[ 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. ]
[ Ah. The care takes on a sudden new dimension. Not just a sweet gesture, and not anything suggestive (because it had been a remarkably chaste act, considering what it's usually like when one of them is kneeling) - instead, an act of care. An act of deep and profound and heartfelt care. ]
I made my clothes. Mine and Nadine's. Not from scratch, mostly by repurposing what was in storage, but -
[ Maybe it's part of the reason he's such a peacock now. The reason he loves to buy new things, even with his meager cash, and then discard them soon as he's able. He didn't ever have a mother or a father sewing the buttons back on - he had to learn for himself. The height of luxury, to toss torn things aside, instead of using the daylight hours to mend and alter with awkward and uneven stitches.
But what a pleasure it is to be taken care of.
He tugs at Bastien's lapels, pulling him up. Kisses him warmly on the lips, hand caressing his lovely cheekbone. ]
[ The way he says it, it sounds almost more like a thank you back. For getting it. For letting him. He’s not surprised to learn Byerly was on his own in this, too—not after the sight of his sweet little raggedy ghost.
So Lady Sidony and Alexandrie can keep him in fine clothes and beautiful embroidery, if all goes well and the war ever ends, and they can liberate silk from the overstuffed closets of the wealthy, and this is the part of it that Bastien can do: little pieces, kept in place. Rich or horribly poor or (most likely) getting by alright but oppressed in his clothes-tossing habits by Bastien’s tyrannical budget—Byerly will never have a tattered hem again.
Bastien keeps his head where it is and slides his legs up and around to kneel over By’s thighs, arms looped around his shoulders, enjoying another opportunity to be the tall one for a minute or two. ]
[ There's a bit of tension that creeps into Byerly at the question. Not bad tension, per se - there isn't a sense that Bastien shouldn't have asked the question - but still. He's tense, even as his arms come up to encircle Bastien's waist. ]
[ You will, he wants to say. He believes it with all of his heart and half of his brain. The other half of his brain thinks maybe Byerly won’t, and if Bastien keeps saying you will, you will forever, it will make it worse.
So: ]
It's a long way for a letter to travel, mon roi vaillant. And whatever happens, it will be alright.
[ He lowers his head, forehead to Byerly’s hairline, and looks down at the planes of his cheeks and nose and his long eyelashes. Bastien can feel the new tightness in his shoulders. All that love, all those years of care and protection, all bound to a piece of paper that could be in his sister’s hands, or in the sea, or anywhere in Thedas. So if he doesn’t ever hear back, Bastien will interfere. At minimum he'll interfere enough to be sure it's intentional, that no letters were lost, because what sister in her right mind wouldn't want a brother like Byerly—or maybe he'll interfere more, and By can be cross with him if he wants to be. But he hopes he hears back. ]
[ It's a little bit agreement. It's more reassurance - a quiet murmur to himself, something he's been telling himself to keep his courage up. It will be all right - Maker, he hopes it will be all right - because Nadine was always forgiving, always supportive. And because in the past few years, By has shakily offered his heart to more than one person, and instead of tearing the tender little muscle to shreds they've beheld it like a treasure. It's the sort of thing that builds a bit of bravery. ]
I won't throw myself into the sea. No matter what happens. I promise.
[ Bastien kisses his forehead—something he does plenty, dropping off this or that at Byerly's desk, but enjoys every time—and sits back a little further to smile at him. ]
Do you remember the first night you stayed in my bed? [ He better. ] You said you were going to throw yourself into the harbor. After that, that's when I knew for sure that I loved you. I thought I might, before, but if you could be that miserable and unruly and I still just wanted to be near you—no question.
[ Bastien slides his hand into Byerly’s hair to keep him where he is, and he huffs; it’s half a laugh, half a sigh, because he should have realized he was setting himself up to admit hypocrisy. ]
No. I don’t even know if they’re there. And I.
[ An explanation squirms around in his chest, but it’s another feeling he doesn’t have words for. What comes out instead is an adjacent anecdote: ]
I heard my father. In that castle, with the spirits. I didn’t see him, I just—that’s how it happened for real, too, the last time. I heard him talking, so I hid until he was gone. He told my friends to tell me to go home, because they were leaving, and they weren’t going to wait.
But he’d been saying we were going to leave for years, and we never had, so I thought– [ with a voice like an eye roll ] —sure, alright.
Your wife, and Barrow. But he was speaking his shitty Orlesian.
[ There’s fondness in that descriptor. And regret. It embarrassed him when he was a child—he would jump in to talk for his father, to the locals, impatient and humiliated when when he struggled with conjugation and declension—but hearing it again felt like a hand wrapping directly around his heart. ]
They didn’t understand. I acted like I didn’t know what it was.
[ A small nod. That was the heart of the question: how did you react? When it came down to it, what was the story you needed to tell? And the answer is, apparently: to deny it, to silence it.
[ Bastien catches Byerly’s hand on his face and holds it there, a moment of perplexity at the question segueing into a grateful little smile when he realizes By’s trying to help him work through it. ]
I missed him. I didn’t think I did, but I do. But I was—
[ He has to circle it. ]
I don’t blame them. I left first. I hadn’t been home in months. The last time I saw my sister in the market, I told her I was never going back. And I was a third of their income, at least. They probably couldn’t afford to live for long without me.
[ All true. But this is why he’s afraid to be difficult, to make demands, to ever require patience from anyone he doesn’t want to lose. This lesson that he would. That if he was hard to love then even the people most obligated to love him wouldn’t be able to keep doing it.
But Byerly said he was difficult. Tricky, and worth it. That’s enough of a solid foundation for him to stand on, to reach the kernel of anger at the center of the tangle and say, ]
It’s only, they could have waited a little longer.
[ Oh, my Bastien. Byerly's hand tightens on Bastien's a moment, tightens nearly to the point of pain for a moment before Byerly makes himself relax. But the emotion still shines through on his face - a glimmer of grief he can't suppress before it shows up. ]
A child - tries things out. Runs away and reappears. Says they'll disappear forever and then slinks back home.
Parents don't have that right. They owe you more.
[ Then, roughly: ]
I think they were bastards. I've thought they were bastards since you first told me anything about what they did.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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I made my clothes. Mine and Nadine's. Not from scratch, mostly by repurposing what was in storage, but -
[ Maybe it's part of the reason he's such a peacock now. The reason he loves to buy new things, even with his meager cash, and then discard them soon as he's able. He didn't ever have a mother or a father sewing the buttons back on - he had to learn for himself. The height of luxury, to toss torn things aside, instead of using the daylight hours to mend and alter with awkward and uneven stitches.
But what a pleasure it is to be taken care of.
He tugs at Bastien's lapels, pulling him up. Kisses him warmly on the lips, hand caressing his lovely cheekbone. ]
Thank you.
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[ The way he says it, it sounds almost more like a thank you back. For getting it. For letting him. He’s not surprised to learn Byerly was on his own in this, too—not after the sight of his sweet little raggedy ghost.
So Lady Sidony and Alexandrie can keep him in fine clothes and beautiful embroidery, if all goes well and the war ever ends, and they can liberate silk from the overstuffed closets of the wealthy, and this is the part of it that Bastien can do: little pieces, kept in place. Rich or horribly poor or (most likely) getting by alright but oppressed in his clothes-tossing habits by Bastien’s tyrannical budget—Byerly will never have a tattered hem again.
Bastien keeps his head where it is and slides his legs up and around to kneel over By’s thighs, arms looped around his shoulders, enjoying another opportunity to be the tall one for a minute or two. ]
Have you written to her yet?
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[ There's a bit of tension that creeps into Byerly at the question. Not bad tension, per se - there isn't a sense that Bastien shouldn't have asked the question - but still. He's tense, even as his arms come up to encircle Bastien's waist. ]
I haven't heard back yet.
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So: ]
It's a long way for a letter to travel, mon roi vaillant. And whatever happens, it will be alright.
[ He lowers his head, forehead to Byerly’s hairline, and looks down at the planes of his cheeks and nose and his long eyelashes. Bastien can feel the new tightness in his shoulders. All that love, all those years of care and protection, all bound to a piece of paper that could be in his sister’s hands, or in the sea, or anywhere in Thedas. So if he doesn’t ever hear back, Bastien will interfere. At minimum he'll interfere enough to be sure it's intentional, that no letters were lost, because what sister in her right mind wouldn't want a brother like Byerly—or maybe he'll interfere more, and By can be cross with him if he wants to be. But he hopes he hears back. ]
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[ It's a little bit agreement. It's more reassurance - a quiet murmur to himself, something he's been telling himself to keep his courage up. It will be all right - Maker, he hopes it will be all right - because Nadine was always forgiving, always supportive. And because in the past few years, By has shakily offered his heart to more than one person, and instead of tearing the tender little muscle to shreds they've beheld it like a treasure. It's the sort of thing that builds a bit of bravery. ]
I won't throw myself into the sea. No matter what happens. I promise.
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Do you remember the first night you stayed in my bed? [ He better. ] You said you were going to throw yourself into the harbor. After that, that's when I knew for sure that I loved you. I thought I might, before, but if you could be that miserable and unruly and I still just wanted to be near you—no question.
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I don't remember that, specifically. But it sounds like me.
[ He leans forward, touching that forehead against Bastien's shoulder. To be tolerated even when you are a monster...Yes. That's love. ]
I'm glad I didn't. I would have missed out on something wonderful.
[ Then, a moment, and - ]
Have you reached out to your family?
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No. I don’t even know if they’re there. And I.
[ An explanation squirms around in his chest, but it’s another feeling he doesn’t have words for. What comes out instead is an adjacent anecdote: ]
I heard my father. In that castle, with the spirits. I didn’t see him, I just—that’s how it happened for real, too, the last time. I heard him talking, so I hid until he was gone. He told my friends to tell me to go home, because they were leaving, and they weren’t going to wait.
But he’d been saying we were going to leave for years, and we never had, so I thought– [ with a voice like an eye roll ] —sure, alright.
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Did anyone see this memory? Anyone besides you?
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[ There’s fondness in that descriptor. And regret. It embarrassed him when he was a child—he would jump in to talk for his father, to the locals, impatient and humiliated when when he struggled with conjugation and declension—but hearing it again felt like a hand wrapping directly around his heart. ]
They didn’t understand. I acted like I didn’t know what it was.
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He strokes the side of Bastien's face. ]
What was it like for you? Hearing it?
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I missed him. I didn’t think I did, but I do. But I was—
[ He has to circle it. ]
I don’t blame them. I left first. I hadn’t been home in months. The last time I saw my sister in the market, I told her I was never going back. And I was a third of their income, at least. They probably couldn’t afford to live for long without me.
[ All true. But this is why he’s afraid to be difficult, to make demands, to ever require patience from anyone he doesn’t want to lose. This lesson that he would. That if he was hard to love then even the people most obligated to love him wouldn’t be able to keep doing it.
But Byerly said he was difficult. Tricky, and worth it. That’s enough of a solid foundation for him to stand on, to reach the kernel of anger at the center of the tangle and say, ]
It’s only, they could have waited a little longer.
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A child - tries things out. Runs away and reappears. Says they'll disappear forever and then slinks back home.
Parents don't have that right. They owe you more.
[ Then, roughly: ]
I think they were bastards. I've thought they were bastards since you first told me anything about what they did.
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