#pavella

Fahleon grimaced at the shadow poised along the wall of his quarters. The flickering candlelight made the shape unsteady but he didn’t need a clear view to know who it was. Time made sure of that. 

“Get out here,” he called to the room, after he fully entered, and he crossed his arms with a sigh before Raya even picked her way through the mess of half-read reports and haphazardly tossed books. She had the decency to look guilty, at least, with her head down. He rolled his eyes. “Where did you put it?”

“Nowhere.” 

He raised a brow. “The last time there were maggots in my sheets. 

Raya snorted. “I said nowhere. I gave it to Dorian so I know you’ll get it this time. The pie has pears in it this time.”

“And it’s going to make me fat.”

“Maybe that’s the plan,” she said, but Fahleon didn’t find it funny. She pouted. “I just want you to be happy and I know the pies-”

“I don’t need to be happy,” he said, and spat the last word out. It tasted wrong on his tongue. As did the last pie. They all tasted wrong, each one more so than the last. If anything, it was making her plan sour faster. “Try bread, next time.”

“Am I not good enough for you?” Dorian asked, and Fahleon snorted. Hands dropped their holds on his wrists to cup his chin and hold him in place, and Fahleon nearly tore them off when Dorian dug his nails into the hollows of his cheeks. He couldn’t look away from the wetness in the mage’s eyes or the color staining his face behind the mustache but he didn’t have to see it. 

“I never said-”

Dorian let go of him to throw his hands up. Exasperated. Angry. Finished. So long as he wasn’t touching him anymore. Fahleon rubbed at his face with the hell of his hand. Dorian spat. “That’s the thing, my dear Herald-” he said, and Fahleon’s eyes narrowed at the habit he picked up, of calling him that like it was an insult, “-you never say anything. Not ‘hello’ or ‘nice to see you’ or ‘I miss you’. Not once.”

“Is that what you want?”