaste if you were around. You're irresistible. [ And then, lightly teasing: ] Did you enjoy it a bit, at least? That I was still mooning over you, even years later? Obviously it was all miserable, but it must have been a little flattering to see how bereft I was.
[ Bastien doesn’t stop smiling; he’s just had his eyebrow smoothed and been called irresistible, so how could he. (With acting, that’s how. But he doesn’t want to.)
He shakes his head, though. ]
I didn’t enjoy it.
[ Dreamed or not, it will take more time for the memory of Byerly’s shoulders hitching while he cried to feel unreal and hazy enough not to tighten something in his chest.
And if it’s a compliment, he could peel it apart. It was a dream. It was Byerly imagining how it might feel to lose him after a couple of years, not how he’d feel now. Not how he’d really feel if it happened, with real time to heal.
But he doesn’t want to do that, either. He grins and kneads his thumb knuckle into the muscle of Byerly’s lower back. ]
But now that you mention it, you were pretty hung up on me, weren’t you? How utterly out of character.
[ Bastien hasn’t been keeping account, so he doesn’t realize until the moment after he hears Byerly says it that it’s a first. Not the first I love you, but the first one that isn’t accompanied by fears and doubts about whether it’s love at all, or said in a dream, or shared with someone else. The first one that’s simple.
It feels like a fist unclenching, at least partway, so the thing that was hidden safe and crushed inside it can spread out a bit further in his chest. ]
Thank you.
[ —which is a stupid thing to say, but he means it, and he needs half of his wits just to resist a series of impulses: to pull back into the safety of a joke, like a coward; to say like you said when exactly and pry more words out of Byerly, get everything in me in writing, to make him go first into the dark room (again), also like a coward; and to crash forward, to say I’m breaking my promise, here’s my whole heart, do whatever you like with it—
Not like a coward. But possibly like someone who’s made a life out of being what people want. Who gets tangled in it sometimes. He can’t trust it not to be a lie until he knows he still feels it when he’s alone.
So he nestles closer, and he says what he is sure of, mumbly because his mouth is pressed against Byerly’s forehead: ]
[ And maybe that's silly. Who has a friend - a lover - say they're proud? Those are words that come from a mother or a father. Aren't they?
And yet...By finds that he cares, very deeply, what Bastien thinks. No, Bastien isn't exactly the most morally upright person By knows; he's a Bard, after all. But that doesn't mean that Bastien doesn't have an eye for goodness. He certainly has an eye for skill, for wit, for cleverness. ]
Yeah? What are you proud of?
[ By traces little patterns on Bastien's chest, and tries to pretend his fingertips are beyond fascinating, because he doesn't know what emotion his face is showing right now. ]
[ Bastien doesn’t mind the way Byerly has always squirmed against praise, like an animal covered in burrs and thorns resisting efforts to pull them out. Sad, but charming, too. If tomorrow—or ten seconds from now—he has to be pinned down to be told he’s wonderful, that will be all right.
But it feels like something, that he’s asking instead of ducking away. Holding out one thorny paw. For a moment Bastien is too touched to smile, his chest very still under Byerly’s fidgeting fingers. Then he does smile, faintly, and proceeds with confident fluidity that comes from not needing any time to think about it at all. ]
I’m proud that you are so much yourself, when it might have been easier for you to put your head down and be more of what everyone expected from you. And I’m proud that people without power, who can’t do anything for you, can come to you for help and find it. And when a problem is too big—when it’s the end of the world, or if the problem is the world—I would like to give up, you know. Find a sunny island and let the world do whatever it likes with itself. But you take whatever piece you can get your arms around and you do something about it, and then you pick up another. It makes me want to be more like you.
[ There’s more. But it might be asking a lot from Byerly, to make him listen to all of that in one go, so he lands on something he hopes is easier. ]
And you are one of the finest musicians I have ever heard. Whenever you play or sing I want to tug on everyone’s sleeves and say that’s—
[ my, would be the next word, but he doesn’t know what word would come after it, so instead: ]
—you know he lets me kiss that mouth? Those very fingers.
[ It feels like a poultice on a wound. Because poultices hurt like hell when they're first put on, stinging and throbbing and agonizing, and this is, too. Or perhaps it's not a poultice, perhaps that's not right - perhaps, more accurately, it's a surgery, with Bastien examining those wounds, holding them up to the light and finding all the little bits of shrapnel that need pulling out.
But it's healing. It won't cure anything; infection could still set in quite easily. But his regard maybe makes it easier. Him and Alexandrie both just - they cut away things that fester. Or perhaps point out healthy flesh that he'd mistaken as gangrenous.
Maker, no, he's not a poet. Bad metaphors, all of them. ]
You are - [ He presses those very fingers against Bastien's chest. His heart. ] It is miraculous, I think, that you were born with eyes this keen, and trained to use them to see human weaknesses, and yet you turn them instead to strengths. [ A slight pause as he looks for the words. ] You've remained kind. A hero's labor.
[ It'd be horrible to protest, after Byerly was so quiet and patient all through his speech and didn't once try to correct him. So Bastien doesn't. He only tries to explain: ]
I started too old. She would never have given me a second look if I hadn't looked younger than I was. The clay had started to dry.
[ They're not his words. There was only so much progress she could make with him, she said; he might be good, if he worked hard enough, but he'd never be great. At the time it'd made him hungry. Ravenous. Willing to stretch until he snapped, stitch himself together, and stretch and snap again. But— ]
I'm glad now.
[ He puts his hand over By's to hold it against his skin. ]
[ By's smile, canted up towards Bastien, is half flirtatious and half genuine. ]
But it sounds like the origin of a hero to me. Standing steadfast against his training - absorbing those skills, but retaining his heart. Because his heart is just too strong.
[ Bastien’s looking at the ceiling first, thinking vaguely about the plausibility of that, but the movement of Byerly’s head brings his attention down, and the flirtation in his smile sharpens Bastien’s. ]
Strong enough to rescue a respected old rival from a high tower? [ He pulls Byerly’s hand up from his chest to kiss the backs of his talented fingers. ] Where he is kept by his cruel new master: the Marquis Rabat-Joie d’Obligation.
But for a night they could escape, before the Marquis catches up with them. Flee ashore. Remember the joys of gambling in a smokey room and getting a hand job in a back alley on a clear night.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Don't be ridiculous.
[ By obligingly squirms into his arms. ]
You know I don't have any money.
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[ Give you a discount, he nearly says, but Vincent’s name flickers at the edge of his mind again, and Bastien shifts course with barely a hiccup of a pause. ]
—send the bill to Ferelden.
[ There are a number of benefits to having an armful of Byerly. One of them is easier access to his back, which Bastien resumes searching one-handed for lingering strain and tension. ]
It must be hard to, uh... I have thought the same of Alexandrie. The nobles, they are playing the Game for something that never stops mattering. Their names, their families. It is all one game. Every move matters. Every piece you lose stays lost for the rest of your life.
For us—the bards like I was, I mean—it is more like a tournament. We play one game, then we get a fresh board and a new opponent, so as long as we win it doesn’t matter what pieces we have left.
We had our own problems, of course, but I think that part of it must be easier for us. To not be playing one single unending game.
[ Anyway, ]
Your work seems more like that. Everything always matters. You don’t get to say that you protected your country from this or that like you were told to, so you are done and you will worry about it again when they give you something new to do.
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Yes.
[ But: ]
But...If Ferelden fell, or if it swept away all other nations in the world and become like the Tevinter of old, there'd still be work to do. I was hungry for this before I was ever recruited. Because it's not fully about her. [ A little shrug of one shoulder. ] Even if all threats to Ferelden were defeated, this game would continue on.
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[ A little wry. A little—not regretful, but something like it, because that’s it for him too. He’s not ready to say so, and maybe he’ll never say it plainly, because the last thing he wants, if that dream had any real prophecy to it and he does go off and get himself stupidly shot in the throat with an arrow sometime, is for Byerly to have anything to use as evidence that it was his fault.
But he thinks it. That as long as By will have him, he’s not going anywhere without him. That Alexandrie, in their private dream, was right.
He turns his head to nudge his mouth against Byerly’s wrist, not quite a kiss, and brightens. ]
Well. I will love you just the same if you grow a beard or if you don’t, but if you do, you have to promise to do it while I can watch it happen. No surprising me with it. And if you want to be a leader or don’t want to be a leader—that’s all fine. Practically chaste... you would have to allow me a mourning period, but we would be alright.
But if you ever start wearing such dull colors, we will have to have a conversation. I don’t care if you are living in a swamp. That’s no excuse.
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Well, I certainly wouldn't be chaste if you were around. You're irresistible. [ And then, lightly teasing: ] Did you enjoy it a bit, at least? That I was still mooning over you, even years later? Obviously it was all miserable, but it must have been a little flattering to see how bereft I was.
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He shakes his head, though. ]
I didn’t enjoy it.
[ Dreamed or not, it will take more time for the memory of Byerly’s shoulders hitching while he cried to feel unreal and hazy enough not to tighten something in his chest.
And if it’s a compliment, he could peel it apart. It was a dream. It was Byerly imagining how it might feel to lose him after a couple of years, not how he’d feel now. Not how he’d really feel if it happened, with real time to heal.
But he doesn’t want to do that, either. He grins and kneads his thumb knuckle into the muscle of Byerly’s lower back. ]
But now that you mention it, you were pretty hung up on me, weren’t you? How utterly out of character.
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[ The smile gentles from Byerly. He tips his head down. He seems awkward. And yet he permits this: ]
Like I said. I love you.
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It feels like a fist unclenching, at least partway, so the thing that was hidden safe and crushed inside it can spread out a bit further in his chest. ]
Thank you.
[ —which is a stupid thing to say, but he means it, and he needs half of his wits just to resist a series of impulses: to pull back into the safety of a joke, like a coward; to say like you said when exactly and pry more words out of Byerly, get everything in me in writing, to make him go first into the dark room (again), also like a coward; and to crash forward, to say I’m breaking my promise, here’s my whole heart, do whatever you like with it—
Not like a coward. But possibly like someone who’s made a life out of being what people want. Who gets tangled in it sometimes. He can’t trust it not to be a lie until he knows he still feels it when he’s alone.
So he nestles closer, and he says what he is sure of, mumbly because his mouth is pressed against Byerly’s forehead: ]
I love you, too. And I’m proud of you.
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And yet...By finds that he cares, very deeply, what Bastien thinks. No, Bastien isn't exactly the most morally upright person By knows; he's a Bard, after all. But that doesn't mean that Bastien doesn't have an eye for goodness. He certainly has an eye for skill, for wit, for cleverness. ]
Yeah? What are you proud of?
[ By traces little patterns on Bastien's chest, and tries to pretend his fingertips are beyond fascinating, because he doesn't know what emotion his face is showing right now. ]
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But it feels like something, that he’s asking instead of ducking away. Holding out one thorny paw. For a moment Bastien is too touched to smile, his chest very still under Byerly’s fidgeting fingers. Then he does smile, faintly, and proceeds with confident fluidity that comes from not needing any time to think about it at all. ]
I’m proud that you are so much yourself, when it might have been easier for you to put your head down and be more of what everyone expected from you. And I’m proud that people without power, who can’t do anything for you, can come to you for help and find it. And when a problem is too big—when it’s the end of the world, or if the problem is the world—I would like to give up, you know. Find a sunny island and let the world do whatever it likes with itself. But you take whatever piece you can get your arms around and you do something about it, and then you pick up another. It makes me want to be more like you.
[ There’s more. But it might be asking a lot from Byerly, to make him listen to all of that in one go, so he lands on something he hopes is easier. ]
And you are one of the finest musicians I have ever heard. Whenever you play or sing I want to tug on everyone’s sleeves and say that’s—
[ my, would be the next word, but he doesn’t know what word would come after it, so instead: ]
—you know he lets me kiss that mouth? Those very fingers.
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But it's healing. It won't cure anything; infection could still set in quite easily. But his regard maybe makes it easier. Him and Alexandrie both just - they cut away things that fester. Or perhaps point out healthy flesh that he'd mistaken as gangrenous.
Maker, no, he's not a poet. Bad metaphors, all of them. ]
You are - [ He presses those very fingers against Bastien's chest. His heart. ] It is miraculous, I think, that you were born with eyes this keen, and trained to use them to see human weaknesses, and yet you turn them instead to strengths. [ A slight pause as he looks for the words. ] You've remained kind. A hero's labor.
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I started too old. She would never have given me a second look if I hadn't looked younger than I was. The clay had started to dry.
[ They're not his words. There was only so much progress she could make with him, she said; he might be good, if he worked hard enough, but he'd never be great. At the time it'd made him hungry. Ravenous. Willing to stretch until he snapped, stitch himself together, and stretch and snap again. But— ]
I'm glad now.
[ He puts his hand over By's to hold it against his skin. ]
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[ By's smile, canted up towards Bastien, is half flirtatious and half genuine. ]
But it sounds like the origin of a hero to me. Standing steadfast against his training - absorbing those skills, but retaining his heart. Because his heart is just too strong.
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Strong enough to rescue a respected old rival from a high tower? [ He pulls Byerly’s hand up from his chest to kiss the backs of his talented fingers. ] Where he is kept by his cruel new master: the Marquis Rabat-Joie d’Obligation.
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[ He smiles privately to himself. ]
Twists him up in a geas that makes him throw himself also at hopeless causes.
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But for a night they could escape, before the Marquis catches up with them. Flee ashore. Remember the joys of gambling in a smokey room and getting a hand job in a back alley on a clear night.