Chapter 277 - 275: Whatever You Want.

Chapter 277: Chapter 275: Whatever You Want.

As for the rules of his game, one of his fellows points at Gandy’s empty mug and flicks a coin at it.

It lands inside with a hearty clink, and with a wide grin, he gestures for them to go ahead and drink up.

They do as they’re bid, and their challengers obligingly line up one at their table for them to take a shot at.

​This game, Khobi is very good at. Good enough that Montrel stops even taking shots; sick of having to drink for every toss he misses.

He’s sure the smith isn’t the only guy watching him, but he’s the only one bold enough to strike up a conversation with him (at least thus far), so if he preens a little or flashes a bicep to brag whenever he sinks a shot, well who can really blame him?

​Especially when the other guy’s doing it right back.

​(It does not escape Khobi’s notice that he is in incredible shape. And he’s fairly certain that Gandy catches him looking.)

​At some point, even Loac joins in.

He doesn’t even announce it, he just reaches into his pocket, pulls out a gold, and from where he’s casually leaning back in his chair, just tosses it into the air.

​It cuts a beautiful, glinting arc through the air, then drops right in.

​The spectating crowd lose their minds .

​("Show off," Khobi mutters, unimpressed.

​"Like you can talk," Loac taunts back, smirking as he mockingly flexes a bicep, the way Khobi’s been doing all game. And if it makes Khobi pull a double take, well that’s his business.)

​Infuriatingly, he’s just as good as him.

​(Because of course he is.)

​(It’s such a stupid game, but Khobi is already a few drinks deep and he instantly wants so badly to be better than Loac at it.)

​He immediately sticks out a hand for Montrel to hand him another gold, and with a flick and a soft plink, it lands amongst the rest of them.

​The other team take a drink, but they needn’t have bothered.

This is an entirely different challenge, plain and simple.

​The legs of Loac’s chairs hit the ground with a heavy thud.

There’s no mistaking that he’s heard it too.

​Which is perfect, because Khobi intended him to.

​"...You don’t wanna do this, Khobi," he smirks, stretching out long and languid as he rises up out of his chair to join him.

A long, drunken ooh rises with him, and turns first to hoots and then wolf whistles as he comes toe to toe and eye to eye with Khobi and pulls a single coin from his pocket.

​And then, deliberately holding his gaze, he flicks it free.

​Incredibly, the coin drops right in.

​"You’re unbelievable," Khobi deadpans, because he’d rather die than admit that that was seriously fucking cool.

But from the sly grin that curls up on Loac’s lips as he leans in to taunt him; voice lilted and low, he already knows.

​"...You don’t know the half of it."

The words scatter goosebumps along his arms, and as he pulls away, ever-so-gallantly gesturing for him to go right ahead, Khobi could swear he hears the air between them crackle.

​He loses track of how many consecutive shots they make, because it’s not so much about the number as who misses first, and for those fixated to the spectacle it eventually becomes less about the drinking, and more about the sport of it; the tension rising with every made shot.

And if Khobi thought that Loac got under his feet in the kitchen, here he’s about a thousand times worse; sure, it’s crowded in here, but this is so egregious there’s no way it’s not deliberate.

Khobi would call him a cheat for it, but that would imply that it was working.

And the crowd are no help; there’s no rules here, and they don’t care who wins or loses; they’re drunk, and cheer for both of them in equal measure.

​In the end, it’s Khobi’s shot that goes wide first and both tables groan dramatically and fling up their hands in dismay as only groups of drunkards do.

And Khobi curses along with them, but with the ale setting in and spirits running high there’s no bite and barely any bark to it, and when Loac flings an arm around his shoulders in commiseration, grin wide and loose, he sees no real reason to throw him off.

​"Can’t win em all," Loac snickers, cockily rolling one more coin between his fingers and then flicking it on towards their target, obviously planning on rubbing it in.

​The coin has other ideas.

​It clinks pathetically off the side, then promptly rolls off the edge of the table.

Loac’s eyebrow twitches, and their spectators –already loud and enthusiastic as their drunkenness sets in for the night –positively howl with laughter.

​Khobi’s not sure why exactly it’s so funny, but before he knows it he’s cackling along with them, so loud and so hard it makes his ribs hurt.

​"Hey, come on, let’s get another drink," he laughs, grin easy and open and blinding, "...Just for that, you’re buyin’."

​Loac obligingly hooks a couple of coins out of the mug they’ve been tossing gold in like it’s worthless.

It’s half full. And most of it was Montrel’s anyways.

Khobi just rolls his eyes, chuckling despite himself, and lets himself be hauled up to the bar, where he is becoming a bit of a permanent fixture.

​"Go on then, what do you want?" Loac snorts, leaning deep up into his space; mouth practically pressed to Khobi’s ear so that he can hear him over the terrible din Rogard and Gandy are making over by the fire.

It’s not uncommon for him to come close these days, but for some reason it feels different tonight.

​Less push, and more pull, maybe.

​Or maybe Khobi feels different tonight.

​Either way, the way his breath suddenly skims the skin of his neck and ghosts against his ear makes Khobi’s throat run dry.

​It’s only then that he realises that he’s got one arm slung loose and low around Loac’s waist.

He’s not sure exactly when that happened.

Maybe before, when he laughed so hard he almost toppled over? Or was it earlier. During their game?