faderift | [closed] let's go girls

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[closed] let's go girls

WHO: Bastien, Benedict, Byerly (the Better Business Bureau)
WHAT: DRAG NIGHT
WHEN: sometime in [mumbles] winter
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: will add if necessary, I don't think anyone who's offended by any of this would last very long in this game

Fausta was an amalgamation of things: undergarments and cosmetics and shoes from Byerly, a wig and hair decorations and a fine Minrathousian gown from the Scouting closet, all mishmashed together in a convincing approximation of a wealthy lady in Tevinter's high society. It had done the job, and Benedict enjoyed the effort, but has since summarily refused to participate in Kirkwall's scene until he's gotten all the details just right.

And finally, he has: it's the night of an event in one of Lowtown's more curious establishments, and, having born witness to it before but in plainclothes, Benedict is ready for Fausta to make her society debut.
Or, at least, he will be when they're finished getting ready-- having arrived at Byerly and Bastien's house with all his things and a fancy cheese tray, the preparations have begun.

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“I do.” He moves his head to cast a coquettish look upwards, then wrinkles his nose and reaches his hand up to adjust the dangling earring that he’d gotten snagged on Bastien’s shoulder.

“But what has the boy done to earn it?”

"I told you," Bastien says, which is both true and evasive, holding his shoulder still to help with the earring.

Called him an arsehole. Stormed out of his own apology because Bastien did not promptly supply his desired response. Said (correctly, which makes it much much worse) that Rat Red loves him more.

"Scolding me like this — " Has he mentioned how he feels about corsets? The first five mentions don't count. " — is cheating. You know I'll do anything you ask."

He's teasing. He is a little stronger willed than that.

“Of course you will. My pretty little plaything.” It’s saucy and teasing and sexy. And deeply unfair.

But. “You told me how the boy offended you - not how he earned this. I’ve seen you forgive a man who actually tried to kill you in less time than this.”

Deeply unfair. Bastien's sigh is yearning, not exasperated.

"Junien? That was not personal," he says. "That was business."

Someone stumbles past them, drunk, and jostles the divan. Aside from raising his arm to make sure the empty tankard she's swinging around on the way doesn't come anywhere near hitting Byerly in the head, Bastien continues unperturbed.

"He's not a boy, you know. He has to be thirty by now."

He does not have to be thirty by now. But close enough to feel the fire, surely.

It’s a fair point. And also depressing to contemplate. Maker, but Byerly feels old.

But - “The first twenty years don’t count for him, given where he came from. He’s effectively lived in the real world for less than a decade.” And, something that’s part peace offering and part real, “And also he’s a bit of an idiot.”

The offering of it makes Bastien smile; the reality of it makes him say, “You know, I don’t think he is.”

If Bastien thought Benedict were a child or a fool, let alone both, he wouldn’t enjoy it any more — he never wanted children, and he never signed up to mentor anyone — but he would be more tolerant.

“But I cannot overstate how little it took. He said he was sorry. I said who are you. He said you’re not serious, and I said sorry like I still didn’t know him. That was it,” Bastien says, “and he stormed off talking about Rat Red,” and perhaps the crux of the issue is that he doesn’t see this as a sensitive child having his feelings hurt, but as a young nobleman unwilling to have his apology accepted with anything but immediate gracious absolution without feeling disrespected.

The fact that Byerly sees it otherwise is made clear by his immediate response. "You're not making a strong case for him not being an idiot." Though he does add - "In certain parts of Ferelden, he would be killed for that comment about Rat Red. Which, I know, sounds like some dreadful rumor they spread about us in the North, but it's actually true - There was a case where a Blackhaller determined that a man had been excessively provoked by another man insulting his dog, and the murder was considered justified."

"I can't wait," Bastien says, which is always true — the dream of heading off with Byerly to Ferelden (and anywhere else they feel like) after the war is what keeps him here even when things are so unpleasant he would never stick around otherwise — but moreso if there's a chance he can wind up in court over his dog's honor. That sounds fun.

However,

"He would not insult her. He loves her."

That earns Bastien a pleased squirm. What a rare delight it is, to hear praise for his deranged homeland in a perfect Royan accent.

"Yes, there's no doubt of that. But in this case, you are the insulted, and could put a knife in his heart for daring to claim your dog's loyalty. It's like implying that a man's wife is unfaithful, but obviously much worse."

A contemplative hum.

"That makes sense," he says, and reaches his free hand around to skritch affectionately at Byerly's goatee. "I would not have been nearly as bothered if he told me you loved him more."

— is not true. Or it is true, but only because Bastien would have found it too ridiculous to dignify with his offense.

Byerly laughs. It is a funny thought, imagining Benedict declaring that.

"Well, there are different types of love, you know. Benedict is a fun playmate who sneaks her cheese. You're her papa."

The noise Bastien makes in response is a little grateful, a little doubtful. If Benedict were to propose that Rat Red come live with him instead, saying no would feel selfish — he'd still do it, but he'd feel selfish about it. She loves Benedict.

"Well," regardless, "I'll leave him alone either way. For you, mon chaton."

"Meow," By replies contentedly. But - "Does leaving him alone mean treating him with icy silence?"

"Coolly polite indifference," Bastien proposes in the tone of a market stall haggling counter-offer.

He's probably not serious.

Byerly laughs.

"You're going to break his poor little heart, you know."

Bastien’s answering laugh, half snort, is not because he thinks that would really be funny or fun. It’s because he thinks it’s a bit hyperbolic.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll give him the ‘relative you see once a year but whose company you enjoy perfectly well’ special. He will not even notice.”

"As we've established - " Sort of - "the full-grown man who is fully capable of growing facial hair is an idiot. But he's definitely going to notice that. And again - heartbreak."

He lifts the cigarette in its holder up to Bastien's lips, so he can take a drag.

"I do wish the poor thing would gain a slightly thicker skin."

It's a deep drag that Bastien takes, leaving a noticeable dent in the length of the cigarette, and he thinks about this while he condenses the smoke in his mouth suitably to blow it out in a little series of rings.

"He'd benefit," he agrees, and briefly tucks his head down to rest his temple on the top of Byerly's bewigged head before straightening again to spare his neck. "The only way I am going to be what he wants is if I fake it. But I will if you want me to."

"Mm." The thought of that troubles him. "I don't want to ask you to lie." Not because there's anything truly wrong with a lie - but it blends the personal with the professional. Feels too much like asking him to be a Bard.

At the same time, though, a bit of kindness - false or otherwise - might make Benedict relax enough to get along with Bastien. It's a dilemma.

"All right," Bastien says, because that's answer enough. He didn't say Byerly had to ask him. Only want it. Anyway: "I can do a better job of avoiding him when it would be a big lie."

It is a bit of a relief. Guilt mixes with gladness.

"When would it be a big lie?"

"When you're dead," lightly, like it's not a big deal anymore, even though it is and always will be, "and he wants me to look after him."

He's serious. He's joking. He drops his hand from Byerly's arm to his waist and taps his fingers there affectionately.

"Or when I have not had any coffee."

Byerly turns his head up to study Bastien's face a moment. Looking for the little signs of sorrow and anger and weariness that - Well, even he can't read them all the time. But of everyone in the world, he's probably the very best at it.

"I'm sorry." He rubs Bastien's knee. "You deserved someone taking care of you when that happened."

"I did not want that either," Bastien says, and maybe it's not true — maybe, possibly, there was a reason Byerly's death is what sent him searching for his parents and his big sister after all that time — but he thinks it is. He certainly didn't want or expect it from anyone in the Gallows, each reeling from losses of their own. "I didn't want anything except for you to not be gone."

At the club talking about the alternate timeline where everyone died — he kisses the crown of Byerly's head and drags (get it?) them out of the mire.

"I do owe him for the soup," he says. Benedict coming to check on them when they were hurt — that was sweet.

"Mm." By brightens a bit; Bastien's segue gives him permission to be less morose on his beloved's behalf.

"That was quite nice, wasn't it?" Then, with a sigh and a pout, "Wouldn't it be so dreadfully nice if we were rich enough to have servants to fetch us soup at will?"

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cozen - 2025-04-06 03:04 (UTC) - Expand

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