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They had stayed in an actual inn last night. Alistair had no right to be this grumpy. But knowing that didn’t help the fact that he clearly was. And knowing why he was grumpy didn’t help either.
Daylen had never come back to their room last night. Not only that, Oghren had. Reeking of dwarven ale - where was he even finding it on the surface? - and complaining that Zev had locked him out. Which could only mean one thing.
So you wouldn’t mind if I … borrowed him? The assassin had asked.
Zev’s question and his own answer had haunted him for weeks. What could he have said? That he did mind but he didn’t know why? That he didn’t want to share his best friend with . . . anyone? Then Zev would mention it to Daylen and then Daylen would ask him what he meant with that too-soft voice that made him just spill his guts every time and never shut up and Maker knew how he’d answer that because sure as the void he didn’t know himself. He sighed, climbed out of bed, glared at Oghren’s snoring body where Daylen’s should be, and got dressed to go get some food.
In the mornings, the inn wasn’t really serving food so much as it had a communal pot of oatmeal in the kitchen. Alistair got a bowl and sat down with a huff. You need to get it together, he told himself sternly. When they come down, you need to look like it’s just a regular day at camp, not that you know they were up all night doing lamppost things and -
“You’re up early.”
He dropped his spoon in surprise and turned around. Daylen was in the doorway, dark hair damp from a bath, still hanging in little curls around his face as he ruffled it with the towel around his shoulders. Also no shirt. Alistair looked back down at the oatmeal hurriedly so he wouldn’t stare. “Oghren snores.”
The mage was next to him now, an apologetic hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, guess I didn’t think that through. Next time, we’ll rearrange the rooms better.”
Next time?
He must’ve said it out loud, because he heard a relieved laugh. “Incredible, isn’t it? Thanks for telling him to feed and walk me properly.” Daylen leaned forward to kiss his temple.
“I . . . you’re welcome?” he choked out.
“He did it all night, and now I’m going to bring us breakfast.” With that, he scooped out two bowls, and practically skipped out of the kitchen.
Had Alistair ever seen him that happy before? Probably not. He sighed, picked up his spoon, and kept eating.