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Maybe it’s on Randall for not stopping when he should have.
In his defense, he did think that his alcohol tolerance was higher. He had an age now- 35, and he was sure as hell making the most of it.
It wasn’t like he didn’t drink back in Craggy Dale, but it wasn’t quite the culture. Not for Tannenbaum and his boy who lived at the edge of the village. Tannenbaum said drinking would rot his brain, so they only shared ale on special occasions- birthdays, harvest festivals, parties, and the like. That and Tannenbaum liked to poke fun at his age. They never knew how old Randall was, and thus he was discouraged from drinking until they knew for sure, or till he’d been living in Craggy Dale for 18 years. Then, Randall would be a true proven adult.
The tavern never minded his lack of proof of his age; they all knew him. Perks of a small village, hey?
Descole didn’t drink frequently, per se, but alcohol was readily available to them in the Reunion Inn. It seemed to be at their door with the wave of a hand, and Randall would be crazy to deny expensive booze.
More often than not it was wine, which the farmer didn’t mind. He was used to harder liquors like whiskey and brandy, but he wasn’t averse to the fruitier taste of riesling or merlot.
“You’re not supposed to drink it like that.” Descole comments as Randall sips at the wine.
“What do you mean?”
The masked man swirls his glass, “You aren’t savoring it.”
Randall resists rolling his eyes, not wanting to irritate his companion. “I’m not drinking it for the taste, Descole.”
“The point of drinking wine isn’t to get inebriated, Ascot. Not that you would know.”
Vague impressions of upper class parties fill his mind. Haughty laughter and fake smiles. Being paraded around in a suit and having strangers pinch his cheeks and tell him that he was growing up to be a fine young man. “Sorry I’m not a snob.”
“My apologies for having some class,” Descole snarks back.
Their conversation tonight has been rather easy. The bickering would probably bother him if he was sober, but it was fine enough. The alcohol dampened the fire that so often got him in trouble for running his mouth. Randall just couldn’t ever let things go; he just had to defend his pride when it got wounded. Descole never backed down either, but tonight they miraculously avoided any blowout arguments.
Right now he’s just sat drinking wine in a hotel room with the man who saved him. Randall was warm and comfortable, and Descole’s quips just washed over him rather than grating at his ego.
He’s been feeling odd all night.
There was this feeling in his gut telling him that this was fate. That some celestial being pushed Randall into Descole’s path. That their very souls were tied together. It was a thought that never bubbled to the surface before, but tonight it all seemed to make sense.
Or perhaps Descole was his guardian angel.
“What are you smiling at me like that for?”
“Descole,” Randall leans forward, unable to keep the grin from his face. “Do you believe in soulmates?”
The man doesn’t respond. What little is visible of his face remains flat, and he sips at his wine before responding. “That depends on what you mean.”
Randall is about to do something incredibly stupid. “I dunno. What does it mean to you?”
“Soulmates mean different things to different people. I don’t believe that there are outside forces pushing two people to be in love. It’s all environmental.”
The ginger downs the rest of his glass, ignoring the huff of protest from the man across from him. “What about love at first sight?” The liquid courage is living up to its name as he stands from the couch.
“There’s no such thing. One might be attracted to another at a glance, but love is something else entirely.” He tilts his head as Randall approaches. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t even really know anymore. However impulsive he typically is, it’s nothing on how he’s feeling right now. Can’t he just make Descole understand that they were meant for each other?
It’s the only thing he knows now, the only thing he’s certain of beyond that which Descole had told him about himself.
“I think we’re soulmates.” He lays his hands on the arms of the plush chair, boxing his companion in. “I think we’re meant for each other.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Randall doesn’t really even know what he’s saying, but he delights in the way Descole’s breathing stutters.
“I love you, Descole.”
It seems true enough when he says it aloud. Randall hadn’t quite had the thought consciously yet, but it made sense. Randall was in love.
“No. No, you don’t.”
“I can prove it.” Randall sits himself down on his friend’s lap, leaning in until he can smell the wine on Descole’s breath. “Let me love you.”
“No. You’re intoxicated. You don’t love me.”
“I do! Can’t you love me too? You said it’s all environmental, right? What’s more romantic than this?”
He doesn’t try to kiss Descole. That would be too far. If his savior were sober, he surely wouldn’t let Randall get this close. Even this much was pushing it.
“It is environmental. That’s why you think you’re in love with me. It’s-” His mouth twists, “You’re using me, aren’t you? Is that what this is?”
“Huh?”
“You’re using me as a replacement.” Descole asserts.
Randall blinks. “What?”
“Is there cotton in your ears? I said you’re using me.”
Descole’s hand grabs his jaw, pulling them so they’re face to face. Heat flares in Randall’s chest. “No, I’m- Why would you think I would do that? I don’t even know what you would be a replacement for?”
“Your sweetheart, perhaps? What, have you forgotten what our mission was for in the first place?” His companion’s voice is sharp and angry. “Is this some ploy to get back at her for having a lover?”
Was it?
“No. It’s not.” He’s pretty sure his voice doesn’t betray his uncertainty. “I-”
Descole sneers. “It is. It must be. There’s no reason for you to fall for someone like me, unless you’re throwing yourself at everyone that strokes your ego.”
“What are you even talking about?” Randall tries to pull away now. They’re too close, and his head is starting to spin. But Descole doesn’t let go.
“You’re better than this, Ascot. You don’t need to do this.”
“Better than what? You’re the one I want! You saved me, Descole! Of course I want you!”
“You shouldn’t! Don’t you understand? You can’t want me, of all people!”
Anger wells in his chest, righteous and burning. For as calm as he’d been a few minutes ago with their bickering, Descole always managed to push his buttons. How dare he say that he wasn’t worth it? That he wasn’t a person worthy of Randall’s love and devotion?
And as always when he gets worked up, Randall does something stupid and impulsive.
The stupid and impulsive action in question?
Pressing his lips against Descole’s.
The man below him stills for a second, and then kisses him back.
Kiss isn’t the proper description. It’s a push and pull where neither are willing to give up. Randall bites at Descole’s lips, and Descole’s hands tangle in his hair. What he thought would be one moment of angry passion stretches until the ginger surrenders and pulls back for air.
Beneath the layers of clothing, Randall can see that Descole’s chest is heaving too. His lips are red where Randall had attacked with his teeth. His hat is knocked askew. Descole looks wrecked compared to his typical composure. The farmer probably looks just the same.
“Had enough?” Despite the way he pants, the masked man’s lips are quirked into his signature smirk. A challenge.
“That depends on if you still think my feelings for you are fake.”
The hands threaded in his hair loosen, and for a second Randall fears that he’s actually made a mistake. His companion is rather quick to change his opinion on a whim.
Too far?
Just as he’s about to pull back and make his retreat, however, Descole’s hands return to card through his hair and he purrs, “I don’t think I’m quite convinced yet. Show me again?”
The gears in his drunken mind take a second to turn and process the invitation.
Then he leans in with a grin.
Randall is going to ruin this man.