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[cozen]

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[bouchonne]

[ He shoves ineffectually at Bastien's face. ]

Stoooooooooop.

[cozen]

[ With treacherous sweetness: ]

I am afraid you will have to come down here and make me.

[ Because otherwise, ]

Oh, and what would the grandchildren be like?

[bouchonne]

Augh.

[ He gives a theatrical shudder. ]

Well, imagine any children you had. They'd all be in love with me.

[cozen]

Do you think they would do that to me? [ Consideration, then, ] Of course they would do that to me.

And if they were twenty or so, they would all have rich mothers. I’d be doomed.

[bouchonne]

[ Oh, that's an interesting tidbit. ]

All of them?

[cozen]

[ Bastien hums, thinking back, and admits, ]

One or two could have mothers who were rich women’s servants.

I was very dedicated to my work.

[bouchonne]

[ He clucks his tongue. Though the tilt of his smile is sympathetic, rather than judgmental. ]

One or two poor men, though. Surely.

[cozen]

Not at the time.

[ 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.

[bouchonne]

[ His own smile turns a little more subdued. ]

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.

[cozen]

[ 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. ]

If I can be your only commoner.

[bouchonne]

[ By laughs. ]

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.

[cozen]

[ 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.

[bouchonne]

[ By grins against Bastien's neck. ]

Why fiddle with perfection?

[cozen]

Because he is a fantastic accompanist?

[ Get it? Fiddle with? Get it??? ]

[bouchonne]

[ GROAN. ]

You should be ashamed of yourself!

[cozen]

I am.

[ He’s not. ]

So ashamed.

[ Not even a little. ]

I’ll singe my hands later in penance.

[bouchonne]

[ By laughs - though he also reaches out to clasp his own hands rather protectively over those precious fingers. ]

No, no. As the offended party, I should have the right to punish you. You can't do it to yourself.

[cozen]

You are too soft, King By the Gentle. [ He wiggles his fingers. ] You will reward me and call it a punishment.

[bouchonne]

[ He grins. ]

It's not softness. It's hedonism. When you're pleased, I'm pleased.

[cozen]

[ 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.

[bouchonne]

[ A little fussy toss of his head answers those kind words. But for all that they make him uncomfortable, he doesn't deny them, nor push back. ]

They're just so rollable. So soft and floppy.

[cozen]

That is what she was really bred for. Not hunting.

[ 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.

[bouchonne]

[ He smiles at Bastien, and gives a little pinch to his thigh. ]

To be used only on other people.

[cozen]

[ He squirms his leg. He could choose not to squirm, of course, and with nearly anyone else he would be choosing to squirm, to seem to be the sort of person who’s ticklish. But at the moment, with Byerly—an organic response, slipping through an opened door. ]

Obviously.

[ The pinching hand is caught and raised, for Bastien to examine By’s fine joints and long fingers and lovely nails. They’re the sort of hands wealthy Orlesians pay a lot of money for people with pumice stones and oils and tiny scissors to try to reproduce. And who could blame them? Gorgeous. ]

But if you ever do scratch me, I will know it is an accident, and it will be alright.