Work Text:
Arthur wandered the streets of Pygmyshire under the spotlight of the moon, which shone brightly in the coal-black sky. The young man, barely over eighteen, cast quick glances at each passerby, most of whom were drunk, hoping they wouldn’t notice him as he carried a sack slung over his shoulders.
The sack, which appeared worthless from the outside, contained the one and only crown of the princess. Arthur had just managed to escape the castle without being detected, but for some reason, he felt as if he was being watched, forcing him to look over his shoulder more often than he wanted.
Fatigue had set in long ago, and the weight of the sack on his back wasn’t helping in the slightest. He stopped in the middle of the narrow street, glancing around in search of a tavern. He was grateful to spot one in the distance, its sign visible even from afar.
"If you’re looking for trouble, you stubborn fools, stay out," the sign read.
Arthur approached the establishment with large strides, giving one last glance behind him. The only thing he could feel was the cold wind brushing against his skin. He turned back toward the tavern and, with determination, decided to enter.
The tavern, though small, was brightly lit and well-furnished. He especially noticed this when he saw, behind the man cleaning the counter, several signs engraved with quotes from famous poets. Though the place was charming, it was almost empty, with only two people inside: the man cleaning the counter and a young man seated at the bar. The latter was playing a gentle tune on a wooden lute decorated with glowing yellow patterns that lit up more brightly with each pluck of the strings.
Arthur sat down right beside the stranger, who seemed oblivious to his presence, too engrossed in his melody.
“Hey,” said the man, likely the owner, as he slung the towel he was using to clean the counter over his shoulder.
“What can I get you, kid?”
The fact that this cheerful man still managed to make Arthur nervous was, frankly, concerning.
“A beer, please,” Arthur replied simply, dropping the sack onto the floor.
The man nodded and walked away, likely to fetch the drink.
The stranger, who until now had been strumming the lute, stopped playing and turned his gaze toward Arthur.
“I’m guessing you’re here because you’ve got nowhere else to go, right?” he asked, pausing briefly before flashing a sweet smile.
“Sorry, that’s not a great way to introduce myself. I’m Aristotle.”
Aristotle extended his hand, and Arthur looked at him as if he’d just made the worst possible introduction. Still, though it was odd, it was also kind. Arthur shook his hand amicably, offering a gentle smile of his own.
“I’m Arthur, and yeah, I’m here because I’ve got nowhere else to go. It’s nice to meet you.”
Aristotle awkwardly pulled his hand back and carefully set the lute aside as Arthur continued to observe him. The boy was likely a bard, but Arthur couldn’t understand why a simple musician would have scars. Not only that, but his hands, like Arthur’s, were rough—perhaps from frequent use of a bowstring.
Arthur realized this wasn’t an ordinary bard, but it didn’t seem polite to point out that he’d deduced Aristotle was a thief, just like him.
Aristotle adjusted his seat before turning back to Arthur.
“So… are you from around here?” he asked, curious, completely ignoring the owner’s return.
“I’m usually on the road, but yeah, I was born here,” Arthur replied, turning toward the man who had kindly set down his beer.
“Thanks,” he added.
The owner looked at Aristotle with amusement, crossing his arms.
“Wow, little Ari finally made a friend!” he exclaimed, suppressing a small laugh.
Was Arthur really the only one in his hometown who didn’t know anyone? It didn’t seem fair.
Aristotle rolled his eyes, visibly exasperated.
“Jack, you’re acting like you’re my only friend.”
“Oh, but I’m not?” Jack retorted challengingly, walking away with a hum, followed by Aristotle’s irritated glare.
Arthur took a sip of his beer, only to set it down moments later. Okay, it was awful, but he wasn’t going to bring that up in conversation.
He must’ve made a face because, to his surprise, Aristotle started laughing.
“Sorry, but it’s obvious how much you hate it. That face you made was…”
He couldn’t finish his sentence before bursting into laughter. Arthur stared at him, confused for a few seconds, but then gave in, first with a smile and then a laugh.
The evening continued like that—bad beer and crystalline laughter—while the two of them kept glancing at each other, rarely breaking eye contact. Aristotle began playing again, and now the song sounded more beautiful than before. Not just pleasant—stunning. Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was because Arthur now knew the musician.
Hours passed, and neither of them noticed the first rays of dawn creeping in. If one of them did, they made no mention of it, continuing to talk instead.
Arthur realized he’d been the only one drinking; Aristotle had stuck to chatting and laughing.
In the middle of their conversation, Arthur noticed more patrons beginning to arrive—a sign it was time for him to leave if he didn’t want to be spotted by guards under the daylight.
“I’m sorry, Aristotle, but I think it’s time for me to say goodbye to you and this tavern,” Arthur said, standing up from the stool he’d been sitting on for far too long. He had almost forgotten why he’d entered in the first place.
“Well, if you ever need a friend to talk to, you know where to find me,” Aristotle replied, offering a kind smile.
“I hope so,” Arthur said, heading for the door. Before leaving, he turned briefly.
“Don’t forget to write to me,” he called.
“I won’t. Promise,” Aristotle replied with a chuckle.
Arthur was officially smitten with that laugh; he couldn’t deny it.
He left the tavern just as he had entered, walking down the street now illuminated by the sun’s growing light, surrounded by calm pedestrians.
As he walked, however, he noticed something: the sack containing the crown was gone.
Realizing this, Arthur sprinted back to the tavern as fast as he could, nearly tripping several times and getting shoved by strangers he bumped into.
He burst through the door, slamming it against the wall, catching the attention of the few patrons inside, including Jack.
His eyes darted around the room, but the sack was nowhere to be found. Aristotle was gone too.
Arthur approached the counter anxiously as Jack continued to watch him with a puzzled expression.
“Have you seen my sack?” Arthur asked directly, staring Jack in the eyes.
“Oh, you mean the one Aristotle left with? He said you asked him to hold onto it, but then he bolted like he’d stolen it,” Jack replied with a teasing tone.
“That son of a bitch.”