Chapter 180 - 178: What I Want.

As it was, he’d refused most of Ynoro’s generous offers, and now Rogard is here, and he realises that instead of spending all those hours chastising himself for his carelessness, he should have figured out what he was going to say.

​His frustration with himself comes out as a heavy, and overly dramatic sigh, and when he catches the way Rogard’s arms tighten across his chest as though bracing himself, he figures he may as well just cut to the chase.

​A quick glance into their surroundings confirms that they’re alone.

​" –Look, Rogard if this is about the other night..." he sighs quietly, and immediately recognises the too-sweet, too-polite confusion in the too-quick response as what it is.

​" –Why would it be about the other night?"

​Pain.

​Drogger feels a stab of guilt, and drags his gaze away from a particularly safe spot on a wall in the distance to level Rogard with a steady, even look that says don’t Rogard holds his gaze for a beat and then looks away, jaw clenched and lips pressing thin.

He tries again, keeping his tone as even as his expression.

​"Rogard."

​The gold eyes snap back to him, flashing.

​"Of course it’s about the other night, master," he snaps in a hiss, and mimics Drogger’s sweep of the streets to make sure no one heard.

There’s no one there. "I didn’t think you were the type to kiss someone and walk away, you know~"

​Drogger’s not.

He’s really not.

He married the first girl he ever kissed, and can count on one hand the number of people he’s been with since.

And that’s counting Rogard.

​To anyone else Rogard would probably seem indifferent, maybe even playful, but Drogger knows him better than that, and the pout and the way his gaze won’t stick gives him away.

​"Look, Rogard –"

This really isn’t the place. It’s not a busy time of night and not a busy part of the city, but it’s still hardly an appropriate place for this sort of conversation.

Anyone could come upon them, and even though they’re no longer within the castle grounds, it’s hard to shake a lifetime of talking as though the walls are listening.

The eaves of a nearby side street look more suitably deserted, and even though Rogard is still obstinately refusing to look at him, when Drogger ducks towards the shadows, he follows.

​It should feel easier once they’ve broken line of sight with the street, but Drogger belatedly realises that with the buildings closing in on them, Rogard winds up just that much closer to him.

His hands drop away from his chest and into his pockets; tension in his shoulders and in what Drogger can see of his face, clearly just as uncomfortable as him.

​"About that..." Drogger coughs, in the attempt to dispel some of the awkwardness in the air.

It fails spectacularly. He’s suddenly grateful for the dim light of the alley. "...Why did you...kiss me?"

​The gleaming gold of Rogard’s shifting gaze catches on his for a moment. It’s on the decidedly cool side.

​"...Because I wanted to."

​It’s a very Rogard answer. And not very helpful.

​"You can’t just go doing that, Rogard," he sighs as he runs a hand back through his hair, long-suffering.

​"Why not?" comes the retort, as if it was really that simple.

​Because what am I meant to think?

​" –Why did you kiss me back?" Rogard shoots back, turning his own question on him; equal parts belligerence and cheek, and when Drogger’s mouth opens and no sound comes out, he leans in to parrot his own words back at him, expression unreadable.

"You can’t just go doing that, master."

​Well. He’s got him

​Drogger has no defence.

​"...If you hated it, then just say so," Rogard tells him, tone falsely light, like it’s no big deal when it very clearly is, "I can handle it."

​The thing is, as much as Rogard has built a reputation on his airy confidence, he should know by now that Drogger has always been able to tell when he’s faking it.

And with those four words, Drogger can tell that he’s faking his heart out.

​It makes his stomach twist.

​"It’s not that at all, Rogard."

​"Then what is it, Captain?" His voice breaks on the word, and Drogger hates what that does to him, and his finely tempered resolve.

It gets him when his voice catches like that, and when it looks like he aches, and each time all Drogger wants to do is reach out and draw him close so that he knows that even if it hurts now, someday it won’t, and until that day comes, he can lean on him.

​That urge is there now; stronger and more insistent than ever.

​A crack appears in Drogger’s resolve. Tiny, but insistent, and spreading.

​"It’s just..."

​Just what?

​He’s meant to be more composed than this.

​There’s something like dread in Rogard’s eyes, like he’s already hearing the words he most desperately doesn’t want to hear, and all the reasons for not taking him into his arms suddenly just don’t quite seem good enough.

He knows he shouldn’t, though. That he should’ve known better from the start. He’s heard the whispers.

It’s a bad idea getting involved with Rogard Spidra; everyone knows that.

He has a fickle heart, they say; he lets you love him, lets you think he loves you back, and leaves as soon as his interest fades.

Drogger had watched it play out time and time again when they were younger –all the young ladies in the castle, and some of the young men, too, chased after him even back then.

​"...I’m not..." he tries again.

​But when it comes down to it, what makes him any different?

​After all, everyone said that Rogard Spidra plays with hearts. His interests wax and wane like the moon and change with the wind.

Nothing and no one holds his attention for long, and he’s never the one who ends up broken. "...Your father doesn’t –"

​"What about my father?" Rogard bristles, and the glint in his eyes flickers between irritation and disbelief at the mention of his father in a way it didn’t used to,

"I’m sick of hearing about what my father wants. What about what I want?"

​(There is a difference, though.)