(No. Ellis is not a spy, his recent six-month jaunt notwithstanding. It had never occurred to him that there might be a use beyond what he had said once to Wysteria: a ballroom, keeping the names of high society in order.)
But Bastien hadn't posed it as a question, and Ellis' reaction is limited solely to a minor furrow of his brows, there and gone without any accompanying clarification. The conclusion he's drawn is left as is. Just like the accompanying barb is taken in stride, registering without shifting the impassive expression on his face.
"It isn't something that can be given away," is very steady, unwavering as Ellis sweeps ring and chain into his palm.
“Sure,” Bastien says, with mild and uninterested agreeableness, the same way a hungry fellow might want to breeze past commentary on the taste of bread he can’t have. Ellis isn’t going to tell him why it matters. He is—or he was, before correcting Ellis’ impression of him today—good for holding and delivering things. Alright.
(Maybe he is digging up stones to patch the holes in his friend-repelling wall before Ellis goes off again. Maybe.)
Really, it’s a relief to have it done. The ring’s in Ellis’s hand. The rope from his internal tug-o-war lies slack. If the enchantment could help them or couldn’t, if Yseult is going to be cross, if that stone winds up pointing in a direction he’d rather it not, it’s out of his control now. Dealing with things is much easier than deciding them.
His attention goes back to his work, drawing one paper close to his nose to evaluate the penstroke of an O. “Bonne journée,” comes at a distracted delay, with a strained smile, but that’s not as bad a sign as a big fake one would have been.
Ellis parses this for what it is too: a dismissal.
There is some other order of events where Bastien might have said something different, and Ellis might have given something up in the wake of it. Where he might have tread closer to the shape of a true thing, one Bastien has already skirted towards before.
But everything is harder now. (Being here is difficult, however Ellis makes it look otherwise.) And the flow of Bastien's response is a closed door. Ellis doesn't know how to pry at it. He doesn't know if he wants to.
It's been a long time since's it's been in his nature to press a point, to argue in his own defense rather than simply letting go of a thing.
So he settles on "Aye," as a rejoinder, turning on his heel to make for the door.
Bastien doesn’t watch him go. He examines the letter in his hands until he’s alone, and then he stares at a fixed spot on that letter. Ten seconds of nebulous bad feeling. What an asshole mixed with what’s wrong with me. I should apologize and he can fuck off in equal measure. What did Ellis expect. What did Bastien expect. A bit of wonder: the gulf between not really friends and really not friends feels unexpectedly wide.
He puts the letter down. The next one he lifts—Magota Batteux, what an unfortunate name—has the most promise of any so far. Matching loops and angles. Could be her. Look at those As against these triangles. And he’d turn traitor, too, if he’d grown up being called, inevitably, Maggot-a.
He will think more about Ellis later, probably, when he’s run out of things he has a better idea what to do about.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
(No. Ellis is not a spy, his recent six-month jaunt notwithstanding. It had never occurred to him that there might be a use beyond what he had said once to Wysteria: a ballroom, keeping the names of high society in order.)
But Bastien hadn't posed it as a question, and Ellis' reaction is limited solely to a minor furrow of his brows, there and gone without any accompanying clarification. The conclusion he's drawn is left as is. Just like the accompanying barb is taken in stride, registering without shifting the impassive expression on his face.
"It isn't something that can be given away," is very steady, unwavering as Ellis sweeps ring and chain into his palm.
no subject
(Maybe he is digging up stones to patch the holes in his friend-repelling wall before Ellis goes off again. Maybe.)
Really, it’s a relief to have it done. The ring’s in Ellis’s hand. The rope from his internal tug-o-war lies slack. If the enchantment could help them or couldn’t, if Yseult is going to be cross, if that stone winds up pointing in a direction he’d rather it not, it’s out of his control now. Dealing with things is much easier than deciding them.
His attention goes back to his work, drawing one paper close to his nose to evaluate the penstroke of an O. “Bonne journée,” comes at a distracted delay, with a strained smile, but that’s not as bad a sign as a big fake one would have been.
put a bow on this y/n
There is some other order of events where Bastien might have said something different, and Ellis might have given something up in the wake of it. Where he might have tread closer to the shape of a true thing, one Bastien has already skirted towards before.
But everything is harder now. (Being here is difficult, however Ellis makes it look otherwise.) And the flow of Bastien's response is a closed door. Ellis doesn't know how to pry at it. He doesn't know if he wants to.
It's been a long time since's it's been in his nature to press a point, to argue in his own defense rather than simply letting go of a thing.
So he settles on "Aye," as a rejoinder, turning on his heel to make for the door.
no subject
He puts the letter down. The next one he lifts—Magota Batteux, what an unfortunate name—has the most promise of any so far. Matching loops and angles. Could be her. Look at those As against these triangles. And he’d turn traitor, too, if he’d grown up being called, inevitably, Maggot-a.
He will think more about Ellis later, probably, when he’s run out of things he has a better idea what to do about.