Chapter 290 - 288: A Good Time.

Chapter 290: Chapter 288: A Good Time.

And after last night, there are a whole lot of new, even more confusing pieces.

​He seemed...different.

​(Khobi cant help but think of the Loac he saw scooping up a drunken Rogard, and the way he’d laughed as he dragged him along with him.)

​...Like maybe the kind of guy who did do nice things.

​"And back in." Of course, Loac just has to ruin it, propping himself up on one elbow jusy enough to give him a meaningful look as he adds, "Which wasn’t part of the deal, by the way."

​"How generous of you," Khobi snarks back, even though he gets the sense that Loac’s just messing with him again.

And when he sneaks a glance over at him, the lazy half-grin the guy’s wearing proves him correct.

He’s either getting better at telling or Loac’s doing it more.

​"...Thanks," he says finally, after a beat of silence passes between them. And he really means it.

"...For sneakin’ me out." And then, more softly, and more for his own ears than Loac’s, he adds, "...I had a good time."

​He means that, too.

​"Oh yeah?" There’s an innuendo there, playfully coasting along on that familiar undercurrent of heat, and when Loac peers across at him, the light peeking through the haggard haze dusting his eyes is bright and alluring.

​More than on the battlefield or with a sword in hand, how is it that it’s times like this that Loac feels at his most dangerous?

​For all his threats of violence, now that he’s back in his warm, comfy bed and swallowed by his warm, comfy blankets, there’s nothing left to stop sleep from settling back in to his poor, tired body, and Khobi barely has enough strength to toss a pillow at him.

It must not connect, because distantly, he hears Loac chuckle.

​"A good time, huh?" he echoes, voice sounding oddly soft, and far off.

​"...Go to sleep, Loac," he groans, eyes sinking closed as his mind begins to slowly drift off.

He’s sure at this point he could comfortably sleep for weeks.

Torn between worlds as he is, it’s hard to tell if the last whispered words he hears are real or part of some dream.

​"...Me too."

...

Khobi does not, in fact, sleep for weeks. He does, however, sleep until dinner.

By which time his hangover is in full swing and he is starving.

​He’s also in desperate need of a bath, but one thing at a time.

Hopefully if he gets something to eat the pounding in his head will stop.

​Honestly, that bread Binny left out for him might’ve just saved his life.

​The other soldiers are all just sitting down when Khobi staggers into the mess hall feeling like he’s just done ten rounds against Jaga with his hands tied behind his back.

It’s hard to tell how much of the pain is his body rejecting the sheer amount of alcohol he’d consumed the night before, and how much is from climbing his way through across the city.

​Either way, it sucks.

​And all the other soldiers look fucked. And that’s putting it politely.

Even the likes of Jaga and Mural who have always given off the impression of being the more responsible of the lot are looking decidedly worse for wear.

Rogard looks about as vile as Khobi feels, and he must know it, because when Khobi points it out he doesn’t even have anything ready to quip back with.

​Montrel looks particularly grim.

​"Kill me," is the first thing he says as he sinks down at their usual table. His skin has an unhealthy paleness to it, and he’s glistening with a thick sheen of sweat.

​"Me first," Gandy groans, eyeing his bowl like he’s trying to decide if he should eat his dinner or throw up into it, all the while suspecting it’ll end up being both. "How you doin’ over there, Khobi?"

​Khobi just lets out a heavy grunt into the table, face pressed against the cool wood in a meagre attempt to stop his brain from pulsing so damn hard.

Dinner smells so damn good and he’s so fucking hungry, but his stomach is churning like it’s never churned before and he can’t say he likes the feeling.

​"Yeah, that sounds about right."

​It’s the most subdued dinner they’ve had in quite some time.

Gone is much of the vigour of the night before, and the most animated it gets is surrounding the topic of exactly whose fault it is that they’re feeling the way they’re feeling.

A couple of the guys blame Gandy for suggesting a night out in the first place but he’s quick to point a finger at Montrel. He equally blames Rogard for getting so generous with his daddy’s cash, who in turn reminds him that he didn’t have to drink it.

​(He’s right in that they really only have themselves to blame.

But it’s far more convenient to blame each other than reflect on their own poor decision making.)

​It’s touch and go a couple of times, but somehow they all manage to make it through their dinner in one piece.

They must look a right sight, the lot of them, and judging from the number of sympathetic glances that come their way it must be pretty obvious what brand of mischief they’d spent their night getting up to.

​If any of them notice that Khobi’s looking just as haggard as the rest of them, none of them see fit to comment.

Getting drunk in the castle walls on an innocuous winter evening isn’t exactly standard procedure, but it’s not unheard of.

​It takes two very slow bowls of stew, but eventually some colour finally starts to return to Montrel’s face, and Khobi is relieved to find that it no longer feels like the earth is trying to buck him off it.

He still doesn’t feel good, but he doesn’t feel quite so terrible anymore so that can only be a win.

And Gandy only had to leave the table to vomit once.

​Unfortunately, it also means that enough time has passed that Rogard no longer feels the urge to puke whenever he opens his mouth.

​"...Hey, Khobi?" Rogard comments suddenly, slowly working his way through what must easily be his fifth mug of water.