The words are out before he could think of anything else to say otherwise. Tossed off almost as an afterthought in the dim glow of Imogen’s dancing lights, casting a pallid sheen over the slime on the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
“That was wonderfully creative thinking.”
Ashton is fascinated by the macabre, and there is nothing more than obliterating the entire fucking cesspit poor excuse of a house, neighbors be damned. That it comes from the air genasi wrapped in soft blue and yellow, black hair hanging in a smooth curtain that fades to white down his back, is enough to make Ashton sure the shade creepers fucked with his head anymore than it already is.
If anything, it’s his brand of chaos, one he emphatically endorses much to Fresh Cut Grass’ chagrin. Such thinking deserves praise; credit where credit’s due.
He likes to think Dorian’s reaction would have been one of appreciation if he heard--which Ashton was pretty sure he didn't, given the din all the other members were making as they discussed an escape route.
Not as if he needs the validation anyway.
Still, as they all escape, aided by Dorian sweet-talking the nosy halfling skulking at the door without blinking an eye, Ashton can’t help but glance back at him, framed against Jrusar’s skies. Thinks the crinkled eyes and curved lips would be better suited to thanking him.
He slams his fist against his temple, making Fresh Cut Grass jump off their wheel.
But as they all slump off to the Spire by Fire, awash in a stench so bad not even the sewers would take them, Ashton can’t help but feel at a loss, as if asked a question and letting it hang in the air before it withers away unanswered.
Ashton puts a hand against the sack of gold from Lord Eshteross, making sure it’s real and they’re not concussed from the battle (and their earlier self-inflicted punch).
It still didn’t feel real, no matter how many times they prod the sack heaped with gold. Hearing Lord Eshteross say their revenge was borne from a “sense of justice” is certainly a new experience. You can put a price on justice—he can only imagine the amount on his head—yet the claim that it came from a sliver of righteousness feels...right, almost as tangible as the reward.
A tiny part of that withered stone he calls a heart feels lighter than it has in days. Months.
It twinges like a tiny hammer swing when he spies Dorian just up ahead with Orym and Fearne—most likely admonishing her for suggesting they send children to certain death, despite his suggestion of blowing up the place. The lamp lights glint off his skin, dying it the same color as the bloodied sunset.
Ashton grimaces. A stiff drink is definitely in order.
The illuminated windows of the inn coming into view, iridescent and shining, have never been so welcoming. Everyone piles in, victorious but drained and filthy. And not in a fun way, Ashton can’t help but think as they immediately go to their room to clean up.
An hour later, scrubbed until the melted gold in their bone shines, Ashton slinks into the main room, hanging back to survey the crowd, ambient din doing little to lessen the buzz in their head: memories of gripping his hammer as it crashes against the wall, strong and unrelenting, sealing the damned creepers away.
But when he sees Dorian already seated at the bar with none of their motley crewmates in sight, mindlessly strumming his lute and staring into space, the background noise grows muffled.
He smacks his ear, half expecting to find a writhing shade creeper in his palm when he inspects it, and sighs when there’s nothing there. Clearly, the gods hate him.
But a minor impending crisis never keeps Ashton from booze, so they cross the floor and drop into the seat next to him. “Hey, baby blue.”
Dorian chokes on a sip of his drink, and for the second time in several hours, Ashton doesn’t know why he said it.
“Uh, hey…” Dorian manages, giving him the same evasive look he had when Imogen mentioned changing his name. (He wants to ask, but gods know it’d be rich coming from him. He’s damn near welded from secrets.)
Ashton signals for a drink, anything to avoid Dorian’s gaze. If only they had the power to make the ground swallow them whole. “Thinking of performing later?”
A sigh from his right, like a whispered breeze. “That battle exhausted me. Ask tomorrow.”
The barkeep slides over a tankard of beautiful, glistening amber ale, and the tension drains from Ashton’s shoulders. “That thunderous applause wore you out?” they drawl, knocking it back.
“I...I hadn’t thought you noticed.”
Neither did Ashton, but hey—first time for everything. It was impossible not to notice; the sound overwhelmed everything in the room, followed by a fission of lightning-blue light. Ashton saw the bard framed against it, teary-eyed with nerves and rage.
The two lapsed into silence, the inn’s noise providing a pleasant soundtrack. Dorian’s fingers twitched as he placed the lute in his lap, leaning a little over the counter to order a second tankard of mead.
Ashton’s skull crystal tingles at the sight.
Dorian glances at him and raises a concerned eyebrow. “Are you okay? You look out of it, more so than usual which—not surprising—but still.”
“I’m fine,” he mutters, tearing their gaze away. Now was not the time to admire someone they barely knew, no matter that he smells like soap and crisp evening air. And that his skin glistens from a recent bath.
Especially the patch of chest revealed by an open-necked shirt when he leans forward.
Fuck! He lunges for the tankard and downs the rest, liquid searing his throat, sure as anything.
Dorian, unaware of Ashton’s impending meltdown to an almost laughable degree, sips his wine, darting his eyes around before coming to a decision and looking them dead-on. “I heard, by the way.”
“What?”
“What you said about my plan, about it being creative.” A smile spreads across his mouth like a slash of diamond. “I couldn’t thank you then, so I’m doing it now.”
Ashton’s hand grips the now-empty tankard, and decides to fake some semblance of a sound mind. “You’re welcome,” he says, raising it before setting it down for a refill.
“Probably for the best we didn’t do it though.” Dorian rubs the back of his neck. “Destroying the house would’ve definitely attracted attention.”
“At the very least, we’d have you to charm any irritating people into leaving us alone.”
Dorian’s confusion at the second genuine compliment of the evening was almost insulting. Almost. “Thank you.”
“You have to admit, it’s fucking hilarious,” Ashton says with a grin. “The sweet-talking bard wanted to bring down the house, literally.”
Said bard choked on his drink before a breathless laugh escapes him, and Ashton opens his mouth then closes it, entirely at a loss for words.
Fortunately, Dorian picks up the conversational thread, and they manage to while away the hour with relative ease while the rest of the crew drift in for food and drink before leaving. Fearne glances at them over her shoulder with a twinkle in her eyes that surely spells doom.
And the more they talk, the more Dorian unwinds, lazily plucking at lute strings to form shapeless melodies that meant nothing and everything. But his fingers still.
“Do you think he’s at peace? Sir Bertrand?”
The gold sack presses against Ashton’s side, an omniscient heat against the lull of the evening. “Why do you ask?”
“You seem to know your way around these things,” Dorian says, shrugging helplessly. “That’s all.”
There’s more to Dorian Storm than a ruby tongue and a soft-spoken demeanor, of that Ashton is sure. He had seen a friend murdered, tangled with corsairs, witnessed an abomination and dealt the decisive blow with a remarkable degree of fortitude. He hadn’t expected a willingness to be vulnerable with him, when Fresh Cut Grass was far more suited to the task.
Still, it warranted an answer.
“Look, I don’t know what happens when you die, and I don’t want to anytime soon, but if Imogen’s dreams are to be trusted—and that’s a big ‘if’, given how fucking unreliable the mind can be—then Bertrand went out like he intended, in a blaze of glory he tried so desperately to achieve in life. Pathetic if you ask me, but what can you do?”
Dorian’s hair slides over his body as he tilts his head, actually considering his opinion. What a novelty. “So he died on top, in the end.”
Ashton makes a noise of noncommittal agreement and takes another hit. The liquid gold is already half gone.
“You know Ashton, you’re a lot more pleasant than I gave you credit for.”
Ashton suppresses the urge to vomit, which would be a waste of alcohol. How often had he heard that from others who immediately proved him otherwise?
The worst part is that Dorian seems to mean it. His face is tired, but open, free of his quick smile and wide-eyed innocence that danced on the edge of deception. For a guy who never crimed, he was a dab hand at the personality veil.
“The power of low expectations,” they mutter.
The signs are there: seeds of attraction buried deep in what is supposed to be salted earth. He wants to keep it that way. This...collaboration, if you could call it that, was too new. Not properly cut into shape. Besides, Ashton’s profane and crude above all else, and given Dorian’s tendency to swap curses for fairy dust, they had the impression that Dorian isn’t the type.
Which is why he’s surprised when he hears, “Maybe there’s more to you than you think.”
And when he looks up Dorian’s bright blue eyes, serious and knowing, turn him sober.
“I could’ve gone to Orym, or Fresh Cut Grass, but instead I asked you.”
Ashton’s mouth goes dry. “And what should I call this then?”
The answering wine-dipped smile does nothing for their heart. “Call it what you want.” Dorian finishes his drink, placing the glass daintily on the counter, and pats Ashton’s shoulder as he leaves, leaving him more mindless than usual and his head louder than the heat of battle.
Reason would have him slam the door shut on this whole mess, but Ashton’s never been one for reason anyway.
And wrapped in the inn’s cozy embrace, Ashton could almost believe he was worth it.