[ 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.
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.
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.
[ 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.
[ 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, ]
[ 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.
[ 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. ]
[ 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... ]
[ 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.
[ 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.
[ Bastien glances back to smile: yes, that's By, and he loves it, claws and all. ]
Thank you for letting me touch your soft fluffy belly sometimes. It's a great honor.
[ It's also not entirely a metaphor, at the moment. He comes back to Byerly not with a gift— ☹ —but with a small wooden box of sewing supplies and a penknife. He sinks to sit between Byerly's knees; he slices a button with a fraying thread all the way free. ]
You were going to lose this one, [ he explains as an aside, setting the button on By's thigh, ] the next time someone got excited about removing your shirt.
[ It could wait until the shirt is no longer on Byerly's person. Obviously. But he thinks it's hot, to have sharp things so close to someone's skin but only use them to take care. ]
Anyway, you can't forget falling asleep in the sun and having legs that go every which way. [ He illustrates with his arms (and the knife, before snapping it shut). ] And the pure contrariness of having a feline soul in Ferelden.
[ Yes. This is a gift. Byerly runs his fingers through Bastien's hair as he works, and lightly scratches his scalp, a smile on his lips, the trembling tension of sheer adoration like a taut thread in his chest. ]
You really understand me.
[ Which is phrased wryly, but there's a slight undercurrent of awe in it. To be understood. Not observed, not assumed about, not prodded and pushed. Not judged. Just understood. ]
[ Bastien doesn’t look up from the needle he’s threading, head tilted to encourage the scratching. ]
You let me.
[ With mirrored awe. With gratitude. The situation is different—incredibly different—and he doesn’t think anyone is to blame, but the fact remains that he could never have done what Alexandrie did, in the face of so much resistance. ]
If you had pushed me away, I wouldn’t have pushed back. [ He uses the needle tip to pick loose thread from where the button was before. ] In the beginning. Not now. Now you are trapped forever.
[ Perhaps more aspirational than true. But it would at least require more pushing than Byerly is ever likely to do unless he truly means it. ]
[ He hums in acknowledgment. That is a strange thing, isn't it? He's learned enough about himself, here at Riftwatch, with Bastien and with Alexandrie and with others, to understand that that is something he struggles with - like a bully, pushing the kind ones down into the mud when they start getting too friendly. That he fears seeing kind eyes looking upon his true ugliness, that he fears the moments when gentle curiosity turns into horrified disgust. But he let sweet Bastien see him, and didn't push. Why? ]
You were very sneaky.
[ That's a big part of it. Subtle as a Bard ever was. ]
[ He smooths his own mustache, silly, before settling in to see the button back on, carefully avoiding any pokes. ]
And I wanted to figure you out, and you wanted to figure me out, [ he proposes, ] and there is not much more charming and disarming than feeling interested and interesting at the same time.
[ Bastien’s hands still long enough for him to look up, touched and smiling. He’d always assumed the truth—the truth aside from the murder and blackmail parts, and sometimes even those—would bore anyone who learned it. Not even a properly tragic orphan, behind the curtain.
But he doesn’t for a second doubt that By means it. ]
It’s always felt like the opposite, to me. I think it always will, even we are eighty and repeating ourselves all the time.
[ He ties off the thread for the button, gives it a tug, and offers one of the remaining handful of basic biographical facts he has yet to volunteer, since it’s topical: ]
My father was a tailor. Not a good one—or, I don’t know, maybe he used to be. Maybe he was good for Kaiten.
[ He can’t explain that the hours his father fussed over his clothes, even if it was only because ragged children were a bad advertisement, were some of the only hours he can recall feeling looked-after. But it’s there, wordlessly, while he trims and tucks the thread and gives By’s chest an all done pat. ]
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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.
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But I wanted to do the beatings.
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You would never, anyway. Come the next age they will call you King Byerly the Dramatic but Gentle.
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[ He looks rather wistfully pleased by the thought. ]
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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.
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That does sound a bit like me.
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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.
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[ 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.
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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.
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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.
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Please?
[ Like his hypothetical animal-mimicking soul will be bound by Byerly’s judgment. It might be. ]
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Kiss me sweetly.
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[ 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. ]
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[ 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.
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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.
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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.
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Thank you for letting me touch your soft fluffy belly sometimes. It's a great honor.
[ It's also not entirely a metaphor, at the moment. He comes back to Byerly not with a gift— ☹ —but with a small wooden box of sewing supplies and a penknife. He sinks to sit between Byerly's knees; he slices a button with a fraying thread all the way free. ]
You were going to lose this one, [ he explains as an aside, setting the button on By's thigh, ] the next time someone got excited about removing your shirt.
[ It could wait until the shirt is no longer on Byerly's person. Obviously. But he thinks it's hot, to have sharp things so close to someone's skin but only use them to take care. ]
Anyway, you can't forget falling asleep in the sun and having legs that go every which way. [ He illustrates with his arms (and the knife, before snapping it shut). ] And the pure contrariness of having a feline soul in Ferelden.
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You really understand me.
[ Which is phrased wryly, but there's a slight undercurrent of awe in it. To be understood. Not observed, not assumed about, not prodded and pushed. Not judged. Just understood. ]
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You let me.
[ With mirrored awe. With gratitude. The situation is different—incredibly different—and he doesn’t think anyone is to blame, but the fact remains that he could never have done what Alexandrie did, in the face of so much resistance. ]
If you had pushed me away, I wouldn’t have pushed back. [ He uses the needle tip to pick loose thread from where the button was before. ] In the beginning. Not now. Now you are trapped forever.
[ Perhaps more aspirational than true. But it would at least require more pushing than Byerly is ever likely to do unless he truly means it. ]
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You were very sneaky.
[ That's a big part of it. Subtle as a Bard ever was. ]
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[ He smooths his own mustache, silly, before settling in to see the button back on, carefully avoiding any pokes. ]
And I wanted to figure you out, and you wanted to figure me out, [ he proposes, ] and there is not much more charming and disarming than feeling interested and interesting at the same time.
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[ The shameless petting resumes as Bastien settles back into his work. ]
You were such a delicious mystery that it felt like I got a sovereign back for every silver I spent.
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But he doesn’t for a second doubt that By means it. ]
It’s always felt like the opposite, to me. I think it always will, even we are eighty and repeating ourselves all the time.
[ He ties off the thread for the button, gives it a tug, and offers one of the remaining handful of basic biographical facts he has yet to volunteer, since it’s topical: ]
My father was a tailor. Not a good one—or, I don’t know, maybe he used to be. Maybe he was good for Kaiten.
[ He can’t explain that the hours his father fussed over his clothes, even if it was only because ragged children were a bad advertisement, were some of the only hours he can recall feeling looked-after. But it’s there, wordlessly, while he trims and tucks the thread and gives By’s chest an all done pat. ]
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