Chapter Text
Farim's drink left a circle of condensate on the unvarnished wood. It was his second, which was already more than he ever had while alone. Another drop of moisture joined its brethren on the bar and he wondered where, exactly, he'd fucked things up. The image of that blonde sociopath's hand around Gwenette's neck made him grind his teeth, and he wasn't sure if the vague nausea was from the memory or the alcohol.
She wouldn't talk to him. Not that she ever did, really, but now she brushed him off like that barely knew each other. Like she wasn't the entire reason he was here. If he had to guess, that was probably part of why. The problem wasn't even that she was sleeping with someone. He didn't own her. He had made it clear with his unwilling confession that he wanted her by his side, friend or lover. It was that the person Gwen chose to be intimate with was him of all godsdamned people. He finished the last of the swill in his glass in one pull.
Someone sat down next to him and replaced his empty glass with a full one.
He squinted for a moment before he realized that knew her. The scout, the one who had come to the Rising Stones half dead.
"I-- thank you," he said, then somewhat self depreciatingly, "It's it that obvious?"
"That you want to drink yourself into oblivion? Yeah, a little. I probably would too, if I were you," M'naago said.
"You're looking better."
"Feeling better too, thanks to you." She flexed her arm with a grin.
He wasn't sure what kind of conversation he was capable of having at the moment. He wasn't drunk, he was just hurt, and that made him nearly inarticulate. M'naago saw him struggle for a moment. Her face softened and she put a hand on his arm.
"Oh, man. I'm so sorry, Farim."
"Its fine." That was a lie. "I really don't want to think about it more than I have to." Truth. He wasn't completely certain that he wouldn't start crying if he did.
MNaago squeezed his arm once and let go. She fiddled with her ponytail for a moment and then decided to let it down. Her fingers deftly fixed the kinks. Farim noticed very suddenly that she was looking at him while she did so. Heat rose on his cheeks.
"I'll be honest," she said. "I came over knowing you wouldn't feel like talking. I thought you might need a distraction."
She was very close. It was something he would've filled under simple observation any other day. She smelled like good tobacco and some kind of fruit, and the way her dusk pink hair hung about her shoulders softened her, somehow. It was a reminder that she was a woman, not just a soldier. Her tail gently brushed against the inside of his ankle and he felt heat growing on his cheeks.
And why shouldn't he? Was he staying abstinate for Gwenette, who was sleeping with the literal enemy? He knew it didn't matter, that none of this would matter as soon as they got home, b that didn't take the sting away. There was a beautiful woman that wanted his company and why should he not accept?
"A distraction would be welcome," he found himself saying.
When he kissed her, she tasted like cheap army beer and he did not think of Gwenette. In her tent there was a bow and a sword that he had to push out of the way to make room. He knelt on the ground before the cot that was definitely not made for two and he did not think of Gwenette. Her hands were calloused from years of fighting an unwinnable war and they scraped against his skin in a dizzying way and he tried not think of Gwenette.