“Clearly I’m taking a bath,” Evain says. “And this ismyroom.”
A few key memories surface through Leth’s floaty, hazy shock. Justice-sworn paladin Arthur saying,About the rooms…Water drips from Evain’s hair to the hardwood floor, louder than the rain outside.I thought you two were together.
Leth releases his sword and scrubs his hand over his face. “Fuck. I’m too tired right now. I’ll challenge Arthur to a duel in the morning.”
“Will you?” Evain asks. “Why?”
Leth nods solemnly. “To the death.”
Evain laughs. Nothing like his sultry, seductive laughter from down in the tavern hall. This is light. Natural. Leth forgets what else he wanted to say.
Room thirty-seven is spacious for an inn. Geometric tapestries in green and orange soften the walls. The wash basin is painted with a cheerful row of dancing pigs. A large mirror hangs over the washstand, and the pale wooden frame matches the table, chairs, and bed.
There’s nothing wrong with the bed, except that there’s only one of it.
Evain retreats behind the bathing screen. Watching his silhouette moving behind the silk paper is less annoying than looking at him directly. “How drunk are you?” Evain asks from behind the screen.
There’s no good answer to that, so Leth doesn’t give one. He kicks his bag and coat further into the room and slumps at the table. Peeling off his gloves requires more concentration than it should. The mirror across the room reflects his red-rimmed eyes and the weird clumps his hair has dried into. Leth resolves to rebraid his spell beads in the morning too, before he challenges the treacherous paladin.
Bootlaces are more difficult than gloves. Leth has only gotten one boot off by the time Evain reemerges, dressed in flowing red. He fails to concentrate on his second boot as Evain walks towards him. The bootlace gets less cooperative the closer Evain gets, until the hem of Evain’s robe sweeps the floor in front of him.
“You’re very drunk, aren’t you?”
Evain’s presence weighs down the air, replacing the dissipating steam with greater heat. Vision blurring, Leth loses purchase on the bootlace. He suddenly remembers another time he drank too much. Mind swimming from strangely strong wine, a thinner figure than Evain looming too close—
Evain takes a step back. “You can keep the room. I’ll reserve another.”
The pressure eases from Leth’s lungs. He remembers where he is, and who he’s with, and there’s something weirdly reassuring about arguing with Evain. “Can’t.” He finally kicks his boot away and starts pulling his socks off. “Arthur said he got us the last rooms in the inn.”
Evain sighs dramatically. “A minor complication. I have my ways.”
As Evain disappears behind the screen again, Leth’s grip on his damp socks tightens. He had been certain Evain would insist on Leth leaving. Or he’d make lascivious jokes about sharing the room. Leth was ready for that argument. But this easy accommodation?
Frustrating. Useless. Like swinging his fist and striking cotton.
Evain reemerges with his saddlebags, and he’s wearing boots under his silk robe. He stops at the mirror to mess with his still-damp hair. Apparently, he truly means to relinquish the room to Leth, and like everything else about Evain, the consideration is irritating.
Almost as irritating as the idea of Evain going downstairs and finding someone else to sleep with tonight. The handsome farmer or the broad-shouldered mercenary.
“I don’t care if you stay,” Leth says on impulse, flinging his socks aside. “We’ve shared a room before.”
Evain pauses, his fingers half-through another rake of his hair. “Hiding out at the Veiled Rose with everyone else? I think that’s a little different.”
“Since when were you such a prude?” Leth laughs. When he stands up, the alcohol spins through his blood again, threatening his balance. Fuck, he’s going to have another headache in the morning, in addition to the headache named Evain Marha. “Stay or leave. I really don’t care. Just don’t talk to me about it.”
“Fuck, youaredrunk.” After a long moment, Evain drops his bags again. “Fine. Someone should supervise you anyway. But I look forward to saying ‘I told you so’ in the morning.”
“Said not to talk to me,” Leth mutters, rummaging for a change of clothes.
Evain’s answering laugh violates the spirit of the law, if not the letter of it. But he remains satisfactorily quiet and distant while Leth changes behind the screen. When Leth emerges—still chilly, his hair still a mess, because fuck if he’s taking a bath tonight, but at least his clothes are dry and clean—Evain shoves a mug into his hand.
“Drink this,” Evain says sternly.
Maybe it’s the firm resonance of his voice. Maybe Leth’s just too drunk and tired to argue more. He puts the mug to his lips without question and finds plain water inside.
Evain is across the room by the time he finishes it, and Leth’s head is too fuzzy to process how fucking weird Evain is being. He sets the mug down and grabs his dagger before crawling into bed. The bedding is soft and the pillow thick enough he can’t feel the lump of the dagger underneath it. He curls up facing the window, his back to Evain.
The lamps click, and darkness blankets the room. Leth’s eyelids are too heavy, his body too loose and comfortable. He’s barely awake by the time the mattress dips and Evain’s body heat radiates through the quilt.
