Surely somewhere in Thedas there is a goose farmer besieged by a rift on their little goose farm who would be all too happy to trade feather down for the security of not having to dodge wraiths while grazing their birds. —Is a thing he thinks and doesn't say, though the absurd parody of Riftwatch's work plants the shape of good humor more firmly at the corner of his mouth.
Yes, there are probably ways to avoid Byerly's involvement in the matter entirely. As if that's even remotely a guarantee against the man's bullshit.
By the time John returns to the bed, Flint has finally shifted in the direction of sitting upright. The bottle is transfered from the rapidly disappearing crook of his elbow to the bedside table where it might helpfully pin that collection of pages in place as a ward against anyone being tempted to reference the papers in the immediate future. The tin cup follows. He's ready to receive whatever he's handed by the time John rejoins him.
"I'll give it some thought."
Speaking of consideration— A likely parcel is weighed in hand, edges felt up for the tell tale signs of a book's spine or cover board edges. What he finds garners a significant look in John's direction, Now what could this be?, before pursuing the edges of the wrapping.
Flint might have maintained that horizontal slouch, but John is too late to make the suggestion. Instead, they are sat side by side while Flint maps out the parcel itself and John lays aside his crutch. Here in the room, there are certain arrangements made clearly to accommodate, keep the tool close at hand for his benefit. There is no real thought to laying it aside, so he is free to observe the fullness of the expression on Flint's face and answer it with a slanting smile of his own.
Yes, the contents are easily guessed. The assumption is quickly confirmed, as the red paper is peeled away.
Couched in the torn parchment are two books, one large, one smaller, slimmer.
The former is hardbound, deep crimson leather of the cover embossed with a maze of intricate black geometric shapes framing the gold of the title. It is a rare thing, this volume, or so John had been told when he undertook the task of tracking it down for purchase. The wizened old woman at the shop had tutted over every step of the acquisition process. The poet herself is a famed Nevarran, her poems widely translated but her poetic dramas overlooked. Translations of these are an impossible request, the shopkeep had groused, but well-placed inquiries and the appropriate amount of coin had unearthed this: one volume containing two translated adaptions of well-known tragedies elevated through her verse, hope mined from despair and threaded through the structure of each piece, along with a third section added by the translator containing a single essay outlining the plays as they exist in conversation with each other, so changed and heightened beyond their original form by the poet's vision
Alongside it, a curated collection of her poetry gathered around the ideas of love as transformation, as a reshaping force, of what is remade through shared affections. The pages are tissue thin, rustle delicately beneath fingertips. Each poem's title is emphasized with that same intricate, looping linework. Not shapes, but similar geometry in the lines, the way the ink brackets and frames the lettering and borders the poem as it runs down the page. It is on the pages of this book John's handwriting slants an inscription: Allow these to hold place for me.
Edited (sorry i simply must change a single word ) 2022-11-17 17:13 (UTC)
It takes him some minutes to reach that inscription, briefly distracted by the larger of the two volumes—turning to some middle page to critically scan the translator's work. What Flint finds there must meet with approval; the low sound he makes is undeniably positive, fingertips sliding over the page edges with the tenderness of a touching a cheek. It's a fascinating find:
"I wasn't aware she'd written anything in this vein. Thank you."
He can struggle his way through some Nevarran, but this is another thing all together. Clearly, the translator has found their audience. He begins to turn back through yet more pages in search of notes or appendixes—these works in translation often have them, and the sight of that essay is welcome confirmation of his suspicions—, but before he gets too far, the second delicate volume is recalled and Flint folds the heavier of the two books closed so he might revert his attentions elsewhere.
The paper is very fine—so thin it might be nearly transparent in good light. So thin that the letters printed on them might show through to the other sides were they arranged in such exacting overlapping lines. The scratch of ink on the facing page is very, very black.
The shape of it sobers the shape and dimension of his pleasure—not unmaking it, merely stripping some of the easy, flexing humor that has lurked in the lines of his features these last minutes. (These last hours.)
It the length at which he studies the inscription unbearable, or is it just a given? At length, he thumbs past to the table of contents. This too is religiously surveyed.
"Did you read any of these?"
He must have. But Maker only knows how John Silver actually tracks down his candidates for additions to Flint's library.
That initial hum of approval is such a promising thing.
It is as John had said once before: the consideration of these texts was very much like walking on the bent iron prong of the boot, balancing on unfamiliar terrain. That this first reaction is followed by intent study is all the better. John might call it a success, at least in part.
He is weighing that in the stretch of quiet that marks Flint's examination of John's slanting notation. Lets it become a bulwark against the possibility that the smaller volume will be poorly received.
"Yes," John answers. "Once through, aloud, as you suggested."
Aboard the Walrus, behind a closed door. Long after coin had been exchanged.
"A reminder to myself that I manage better before an audience, among other things," carries some humor with it. This work hadn't caught him as it might Flint. As John hopes it might catch Flint. But it had come into clearer focus as he'd spoken. Reassured him of his purchase, though Joh continues still, "You seemed pleased with her first work."
And that book too had been selected to carry a specific sentiment, as much as the ring that glints from Flint's finger. It had only made sense to procure the collection that followed.
Once through, aloud. It sparks a rough, uncut measure of pride behind the ribs. If he were to twist and set either book farther aside, or reach for the tin cup on the bedside table, he's confident that he'd somehow feel it there moving in his chest.
The sound of Flint's assent is very low. Yes, he has enjoyed that first little book.
His thumb shifts to the gutter of the opened book of poetry. The pages rasp delicately under the touch, threatening to crinkle like onion skins. The urge to close this book and put it directly inside his coat where it might live in the deep pocket tucked in close at his side is absurd. So instead, he turns the little book. He offers it to John.
For all his claim as to the benefits of an audience, and even his offer so many months ago to do just this, John has a moment of—
Not hesitation. Not reluctance.
But a moment's pause to observe the weight of the moment. That they are sat in his quarters, this narrow room where John has declined to host any other person in his entire tenure. The book held in his hands, and the print contained within and the words he'd put there himself, what they are all meant to mean. The way he wants them to be received.
It is habit still, to rise to his feet. (The stomping is long gone, an impossibility even if the poem lent itself to it.) Leaning over his crutch, John flips through the pages without consulting the table of contents. He doesn't pretend there is any uncertainty as to which he might choose. There is a poem, the one that had stuck in his throat when he'd read it first in the cabin with the ship tilting beneath his feet.
There is no need for affectation, for the mimicry and exaggeration that accompanies any selection from the ever-growing library of smut the Walrus men might put into his hands. This poem needs nothing but John's voice, rising and falling over the flowing sequence of verse, three pages of language as delicate as the paper printed upon, sparse phrases rich in John's mouth.
This is not a performance. There is no polish. There are only the phrases and words John lingers over, the ones that he allows to ring and hang in the air. The picture the poet wishes to paint and the way John lifts the brush, intent, eyes lifting from the book to find Flint's over and over, then hold there on his face as John winds his way to the poem's end.
The book is closed over his thumb. Question and invitation. Flint had said one. John would give him a second, a third. John started at the last page. Yes, there are so many others he might have started with, but none so immediate as this poem, these words. This offering made in lieu of what John feels beating his chest in so many moments they are together. Not his own words, but near enough to the heart of the things. They resonate still in the air as John looks at him.
Rarely does he think of the voice as an instrument in the sense of something played rather than as a tool wielded. He is not a musician. He is not a writer. He is the son of a ship's carpenter, and for all that the man in question may have been a little more than a stranger there must be something ancestral in words as wedges and the cut of the adze. The rhythm of a voice is the mark-making of red oker on timbers rather than any other method of notation.
It's possible his ear is simply primed to hear it otherwise tonight; no, this is not a performance but it's been a night of songs so haphazardly played that any series of clear notes in arrangement has more musicality by contrast. And it's true that sometimes John Silver speaks in small rooms and quiet places and it bears no resemblance at all to the tenor of the auger, but a string vibrating. It produces a tone to fill a room as that whisky can a cup—lapping here at the edges of a battered container, leaving a dully glowing high water mark that will resound for a short time like even after its drunk down.
Like all good music, he can feel it on the back of his neck and under his boot soles. Sat there on that narrow bed, Flint watches him as he reads—not an attentive audience, but that animal he has played at being tonight paused and keen. His eyes are very pale in their field of smudged charcoal, and the draw of his breathing even as the book is closed.
Nevermind that these books and the things in them are ones John may have no natural predilection for. It matters that he keeps choosing them anyway.
"It's a rare talent," Flint says, the line of his mouth slanting toward approval behind his whiskers as he raises a hand to collect back the book. "That thing you do to make every language your native one."
Here is the confirmation, the outcome of all that study and haggling: Flint rendered still and observant, expression falling to good humor as John's thumb lifts and the book is closed properly.
The hopping step forward John takes to return the book to Flint's hand is unnecessary. This is not a large room. John had not gone very far to make his recitation. But still: the step is taken, space between them narrowing to a scant distance, weight reallocated on the crutch, the book delivered back into Flint's custody.
"I've had some practice at it," hedges around an answer he might have given years ago: It came naturally. Things that hew too close to what else John comes by naturally; there's no need to invite that any nearer than it already is.
"There are others, if you care to hear them."
writes a brick followed immediately by 3 lines that's PACING or something
It's an unexpectedly weighted sentiment, with the words of the poem lingering in the quiet of the room. With Flint sat comfortably here, occupying this space.
John's hand lifts to the swirl of paint at his temple. Observing Flint's expression as much as taking stock of the remnants of the night's festivities on his skin.
The tilt of his face is a small thing, upward as much as it is in toward the scuff of fingertips.
"It doesn't suit me as well during the day."
And speaking of the coming year, presumably he has used up every ounce of the time allotted to him in which he may be witnessed experiencing any measure of fun by the general company. No, like the painted wolf's mask which has already evaporated, the charcoal will disappear back into whatever mysterious ether from which it was originally plucked. In the morning, all things will be as they should again.
And somewhere there is a basin and a cloth. The smudge of makeup might be dismissed as easily as any varietal of road dust, and more readily than blood. They have made a habit of this, haven't they?
The distance between them is narrow enough that, with a twitch of the wrist, he may idly lay his fingertips along the outside of John's knee.
"It's not daylight yet."
A drum of fingers, some gleam of lamplight in that pale, charcoal rimmed eye, and then Flint's attention strays along with his fingertips. He motions toward the pouch of dried leaf and the thin sheets of rolling paper.
And without an immediate break of his fingers from Flint's face. When he does lift them, they come away with traces of charcoal. Levering himself back a step, creating space between them with a minor motion of his hand stalling any upward movement from him.
"Catch," he instructs, lobbing the pouch back to Flint before gathering the papers.
It's a short walk back. John reclaims his seat alongside Flint. Stretches out his knee, pins the papers to his thigh as he sets his crutch to the side.
"By all accounts, it's good quality. Possibly better than the contents of that bottle."
The tossed pouch is caught thoughtlessly in both hands, but the sting produced by the battered palms under the bandages can't amount to much; his grimace has faded long before John rejoins him.
"Thank fuck one of us knows how to make himself some friends." How else would they stay in liquor and smoke?
Shifting on the edge of the mattress, Flint sets the pair of books farther aside and twists in toward him—a leg hauled up between them, ankle hooked idly over knee. The line of his shin with its heavy gaiter presses passively along the length of John's thigh. With the pouch balanced in the crook of the bent knee and a section of papers pilfered off John, Flint sets to rolling. It's a companionable sort of arrangement, unhurried and softened considerably by the lateness of the hour. Rounded shoulders, bent neck, the rasp of rough fingertips on delicate paper.
It's a pleasant arrangement, both of their respective positions and in activity. Watching the work of Flint's hands, John casts his thoughts back to the collected items left for him.
"Aside from the vodka?"
A tough act to follow.
"Gwenaëlle's anticipating the possibility of us finding trouble in Orlais, and given us something to spend to get ourselves out of it," John relates, fingers coming to rest at the bend of Flint's knee, above the gaiter. "And Petrana's given me a pair of goblets that might serve us better in your quarters."
A pair of goblets to go with the bottle she'd given him, more likely than not. Flint sniffs appreciatively—funny—, and licks the newly rolled joint to seal it. It's set neatly near the lay of John's fingers and a second rolling paper is unstuck from the stack.
"The usual bottle collection." Add in the Rivaini spiced wine, and some evening they might take a tour of Thedas all without leaving the comfort of the division office. "A letter opener. New shirts and cufflinks, and proof that Byerly hasn't yet talked himself out of this idea of settling Tevinter slaves in Ferelden. I'm beginning to suspect Bastien must be something of a secret agitator."
There's an easy cadence to this—sorting the leaf from the pouch and onto the paper, continuing to roll while he talks.
Not that he's disappointed to be the recipient of pilfered utensils, but there is some humor in observing Riftwatch's gift-giving habits.
"You might be right, about Bastien," follows after, as John's thumb begins idly passing back and forth along the wrinkled seam of Flint's trousers. Lightly enough, so as not to disturb the yield of his work. "I'd be interested to find out for certain, if I can manage it this year."
"Maps of both regions. Good ones, made recently. A little too broad to be useful for what we're likely to find ourselves doing there, but the sentiment is obvious."
If Bastien were some kind of reformist, maybe Yseult can be cracked after all. The two of them are something like friends, aren't they? —Is a passing thought, at once both too unformed and too obvious to be worth saying aloud.
A humming consideration for that unspoken connective tissue. If there is a way in, perhaps it is through Bastien. It is a clearer path forward than attempting to divine Darras Rivain’s leanings.
“I’ve a mind to try a few things this year to sway Fereldan perceptions of the northward world. It’s enough of a reason to impose on Bastien.”
And perhaps tease out some clarity.
Byerly at least has been drawn into clearer focus. And it is a relief that in some way he’s been brought around to rely upon.
John can be of so little use in that room where Flint is so often outnumbered. It still rankles, years later.
"To say nothing of our favorite spinster in Denerim," is idle, off the cuff and less relevant than, "He's sentimental. You might lean on that too," is.
Speaking of sentiment—
"Have you heard from her?"
It's not a question rooted in this matter of Antiva having broken off it's associations with Tevinter trade and subsequent concern for the continued commitment of various anti-Tevene movements in the country now that they have ostensibly won what they were angling for, or for the part Madi might play to act as a counterweight to their satisfaction. Flint does, on occasion, receive his own mail.
A skipped beat, in which the play of John's thumb at the bend of Flint's knee does not falter, nor does his expression necessarily shift. But it is akin to pressing down upon a bruise and finding it still aches. It requires a moment to regulate, in which John observes the work of Flint's hands and the play of shadow in concert with the charcoal on his face, before John's head tips towards the trunk in the corner of the room which still sits open, on his way to—
"Yes, some weeks ago."
A broad measure of time. (In the trunk there is a slim packet of letters tied together in twine. Not the sum of a correspondence, but an indicator of sentiment in what has been kept, what couldn't be fed into the fire.)
"I imagine the disruptions in trade will require some adjustment in our usual choice of courier."
His low hum carries some note of assent. That's not surprising, it says. These days, it seems travel on the Minanter and the Waking Sea is treacherous in every direction.
"I heard a rumor,"—look at him, being industrious—"That an agent of a particular large cat native to Antiva has been sniffing around Kirkwall as of late. If you're amenable, I might suggest that we arrange to hunt it down and see whether it knows a reliable raven."
Flint seals another joint and aligns it with its predecessor.
A rumor tugs a smile onto John's face, amusement rising first to meet the opening phrase.
What follows tempers that smile, softens his expression for the offer set out for him. It would be safe, wouldn't it, to assume that some effort was expended in the gathering of this information?
"I am," is such a foregone conclusion. Of course he is. "I imagine the hunt might even be a welcome occupation for our evenings in the new year."
Not that John anticipates it to be the kind of search that requires an extended period of time. Kirkwall is a large city, yes, but they've inhabited it for such a long time.
"Thank you," is quieter, John's eyes intent on Flint's face. The cycling run of his thumb at Flint's knee has stilled, but his hand remains in place.
It's the quieting of that thumb and the tenor of real gratitude that draws his attention up from the next square of paper and the pouch. Flint meets that eye; tips his head faintly in substitute of a shrug. He has two good ears for listening. There's little reason that only John should be expected to keep one to the ground.
He doesn't say you're welcome. Instead, after a moment's fixed study, Flint tilts his face by a farther degree. He taps his cheek encouragingly. He'll cash this favor in for a kiss directly, thank you.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Yes, there are probably ways to avoid Byerly's involvement in the matter entirely. As if that's even remotely a guarantee against the man's bullshit.
By the time John returns to the bed, Flint has finally shifted in the direction of sitting upright. The bottle is transfered from the rapidly disappearing crook of his elbow to the bedside table where it might helpfully pin that collection of pages in place as a ward against anyone being tempted to reference the papers in the immediate future. The tin cup follows. He's ready to receive whatever he's handed by the time John rejoins him.
"I'll give it some thought."
Speaking of consideration— A likely parcel is weighed in hand, edges felt up for the tell tale signs of a book's spine or cover board edges. What he finds garners a significant look in John's direction, Now what could this be?, before pursuing the edges of the wrapping.
no subject
Yes, the contents are easily guessed. The assumption is quickly confirmed, as the red paper is peeled away.
Couched in the torn parchment are two books, one large, one smaller, slimmer.
The former is hardbound, deep crimson leather of the cover embossed with a maze of intricate black geometric shapes framing the gold of the title. It is a rare thing, this volume, or so John had been told when he undertook the task of tracking it down for purchase. The wizened old woman at the shop had tutted over every step of the acquisition process. The poet herself is a famed Nevarran, her poems widely translated but her poetic dramas overlooked. Translations of these are an impossible request, the shopkeep had groused, but well-placed inquiries and the appropriate amount of coin had unearthed this: one volume containing two translated adaptions of well-known tragedies elevated through her verse, hope mined from despair and threaded through the structure of each piece, along with a third section added by the translator containing a single essay outlining the plays as they exist in conversation with each other, so changed and heightened beyond their original form by the poet's vision
Alongside it, a curated collection of her poetry gathered around the ideas of love as transformation, as a reshaping force, of what is remade through shared affections. The pages are tissue thin, rustle delicately beneath fingertips. Each poem's title is emphasized with that same intricate, looping linework. Not shapes, but similar geometry in the lines, the way the ink brackets and frames the lettering and borders the poem as it runs down the page. It is on the pages of this book John's handwriting slants an inscription: Allow these to hold place for me.
no subject
"I wasn't aware she'd written anything in this vein. Thank you."
He can struggle his way through some Nevarran, but this is another thing all together. Clearly, the translator has found their audience. He begins to turn back through yet more pages in search of notes or appendixes—these works in translation often have them, and the sight of that essay is welcome confirmation of his suspicions—, but before he gets too far, the second delicate volume is recalled and Flint folds the heavier of the two books closed so he might revert his attentions elsewhere.
The paper is very fine—so thin it might be nearly transparent in good light. So thin that the letters printed on them might show through to the other sides were they arranged in such exacting overlapping lines. The scratch of ink on the facing page is very, very black.
The shape of it sobers the shape and dimension of his pleasure—not unmaking it, merely stripping some of the easy, flexing humor that has lurked in the lines of his features these last minutes. (These last hours.)
It the length at which he studies the inscription unbearable, or is it just a given? At length, he thumbs past to the table of contents. This too is religiously surveyed.
"Did you read any of these?"
He must have. But Maker only knows how John Silver actually tracks down his candidates for additions to Flint's library.
no subject
It is as John had said once before: the consideration of these texts was very much like walking on the bent iron prong of the boot, balancing on unfamiliar terrain. That this first reaction is followed by intent study is all the better. John might call it a success, at least in part.
He is weighing that in the stretch of quiet that marks Flint's examination of John's slanting notation. Lets it become a bulwark against the possibility that the smaller volume will be poorly received.
"Yes," John answers. "Once through, aloud, as you suggested."
Aboard the Walrus, behind a closed door. Long after coin had been exchanged.
"A reminder to myself that I manage better before an audience, among other things," carries some humor with it. This work hadn't caught him as it might Flint. As John hopes it might catch Flint. But it had come into clearer focus as he'd spoken. Reassured him of his purchase, though Joh continues still, "You seemed pleased with her first work."
And that book too had been selected to carry a specific sentiment, as much as the ring that glints from Flint's finger. It had only made sense to procure the collection that followed.
no subject
The sound of Flint's assent is very low. Yes, he has enjoyed that first little book.
His thumb shifts to the gutter of the opened book of poetry. The pages rasp delicately under the touch, threatening to crinkle like onion skins. The urge to close this book and put it directly inside his coat where it might live in the deep pocket tucked in close at his side is absurd. So instead, he turns the little book. He offers it to John.
"Would you read one now?"
no subject
Not hesitation. Not reluctance.
But a moment's pause to observe the weight of the moment. That they are sat in his quarters, this narrow room where John has declined to host any other person in his entire tenure. The book held in his hands, and the print contained within and the words he'd put there himself, what they are all meant to mean. The way he wants them to be received.
It is habit still, to rise to his feet. (The stomping is long gone, an impossibility even if the poem lent itself to it.) Leaning over his crutch, John flips through the pages without consulting the table of contents. He doesn't pretend there is any uncertainty as to which he might choose. There is a poem, the one that had stuck in his throat when he'd read it first in the cabin with the ship tilting beneath his feet.
There is no need for affectation, for the mimicry and exaggeration that accompanies any selection from the ever-growing library of smut the Walrus men might put into his hands. This poem needs nothing but John's voice, rising and falling over the flowing sequence of verse, three pages of language as delicate as the paper printed upon, sparse phrases rich in John's mouth.
This is not a performance. There is no polish. There are only the phrases and words John lingers over, the ones that he allows to ring and hang in the air. The picture the poet wishes to paint and the way John lifts the brush, intent, eyes lifting from the book to find Flint's over and over, then hold there on his face as John winds his way to the poem's end.
The book is closed over his thumb. Question and invitation. Flint had said one. John would give him a second, a third. John started at the last page. Yes, there are so many others he might have started with, but none so immediate as this poem, these words. This offering made in lieu of what John feels beating his chest in so many moments they are together. Not his own words, but near enough to the heart of the things. They resonate still in the air as John looks at him.
no subject
It's possible his ear is simply primed to hear it otherwise tonight; no, this is not a performance but it's been a night of songs so haphazardly played that any series of clear notes in arrangement has more musicality by contrast. And it's true that sometimes John Silver speaks in small rooms and quiet places and it bears no resemblance at all to the tenor of the auger, but a string vibrating. It produces a tone to fill a room as that whisky can a cup—lapping here at the edges of a battered container, leaving a dully glowing high water mark that will resound for a short time like even after its drunk down.
Like all good music, he can feel it on the back of his neck and under his boot soles. Sat there on that narrow bed, Flint watches him as he reads—not an attentive audience, but that animal he has played at being tonight paused and keen. His eyes are very pale in their field of smudged charcoal, and the draw of his breathing even as the book is closed.
Nevermind that these books and the things in them are ones John may have no natural predilection for. It matters that he keeps choosing them anyway.
"It's a rare talent," Flint says, the line of his mouth slanting toward approval behind his whiskers as he raises a hand to collect back the book. "That thing you do to make every language your native one."
no subject
The hopping step forward John takes to return the book to Flint's hand is unnecessary. This is not a large room. John had not gone very far to make his recitation. But still: the step is taken, space between them narrowing to a scant distance, weight reallocated on the crutch, the book delivered back into Flint's custody.
"I've had some practice at it," hedges around an answer he might have given years ago: It came naturally. Things that hew too close to what else John comes by naturally; there's no need to invite that any nearer than it already is.
"There are others, if you care to hear them."
writes a brick followed immediately by 3 lines that's PACING or something
"We've a whole year ahead of us."
variety is the spice of life i hear
It's an unexpectedly weighted sentiment, with the words of the poem lingering in the quiet of the room. With Flint sat comfortably here, occupying this space.
John's hand lifts to the swirl of paint at his temple. Observing Flint's expression as much as taking stock of the remnants of the night's festivities on his skin.
"Are you intending to keep this?"
no subject
"It doesn't suit me as well during the day."
And speaking of the coming year, presumably he has used up every ounce of the time allotted to him in which he may be witnessed experiencing any measure of fun by the general company. No, like the painted wolf's mask which has already evaporated, the charcoal will disappear back into whatever mysterious ether from which it was originally plucked. In the morning, all things will be as they should again.
"Though I mean to make use of the fur."
Fucking southern winters.
no subject
Fucking southern winters indeed.
"There's water in the pitcher," is what's said aloud. John's thumb sets to Flint's cheek, holding his gaze.
no subject
The distance between them is narrow enough that, with a twitch of the wrist, he may idly lay his fingertips along the outside of John's knee.
"It's not daylight yet."
A drum of fingers, some gleam of lamplight in that pale, charcoal rimmed eye, and then Flint's attention strays along with his fingertips. He motions toward the pouch of dried leaf and the thin sheets of rolling paper.
"Do you want help with that?"
no subject
And without an immediate break of his fingers from Flint's face. When he does lift them, they come away with traces of charcoal. Levering himself back a step, creating space between them with a minor motion of his hand stalling any upward movement from him.
"Catch," he instructs, lobbing the pouch back to Flint before gathering the papers.
It's a short walk back. John reclaims his seat alongside Flint. Stretches out his knee, pins the papers to his thigh as he sets his crutch to the side.
"By all accounts, it's good quality. Possibly better than the contents of that bottle."
no subject
"Thank fuck one of us knows how to make himself some friends." How else would they stay in liquor and smoke?
Shifting on the edge of the mattress, Flint sets the pair of books farther aside and twists in toward him—a leg hauled up between them, ankle hooked idly over knee. The line of his shin with its heavy gaiter presses passively along the length of John's thigh. With the pouch balanced in the crook of the bent knee and a section of papers pilfered off John, Flint sets to rolling. It's a companionable sort of arrangement, unhurried and softened considerably by the lateness of the hour. Rounded shoulders, bent neck, the rasp of rough fingertips on delicate paper.
"Other notable offerings?"
no subject
"Aside from the vodka?"
A tough act to follow.
"Gwenaëlle's anticipating the possibility of us finding trouble in Orlais, and given us something to spend to get ourselves out of it," John relates, fingers coming to rest at the bend of Flint's knee, above the gaiter. "And Petrana's given me a pair of goblets that might serve us better in your quarters."
Considering how they tend to divide their time.
"And you?"
no subject
"The usual bottle collection." Add in the Rivaini spiced wine, and some evening they might take a tour of Thedas all without leaving the comfort of the division office. "A letter opener. New shirts and cufflinks, and proof that Byerly hasn't yet talked himself out of this idea of settling Tevinter slaves in Ferelden. I'm beginning to suspect Bastien must be something of a secret agitator."
There's an easy cadence to this—sorting the leaf from the pouch and onto the paper, continuing to roll while he talks.
no subject
Not that he's disappointed to be the recipient of pilfered utensils, but there is some humor in observing Riftwatch's gift-giving habits.
"You might be right, about Bastien," follows after, as John's thumb begins idly passing back and forth along the wrinkled seam of Flint's trousers. Lightly enough, so as not to disturb the yield of his work. "I'd be interested to find out for certain, if I can manage it this year."
Orchestrate it, more like.
"What proof?"
no subject
If Bastien were some kind of reformist, maybe Yseult can be cracked after all. The two of them are something like friends, aren't they? —Is a passing thought, at once both too unformed and too obvious to be worth saying aloud.
no subject
“I’ve a mind to try a few things this year to sway Fereldan perceptions of the northward world. It’s enough of a reason to impose on Bastien.”
And perhaps tease out some clarity.
Byerly at least has been drawn into clearer focus. And it is a relief that in some way he’s been brought around to rely upon.
John can be of so little use in that room where Flint is so often outnumbered. It still rankles, years later.
no subject
Speaking of sentiment—
"Have you heard from her?"
It's not a question rooted in this matter of Antiva having broken off it's associations with Tevinter trade and subsequent concern for the continued commitment of various anti-Tevene movements in the country now that they have ostensibly won what they were angling for, or for the part Madi might play to act as a counterweight to their satisfaction. Flint does, on occasion, receive his own mail.
no subject
"Yes, some weeks ago."
A broad measure of time. (In the trunk there is a slim packet of letters tied together in twine. Not the sum of a correspondence, but an indicator of sentiment in what has been kept, what couldn't be fed into the fire.)
"I imagine the disruptions in trade will require some adjustment in our usual choice of courier."
no subject
"I heard a rumor,"—look at him, being industrious—"That an agent of a particular large cat native to Antiva has been sniffing around Kirkwall as of late. If you're amenable, I might suggest that we arrange to hunt it down and see whether it knows a reliable raven."
Flint seals another joint and aligns it with its predecessor.
no subject
What follows tempers that smile, softens his expression for the offer set out for him. It would be safe, wouldn't it, to assume that some effort was expended in the gathering of this information?
"I am," is such a foregone conclusion. Of course he is. "I imagine the hunt might even be a welcome occupation for our evenings in the new year."
Not that John anticipates it to be the kind of search that requires an extended period of time. Kirkwall is a large city, yes, but they've inhabited it for such a long time.
"Thank you," is quieter, John's eyes intent on Flint's face. The cycling run of his thumb at Flint's knee has stilled, but his hand remains in place.
no subject
He doesn't say you're welcome. Instead, after a moment's fixed study, Flint tilts his face by a farther degree. He taps his cheek encouragingly. He'll cash this favor in for a kiss directly, thank you.
my irl lol
✨
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)