Chapter Text
Ale isn’t always the biggest fan of these sorts of big, grand parties. Street festivals and bonfires are more his thing, like they used to have back in Milltown and the surrounding villages. This shindig, housed in a large property in one of the nicer parts of Silvershore, is just rough enough to be palatable. And seeing as it’s being held in honor of Silvershore’s best prize fighters, the attendance is an entertaining mix of highbrow and rough-and-tumble types.
He watches with amusement as someone in silks nervously tugs at their collar, trying to make conversation with a hulking orc dressed in dusty torn cloth. Ale knows the latter—his name is Char, and he’s a real nice guy. You’d never know it with his permanent frown set into place with a major underbite and tusks.
Silvershore can be in turns fascinating and overwhelming, but this in particular is what Ale has come to love about it: the dichotomy present around every corner. The meeting of spheres that, by the rest of the world’s standards, should never touch. Yet here, they do.
So it’s not so much the party itself Ale takes issue with, so much as—
“Is that him? It is, isn’t it?”
He shuts his eyes and exhales slowly. Maybe those voices coming from somewhere behind him aren’t referring to him. Maybe he’s lucky, just this once, and they’re discussing literally anyone else.
“Oh, it is!” replies another with barely-restrained glee. “The champion! Undefeated, I hear.”
“And alone by the looks of it. Poor dear.” He can hear the playful smirk on their face. “Why don’t we go introduce ourselves, hm?”
It sounds like they’re drifting closer, and he’s not about to turn around and risk eye contact to check. Ale shoots back the rest of the fizzy drink in his hand and makes a beeline for Char.
“Cover me?” He asks, and the orc takes his empty glass without question. After you spend enough time tossing somebody around a ring, you get to know their tells pretty well. This is how Ale knows that, despite the perma-frown, Char is amused.
“Must be hard being the most in-demand fighter at the party,” he says in a voice like boulders tumbling downhill, and Ale lets out another long-suffering sigh. “Maybe you should try letting me win sometime. Mix it up a little and send some of those admirers my way.”
“Not a chance,” Ale counters, throwing him a jaunty little salute before ducking around the very confused human and making himself scarce.
It had been fine, at first: the attention, the praise. This get-together had been for the fighters and their fans after all, so he’d expected it to some extent. But Ale had underestimated just how ardent those admirers could be. He’s barely had a second to himself since it started, and he’d lost Angelo to the crowd long ago.
Thankfully he has the advantage in finding his plus one between the booming voice and his overall stature. It does take Ale longer than expected to track him down though, and by the third room he checks he’s starting to get antsy.
He’d known deep down that an event like this would be a waste of time. It’s an unnecessary risk while Galahad still roams the streets. Ale shouldn’t have let himself get talked into this, and he definitely shouldn’t have asked Angelo to come, but… he had anyway. The way the former knight’s face had lit up at the invitation had driven any second guesses out of his mind at the time.
It had been selfish, really. He and Angelo don’t get that much time together with just the two of them, and that’s probably for the best. They have an agreement. Once Galahad is defeated and Milltown avenged… they can rethink this thing between them. But not before.
Still. Ale is no Saint, and he can’t help but bask in Angelo’s attention from time to time.
As a friend, of course.
He’d be doing that now if he could only find him.
Making his way down a blessedly empty hallway, Ale finally hears a familiar bellowing voice. It’s not a spot he’d expected to find Angelo: the mansion’s library, a rather small and secluded little spot full mostly of untouched collector’s editions of classics. Ale gets the feeling it’s a room the owners rarely ever actually use, more a showpiece than a functional space.
He pushes the door open, takes two steps inside, then stops dead in his tracks. Angelo is there all right, but he’s not alone.
Ale recognizes the creature leaning into Angelo as one of the fae. There’s plenty of them in Silvershore, those in the city peculiar even among their own kind for being so far from the wilderness, living a comparatively independent life away from court and clan.
But Ale isn’t really concerned about any of that at the moment. He’s more focused on the way the two of them are sat together on the one lone sofa in the room, the fae staring up adoringly at Angelo’s face. Their hand on his chest. Their face tilted up expectantly. Angelo has an arm around their shoulders in return, gaze filled with nothing but gentle, genuine compassion.
Ale feels a swooping sensation in his stomach, accompanied by a slight nausea he’d like to blame on the alcohol he’d ingested that evening.
So what if Angelo wants to pursue a tryst or two? It’s a party after all. He wouldn’t be the only one. Plus he’s handsome, not to mention single. That Ale had never considered this a possibility is on him.
Then he notices the fae has tears in their eyes, which absolutely does not go with either the adoring look for Angelo or the irritated one they shoot Ale’s way. Angelo follows their attention across the room, grinning when his eyes alight on his friend.
“Ale! I had thought you lost forever in the sea of your many admirers!”
“It was a close thing,” Ale admits, slipping his hand into his pocket. He doesn’t like the way the fae is looking at him. It’s not like they’re embarrassed or shy. More like he’s an interloper. It’s got a defensiveness to it that raises Ale’s hackles instinctively. “Managed to swim to shore though. Who’s this?”
He nods his head towards the fae, who sits up straighter, squaring their shoulders at the attention.
“Rhododendron,” they proclaim. “Rho for short.”
“They were just telling me of a plight most unfortunate,” Angelo explains, seemingly oblivious to the tension quickly filling the small space between Ale and the stranger. He’s been in enough bouts to know when he’s being sized up, so he does it right back: Rho the fae is slight in stature, dressed well in tailored leathers that gently suggest wealth more so than scream it. They don’t look particularly equipped to fight, but Ale knows better than to underestimate a magical creature based on appearances alone.
“That so?” Ale closes the distance between them and perches himself on the arm of the couch on Angelo’s other side. Even with the added height, he has to lean over to see around the larger man and keep the fae in his line of vision. He uses Angelo’s shoulder for balance, draping his arm over it. “Must be pretty serious. How about you clue me in?”
“I introduced myself,” Rho interjects. “It would be polite to do the same.”
“Ale.” He lets the name sit there and speak for itself before continuing. “So, this ‘plight’ of yours—”
“Wait. Ale… as in the champion Ale?” Their shift in tone is near immediate, suspicion transforming easily into surprise—and, Ale notes, a canny sort of consideration. “Now that is impressive.”
“It’s true: there is no better swordsman in Silvershore.” Angelo’s voice is full of pride as he turns to look up at Ale, who glances away from Rho to catch his friend’s eye. He looks at Ale like this just about every day, each new win in the ring never seeming to dull his excitement about the next. Like he’s proud. Despite all the walls he’s built in his heart, a veritable fortress of them, Ale has to admit: it’s endearing.
He can’t tell if the moment they spend staring at each other is long, or if it only feels that way, but by the time Ale tears his gaze away the fae is glancing between him and Angelo with a look that’s all too knowing.
“You didn’t tell me you were…” They pause, and Ale suspects it’s more for the drama of it than to find the vocabulary. “Involved.”
Angelo says “What do you mean?” at the exact same time Ale claims, “We’re not.” They both stop and glance at once another. Rho nods slowly.
“Of course.” They smirk, and Ale’s annoyance ratchets up a notch. “But it would be convenient if you were, wouldn’t it? Angelo, as I was just telling you…” They turn their attention back to him, putting the shiny-eyed-just-cried look back to use with an expert’s ease. Ale doesn’t need to see Angelo’s face to know he’s wholly buying it. “It is a lover’s game. I had been willing to take the risk to participate myself, to gain back what I had lost, but… if you two are already together, then…”
“Lovers?” Angelo laughs good-naturedly, shaking his head. “No, my friend, we’re not…” Though his smile never falters, he verbally stumbles, clearing his throat. “That is to say, at the moment we aren’t…”
“Slow down,” Ale cuts in, to spare himself as much as Angelo the embarrassment. Besides, there’s no need to explain themselves to a complete stranger. Nevermind one who clearly wants something from them. “Explain what you mean by that. A game, what you lost… I’m a few steps behind.”
Rho nods, not looking thrilled but at least willing to make an attempt. “Now surely you’ve heard of the Tournament of Hearts,” they say. When Ale stares back at them blankly, they roll their eyes. “No, of course not. What is with you humans and having absolutely no idea what’s going on in the city?”
“I had not heard of it either,” Angelo admits, voice low and conspiratorial, as if their fae acquaintance weren’t sitting right there. “But Rho was just telling me that it is an annual event, made for lovers to compete and prove their affections in front of a crowd!”
“Sounds like a waste of time,” Ale says reflexively, getting a sharp glare out of Rho. He returns it with a shrug. He hadn’t meant to be so candid, but his knee-jerk reaction is honest. He never could stand big, showy, romantic gestures that are all flash and no substance. “If you care about someone, you don’t have to prove it to anyone. And what about the people who can’t fight? Their love doesn’t count?”
“It’s more than just fighting.” Rho folds their arms over their chest, removing a stray tear off their cheek with a sharp and efficient flick of a finger. “There are three different rounds, each with a unique challenge. My former lover and I were the winners last cycle. But then he…”
At that, Ale sees the first flicker of what seems to be genuine emotion on the fae’s face. It’s a difficult one to pin down: either anger, sadness, hurt, or all three in messy tandem. Their hand tightens on the bit of Angelo’s shirt it had been grasping, and Ale resists the urge to tug it away. It’s no immediate threat.
It shouldn’t matter to him anyway, so long as it isn’t bothering Angelo.
And even if it were bothering him, Angelo is more than capable of taking care of himself.
Ale still wishes Rho wasn’t so damn clingy though. And that Angelo minded it just a little bit more.
“Your mother’s diamond,” Angelo finishes, solemn, and Rho gives a jerky nod. They’d apparently already talked about this.
“The prize for the competition is… well, there are several benefits. Free meals at fancy restaurants for a year, the admiration and jealousy of strangers, et cetera. Social capital, essentially.” Rho waves a hand, dismissing all of it. “But by far the most practically valuable is a necklace: a long chain of gems, a new stone added to the strand each year. It’s long enough now that one must loop it several times over to wear it, if they could even bear the weight.”
“Sounds more like a showpiece,” Ale observes, and Rho nods.
“Yes. It’s a trophy, and a symbol of bonds going back hundreds of years. It’s only really loaned to the winners, along with at least one guard to keep it safe until the next tournament. My ex-lover convinced me to use the diamond from my mother’s own wedding ring as our addition.” Their expression shifts, going stony. “I was a fool. It was all I had left to remember her by, but I thought… well. It doesn’t much matter what I thought. He left me soon after.”
“Ow.” Ale can’t help but wince at that. “After all that?”
“I didn’t share his taste for glory, which is all he truly wanted. In the end, I was nothing more to him than a capable partner to compete with. It was never about love.” They say the last word like something distasteful, with all the venom of a lover scorned. “It’s why I must claim the strand back for myself, and swap the diamond for another stone. No one will know it but me, and I can leave him in my past where he belongs.”
“Look,” Ale says, making an effort to soften his tone at least a little. He’s healthily skeptical, not a monster. “That’s awful. Seriously. I’m sorry that happened to you. But we really can’t get involved.”
He looks to Angelo for support, sighing when he sees the man frowning thoughtfully.
“Angelo,” Ale repeats, more firmly this time. “We can’t get involved. We have other stuff going on, don’t we?”
“Be that as it may,” Angelo says slowly, “this is a great injustice that has been done.” He meets Ale’s gaze directly, his own warm and earnest as always. “I would not ask you to do so, my friend, but I couldn’t leave here tonight with this weighing so heavily on my heart.”
“So you’ll help me?” Rho’s eyes gleam with hope and—Ale is sure of it—a self-indulgent delight. “That would be wonderful. I can imagine it now: me, entering the ring with such a strong, handsome human on my arm… oh the look on Rysander’s face…” They pause for a moody huff. “Well. I’d have to be in disguise of course, but still—”
Ale holds up his hand to cut them off, propelled by a sudden burst of… not anger, no. That’s too strong a word. Annoyance, maybe. Irritation, though isn’t that the same thing? Maybe a little bit of indignation on Angelo’s behalf. Whatever it is, it’s buzzing through his veins and making him want to swat at the fae like a mosquito until they back off.
Another word for that feeling moves through his thoughts, something to do with the way he wants those clinging hands off Angelo’s clothes, the thought fleeting and charged. He lets it go, content not to get caught up in those weeds.
“Angelo, can we talk about this for a second?” He fixes his gaze pointedly on Rho. “Alone?”
The fae’s eyes narrow, while Angelo blinks up at him in honest confusion.
“If that’s what you wish,” Angelo replies with a nod. “Friend Rho, could you give us a moment?”
Rho looks like they object to several parts of that, starting with the ‘friend’ and ending with ‘moment,’ but they at least have the decency not to argue. After shooting a dirty look at Ale, they rise from the sofa with the ease of someone who has a magical agreement with gravity. Their fingers trail almost regretfully off of Angelo’s arm.
“I’ll be waiting just outside,” they trill as they step through the open door. “Let me know when you’re finished here and we can work out all the details.”
With that they’re gone and the door is shut, leaving just the two of them. Ale turns to Angelo, one eyebrow raised.
“You know they’re just doing this so they can make their ex jealous,” he says, getting straight to the point, “right?”
“Ale!” Angelo gasps, aghast. Of course it hadn’t occurred to him, even with Rho clinging to him like a creeping vine. “That’s not their goal whatsoever! They explained it very plainly, I think. Their mother’s jewel—”
“Even if that is true, schoolboy, we really don’t have time to be doing charity work here. Taking time off for this,” Ale gestures at the room around them, indicating the whole of the party, “was bad enough.”
Angelo nods slowly. “Fair enough, but… be that as it may, I was glad to see you taking a break tonight. Work is important, but so is rest! And besides that, I…” His next smile is just a bit softer this time, more earnest. “I was pleased to be the one you asked to accompany you.”
Ale playfully nudges Angelo’s arm with his elbow, ignoring the pleased rush of warmth that admission brings.
“Who else was I going to ask? Can you see Caroline at something like this? And Olala is way too young.”
“You should not let her hear you say that,” Angelo points out with a conspiratorial grin, “or she will be a fly on your shoulder on the next event. Quite literally!”
Ale laughs, Angelo beams, and for a moment Ale forgets the conversation they’d just been having. It’s just him and Angelo sitting close on the couch, alone in the room. Angelo is a warm presence at his side, and his eyes… this close up, Ale can see every fleck of color in the iris. A man could get lost in eyes like that if they aren’t careful.
Which is how Ale realizes he’s far too close, their position almost mirroring the one Angelo and Rho had been in when he’d first walked in. Thinking of the fae brings the whole topic of conversation crashing back down on his head.
“Anyway,” he starts, leaning back and regrettably getting them back on topic. “I meant what I said. You should let this go.”
“Perhaps you are right. However…” Angelo looks towards the door Rho had exited out through. “I cannot help but think of how I would feel, were I in the same position. If I had but one memento from my mother, to have it taken like that and paraded out where I could not reach… it would be truly awful.”
Ale doesn’t realize what the look on Angelo’s face means for a moment, but he feels it like a blow when the meaning hits: Angelo’s mother. His family. He’d had to leave them all behind in the Citadel. It’s been difficult for him to go so long without being able to so much as write a letter home.
Far as they know, he’d simply disappeared—a truth that brings Angelo no small amount of pain. Of course he’d be especially soft-hearted towards someone in this sort of position. He’d probably made up his mind at the first mention of Rho’s mother.
And of course he’s going to be extra stubborn about it too.
Ale groans, dragging his hand down his face.
“Fine,” he says, the sound muffled by his palm. He says it again once his hand is fully past his mouth, just to be clear. “Fine. But if you’re doing this, I’m doing it with you. I meant it when I said that fae wants to use you to make their ex jealous. You do this with them, and they’d probably be too distracted by your biceps to actually win.”
“You’re certain?” Ale doesn’t know if Angelo didn’t catch the compliment, or if he’s that aware of the effect his muscles have on people. If it’s the latter, his lack of ego is absolutely unsurprising. “Ale, I’m not sure if you have realized…” He shifts in his seat, fingers idly digging into the soft upholstery of the couch. “If we participate, we will have to do it as a couple. Or the appearance of one, at least.”
“Yeah?” Ale pretends the thought doesn’t have his pulse drumming a nervous tattoo in his chest. It’s pretend. Just a bit. They’ve handled more difficult and dangerous challenges before. “I think we can pull it off, and at least I know we’re both capable. If you’re going to do this then you’re in it to win it, right?”
“Well said my friend.” Angelo’s smile is back, guileless as ever. “It’s decided then. We’ll compete, and we shall be victorious!”
“Of course we will. It can’t be that hard, can it?” Ale shifts his weight, drumming his fingers against the back of the couch. “Might even be a fun way to kill an afternoon. So, when is this supposed to happen? If we need specialized training then I can work that into my schedule at the ring, maybe reserve us some space…”
“Oh, there will be no need for that!” Angelo proclaims. “The tournament begins tomorrow morning!”
That hangs in the air, Angelo beaming and Ale fighting the urge to take back every word he’d just said about agreeing to do this.