[open] a me party

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict and you
WHAT: birthday boy celebrates solo-ish
WHEN: late Solace
WHERE: around the Gallows
NOTES: feel free to wildcard or request a custom starter

No Colin, no Athessa. No Lakshmi. No D'Artagnan, no Kitty, no Gabranth, no Jone, no Allumin-- why does he keep getting so hung up on Rifters, anyway, they just vanish-- there's still Byerly, but asking him to hang out after work seems awkward, especially considering what happened the last time. Better not.
But it's Benedict's birthday, and the weather is fine, he has money of his own and freedom to do what he pleases when he's not working, so he intends to make the best of it anyway.

A few pillows are strewn around the central hookah, which is placed in a nice shady out-of-the-way area down in the Gallows courtyard. Benedict lounges there, puffing idly at the hose, an open bottle of red Antivan wine and a little tray of assorted fancy canapés close at hand. He's wearing what looks to be a new outfit, Tevene in motif but clearly made in Kirkwall, luxuriant enough to satisfy his taste (within reason) while remaining within his means.
His hair is shiny and his skin soft, indicating that some serious self-pampering occurred before he graced the public with his presence. He wears a pair of the strange dark glasses Riftwatch acquired some time ago, rendering his expression distant and inscrutable.

He lingers there for several hours, lazily beckoning forth anyone who seems interested in partaking. The food, the wine, and the elfroot are technically to share, not that he'll complain if he doesn't have to.

Comments

[altusimperius]

Sitting up quickly in anticipation of an ambush, Benedict is pleasantly surprised when-- well, an ambush comes, but not the kind he'd been afraid of.
He flips up the glasses to see the pair better, breaking out in a smile of appreciative amusement for the display, which receives an enthusiastic golf-clap when it concludes.

"I didn't know you knew," he admits, raising the wine bottle for the nearer one to take, should he want a drink.

[bouchonne]

Byerly's laughing and sputtering when Bastien's arm hits his mouth. He pushes him away, and jabs him semi-vengefully in the side, and is grinning as he bypasses the bottle to go for a little petit-four instead.

"Of course we knew," he says. "Or rather, I knew, because I know everything, and therefore Bastien knew. Here."

He tosses a bundle of cloth at Benedict. If he unfolds it, he'll find a bolt of very fine silk - uncut but dyed in rich purple, enough to make a tunic or several smaller pieces.

[cozen]

"That is from both of us," Bastien says, which is not true. Or was not true before this very moment, when he decided to ride the coattails of the gift Byerly chose and paid for. His tone is not very convincing, on purpose; he doesn't actually want any credit. What he really means is you're not my assistant and I didn't get you anything.

He does take the wine bottle, with the hand that is not rubbing his jabbed side in cheerfully feigned injury. But it’s only to help Benedict free his hands for cloth inspection. Once Bastien has navigated his way down onto one of the pillows, he sets the bottle aside again, in Benedict's reach.

"How old does this make you? Seventeen?"

[altusimperius]

Nearly fumbling the bundle, Benedict unfolds it with a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob-- he's clearly impressed, running his hands lovingly over the silk (purple, even!) for several long moments before he can even respond to the pair. Clearly the gift is a success, as even after he's finished looking it over, he presses it to his chest with shining eyes.
"Thank you," he breathes, just in time to be thrown off by Bastien's remark.

"Sevent-- twenty-six," he corrects wryly, "...taking care of your skin goes a long way, you know."

[bouchonne]

Oh. Byerly looks towards Bastien; likely Bastien alone can tell what’s in his eyes, which is, in essence, I don’t know what to do with that much gratitude; help.

In spite of that internal panic, though, Byerly is externally smooth; he replies, “Oh, we know. I’m ninety-three, and he’s eighty-one.”

[cozen]

Bastien nods at this, all earnest wide eyes, yes that's right. The only sign he received any sort of unspoken communication from Byerly's silent look is the way he shifts on his pillow, leaning on one arm at an angle that lets his shoulder companionably touch By's.

"Eighty-one," he agrees, "but I remember twenty-six. That was the last year I was not worried about what would happen to my arms if I did a cartwheel. You better do them while you can, Benedict."

[altusimperius]

"I don't know that I've ever done a cartwheel," Bene muses, bringing the hose to his mouth for a thoughtful inhale. It takes a moment, and then smoke pours from his mouth as he concludes, "I'm not sure I should start now."

Focusing his gaze again, he looks between them. "You're looking pretty good yourselves. Boot polish?" He motions to his hair to indicate theirs.

[bouchonne]

"Hold on." Byerly's leaning back into Bastien, but at that, he sits upright. "You've never done a cartwheel? Ever?"

He looks to Bastien. "I mean. We can still do them. Right? Should we demonstrate?"

[cozen]

Bastien, busy touching his own hair—which does look a bit like it might have some boot polish involved, with everything he does to keep it from curling—gives Benedict a dubious squint.

"I will risk my frail old shoulders if and only if," he says to Byerly without breaking his gaze away from Benedict, "we have his word he will try one after we demonstrate."

[altusimperius]

"Don't shatter your ancient arms on my account," Benedict hurriedly assures them, popping a grape into his mouth, "I'm not the cartwheeling type. Nobody wants to see that."

Or on the contrary, everyone does, but he doesn't want them to want to see it.

[bouchonne]

"I don't know," By says. "I think people would be delighted. But - If that's not what you desire on your birthday, I shan't force you."

[cozen]

Bastien nods along with people would be delighted. They would, at least, and not in a jeering way. But By's right. It's Benedict's birthday. Only things he wants.

After a moment's hesitation where he almost asks if Benedict minds, before deciding he clearly does not, Bastien leans over and breaks a small branch of grapes off the larger bunch. He holds it cupped in his palm, arm angled to share with Byerly.

"What do you want to do with year twenty-seven," he asks, "if not cartwheels?"

[altusimperius]

"Not cartwheels," Benedict confirms with a grateful nod, and then pauses to consider the question.
"I suppose it couldn't hurt to ramp up my combat training," he admits with a tilt of his head, "and magic, and all that. When we had that dream, I..."

He trails off a moment, remembering all at once how the rest of the shared dream played out, what Byerly saw, and what a disaster it was for just about everyone, but-- "...well I sort of liked who I was. I felt like me, but better."

[bouchonne]

Byerly's smile turns a little droll, and he tilts his gaze away. To Benedict, most likely, he will appear to be ironic or even judgmental; Bastien, however, will probably recognize that he looks just a bit embarrassed.

"Well, you've heard my thoughts on that," he says. (A clear translation for Bastien: Benedict and I have had a spat about that.) "I think the ability to solidly defend yourself is one you should certainly cultivate."

[cozen]

As it happens, it’s a spat that Benedict came to Bastien about. In the meantime he hasn’t asked Byerly about it, because that seemed a surefire way to have to tell Byerly how he found out, when he’d told Benedict he wouldn’t rat him out unnecessarily—so this is convenient.

Except for By’s embarrassment. That he doesn’t like. He pulls up some of the weedy grass-ish growth they’re squashing and, for want of any flowers, threads one of the leafier ones behind Byerly’s ear like a daisy.

“It is one of the top skills you can have in a war,” he agrees, “after running very fast. If you want to learn to fight without magic, too, I’m sure one of us could practice with you.”

[altusimperius]

"I've started out with it, with staves," Bene replies pleasantly, "Jone was training me, for a while." Until she wasn't. "I think I'm all right at it, but could always be better."

If he has any sass for Byerly on the matter of their spat, he doesn't show it, instead favoring a puff from the hookah and a deep, contented sigh.

[bouchonne]

"And magic?" Byerly asks. He keeps his eyes trained on Bastien's - his gaze loving, and also perhaps a bit needy. Bastien, by mere dint of his presence, keeps Byerly's tongue more civilized. By is counting on it. "Any of that?"

[cozen]

Benedict seems content, lounging with his hookah. Not particularly oppressed by his birthday guests' displays of affection. So Bastien grins, using mostly his eyes and wrinkled nose, and drags over one of the unused cushions strewn around the ground to drop onto Byerly's lap. Bastien's head isn't far behind.

"Volunteers only, you said," is lazy and content in its own right. A little bit of a we've talked about this too signal for Byerly. A little bit of a joke. A little bit of a reminder that if Byerly gets knocked out of any additional boats, Bastien will do something about it. "And you should learn more than a staff. Even if they aren't enchanted, they make people think you might be a mage. You won't always want to give them a warning."

[altusimperius]

"Volunteers only," Benedict confirms, letting his eyes fall closed. He's determined not to let the mood be dampened by the conversation, but at least nothing especially offensive has been said.

"We'd talked briefly about fencing. I think a rapier would be dashing."