Sen does a quick count of the alcoves, taking two for himself and leaving three for Rin.
<.>
Sen you are a gentleman! And! Rin promises to show you everything they find! They do not promise to share, but it's not entirely outside the realm of the possible.
Meanwhile, Dima's watching Faolan with more focused intensity (a feat, when his eyes were already sharply fixed), and shaking his head. [ You've done a good deal already. With the specter, with the children. With— My actions. With your reason.
And I've seen your magic, Faolan. You aren't useless in the least.
We don't all need to spend our time in cracking chests. ]
Dima will continue gazing very fixedly at Fae.
<.>
Sen fails the second chest he attempts and messages Rin, asking to swap and see if they have more luck.
Faolan doesn't want to talk about what happened - not anymore than his piece that was spoken earlier. He doesn't want to think about the feelings that overwhelm him when he remembers how Dmitri spoke to the children. (Or now, when he's watched the way he is.)
Swallowing hard, he answers, [ At least they're having fun. Two children at play. ]
And, quite suddenly, he half-blurts, [ It changes nothing. What you did - are doing - for the children. Not because of what you thought about doing, or anything you've done at all. ]
A tight smile turns weary and Faolan does give Dmitri his gaze again. [ You're not the first man to look at me like that.
It'll pass. ]
And, as though looking to keep track of their thieves, he tears his gaze away once more. [ It always does. ]
<.>
Rin immediately agrees to the swap, dropping their focus on the chest to dart for Sen's room. They don't mind at all which chests they open, and this little dash was fun! They'll start working on this chest now!
[DEX, 7; thaaat’s a fail]
And in their irritation, they're going to poke at the bed a little, see if it seems to be covered in the same dust as everything else, before telling Sen [ It's just a shit lock :/ ] and moving along.
<.>
A small thump would suggest Sen has kicked the chest in frustration.
<.>
Rin would like to pop up beside him and give the chest a try, confirming with a scowl that "Yeah, these chests are major shits."
[note: Faolan is watching this back and forth.]
[DEX, r: 16
Hey the chest pops open easily for them. Inside the one by Sen is an ivory hairbrush with silver bristles.]
Rin.
Very.
Clearly.
Would like this.
But they will look at Sen before taking it!
<.>
Sen: [ It knew it was meant to be yours. ]
<.>
Rin: [ Hmm I bet it told you exactly what it had! ] They're beaming as they pick up the brush, running their thumb along its backing. Then, finding Sen's eyes, [ We've got to check the next one together. And this time whatever's in it is yours! ]
Without waiting, they scuttle off, brush in-hand.
Dima is. Much less happy.
Dima is feeling very cold.
(Because of what he did; the intention Faolan saw in his dagger.)
(Because Faolan might, must doubt Dima's intentions regarding the children.)
(Because he knows the man has little cause to trust him; he knows few people do.)
(And because, yes, yes, it becomes clearer and clearer that existence has left Faolan wounded. Whatever happen with the scandal, whatever preceded it, something's left a deep mark on this man, this... He really can't be much older than a boy, and yet he's learned so much.)
Dima's quiet for a moment, letting Faolan's words find their place in him. Trying not to think of other men who looked at Faolan with... with... With whatever name might be placed to Dima's expression. Trying not to think how he could be like them.
The thing is.
The thing is, for all his impulse, Dima knows his mind, and knows the firmness of his drives. It's nothing he can make Faolan believe. It might not be something he can push far now. But he can't let those last words linger any longer.
[ No; it won’t. ]
A blink, an attempt to offer the trace of a smirk that doesn't quite appear. [ Do you truly believe I am like any other man? ]
That, too, he won't let linger long, and Dima continues, all solemnity—
[ I guard what is mine, Faolan.
I follow what calls me, and I keep its song.
Still, I— Know this. You will be safe with me. I can't promise I won't watch you. I can't promise I won't ask that you remain.
But I mean no harm to you. I want your peace. I want you well. ]
<.>
Faolan can't look at him. (They always want to believe they're unlike any other man. That they're different. He's never met a man who doesn't like to be told he's special.)
It's that 'mine' that gives him pause. He thinks about pointing out all the ways it's a ridiculous thing to suggest when they two have only known one another for a day.
Instead, he answers honestly, softly, without malice.
[ The problem with thinking about people as 'yours', Dmitri, is you forget they don't belong to you, and aren't yours to do with as you please. ]
Faolan breathes a mirthless laugh through his nose, then gives the other man a sidelong look.
[ I don't know if you're like any other man. I don't want to find out firsthand that you are. ]
And meanwhile, Sen is going to try that third chest.
Which he unlocks! FINALLY. Inside of it, he finds a silk eyepatch set in with a carnelian stone, which he IMMEDIATELY puts on.
<.>
He can't say Faolan doesn't have a point, just as he can't say he's given the man cause to believe different of Dima.
(Dima. Dmitri. He likes his name in this man's voice. He'd like to hear it once again.)
[ I am quick to glimpse my inclinations; my certainties. Overeager, at times— And perhaps overbearing.
I would like you to be mine; I would like to know myself as yours. ]
He's just going to rush past that into: [ But I'm mistaken in placing my wishing upon you. Or to expect your trust without showing cause.
I'm sorry, Faolan. I am.
I can't promise I won't look at you a little long. I can't promise I won't seek your council.
I ask— Mm. I ask that we may share company. As adventurers, as friends, perhaps.
If nothing else, I'd ask that you keep with us here. There's work yet to be done, and you ARE skilled. ]
Rin is very busy pointing at Sen's eyepatch and grinning, running their brush through their own hair. [ You ARE the most dashing pirate I've ever seen! ]
A thought. An excited scramble as they reach for the silver shortsword and stand upon the bed. [ I believe I'll knight you for your bravery in lockpicking this day! ]
<.>
Sen immediately kneels with a flourish, because of course he would like to be knighted! (By Rin.) [ I believe I'll be honored to be knighted by one with such well-brushed hair, who has far keener lockpicking skill than I could ever hope to attain! ]
Faolan listens, and this time with his eyes on Dmitri. (Assessing. Thoughtful. Wary, ever wary, of the pains he might endure.)
He thinks of asking how Dmitri believes he could ever be Faolan's. If the man has considered the divide between them of title, of scandal, of wealth. But of course, Dmitri hasn't considered that because he doesn't have to. None of them ever do, and why should they, when they make the rules?
(But briefly, his thoughts trace the edges of a world where he and Dmitri look on as Rose and Thorn play, and his heart clenches painfully.) (He wants that life, not Dmitri.) (But if he did want Dmitri in that life, he would call him 'Dima', and his Dima would call him 'Fae'-)
(He slams a door against these thoughts, unaware of the ghosts of emotions that might have passed through his expression.)
[ You don't know me, Dmitri. ]
He draws a deep breath and turns away once more, then shakes his head in resignation.
[ Where were you going? To Awich, or further?
I'm on my way to Lob'en. ]
He pronounces it law ben and immediately bares his teeth at the error: it's slang, the way the poor pronounce the city's name. He never could shake some turns of phrase, some mispronunciations that marked him as a peasant.
Maybe it's better Dmitri knows he's no middle class-born courtesan. Maybe it's better if Dmitri thinks he's grasping, power-hungry gutter trash. (Maybe it's better if Dmitri sees the vastness of the divide between them.)
Still, he enunciates, [ Loch. Bien. ]
<.>
Rin tosses their hair, assuming an expression of majestic approval before their grin cracks back to being. [ My, that was a VERY good flourish! I've seen so many knights, you know— ] 'Seen.' 'Robbed.' [ —And not a one possesses half of your finesse! Not one could solve a single, solitary lock with such elan! ]
Another toss of their hair; another grin. [ Not one could lead me to the very brush my hair has yearned for. Good Sen, you have brought me to such sheen! ]
Theatrically, deftly, they settle the blade first to one shoulder, then the other. [ Here: You are now SIR Sen, Lord of all the Locks and Picks, a rogue to out-dash them all! ]
Dima could, if he focused on the thought, draw out an assortment of causes for Faolan's wariness. He captures what he can: the emotions passing across Faolan's face; the places the man picks to focus in discussion; the name and its correction (Dmitri won't mention this, nor did his expression shift at the colloquial pronunciation); the man's insistence that Dmitri (his name again!) doesn't know him (his name, not in the brightest context).
It's true they only just met. It's also true that Dima trusts his instincts regarding who is worth his time and who is something more than that.
It's Dima's impulse that needs restraining, here and there. It's Dima's impulse that can lead him far awry. And he thinks, he fears with a chill that he's pushing Faolan away, speaking too far, suggesting too much.
He thinks, ’I’d like to know you.’ Thinks, ’Let me learn?’
What he Messages, though, is: [ I'm afraid the answer may not please you.
My destination matches your own; Awich was only ever meant to be a passing-through.
My— Plans, my intentions grow muddier beyond that point. But I am expected in Loch Bien. ]
He wants to say he hopes they can travel together. He judges, for once, that moderation might be in order, that there will be time to speak toward this later, and for now he keeps his tongue.
<.>
Faolan doesn't react. He doesn't know if this is a lie to give cause for Dmitri to follow him to Loch Bien, or the truth, and some measure of coincidence.
He knows that an unspeakable joy filled him for one brief heartbeat before he wrenched away from it. He tells himself it's only because he'll see the children again.
(He knows, also, a sick drop in his stomach: Dmitri will be there when he does what he plans to do.)
But he does relent all the same. [ It's sensible to travel together. Safer, perhaps.]
And, abruptly changing the subject, he nods towards the alcove where the thieves vanished.
no subject
<.>
Sen you are a gentleman! And! Rin promises to show you everything they find! They do not promise to share, but it's not entirely outside the realm of the possible.
Meanwhile, Dima's watching Faolan with more focused intensity (a feat, when his eyes were already sharply fixed), and shaking his head. [ You've done a good deal already. With the specter, with the children. With— My actions. With your reason.
And I've seen your magic, Faolan. You aren't useless in the least.
We don't all need to spend our time in cracking chests. ]
Dima will continue gazing very fixedly at Fae.
<.>
Sen fails the second chest he attempts and messages Rin, asking to swap and see if they have more luck.
Faolan doesn't want to talk about what happened - not anymore than his piece that was spoken earlier. He doesn't want to think about the feelings that overwhelm him when he remembers how Dmitri spoke to the children. (Or now, when he's watched the way he is.)
Swallowing hard, he answers, [ At least they're having fun. Two children at play. ]
And, quite suddenly, he half-blurts, [ It changes nothing. What you did - are doing - for the children. Not because of what you thought about doing, or anything you've done at all. ]
A tight smile turns weary and Faolan does give Dmitri his gaze again. [ You're not the first man to look at me like that.
It'll pass. ]
And, as though looking to keep track of their thieves, he tears his gaze away once more. [ It always does. ]
<.>
Rin immediately agrees to the swap, dropping their focus on the chest to dart for Sen's room. They don't mind at all which chests they open, and this little dash was fun! They'll start working on this chest now!
[DEX, 7; thaaat’s a fail]
And in their irritation, they're going to poke at the bed a little, see if it seems to be covered in the same dust as everything else, before telling Sen [ It's just a shit lock :/ ] and moving along.
<.>
A small thump would suggest Sen has kicked the chest in frustration.
<.>
Rin would like to pop up beside him and give the chest a try, confirming with a scowl that "Yeah, these chests are major shits."
[note: Faolan is watching this back and forth.]
[DEX, r: 16
Hey the chest pops open easily for them. Inside the one by Sen is an ivory hairbrush with silver bristles.]
Rin.
Very.
Clearly.
Would like this.
But they will look at Sen before taking it!
<.>
Sen: [ It knew it was meant to be yours. ]
<.>
Rin: [ Hmm I bet it told you exactly what it had! ] They're beaming as they pick up the brush, running their thumb along its backing. Then, finding Sen's eyes, [ We've got to check the next one together. And this time whatever's in it is yours! ]
Without waiting, they scuttle off, brush in-hand.
Dima is. Much less happy.
Dima is feeling very cold.
(Because of what he did; the intention Faolan saw in his dagger.)
(Because Faolan might, must doubt Dima's intentions regarding the children.)
(Because he knows the man has little cause to trust him; he knows few people do.)
(And because, yes, yes, it becomes clearer and clearer that existence has left Faolan wounded. Whatever happen with the scandal, whatever preceded it, something's left a deep mark on this man, this... He really can't be much older than a boy, and yet he's learned so much.)
Dima's quiet for a moment, letting Faolan's words find their place in him. Trying not to think of other men who looked at Faolan with... with... With whatever name might be placed to Dima's expression. Trying not to think how he could be like them.
The thing is.
The thing is, for all his impulse, Dima knows his mind, and knows the firmness of his drives. It's nothing he can make Faolan believe. It might not be something he can push far now. But he can't let those last words linger any longer.
[ No; it won’t. ]
A blink, an attempt to offer the trace of a smirk that doesn't quite appear. [ Do you truly believe I am like any other man? ]
That, too, he won't let linger long, and Dima continues, all solemnity—
[ I guard what is mine, Faolan.
I follow what calls me, and I keep its song.
Still, I— Know this. You will be safe with me. I can't promise I won't watch you. I can't promise I won't ask that you remain.
But I mean no harm to you. I want your peace. I want you well. ]
<.>
Faolan can't look at him. (They always want to believe they're unlike any other man. That they're different. He's never met a man who doesn't like to be told he's special.)
It's that 'mine' that gives him pause. He thinks about pointing out all the ways it's a ridiculous thing to suggest when they two have only known one another for a day.
Instead, he answers honestly, softly, without malice.
[ The problem with thinking about people as 'yours', Dmitri, is you forget they don't belong to you, and aren't yours to do with as you please. ]
Faolan breathes a mirthless laugh through his nose, then gives the other man a sidelong look.
[ I don't know if you're like any other man. I don't want to find out firsthand that you are. ]
And meanwhile, Sen is going to try that third chest.
Which he unlocks! FINALLY. Inside of it, he finds a silk eyepatch set in with a carnelian stone, which he IMMEDIATELY puts on.
<.>
He can't say Faolan doesn't have a point, just as he can't say he's given the man cause to believe different of Dima.
(Dima. Dmitri. He likes his name in this man's voice. He'd like to hear it once again.)
[ I am quick to glimpse my inclinations; my certainties. Overeager, at times— And perhaps overbearing.
I would like you to be mine; I would like to know myself as yours. ]
He's just going to rush past that into: [ But I'm mistaken in placing my wishing upon you. Or to expect your trust without showing cause.
I'm sorry, Faolan. I am.
I can't promise I won't look at you a little long. I can't promise I won't seek your council.
I ask— Mm. I ask that we may share company. As adventurers, as friends, perhaps.
If nothing else, I'd ask that you keep with us here. There's work yet to be done, and you ARE skilled. ]
Rin is very busy pointing at Sen's eyepatch and grinning, running their brush through their own hair. [ You ARE the most dashing pirate I've ever seen! ]
A thought. An excited scramble as they reach for the silver shortsword and stand upon the bed. [ I believe I'll knight you for your bravery in lockpicking this day! ]
<.>
Sen immediately kneels with a flourish, because of course he would like to be knighted! (By Rin.) [ I believe I'll be honored to be knighted by one with such well-brushed hair, who has far keener lockpicking skill than I could ever hope to attain! ]
Faolan listens, and this time with his eyes on Dmitri. (Assessing. Thoughtful. Wary, ever wary, of the pains he might endure.)
He thinks of asking how Dmitri believes he could ever be Faolan's. If the man has considered the divide between them of title, of scandal, of wealth. But of course, Dmitri hasn't considered that because he doesn't have to. None of them ever do, and why should they, when they make the rules?
(But briefly, his thoughts trace the edges of a world where he and Dmitri look on as Rose and Thorn play, and his heart clenches painfully.) (He wants that life, not Dmitri.) (But if he did want Dmitri in that life, he would call him 'Dima', and his Dima would call him 'Fae'-)
(He slams a door against these thoughts, unaware of the ghosts of emotions that might have passed through his expression.)
[ You don't know me, Dmitri. ]
He draws a deep breath and turns away once more, then shakes his head in resignation.
[ Where were you going? To Awich, or further?
I'm on my way to Lob'en. ]
He pronounces it law ben and immediately bares his teeth at the error: it's slang, the way the poor pronounce the city's name. He never could shake some turns of phrase, some mispronunciations that marked him as a peasant.
Maybe it's better Dmitri knows he's no middle class-born courtesan. Maybe it's better if Dmitri thinks he's grasping, power-hungry gutter trash. (Maybe it's better if Dmitri sees the vastness of the divide between them.)
Still, he enunciates, [ Loch. Bien. ]
<.>
Rin tosses their hair, assuming an expression of majestic approval before their grin cracks back to being. [ My, that was a VERY good flourish! I've seen so many knights, you know— ] 'Seen.' 'Robbed.' [ —And not a one possesses half of your finesse! Not one could solve a single, solitary lock with such elan! ]
Another toss of their hair; another grin. [ Not one could lead me to the very brush my hair has yearned for. Good Sen, you have brought me to such sheen! ]
Theatrically, deftly, they settle the blade first to one shoulder, then the other. [ Here: You are now SIR Sen, Lord of all the Locks and Picks, a rogue to out-dash them all! ]
Dima could, if he focused on the thought, draw out an assortment of causes for Faolan's wariness. He captures what he can: the emotions passing across Faolan's face; the places the man picks to focus in discussion; the name and its correction (Dmitri won't mention this, nor did his expression shift at the colloquial pronunciation); the man's insistence that Dmitri (his name again!) doesn't know him (his name, not in the brightest context).
It's true they only just met. It's also true that Dima trusts his instincts regarding who is worth his time and who is something more than that.
It's Dima's impulse that needs restraining, here and there. It's Dima's impulse that can lead him far awry. And he thinks, he fears with a chill that he's pushing Faolan away, speaking too far, suggesting too much.
He thinks, ’I’d like to know you.’ Thinks, ’Let me learn?’
What he Messages, though, is: [ I'm afraid the answer may not please you.
My destination matches your own; Awich was only ever meant to be a passing-through.
My— Plans, my intentions grow muddier beyond that point. But I am expected in Loch Bien. ]
He wants to say he hopes they can travel together. He judges, for once, that moderation might be in order, that there will be time to speak toward this later, and for now he keeps his tongue.
<.>
Faolan doesn't react. He doesn't know if this is a lie to give cause for Dmitri to follow him to Loch Bien, or the truth, and some measure of coincidence.
He knows that an unspeakable joy filled him for one brief heartbeat before he wrenched away from it. He tells himself it's only because he'll see the children again.
(He knows, also, a sick drop in his stomach: Dmitri will be there when he does what he plans to do.)
But he does relent all the same. [ It's sensible to travel together. Safer, perhaps.]
And, abruptly changing the subject, he nods towards the alcove where the thieves vanished.
[ Could you ask them to hurry it along? ]