Chapter Text
Kicking Desaix’s ass in his own hideout is cause for a celebration. The old traitor had a lot of treats squirreled away in his fortress besides the oranges they’d all been tripping over back at the capital and it makes for the best feast any of them have enjoyed since they lost the castle in the first place. Everybody finds their own way to keep the party rolling as long as they can— Python’s pretty sure not a one of them has any doubts about what Sir Clive and his lady are doing when they withdraw for the evening, and it seems like just about everyone else manages to slip away in twos or threes to do whatever they fancy.
That leaves him and Forsyth amid the wreckage of the party. Forsyth’s had enough that he’s actually flushed. His eyes are bright and every move he makes is surprisingly limber without the tension that grips him whenever he senses the eyes of Alm or Clive or Lukas upon him.
“Hey, Fors…”
Python flicks his tongue over his dry lips. It’d be awful nice to find a cozy storeroom with a heap of fur blankets and a pile of stout boxes to bar against the door. Forsyth lurches against him and pulls him into a crushing embrace, and in that moment Python thinks he’s going to get lucky.
“I love you.”
It’s mumbled into his shoulder, and for a split second Python almost convinces himself that it didn’t happen or that he can make it not happen. Fors is drunk, he’s drunk, he can pretend he heard nothing.
“Yeah,” is all he can say, looking up through the strands of Forsyth’s hair into the timbers of the ceiling. The idea of finding a room fizzles out like the bubbles in a smashed cask of ale.
Daylight finds them among trampled cheese curds and empty bottles, just two old friends passed out after a bender.