Chapter 94 - 93: Ale And Aid.

Chapter 94: Chapter 93: Ale And Aid.

"Is he always like this?" Rogard asks, as Ynoro sweeps the drinks off the bar and swoops back to their table before his girl’s sister can whisk her away from him.

"Unfortunately," Drogger grimaces, and although he’s shaking his head there’s a kind of fondness in his expression that Rogard doesn’t think he’s seen before.

"He’s even worse when we’re away." He says it like Rogard’s supposed to know what he means, but elaborates when it’s clear Rogard has no idea what he’s talking about.

" A whole new kingdom of possibilities ," he deadpans, using Ynoro’s words. Thankfully doesn’t try to mimic the singsong cadence of Ynoro’s voice, because Rogard’s pretty sure he couldn’t handle that at all.

Instead, he just takes a deep swig from his mug and sighs in what might just be approval.

"It’s good," Rogard agrees, feeling a little light himself.

"It is," Drogger nods, "The ale down here might be cheap, but it doesn’t taste it."

"Do they know?" he wonders, looking down into his drink like he’s tasting ale for the first time. Maybe he is.

It hadn’t tasted this good when he was a teenager. And he’s only been drinking the ’fine’, fancy stuff his father would serve, since. "Up at the castle? That this is so much better?"

"Doubtful," he snorts, "This is a common brew. No one at the castle would touch the stuff if they knew." Which is true, unfortunately.

Commoners weren’t supposed to tarnish what belonged to nobility, and nobility wasn’t meant to associate themselves with what little belonged to commoners.

A shame. They’re missing out.

The tavern’s nice too. There are probably other ones like it, too. For a small second he entertains the childish notion of a night out in the city with his friends, drinking up a storm like he did in his youth and waking up in some gutter or a stranger’s bed.

It’s a fleeting fantasy though, and pointless. Most of his friends up at the castle would never be caught dead in a place like this.

Or aren’t allowed to leave the castle.

...Or aren’t really his friends anymore.

Suddenly, he doesn’t feel like drinking anymore.

"I uhh, I should go," he says quietly, abruptly downing the rest of his drink and pushing the empty mug across the bar.

Drogger sends him a sidelong glance but doesn’t comment on his sudden decline in mood.

"I’ll walk you back to the gates," he decides, and Rogard glares at him because he’s not drunk and he’s not a child . He doesn’t need to be escorted back home.

"Thanks, Master, but you don’t have to do that," he sniffs, taking a step away from the bar and nearly staggering straight into a stranger.

Drogger’s hand shoots out and catches him by the elbow in the nick of time and saves Rogard the embarrassment of winding up on the tavern floor.

"I think I do," he says flatly, as Rogard sways back to his feet. "How much have you had to drink?"

Rogard’s not sure exactly, but however much it was has just all gone straight to his head. "Come on, I’m done anyway."

It’s not particularly funny, that to Drogger the promise of just one drink means that and only that, but Rogard laughs anyway.

The rest of the soldiers they’ve kept company with are all in high spirits by now, and none of them seem to even notice them leaving.

It’s a crisp evening outside, and the night air does instant wonders for the lightness in Rogard’s head.

He takes a moment to just breathe, letting the cool air wash away the headiness that had been starting to claim him. The stars are out, and despite the hour, the city still feels lively, somehow.

It looks kind of beautiful, actually.

His skin starts to prickle a little, the way it sometimes feels when he’s being watched closely, but when he looks Drogger’s way the captain has already started moving off up the cobblestones.

"...You coming, or what?" he calls back over his shoulder, and Rogard jogs a few paces to fall into step with him

Unfortunately, because it’s dark out, and the ground is uneven, and the alcohol is affecting him more than he cares to admit, he trips.

It’s horribly embarrassing.

Especially because somehow, Drogger saves him, again .

It’s like he feels Rogard trip even before he does, because the instant the ground starts rising up to meet him, Drogger’s right there to throw out an arm to catch him.

And there must be something in that ale that’s addling his brain because when Rogard’s hand catches on his thick, bare bicep, he actually gulps .

As if he weren’t undignified enough tonight.

He fucking gulps .

He’s touched men before. Attractive ones. Been touched by them, too. More than that on occasion.

But this kind of reaction is new and highly unorthodox. Highly . He’s a grown man, not some kind of overly eager teenager.

With a flash of alarm, Rogard realises that he’s still touching him, that his fingers have sunk in a little deeper to gain a better hold.

What’s worse is that the realisation doesn’t make him immediately let go. His skin is warm, and the muscle beneath is chiselled from years of dedication, and feels effortlessly strong. Drogger doesn’t seem to notice his internal struggle.

In fact, he looks concerned. Or, something.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, but a lot closer to the surface than he would like, Rogard thinks, briefly, that it’s a shame Drogger’s always frowning.

He has quite a handsome face, when he’s not.

What.

Rogard blinks.

Where did that come from ?

That’s the trigger for Rogard to snatch his hand back like he’s been burned, and Drogger just shakes his head, bemused.

"Come on, watch where you’re walking..." he mutters, and gives Rogard a light boot with his foot to get him moving again.

It doesn’t hurt but Rogard yelps dramatically out of reflex, and earns himself a withering eye roll for his acting.

"So mean, Master~" he complains, a touch more playfully than he’d usually dare. It catches Drogger a little off guard, but he doesn’t kick him again for his cheek so he counts it as a victory.

"Yeah, yeah."

It’s not a particularly long or arduous walk back to the castle gates, but Drogger watches him from the corner of his eye the whole way, like he’s not convinced Rogard isn’t about to trip again.

Rogard ignores him, and focuses on not tripping, and refuses to attribute the warmth in his cheeks to anything other than the ale.