[ His hand goes to his chest, his fingers brushing against the fine weave of his second-best linen shirt, then catching the neck of his leather jerkin - fastened at the waist, in dandyish style, to show off his silhouette. It is an agonizing confession, but: he cannot bring himself to lie. ]
[ Bastien smiles wider—touched, not amused—and nods a little. The reality of the situation is seeping in. Byerly didn’t bring him to a neutral location to put him off gently, embarrassed he took advantage of an obvious crush. He’s asking, and he’s uncertain, and he dressed up.
He keeps the hope smothered. It’s still stupid. But he doesn’t have it in him to keep letting Byerly sit there while he tries to decide what he can bear, so he says, ]
It meant something to me. [ This sounds casual, too, mostly, but it’s a close call. He looks down at his drink to make it easier. ] If we keep on, it will mean something to me.
[ It’s partly fear that keeps him talking, instead of leaving that there on the table in need of an answer, but mostly fair play. Recompense. Vulnerability for vulnerability. It’s a lot to give away, but he’s sure Byerly must already suspect, on some level, to think that Alexandrie would make a difference. ]
So, ah. Can I think about it? You, too. I’m sure you thought about it before you called me, Monsieur le Cercle Vicieux, but Alexandrie isn’t here, and you’re anxious. When things have settled, maybe you will find that is as much Orlesian as one Fereldan can handle.
[ That's - better than By expected. And so he tries to crack a joke: ]
I think my Orlesian half would do better with her, but my Fereldan half would do better with you. Needed for balance.
[ Needed for balance. Is that what this is? It's part of it, at least. If By is going to be with Alexandrie, he needs Bastien as well. He needs that level-headed good humor, that casual warmth. Alexandrie is all fire and passion and high emotion; Bastien, whimsical practicality. But to want that - is it selfish? Is it evil? To want to take from both of them? Is he just using them? ]
But - yes; Maker, yes. Take all the time you want. [ A hesitation, and then, earnestly - ] I will not become a Vincent. I - If I see you, I only wish to see you happy.
[ And then, with a desperate sort of humor: ] Andraste's tits, it's hard to talk like this while sober.
[ That makes Bastien laugh, and laughing sweeps away his half-formed plans to defend Vincent. ]
It is the worst. But you’re doing a pretty good job, I think.
[ He takes a long drink, because he was promised a second round and he intends to have it, then sets it down with a decisive little clunk. ]
D’accord. I’ll think. Not for too long, I promise. Just give me until she has been back for a few weeks.
[ To decide what he can stand, and to see if there’s a change, if there’s still space, if it would feel like trying to plant a garden in the middle of a hurricane. ]
And I—when I said you were my closest friend— [ if Byerly even remembers, drunk as he was ] —I meant it. So whatever else happens, don’t worry about that. I would not sacrifice being able to talk the way we do for the best cock in Thedas.
[ That is a massive relief. Tension drains from him - a long breath out from his nose, his hands less stiff on the cup. He is content enough to joke: ]
Which is, of course, sitting across from you.
[ And then, after a moment, he finds that he is content enough to admit: ]
[ At the first part, Bastien raises his eyebrows and does a wobbly contemplative nod, willing to at least consider the possibility of letting Byerly make that claim.
At the second, he grins. If not for the table between them and the room full of Kirkwall roughnecks, he might have kissed Byerly on the cheek for that—and it would have been like hitting a briefly-forgotten bruise on a sharp corner, so thank Andraste for the table and the roughnecks.
[ Because diamonds would come from nowhere legal, of course, and be very fun to acquire until he had to be rescued from the city guard and then explain himself to the other three Division Heads.
He finishes off his drink. ]
One last, mm... Do you know if it would bother Alexandrie? I know she might not have much right to mind, with— [ a gesture, in lieu of saying her Northern maleficar in a crowded tavern. ] But feelings don’t care about rights, and it could be—odd, when we are all friends.
[ And even without prying or being privy to the fallout, he’s noticed her jealousy elsewhere. Maybe he wouldn’t care about her feelings, if it came down to it; he has an underdeveloped sense of obligation at the best of times. Certainly not one strong enough to think he owes a duty to a married woman to keep his hands off her lover, if he decides he’d prefer not to. But she hugged him, before she left. ]
I - have not spoken with her about it. I wanted to ask you first.
[ He frowns a bit. Now that he's thinking about it, that was probably the wrong order to do it in, wasn't it. ]
But she has said specifically that she's been bothered by seeing me with women. Which is a bit of an oddity, to be fair, but... [ A one-shouldered shrug. ]
[ Bastien laughs through a grimace and waits until Byerly is at the bar to take a few slow, deep, bracing breaths. By the time he's returned, Bastien has produced a deck of cards to wiggle invitingly.
Meanwhile: ]
Her husband will not come after you, will he? Do you need a Templar guard? Barrow seems nice.
D'you think she'd finally leave him if he did? It'd be a properly romantic end to the story if that was how it went. [ He tips back his head and intones: ] Ensnared by a foul Northern apostate, only the death of her strapping Fereldan lover was enough to set the dainty lady free...
[ Then he spreads his hands in clear assent to the cards. ]
Ah, one of the ones that goes over one eye? [ He uses the side of his hand to describe the path of the potential scar before picking up his cards. ] I like that idea. Then people will approach me, and think, ah, a dangerous rogue. But it will turn out that, all along, it was a noble wound, taken out of love.
[ He arranges the cards, and says - ]
Barrow does seem nice. It's funny, living with all these mages, how you almost start to believe that templars are all beasts.
[ Bastien frowns a bit at his hand, which is mediocre, then glances up and smiles. ]
I am sure sheep have nothing kind to say of sheepdogs, either. All that barking and nipping. [ But a second thought, while he begins the process of drawing and trading— ] Do not tell them I compared them to sheep.
Ah, you know me. I like the ones I know. And I can feel sorry for anyone. I think it is an awful thing for someone's life to be decided for them by something they have no say in.
But most people's lives are decided for them, not just theirs. And most people will not kill all of their neighbors if they have a bad enough dream.
It was one of the first questions put to me when I first took up my post - Ambassador, where do you stand on the mage question? [ A shake of his head as he lays down a card - ] Where I stand is blindfolded in a darkened room with a confused cacophony ringing in my ears.
[ He lays down a card, wrinkling his nose at the mediocrity of the play. ]
Maker knows the Circles weren't working like they were supposed to. That much is for certain. But then again, that fellow likely wouldn't have burned down our dining hall if he'd been in a Circle.
[ He had trouble sleeping for a few nights, and he looks at Byerly now—his arm, his side, hidden by his good clothes and the table—without trying to hide it. But he doesn’t ask, either. ]
I wonder what it feels like. So many of them seem to not be able to help themselves. Or they’re offended at the idea of being restrained from magic somehow. I don’t know if many of them here would agree to give it up, if there was a good way to do it, if that was the way to go free.
[ A swap, a better play. ]
Maybe it feels like music. Would you rather sing and dance in a tower, or try to reach for a melody or a rhythm and find nothing, forever?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ His hand goes to his chest, his fingers brushing against the fine weave of his second-best linen shirt, then catching the neck of his leather jerkin - fastened at the waist, in dandyish style, to show off his silhouette. It is an agonizing confession, but: he cannot bring himself to lie. ]
I cleaned up a bit.
[ He feels as vulnerable as a fresh burn. ]
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He keeps the hope smothered. It’s still stupid. But he doesn’t have it in him to keep letting Byerly sit there while he tries to decide what he can bear, so he says, ]
It meant something to me. [ This sounds casual, too, mostly, but it’s a close call. He looks down at his drink to make it easier. ] If we keep on, it will mean something to me.
[ It’s partly fear that keeps him talking, instead of leaving that there on the table in need of an answer, but mostly fair play. Recompense. Vulnerability for vulnerability. It’s a lot to give away, but he’s sure Byerly must already suspect, on some level, to think that Alexandrie would make a difference. ]
So, ah. Can I think about it? You, too. I’m sure you thought about it before you called me, Monsieur le Cercle Vicieux, but Alexandrie isn’t here, and you’re anxious. When things have settled, maybe you will find that is as much Orlesian as one Fereldan can handle.
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[ That's - better than By expected. And so he tries to crack a joke: ]
I think my Orlesian half would do better with her, but my Fereldan half would do better with you. Needed for balance.
[ Needed for balance. Is that what this is? It's part of it, at least. If By is going to be with Alexandrie, he needs Bastien as well. He needs that level-headed good humor, that casual warmth. Alexandrie is all fire and passion and high emotion; Bastien, whimsical practicality. But to want that - is it selfish? Is it evil? To want to take from both of them? Is he just using them? ]
But - yes; Maker, yes. Take all the time you want. [ A hesitation, and then, earnestly - ] I will not become a Vincent. I - If I see you, I only wish to see you happy.
[ And then, with a desperate sort of humor: ] Andraste's tits, it's hard to talk like this while sober.
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It is the worst. But you’re doing a pretty good job, I think.
[ He takes a long drink, because he was promised a second round and he intends to have it, then sets it down with a decisive little clunk. ]
D’accord. I’ll think. Not for too long, I promise. Just give me until she has been back for a few weeks.
[ To decide what he can stand, and to see if there’s a change, if there’s still space, if it would feel like trying to plant a garden in the middle of a hurricane. ]
And I—when I said you were my closest friend— [ if Byerly even remembers, drunk as he was ] —I meant it. So whatever else happens, don’t worry about that. I would not sacrifice being able to talk the way we do for the best cock in Thedas.
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Which is, of course, sitting across from you.
[ And then, after a moment, he finds that he is content enough to admit: ]
I do believe that you are mine, as well.
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At the second, he grins. If not for the table between them and the room full of Kirkwall roughnecks, he might have kissed Byerly on the cheek for that—and it would have been like hitting a briefly-forgotten bruise on a sharp corner, so thank Andraste for the table and the roughnecks.
Instead: ]
I will make us matching bracelets.
[ A threat. ]
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Diamond-encrusted or it's going straight into the harbor.
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[ Because diamonds would come from nowhere legal, of course, and be very fun to acquire until he had to be rescued from the city guard and then explain himself to the other three Division Heads.
He finishes off his drink. ]
One last, mm... Do you know if it would bother Alexandrie? I know she might not have much right to mind, with— [ a gesture, in lieu of saying her Northern maleficar in a crowded tavern. ] But feelings don’t care about rights, and it could be—odd, when we are all friends.
[ And even without prying or being privy to the fallout, he’s noticed her jealousy elsewhere. Maybe he wouldn’t care about her feelings, if it came down to it; he has an underdeveloped sense of obligation at the best of times. Certainly not one strong enough to think he owes a duty to a married woman to keep his hands off her lover, if he decides he’d prefer not to. But she hugged him, before she left. ]
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[ He frowns a bit. Now that he's thinking about it, that was probably the wrong order to do it in, wasn't it. ]
But she has said specifically that she's been bothered by seeing me with women. Which is a bit of an oddity, to be fair, but... [ A one-shouldered shrug. ]
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[ Not relevant here, obviously. ]
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That is your cue to get me another drink.
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[ He clucks as he stands, grabbing both cups. And, as he goes off to the bar - ]
Magnificent.
[ When he returns, it's with stronger spirits than ale. ]
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Meanwhile: ]
Her husband will not come after you, will he? Do you need a Templar guard? Barrow seems nice.
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[ Then he spreads his hands in clear assent to the cards. ]
What are we playing?
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[ Not a simpler game than Wicked Grace, on its face, but one that involves much less lying and cheating. He starts dealing. ]
It would be a better story if you did not die. How about charmingly maimed? A nice facial scar.
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[ He arranges the cards, and says - ]
Barrow does seem nice. It's funny, living with all these mages, how you almost start to believe that templars are all beasts.
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I am sure sheep have nothing kind to say of sheepdogs, either. All that barking and nipping. [ But a second thought, while he begins the process of drawing and trading— ] Do not tell them I compared them to sheep.
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[ A small, seated bow, particularly constrained by the fact that he's holding these cards. ]
How do you feel about the whole business? All those mages.
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But most people's lives are decided for them, not just theirs. And most people will not kill all of their neighbors if they have a bad enough dream.
[ He shrugs. ]
Mostly I think it is over my head.
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It was one of the first questions put to me when I first took up my post - Ambassador, where do you stand on the mage question? [ A shake of his head as he lays down a card - ] Where I stand is blindfolded in a darkened room with a confused cacophony ringing in my ears.
[ He lays down a card, wrinkling his nose at the mediocrity of the play. ]
Maker knows the Circles weren't working like they were supposed to. That much is for certain. But then again, that fellow likely wouldn't have burned down our dining hall if he'd been in a Circle.
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[ He had trouble sleeping for a few nights, and he looks at Byerly now—his arm, his side, hidden by his good clothes and the table—without trying to hide it. But he doesn’t ask, either. ]
I wonder what it feels like. So many of them seem to not be able to help themselves. Or they’re offended at the idea of being restrained from magic somehow. I don’t know if many of them here would agree to give it up, if there was a good way to do it, if that was the way to go free.
[ A swap, a better play. ]
Maybe it feels like music. Would you rather sing and dance in a tower, or try to reach for a melody or a rhythm and find nothing, forever?
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Most musicians would not kill all of their neighbors if they have a bad enough dream.
[ A cluck of his tongue as he lays down his cards and invites Bastien to do the same with a lift of his eyebrow. ]
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[ His face gives it away before he lays his hand out—a loss, though a near one. ]
This is a terrible game.
[ Perfectly cheerful, and already gathering the cards to shuffle again. ]
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[ A rakish grin. Then: ]
Let's say you were born in the North. Or that there were no Circles. Would you want it? Magic?
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