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[cozen]

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[bouchonne]

[ He gives a skeptical sort of hum. ]

A little slaughter? I really do know a lot of people who deserve it.

[ He takes a piece of bread and nibbles at it like a mouse, all front teeth. ]

But if you insist. We shall upend the social order altogether in Byerland. The sharing of power without the doing of violence first. Unheard of!

[cozen]

Absurd.

[ (c:) ]

And it will be an enormous scandal in Orlais. Their king did what without what?

Reason enough even if it weren’t the right thing.

[bouchonne]

Oooooh, yes.

[ He gives a theatrical shiver of pleasure. ]

I've never managed to hit on something that offends all of the nobility before. No matter what, there've always been a few who've thought, that's not that bad. But this -

[cozen]

[ Pronounced with the sort of relish usually reserved for dirty talk: ]

Paroxysms.

[ He drapes his arm around Byerly’s shoulders in a way that would pass for platonic camaraderie, if someone who knew nothing else about them caught a glimpse. ]

And before they have had time to recover—what next?

[bouchonne]

Education?

[ The fingers circling Bastien's kneecap are decidedly unplatonic. ]

Seems a place to start.

[cozen]

[ A low hum. ]

Are you trying to butter me up, Your Majesty? You should know, I am already buttered.

[bouchonne]

[ He gives a skeptical-sounding noise, then licks Bastien's cheek. Hm. Yes. ]

That's true. Very buttery.

[ Then, less cute: ]

It seems a fine way to make way for other things we'd want to happen, no?

[cozen]

[ It is a mark of truest love and devotion that Bastien does not wipe his cheek dry. ]

Yes. [ Starry-eyed. ] Maybe you could do something with taxes to give everyone an incentive to make sure the children they are responsible for can read.

[bouchonne]

[ A disappointed noise. ]

But I wanted to do the beatings.

[cozen]

[ Snickering, ] Maybe for repeat offenders?

[bouchonne]

I'm hardly even going to become a tyrant with you whispering in my ear. Your heart is too good.

[cozen]

[ Bastien gently pinches By’s shoulder, where his hand is dangling, but he looks a little pleased instead of sad this time. ]

You would never, anyway. Come the next age they will call you King Byerly the Dramatic but Gentle.

[bouchonne]

Do you think so? Not the Mad, or the Perverse, or the Sinister?

[ He looks rather wistfully pleased by the thought. ]

[cozen]

Maybe the Mad... About His Handsome Concubine.

Or Byerly the Perverted in the Very Best and Most Admirable Ways. Were every man so innovative in bed, there would be no more wars. Everyone would be too happy all of the time.

And the Sinister... No, I cannot make that one work.

[ Bastien has to sit on one of his knees, to be close enough to Byerly's height to hug him one-armed into his chest and shoulder, so that's what he does. ]

Anyway, they will mostly call you Byerly the Dramatic but Gentle. They will tell their children: every day when his advisors began bickering, he would look at them and ask, Do I need to hire an executioner? Is that what it takes to get things done around here? But he never did hire one, the softie.

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly laughs warmly into the crook of Bastien's neck. ]

That does sound a bit like me.

[cozen]

Mmhm, [ with lazy, comfortable pride—not pride in his terrible impression, pride in Byerly and his soft, sweet heart.

And his dramatics. Bastien likes them. ]

But I will call you King By the Goatherd, or the Soggy Chicken, or the Most Cherished, or… Can I call you mine?

[ A serious question, not really about some hypothetical royal future. He still sounds comfortable and pleased, not shy and tentative like he might have some months ago, except for the inherent shyness of feeling the need to ask first. ]

When we are alone, you know, and we can know between us that I don’t mean only mine.

[bouchonne]

Yes.

[ Without hesitation. He's still nuzzling against the crook of Bastien's neck, because there's a bit of shyness to him, too, in saying this. But there's no doubt, from the aching sincerity of his voice, that he means it. ]

I am yours. If my soul were drawn from my body, dearest Bastien, it would find its way to you and wrap around your ankles like a purring cat. There is no part of me that is not wholly in your mercy.

[cozen]

[ It'd be invisible with any distance, but pressed this close, there's no disguising the single wave of tension through the muscles in Bastien's neck and chest. But it's not because he's tense, exactly. It's just his body gripping around the urge to laugh or choke or exhale a burst of unexpected relief, all so second-nature to suppress that sometimes it fully substitutes for his first nature. It will still bubble out eventually—perhaps in the lazy afterglow of their inevitable king-and-concubine performance. Then he'll be giddy and reverent, surveying his riches, silky hair to keen mind to good heart to beloved smelly feet. He'll leave a love bite on the back of one of By's knees.

For now he only squeezes him in more firmly, and smiles into his hair, and spends several silent seconds letting the warmth of it spread all the way to his toes. And at the end of them, he says, ]

Your soul would be a cat.

[bouchonne]

[ The tension worries him for a moment. He doesn't have the instinctual knowledge of Bastien that, if all goes right in life, he'll have someday; he feels that and worries he's said something wrong. It takes a moment's reasoning (and the warmth of Bastien cuddling him) to be able to understand that, no, it wasn't bad: that tension was suppression, pressing down a stronger reaction.

To sweet-talk a Bard so well that they physically have to reel themselves in. That's an accomplishment. ]

And yours would be... [ Hm. ] Fox feels almost too easy.

[cozen]

[ Bastien shifts back to smile at him, pleased and preening but also bright-eyed with lingering joy from that sweet-talking. ]

Please?

[ Like his hypothetical animal-mimicking soul will be bound by Byerly’s judgment. It might be. ]

[bouchonne]

[ Maker, he's so cute. ]

Kiss me sweetly.

[cozen]

Ooh, putting me through the gauntlet.

[ Five minutes ago, or five minutes from now, he might have made a joke of it or approached it like a challenge to skillfully construct the sweetest kiss ever seen in Thedas. But By just wrung most of the last lingering droplets of worry out of his heart—the prideful what does it make me if I'm his and he's not mine droplets. So Bastien kisses him artlessly, simply and slowly, exactly how he wants to, like good night or good morning or just because, and like they're never going to run out of time.

He does bite By's mouth a little, though—he's not not horny—before he moves a few inches back to await his soul's judgment. ]

[bouchonne]

Renard.

[ It's whispered tenderly against Bastien's lips. It was a good kiss. It was an honest kiss. Maker, to get an honest kiss out of a Bard - to have Bastien's heart in his hands, to be with him and not a persona he's constructed... ]

My darling fox. So clever. So sly.

[cozen]

[ Bastien does a miniature victorious fist pump. ]

Et mon chaton.

[ He steals another, quicker kiss. Then he stands up, with a staying hand on By's chest to discourage him from following, and crosses the room to dig mysteriously through a cabinet. ]

Or—will you be happy as a cat? The loyal kind, of course. More elegant and independent than a dog, but just as friendly to the right people. The kind who likes to sleep purring on chests and likes to knock things off tables.

But if you would rather be something else, I'll hear you out.

[bouchonne]

[ By laughs, and lounges back, waiting for what will no doubt be a present for him. A well-deserved present. ]

And whose claws come out if you pet them too vigorously, or if you touch their bellies - and who roll around in catmint when you give them some - Yes. I've enough self-awareness to know that cat suits me very well.