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Most days, Royce takes pride in his ability to hear -as Hadrian so lovingly put it - "every stupid thing anyone ever says". But on that evening in the crowded tavern of a town in the middle of fucking nowhere, he wished he had a way to turn it off.
He and Hadrian are on a job in the southern part of Trent, and winter has come early. Sharp winds and snow buffered them throughout the journey, leaving him and his partner cold and shivering. If it weren't for the money, Royce would have turned back before they were fully on the road.
When they arrived in Lustershire, a small city across the border near Ervanon, they found a place with room for two and a stable for their horses. Royce would have been fine calling it a night right there and then, but it offered little in terms of food or drinks, and Hadrian, as he conveyed so strongly, was famished.
"Think of all the intel we can gather, Royce," his partner had pleaded, and so, reluctantly, they trudged back into the cold, towards the Flying Cow tavern.
As soon as they enter, Royce feels smothered. The heat in the room is a stark contrast with the crisp air outside, and the air is heavy with the scent of sweat and stale ale. He sits them down on a table away from the main crowd, but the people swarm in around them and soon, the exits are all but barred.
Hadrian gets himself a drink, knowing better than to offer one to Royce, and starts chatting with some men at a neighbouring table. Royce turns his focusses to the other patrons. He had to concede to Hadrian's point. If they are spending the evening in the tavern, he might as well make himself useful.
The job is meant to be simple: steal some documents from a "Lord Merial", and bringing them to Lady Parlo. Lord Merial, according to Albert Winslow, was paranoid, greedy, and stole from his people with excessive taxes. Royce didn't care much about that fact. Lady Parlo, however, who's land bordered on the land of their victim, offered good money for any evidence incriminating him. Not only that, but they had heard rumors of a brewing revolt. And revolts made for good distractions.
Luckily, long evenings and deep drinks make for loose lips, so Royce hopes he can listen in on a rebel or two.
He tunes out Hadrian and his new friends, pushes back the noise of scraping chairs and sloshing ale, and switches his focus to the conversations happening around him.
To his left, two men are in an argument over some sheep that has been eaten by a wolf. To the side of them, an older man is gushing about a nice girl to his friends. Royce shifts through a couple more of such conversations before he finally catches something interesting.
"My father, right," a young man at the bar says, barely above a whisper, "he refused to pay. They came in the next day, right when-"
The door to the back of the tavern slams open, and the end of the sentence is drowned in the cheer of people greeting the newcomers. When Royce manages to tune back in again, the subject has been changed.
He curses under his breath, and tries to refocus, ignoring the throb in his head.
After another ten minutes of futilely listening, he finally catches a barmaid arguing with some patrons as she brings them more ale.
"Can't help the price, we've got to pay the taxes too!" she snaps over laughing patrons on the other side of Royce. One of the people at the table leans over, and the other men follow suit.
"Don't you think it is time we did something?"
"It's dangerous but-"
A crash sounds in the back of the tavern, and Royce flinches. A roar rises up, yells and laughter blurring together. When the noise finally subsides, the barmaid is gone, no doubt to investigate, and the conversation is lost.
Royce grimaces, takes a deep steadying breath and places his head in his hands. The oppressive heat is doing little to warm him. He longs for the quiet of their room, but if he can get all the information they need tonight, they'll be done that much quicker, which means they could return back home.
To his side, Hadrian isn't much help. He's talking about the weather, which, guess what, has been awful for the past week or so.
Royce tries to ignore them. From what he's overheard so far, it's clear that there are at least a few people angry at Lord Merial. If he can find a few more-
"Dave! You made it!"
A chair screeches across the floor. The noise pierces through his head, and Royce recoils.
A clanging bell indicates a finished order deep in the kitchen. A man slams down his drink on the other side of the room. Glass shatters on the floor, and people cry out in alarm. The sounds all crash over him in a disorienting wave.
Out. He needs to get out.
Reaching out blindly, he grabs Hadrian's shoulder.
"We have to go," he growls, his own voice distant and muffled in his ears. Hadrian frowns, but then turns a bright smile at his companions, saying something that Royce can't make out.
The men complain, but Royce is all but dragging Hadrian out of his seat. Once his friend is standing, his large frame and the swords at his side form a good buffer against the crowd.
Which is the only reason why Royce keeps his trembling hand curled into his partner's back until they reach the door.
--
Hadrian starts shivering as soon as he steps outside the tavern. The ground is covered in white, and glistens in the light from inside. As far as he can tell, the streets are deserted.
Royce pushes past him and leads them further away from the tavern at a brusk pace. Hadrian follows, keeping quiet, one hand on his sword. It is not the first time they've had to make a quick exit, and most often, the exit ended in a fight of some sort.
After a few blocks, Royce slips into a dark alley, where he stops, his back turned towards the nearest wall, his hood up. Hadrian waits, alert and ready. He's learned the hard way to wait until Royce gives a signal before doing anything rash. But as he stands in the cold and the minutes slowly go by without anything happening, he frowns.
"Royce?" he ventures eventually, keeping his voice low. "What are we do-?"
"Shut up!"
Royce's response is so vicious that Hadrian instinctively tightens the grip on his sword. Royce has often berated him for talking too much, but most of the time in good (if ruffled) nature.
"Not until you tell me what is going on," he presses. "What happened? What-"
"Shut. Up."
If Hadrian didn't know Royce better, he'd say that the words came out pleading. No. Hadrian did know Royce better. He was pleading. He scans his partner. Now that he is watching more carefully, he realizes that Royce is breathing in shallow, rasping gasps.
Unsure of what to do, but knowing that standing in the snow isn't the answer, Hadrian slowly waves his hand in front of Royce's face. Royce raises his hood with a glare, but in addition to the unusual venom, Hadrian sees something that almost resembles fear.
Hadrian gives his most reassuring smile, and indicates himself and Royce with a finger. He then places his hands together next to his head, mimicking a sleeping position. Royce stares at him incredulously for a few seconds, but finally nods, his body slumping. They silently make their way back to the inn, and reach their rooms without problem.
Royce beelines straight for his bed as soon as they enter and collapses on it with his clothes and shoes still on, hiding beneath his cloak.
Hadrian makes sure to lock the door behind them, and lights a few candles around the room. Truth be told, he is exhausted as well. The ale had been alright, but nothing to speak off back at home, and the men had been far too boastful. In other circumstances, he would have discussed this with Royce, but he keeps quiet.
Hadrian wishes he knew what to do to help. Royce is still curled up tightly on the bed. But while he could be a stubborn arse, if he was wounded, his self-preservation would overcome his pride.
So Hadrian does what Royce normally would do - he takes a chair, careful to not scrape it on the ground, and sits at the window to keep an eye both on the door and on the street outside.
The moon reflects on the snow, bathing the village in an eerie light. It reminds Hadrian of some nights standing watch during his earlier soldier days. Until his superiors realized he was of better use during the battle, well rested.
After a while, Royce slowly uncurls. His head lifts and he looks, in what Hadrian assumes is his direction.
Hadrian smiles, but doesn't say anything. Royce huffs.
"Go to bed," he mutters.
Hadrian does so, keeping as silent as he can. He lies awake for a while longer, but finally drifts to sleep.
--
They finish their mission within two days. The revolt didn't come, so Royce finally just slipped inside the unguarded mansion of Lord Merial and stole some secret documents.
Hadrian grins as they turn their horses away from the village.
"I think that might be a hawk, don't you think, Royce?" he says, pointing to a bird flying high in the sky. "Isn't it beautiful?"
Royce rolls his eyes. "It might kill one of those songbirds you're so fond of."
Hadrian laughs. Royce's hood is down, and he has his head turned towards the sun.
Yes, it is good to go home.