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Sebastian is in full armour, boiled leather and gloved hands and gleaming breastplate, when he strides into Orsino's office that evening, and in his shock the mage drops his quill and nearly spills ink all over his painstakingly-inscribed vellum.
The rogue bows deeply and stretches his hand towards Orsino, and behind the narrow ribcage his heart flutters as if he is young and starry-eyed all over again. "Come," he says, eyes dancing merrily although his expression is solemn, "quickly, before Elthina hears about this."
"What is-- what are you doing? What is this?" Orsino follows hurriedly, down the hall and down the stairs and past the furrowed-brow looks of templars standing guard.
"I am to escort you to Hightown," is all Sebastian would say, and truth be told, he looks the part of armed escort, bow and quiver strapped to his back and short dagger at his waist.
"By why must Elthina--"
"I am to escort you to Hightown, and that is all." When Sebastian glances at him, some wickedness in the twitch of his full lips and the flare of his eyes stills Orsino's tongue. He lapses into studying Sebastian as they make for the docks, the roll of his shoulders under the stiff leather and thin mail, the way the surcoat flared over his hips, the sheen of freshly-oiled hair and the gleam of bronzed skin when the setting sun hits it.
Orsino doesn't do well on water, and he sits very still and stares at the bleached wood underneath him as the ferry makes its inexorably slow way across, but Sebastian stands just behind him with a grounding hand on his narrow shoulder, and sings softly under his breath, and if Orsino clings to the dulcet rhythm of Sebastian's voice he finds the boat moves just a little faster.
Hightown is bustling, vendors closing up shop for the night and suited-up nobles gossiping noisily while walking arm-in-arm. The rogue and the mage are barely noticed as they slip through the crowds, and when Orsino's hand brushes against Sebastian's, it is grabbed and squeezed briefly.
When they stop at the door of a mansion, Orsino's curiosity flares anew.
"Whose house is this, Sebastian?" he inquires, but Sebastian is busy with the locked door, and a moment later the lock clicks and they step into a dusty dimness that is quickly extinguished by the lighting of a lamp.
"No one's, and someone's. A friend has taken claim of it, and tonight it is ours." There is a much longer story to this, Orsino knows, but he also knows not to pry. If there is reason for him to know, Sebastian will tell him. Except...
"Wait. Tonight it is ours...? You... we're..."
Sebastian removes the breastplate and the gauntlets, unbuckling them with a graceful deftness that makes it a pleasure to watch, and lays them on a table that coughs up clouds of dust in return. The floor is littered with yellowing vellum and the cobwebs are thick in the corners and the great room has seen greater days, but when Sebastian sweeps Orsino into his embrace, none of that seems terribly important.
"I am as tired of sneaking as you are," he murmurs into Orsino's hair, and the elf's ear twitches. "Let us be us, for a night."
It takes a short time for them to grow accustomed to the freedom, but nothing is sweeter than hearing Sebastian laugh so merrily or watching him strip so luxuriously, as if he has all the time in the world.
"Can we just..." Orsino's wistful sigh fills in the words left unspoken. But they cannot stay, and morning comes too soon, and the knight-commander has questions for him when she sees him.
And yet, something in his gaze -- some lingering fire, perhaps, some of Sebastian's unquenchable strength still surging within him -- stills her tongue, for once.