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Kubard doesn’t get drunk. Ever.
At least that’s what Shapur has observed throughout the years of having to serve in royal court, and to fight and camp out with the man during wartimes.
Either that, or Kubard is very good at pretending to be sober.
Shapur never understands what the man’s true intentions are behind that overly boisterous laughter of his – thrumming from deep within his chest, thunderous and careless when it bursts out of his mouth, and always louder than everyone else’s – or when he gives him a mischievous grin over a bottle of spirits, or when he knowingly teases him in front of his soldiers whenever he’s trying to scold his men about one issue or another.
Kubard is not a man who takes things seriously, leading a carefree lifestyle and indulging himself in alcohol and pleasure in women’s beds despite being one of the twelve Marzbans, and Shapur has always despised that side of him.
It’s one matter to be an excellent commander and valiant fighter on the battlefield, but to abandon his responsibilities during peaceful days is a habit that Shapur cannot endorse.
Kubard doesn’t get drunk, but he’s always doing one idiotic thing or another, and somehow on this midsummer night evening, Shapur, who’s been nursing a mug of ale, the bitterness subtle and lingering on his tongue, finds the man with a scarred left eye and wild salt-and-pepper hair slamming his own drink down on the table and making himself comfortable in the chair next to his.
“I just can’t seem to get away from you no matter where I go, can I, Kubard?”
Shapur only wants some breathing space away from having to deal with anyone from the court – is that too much to ask for? Making small talks with noblemen tires him out more than having to slay down enemies for hours, and that’s why he’s chosen this little pub hidden in one of the back alleyways on the outskirts of Ecbatana in the first place. Honestly, running into anyone else in his current state would have been better than this.
He hates to admit it, but the heat from his two or three previous drinks simmering just beneath the surface of his flushed skin proves that he’s more than halfway to being drunk, and Kubard is grinning at him.
“Shapur! Fancy meeting you here,” Kubard seems unperturbed, which is irritating the older man even more, for some reason.
It must be the drinks, Shapur laments. He really shouldn’t have let his guard down.
“What brings you to this side of the city?” He sounds genuinely curious, the grey of his single iris reflecting the orange flame of the candles flickering haphazardly around them.
“I believe that is not any of your business,” Shapur murmurs coldly, bringing his mug of lukewarm ale to his lips and taking a careful sip, golden eyes, losing some of its usual focus to the alcohol flowing pleasantly in his bloodstream, flitting to his left to observe the figure next to him. “Though I could have asked you the same thing.”
“So you are interested in what I’m up to,” Kubard’s voice brightens a little, as if he’s delighted with this new discovery.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Shapur snaps and turns his head away, his fingers tightening around the mug without his noticing. “I’m merely concerned that, once you’ve become too intoxicated, you’ll cause trouble for others, either with meaningless brawls or with your countless of lovers.”
“I think you’re mistaken, Shapur,” Kubard tsks – actually clicks his tongue like a disappointed, scolding mother lecturing her child – and continues on, “I avoid taking the same woman to bed twice if I can help it, so technically speaking, I don’t have any lovers – too bothersome when they get too attached, see?”
“You can be incredibly unpleasant at times,” Shapur replies in a disgusted tone.
“Anyway, I wouldn’t want to burden some poor wench were I to die in a battle,” Kubard goes on, arms making unnecessarily elaborate gestures that almost knocks his drink off the table.
Perhaps he’s not as sober as Shapur suspects.
“Aren’t you being too conceited with this manner of thinking?” The dark-haired man scoffs, and in a single, long gulp, finishes the contents of his mug.
“How so?” Kubard probes as he signals the passing shopkeeper to pour Shapur another drink.
“You assume that this woman loves you so much that she’ll mourn long after your death, and that she’ll spent the remaining of her life wallowing in sorrow and unable to find happiness for herself when you’re gone,” Shapur’s letting his mouth run, and he knows it, and that’s one of the reasons why he almost never allows himself to drink more than two goblets at a time when he’s around others.
He sees Kubard opening his mouth, about to argue, perhaps, but Shapur pushes on because once he gets started, he just can’t seem to stop.
“You’re making excuses for your inability to commit in a relationship and romanticizing irresponsibility as an honorable notion that will only benefit your own reputation. If that’s not being conceited, then I’m not sure what is.”
His heart is pounding against his ribcage, and the blood roars fiercely in his ears, and –– have they always been sitting this close? Shapur can see the puckered scar that runs down the other man’s left eye, and the Crow’s feet that deepen whenever the man grins.
Kubard is motionless for a few long seconds, cautious gaze gauging for Shapur’s next movement, and when Shapur begins to sit back, his heaving breaths returning to normal, Kubard relaxes, and then he’s laughing, full and deep and booming, and the few patrons around them give him harassed glares.
He doesn’t stop until he spots something on Shapur’s face that he thinks he’ll never witness in his lifetime: the Marzban, best known for his rigorous personality, and has never been seen with more than a bloodthirsty smirk during combats that sends terrible chills down enemies’ back rather than a welcoming warmth, is actually smiling.
It’s a fleeting expression, just a subtle lift of the corner of his lips, somewhat bashful and entirely unlike the commander who strikes equal parts of fear and respect in his soldiers. It disappears as quickly as it comes, and Kubard wonders if it was all part of his imagination after all.
“Have I entered an alternate universe or did you just crack a smile for me?”
If there was slight awe in his voice, Kubard thinks that nobody can blame him, because he has just beheld something that remotely looks like a smile on the usually stone-faced Marzban – a sight that almost nobody has seen before.
Forgive him if he’s getting a little excited.
“Conceited,” Shapur reminds him with a sigh, and begins to stand up, but Kubard’s hand around his lower arm stops him for a moment. “What is it?”
“You’re probably right,” Kubard tells him, and why is he still grinning like that? He has just insulted him to his face, and he half expects Kubard to throw a punch his way but it hasn’t happened yet. When Shapur stares at his arm pointedly, Kubard releases him. “My selfishness has caused a lot of trouble for my friends and colleagues; for one thing, I can imagine that’s why you don’t enjoy spending time with me.”
“I –– ” Shapur is about to correct him, and then he realizes that there’s some truth to Kubard’s words, though something inside him has also shifted the moment the man started laughing after Shapur’s unplanned outburst.
He may be conceited; he may be a womanizer; he may be a drunkard who likes to shed responsibility off his shoulders and spends his life without an ambitious goal to climb towards. He may be many, many things that Shapur finds inadmissible in a respectable man, but maybe all these years, Shapur has refused to see the other side of Kubard, too.
An apology is at the tip of his tongue, but Shapur doesn’t get to say it.
“Say no more, Shapur,” Kubard claps the man’s back lightly with another booming laugh, “Life’s too short to hold a grudge, wouldn’t you say?”