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The atmosphere in the tavern was warm and raucous; even the usually-gruff barkeep bore the ghost of a smile across his cracked lips, despite the constant motion of his feet, floating from one demanding patron to another. It wasn’t quite an heir-sanctioned party, but it was the closest the estate had ever seen, with massive vessels of spiced cider, mulled wine, and eggnog flowing freely, while sprigs of holly and pine adorned the rafters. A few of the local bards and performers—Sarmenti among them—had commandeered a corner of the room, playing a lively mix of holiday staples and rousing numbers to dance to. Any expeditions out into the surrounding areas had been put on hold for the winter solstice, as a few successful supply runs to the warrens had yielded copious stashes of provisions, sure to tide the hamlet over through any inclement weather and offering its inhabitants some well-deserved respite. ’Twas a fine time to hold a celebration, all in all, and the ragtag bunch of mercenaries who occupied the village were determined to make the best of it.
Even the hamlet’s most devout could be found in the tavern that eve, many making an exception on their policy to avoid the den of sin for just this one night, making merry in their own way. Reynauld looked out upon the crowd from his perch near the end of the bar, seated a ways away from the rowdier guests but not entirely distant from the atmosphere of celebration. His chin propped up in his hand and his gaze wandering absently over the room, he raised an eyebrow as a particular highwayman hopped onto the stool alongside him. Dismas didn’t reek of drink—yet—although Light knows he was often infuriating enough sober, so Reynauld wasn’t sure if that boded especially well for their conversation or not. Regardless, he hid a smile in his beard and inclined his body slightly towards the other, and Dismas matched his posture with a grin, his kerchief already tugged down around his neck.
“Buy you a drink, crusader?” he asked, slamming his palm onto the counter and nudging the knight’s boot with one of his own. Reynauld wrinkled his nose, making a point to demonstrate an appropriate amount of distaste.
“I absolutely will not buy you a—wait.” Reynauld blinked once, twice, eyes widening as he took in Dismas’ smirk. “You’re offering? You?”
“Aww, holy man, you’re gonna hurt my feelings. Yes, you big lug, I’m offering,” Dismas replied, an inscrutable glimmer of mischief in his expression. He raised a hand to signal to the barkeep, but Reynauld stopped him with a stony glance.
“You know I don’t usually partake,” Reynauld said, almost reluctantly. Dismas raised his eyebrows.
“Rey,” the rogue said recriminatingly, pausing a moment for further emphasis. “It’s Christmas. Where’s your holiday spirit?”
“It’s not even Christmas yet, fool, ’tis only the solstice,” Reynauld grumbled, but his pointed lack of eye contact indicated to Dismas that he’d already won this particular battle. Reynauld let out a sigh through his nose as the other watched him keenly. “Although I suppose I’d be remiss if I didn’t take advantage of this rare opportunity, so, sod it all. If you insist."
Dismas practically cheered, throwing an arm around Reynauld’s shoulders and gleefully waving the bartender over. “Atta boy, there’s that Christmas spirit! We’re gonna get you good and jolly, crusader, I’ll stake my snuff bag on that.” Reynauld rolled his eyes but swayed along with the highwayman’s weight indulgently, the reflex to shrug him off long since fallen dormant, and let the familiar scent of gun oil and tobacco wash over him.
Soon hot flagons of fermented cider were deposited in front of the two men, and Reynauld—admittedly—quite enjoyed the deep draught he took (almost as much as the highwayman’s admiring eyes on him as he tilted his head back to swallow it down). The back of his neck grew warm from the attention, though, and he wasn’t especially well-accustomed to spending much time basking in the other’s unadulterated regard, so he soon cleared his throat and spoke as he reached for his satchel.
“Before you go dancing off into the crowd again, I have something for you,” he began, his hand closing around the gift he’d procured as Dismas’ jaw went slack in poorly-concealed surprise. Keeping his gaze on the countertop, he set the object down between the two of them, trying to carry himself as usual despite the heat surely visible on his cheeks. He could always blame it on the alcohol. “Blessed Yuletide, Dismas.”
Dismas coughed out a disbelieving laugh, dragging his hand over his face before leaning closer to pick up the item, eyeing it under the tavern lights appraisingly. It was a gleaming pewter flask in a simple leather holder—a far cry from the dented, rusting one already at the bandit’s hip—and so very on-brand that Dismas actually blushed as he turned it over in his hands (a rare boon given his darker complexion).
“Careful there, holy man, or I’ll think you’ve started to encourage my debauchery,” he said dryly, reaching to take a gulp of his drink as if to prove his point. Reynauld smiled, his eyes twinkling just a bit.
“It’s obviously for holy water, you heathen,” he replied, with such warmth and humor in his voice that Dismas nearly aspirated his mouthful of cider.
“Right, of course,” he sputtered, trying to maintain his dignity without a) bursting out laughing or b) drowning in his own drink. “Silly of me.” Somehow he managed to pull through, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and offering a quick, sheepish flash of a smile.
“Well. You’re lucky I’m not in the business of leaving any favors unpaid,” he continued. Now it was Reynauld’s turn to be surprised as Dismas fumbled something out of his pocket and shoved it in his general direction. It was a pocket Versebook in pristine condition, with unmarred pages and a pretty cover. “Here. I found this the other day—figured someone might as well make use of it, before it gets used for kindling or something.”
Reynauld took the little book from his hands, flipping through it appreciatively, marveling just a tiny bit. He frowned in confusion. “You found it? Dismas, this is brand new.”
Dismas’ shoulders reached his ears as he hunched over defensively, and he yanked his scarf back up over his face with a scoff. “Yeah, and? I’m as surprised as you are. Maybe Junia was doing some spring cleaning or something, I dunno.”
“Right. Spring cleaning.” Reynauld stared him down for a few moments before he was unable to hold back a knowing chuckle, his smile so warm and fond that it made Dismas even more flustered, hopping off his stool and jamming his hands into his pockets.
“Stop lookin’ at me like that, dammit, I didn’t do anythin’. Stop it. You ’n your corny arse.” He coughed into his fist, by now thoroughly embarrassed, and started backing toward the main gathering space of the tavern, where a lively dance number had started playing. “I better see you out there, crusader. For Christmas’ sake, and all.”
“For Christmas,” Reynauld repeated, his voice resigned to something not-quite-agreement but offering concession all the same, watching as the other man disappeared into the throng of patrons.
He slipped the book into his own pocket and took his time finishing his cider, sliding the empty mug back to the barkeep—who wore a strange expression, his mouth twisted in something not unlike commiseration—before turning in his seat to look back out on the room. He couldn’t see Dismas any longer from his current vantage point so, after a few more moments, he stood and began slowly gravitating toward the crowd. Light knows he didn’t have any better reason to involve himself in the revelry.
Gradually, he found himself on the periphery of the action. Baldwin spotted him from where he was chatting with the heir and offered him a nod of acknowledgement, from one man of the Light to another, which Reynauld returned. He even spotted Junia, as always in her full habit and veil, but her face alight with laughter as William led her into a (respectful) twirl, his ever-present hound jumping at their heels and yipping in delight. Seeing the typical crew, somber and worn down most days, setting their worries aside and enjoying the celebration left Reynauld with a warm feeling in his chest, even as he didn’t feel particularly compelled to join them. He was more than content to watch from the sidelines, offering a smile whenever his eyes met another’s, letting the music and cheer wash over him as he leaned against a nearby doorframe.
It wasn’t terribly long, though, before the highwayman reappeared, cheeks still a bit flushed—this time from dancing—tossing a cheeky salute to an attached-at-the-hip Audrey and Paracelsus before propping himself up in the doorway opposite the crusader.
“Everyone’s been askin’ for ya, big man,” he said, a bit out of breath. “Am I gonna have to drag you out there myself?”
Reynauld laughed, a bit nervously, scratching at his beard. “I’m not much of a dancer,” he admitted, more than happy to observe, and honestly hoping Dismas would settle down where he was for even just a moment. It was a bit difficult during times of merrymaking like this to watch Dismas leave him behind to be the life of the party, bumping elbows with the worst of them and earning peals of shocked laughter everywhere he went with his signature irreverent jokes. Reynauld could remember a time—it seemed so long ago—when the highwayman had been glued to his side, sullen and ornery but unwilling to branch out beyond the trauma-bond he shared with the knight from their eventful journey to the estate, as often as the two had butted heads back then. These days, though, the bandit had built decent rapport with the rest of the motley crew of mercenaries, and didn’t rely solely upon the crusader for company. Reynauld couldn’t help but miss those first miserable weeks and months in the hamlet, just a little.
“And you’re not much of a drinker either, allegedly, but look what we’ve accomplished today,” Dismas fired back with a smirk. Reynauld felt his cheeks grow a little warmer. “Come on, it’s not gonna kill ya. I’m no professional dancer either, but that’s never stopped me.” He leaned forward a bit to poke the crusader in the chest. “Am I gonna have to say pretty please?”
“Technically, you just did,” mumbled Reynauld, praying his thudding heartbeat wasn’t detectable beneath the other’s touch. Dismas rolled his eyes, his voice dropping low.
“You know what I mean, bastard. Am I gonna have to really say it?”
Before Reynauld could respond, they both jerked to attention at the sound of a shrill, piercing wolf whistle from nearby. His gaze landed upon Audrey, who shot them an exaggerated wink from beneath her ridiculous hat, and Paracelsus, who waved her arms frantically and pointed somewhere above their heads.
Oh, Light help him. Above the two men in the doorway, until then unnoticed, dangled a bundle of green leaves and bright red berries.
“Uh,” Dismas said, intelligently. There were a few whoops and hollers from elsewhere in the room, and more folks turned curiously in their direction. Reynauld knew there would be no explaining away the massive blush on his face, now, as he felt it creep down his neck and spread to the tips of his ears.
“Well? Y’know what that means, so get on with it already! I wanna see some action!” yelled Sarmenti from where he was perched on a chair, making an obscene gesture and cackling gleefully. Tardif swatted him, nearly knocking him over, but followed that up with a nod in Reynauld and Dismas’ direction. Traitor.
“Oh, please. You all tryin’ to give this guy a stroke? Piss off and leave us be,” Dismas barked, glaring at the crowd surrounding them and waving them away dismissively. “If y’think his holiness would bother with something stupid like this, there’s somethin’ wrong with you.” His voice was defensive, and almost… bitter?
To Reynauld’s surprise, the highwayman seemed genuinely uncomfortable under the room’s attention, and looking down at him—a hand fisted into his scarf, eyes darting about erratically—Reynauld felt emboldened, in some strange way. He took a step forward, and Dismas’ eyes widened, looking up to meet his gaze.
“Dismas,” Reynauld began, his voice deadly serious. Dismas looked completely lost, his face blank with shock. “Where’s your holiday spirit? It’s tradition. And it’s Christmas.”
“Do it for morale!” Paracelsus shouted, and the heir, standing nearby, endorsed her message with a nod and thumbs-up. Dismas nearly balked, but Reynauld hooked a finger in his neckerchief, tugging it back down below his chin and bringing the thief a step closer in the process.
“That’s right, think of the morale,” Reynauld agreed solemnly. Dismas stared up at him for a few moments in disbelief before shaking his head and letting out a laugh. He shoved a hand into his hair and took another step towards the center of the doorway.
“Right, for morale, of course. Guess we don’t have a choice then, eh? Got people countin’ on us, and all,” he said, trying to keep his voice light despite his rapidly pounding heart.
Reynauld didn’t dignify that with a response other than taking a final step to close the distance, leaning down to press his mouth gently against the highwayman’s.
Dismas let out a surprised puff of air through his nose before allowing himself to lean further into the taller man’s frame, tipping his head just a bit and scrunching his eyes shut. His hands fisted themselves into nothing at his sides, as he seemed to fight the urge to reach out and grab hold of the other’s tunic.
The kiss—chaste, but warm—was over almost before it began, though, as Reynauld straightened his back and retreated to his own side of the doorway, a small smile curving beneath his beard. Some scattered cheers erupted around them, and his eyes creased into a rare expression of fondness that Dismas had come to savor, even as it made his stomach drop like a rickety mineshaft lift.
The moment between them was shattered, though, when Barristan—quite tipsy, with the volume to match—barreled in their direction, stopping to sling an arm around each of their shoulders, his booming laugh echoing heartily throughout the space.
“Well, well, well, would ye look at that! A Christmas miracle if I ever saw one,” he crowed, using his free hand to ruffle Reynauld’s hair, to his obvious distaste. “If even these two can make nice for a little while, then there must be hope for us all, eh?!” He raised his tankard high into the air, a bit of froth sloshing over the rim. “To camaraderie!”
“Yea!” “Hear hear!” “To camaraderie!” “For morale!” A chorus of cheers and toasts rang throughout the room, and the pair in the center of it all awkwardly ducked out from beneath the general’s arms and backed away from the door.
“Haha, right. Look at us, settin’ an example against all odds or whatever—traditions are funny that way, huh,” Dismas laughed half-heartedly.
Reynauld simply offered him a soft smile, the look on his face so tender and knowing that Dismas actually couldn’t stand it. A violent blush overtaking his face, he turned on his heel and fled.
Reynauld found him back at the bar some time later, nursing a pint of ale and drumming his fingers restlessly against the countertop. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the crusader approached him, brushing a gloved hand lightly over his shoulder.
“May I have a word?” Reynauld said, his tone betraying nothing of his intentions as he looked the other over mildly. Dismas sighed, knocking back the last of his drink.
“Oh, lordy,” Dismas mumbled, but he gave the knight a short nod, shrugging toward an adjacent empty stool. Reynauld shook his head, jerking his chin back in the direction of a vacant corner within the tavern’s front vestibule before turning around and heading in that direction. Taking a deep breath, the highwayman hopped down from his seat and followed.
He couldn’t decipher the expression on Reynauld’s face, and it made him decidedly nervous. Following his best guess, he braced himself for a scolding; probably something about being the one to pressure him out in front of all those people in the first place, about lowering his inhibitions with drink, about being a neverending bad influence, something something something about his holy vows. He bit his lip.
“Dismas, are you all right?” Reynauld began, looking as if he wanted to reach out but folding his arms behind his back at the last moment, his brow furrowed. “Are you cross with me?”
Dismas’ chin jerked up in alarm. “What? N-no, I’m peachy. I was worried that you…” he let himself trail off, the words dying in his throat as Reynauld inched closer. He felt the wall, firm and unyielding, at his back.
“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable in any way,” Reynauld said, his voice gentle and earnest. It made Dismas’ chest feel strange, and even stranger as the crusader reached out a hand to where his own hung at his side. Just the touch of one finger, two, felt electric. “It’s just that I… I think I’ve realized something.”
“Yeah?” The white noise of the people making merry around them seemed to have faded to a soft murmur, the lamps hanging above wrapping their peripheral vision in an ambient golden glow. Dismas’ voice came out huskier than he’d intended. “Realized what, Rey?”
“That I…” Reynauld’s fingers had fully entwined with Dismas’, now, and he pulled their hands up between the two of them, centering them in his vision. “I’ve denied myself a little warmth for far too long. I need to take the Light in my life any way I can find it.”
Dismas had an inkling of where this was going, but wasn’t sure how to feel about the allusion to the crusader’s faith—flattered, maybe? He swallowed, feeling a bit off-kilter, and Reynauld watched the motion of his throat to where it disappeared beneath his kerchief, still pulled down around his neck. “Yeah?” he repeated, nudging a little nearer to the other in the small space. Reynauld smiled at him, the furrow in his brow smoothing out as his face relaxed.
“I suppose what I’m saying is… I’d really like to do… Ahem. That again. You know, from earlier. Sometime.” Reynauld laughed a little, really at himself for his sudden flusteredness, and it had absolutely no business being that endearing. Dismas gripped his hand tight and clasped it to his chest, tilting his chin upward. (No, he did not need to go on tiptoes to reach the crusader, shut up.)
“I think that can be arranged,” was all he had the patience to say before yanking Reynauld down to meet him in an enthusiastic kiss.
The knight let out a little muffled noise of pleasure against his mouth, which softened into a sigh as he dropped his free hand low on the highwayman’s waist. Dismas had to fight the urge to whimper aloud at the swipe of a tongue across his lips.
“Dismas,” Reynauld gasped, his beard tickling Dismas’ cheek. His grip on the other’s fingers was nearly bruising. “Oh.”
“Shh, Rey,” Dismas murmured in reply, keeping his voice low and letting his eyes dart over the crusader’s flushed face, his breathing heavy. “Gods, Reynauld. Please—”
Reynauld crowded him back against the wall of the alcove, shoving someone’s cloak aside carelessly and continuing the kiss with vigor, chasing the warmth of Dismas’ wicked mouth and the taste of spiced cider, their hands still clutching at each other all the while.
“Whoa there, holy man, is that your new versebook in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? Heh.”
“Shut up and come here, you scoundrel.”