Chapter 178 - 176: Dirty Mind.

Chapter 178: Chapter 176: Dirty Mind.

Out here, away from their swords and the thrill of battle, he shouldn’t be able to feel that pull, but he does; turned low but not completely gone, fine strands of heat breathing on an undercurrent in the air between them, and in the seconds before Khobi shrugs him off, with Loac’s shape snug against him, he almost forgets why he’s supposed to.

​Almost.

​The strands stretch taut as he pulls away, aching to snap back.

​He resists, and shakes off their lingering grasp.

​"Fine by me," he says, flinging a charged glare his way.

It bounces uselessly off the side of Loac’s face as he finishes off the rest of Montrel’s drink, "Training grounds. Tomorrow."

​The empty tankard drops to the table and goes skidding towards Montrel.

Unaware of, or enjoying his men’s unease, he skirts the table, almost deliberately slow, and Khobi catches a gleeting glimpse of blue as he presses on towards them.

​"I look forward to it."

​(For what it’s worth, it sounds like he means it.)

​They all watch him go in silence, and it’s only once he’s been swallowed up by the crowd that the soldiers let out a collective sigh and let their guard drop again.

A couple smooth their hair back or rub some warmth into their arms, as though just being in his presence had left their hair standing on end.

For a moment the tension hangs on in the air, threatening to linger, but Montrel calls for the next round with gusto, and they decide as one that this is their night to do with what they will, and they will not have it ruined.

And with the revelries of the night both intoxicating and infectious, and it isn’t long before the icy atmosphere the prince had left in his wake is overwhelmed by the inviting scents of sweet ale and perfume and smoky, rich meats roasting over the open fires, and they put him from their minds.

​Even Khobi.

​(Especially Khobi.)

​But every now and then, when the alcohol loosens his resolve and his mind wanders, his thoughts drift not towards the promise of a night wrapped up in a stranger, but instead towards the morning, and what awaits.

​He’s looking forward to it, too.

​...

​It’s only when the hour has grown alarmingly late and what remains of their unlikely company is stumbling its way back to the castle that Rogard finally catches sight of Drogger.

It’s dimly lit here at best, this close to the dozing castle and this far from the plains and their dancing bonfires, and it’s at a distance, but Rogard has recently become somewhat of an expert at picking Drogger’s shape out of a crowd.

​(It helps that whenever Ynoro is making a minor spectacle of himself, Drogger is usually not that far off, being dragged along for the bumpy ride)

​Or, in tonight’s case, being the only thing stopping Ynoro from spilling across the street.

​In fact, Rogard hears them long before he sees them. Sound carries at this time of night, especially here where the streets are at their quietest; shops closed and lights out, and few on the streets but the drunk and the ones corralling them back to their beds.

Tonight, Ynoro seems in particularly high spirits, singing his own rendition of a classic tavern ballad, and when Rogard’s ears catch his voice on the wind, his head automatically swivels to catch sight of him.

He doesn’t have long to wait; as they come to a crossroads it becomes evident that Ynoro has succeeded yet again where others have failed, and kept his diligent Second Captain out on the town past sundown.

​To the untrained eye, Drogger doesn’t look particularly pleased about it, but Rogard just so happens to be spectacularly trained, and can see past the deep scowl and the set jaw to the barely-there curl of his lips and the soft lines of long-suffering affection for his friend.

And as they grow closer, he looks relieved to see the castle gates.

​Rogard’s pulse jumps.

​He’s still not used to seeing Drogger out of uniform.

He looks as practical as ever, but the loose tunic he’s chosen for the occasion sits low on his collarbones and snags on the ridges of his biceps to a definition that armour never quite captures.

​And maybe he’s a drink or two past sober, and been surrounded by too many people giving themselves over to the steamy promises of the night, but Rogard decides he’d really like to know what it would be like for those arms to pull him in and grip him tight.

Pin him down, even.

​He’s really glad that it’s dark out. And that Gandy with his suspicious eyes and suspicious questions has long since been whisked away into said steaming night by the laugh of a pretty girl.

Even more so as Ynoro and his familiar troupe draw closer.

Fricha and Drogger are lugging the fool himself between them, with Cert and a couple of other soldiers Rogard vaguely recognises in step behind him.

​"Oh gods," Montrel grumbles, words slurred as he stumbles into Khobi and almost knocks him off kilter. "Not this song again..." Khobi’s finally started to look a bit worse for wear, too.

Not nearly as bad as he should do, with how much he’s had to drink, but there’s a haze to his eyes that wasn’t there at the start of the night, and the grin he’s wearing tonight is looser, and a lot less guarded.

​"It’s fine, Captain, we’ve got it from here," Kobori can be heard from further up the street, and there’s a somewhat ceremonial nature to the way Drogger extracts himself from Ynoro and entrusts him to Hayakawa.

​"...Straight to bed," he instructs, firmly, and Fricha and Cert chuckle like this is a scene they’ve all played out many times over.

​"Right you are, Captain," they reply on cue, both grinning.

Drogger holds his stony expression for all of three seconds before his stern scowl melts into a smile –small, but warm.