[ Without the work Byerly’s done on him—whether he realizes he has or not—Bastien might have found new causes for doubt. Dug for them. It’s not so uncommon for parents and spouses and perhaps siblings, too, to not mind this sort of thing as an outlet, but also consider it less real. It’d be easy to concoct a scenario where he was considered a prolonged dalliance and Byerly’s nephews, if he ever met them at all, would only ever know him as their uncle’s old friend. Easy to accept it as good enough, the same way he was ready to be Byerly’s beneficial friend and watch him love Alexandrie, or go to Denerim to live on separate streets, and be happy and call it optimism.
But By has done a great deal of repair and renforcement, so he doesn’t. He imagines the best. He mouths it to himself—Uncle Bastien. Not subtly. He isn’t going to make Byerly go on talking about it, when he’s anxious and nothing is certain, but Bastien wants him to know that he’s thrilled.
He marinates in it for a second, then tucks it away for later, for after Byerly hears something from Nadine, and looks a bit sly instead. ]
That was very responsible of her. You know, if you had a twenty-year-old child now—I bet they’d have a crush on Benedict.
[ Byerly moans that like it's giving him physical agony. Perhaps it is. Benedict. Benedict. He hooks clawing fingers into Bastien's collar, and begs - ]
Don't say it. Absolutely not. A child of mine would have a crush on someone proper. Not someone so - gormless.
I suspect you knew that my candle was lit only for one person, back then.
[ Thank the Maker that the same situation had had a happier and more generous resolution here and now. Then, more easily: ]
I hope you're content with the fact that you've lost your last chance to make up for lost time. No matter what, I demand to be the only poor man in your bed. You may take rich men, but I alone may be your poor lover.
[ Bastien nudges Byerly with his knee, at the first part, like chin up. There are moments Bastien worries about it—not about the unalterable past, who cares about that, but about the future. About what will happen if something changes and Byerly can have everything he wants with Alexandrie after all. But they’re rarer and rarer and more and more illogical, those moments, and with By here and warm and looking at him, he can’t worry about it at all.
For the rest he sits up, so he can skritch his fingers beneath By’s chin, into the hair there, and grin. ]
[ That compliment scratching just the right place on his soul and that nuzzle to just the right place on his neck, in combination, squeeze something suspiciously giggle-like out of his chest. ]
Mmhm. That is why I am the only dark-haired, mustachioed, incurably curious, Orlesian-speaking string musician and spy-turned-diplomat in all of Riftwatch.
[ Bastien’s smile turns gentler, though no less pleased. ]
Then everyone is a hedonist. Not because everyone loves the way you do—some people are more pleased by other things. But a man who suffers to satisfy some hunger for meaning or glory is still choosing the route that makes his heart gladder. He wouldn’t do it otherwise.
And you are sweet and kind and soft because what makes you happy is for the people you love to be happy, and to keep the innocent from suffering, and to roll your dog’s ears up like cigarettes.
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But By has done a great deal of repair and renforcement, so he doesn’t. He imagines the best. He mouths it to himself—Uncle Bastien. Not subtly. He isn’t going to make Byerly go on talking about it, when he’s anxious and nothing is certain, but Bastien wants him to know that he’s thrilled.
He marinates in it for a second, then tucks it away for later, for after Byerly hears something from Nadine, and looks a bit sly instead. ]
That was very responsible of her. You know, if you had a twenty-year-old child now—I bet they’d have a crush on Benedict.
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[ Byerly moans that like it's giving him physical agony. Perhaps it is. Benedict. Benedict. He hooks clawing fingers into Bastien's collar, and begs - ]
Don't say it. Absolutely not. A child of mine would have a crush on someone proper. Not someone so - gormless.
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Benedict.
—or Madame de Foncé, who might have become Lady Rutyer instead. Those are the only possible options.
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Stoooooooooop.
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I am afraid you will have to come down here and make me.
[ Because otherwise, ]
Oh, and what would the grandchildren be like?
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[ He gives a theatrical shudder. ]
Well, imagine any children you had. They'd all be in love with me.
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And if they were twenty or so, they would all have rich mothers. I’d be doomed.
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All of them?
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One or two could have mothers who were rich women’s servants.
I was very dedicated to my work.
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One or two poor men, though. Surely.
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[ His smile loses some of its levity, for a moment. He knows how it sounds. But he brightens right back up. ]
Plenty by the time we met, though, so I have no excuse for not making a pass.
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I suspect you knew that my candle was lit only for one person, back then.
[ Thank the Maker that the same situation had had a happier and more generous resolution here and now. Then, more easily: ]
I hope you're content with the fact that you've lost your last chance to make up for lost time. No matter what, I demand to be the only poor man in your bed. You may take rich men, but I alone may be your poor lover.
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For the rest he sits up, so he can skritch his fingers beneath By’s chin, into the hair there, and grin. ]
If I can be your only commoner.
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It sounds so odd to hear you call yourself that. It suits you so badly.
[ He nuzzles the side of Bastien's neck, and declares him: ]
I would contend that you're exceedingly uncommon.
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Mmhm. That is why I am the only dark-haired, mustachioed, incurably curious, Orlesian-speaking string musician and spy-turned-diplomat in all of Riftwatch.
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Why fiddle with perfection?
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[ Get it? Fiddle with? Get it??? ]
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You should be ashamed of yourself!
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[ He’s not. ]
So ashamed.
[ Not even a little. ]
I’ll singe my hands later in penance.
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No, no. As the offended party, I should have the right to punish you. You can't do it to yourself.
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It's not softness. It's hedonism. When you're pleased, I'm pleased.
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Then everyone is a hedonist. Not because everyone loves the way you do—some people are more pleased by other things. But a man who suffers to satisfy some hunger for meaning or glory is still choosing the route that makes his heart gladder. He wouldn’t do it otherwise.
And you are sweet and kind and soft because what makes you happy is for the people you love to be happy, and to keep the innocent from suffering, and to roll your dog’s ears up like cigarettes.
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They're just so rollable. So soft and floppy.
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[ Bastien kisses his cheek, a thank you for enduring that little speech, and whispers in his ear: ]
And you aren’t all soft. I love your sharp claws, too.
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