(The narrator: Let us back up briefly and revisit Fitz's somewhat awkward return to the bed and consider the following--that, perhaps, Fitz's slight pause upon turning around to see Huaisang unbraiding a veritable waterfall of soft, ink black hair across a layer of silk fabric covering his slight shoulders was rather similar to his purely aesthetic appreciation of the Fool's gilded golden locks and sun-kissed skin upon his arrival to Fitz's remote Buck Duchy cottage in the not too distant past. He's having a feeling about it, you see, and that feeling is that he must be very secure in his unambiguous and exclusive attraction to women to be able to appreciate, aesthetically, the beauty of other men, and have no reactions to the pleasant contrast between Huaisang's skin tone and the dark hair around his face, beyond the aesthetic. say aesthetic again.)
"What?"
Huaisang asked him a question, apparently, if the expectant look on his face while his thin fingers keep working his braids loose is any indication, and it takes Fitz a moment to walk his thoughts back past whatever mysterious thing it was he'd been thinking about to recall it. (What a mystery, he'll never figure that one out.) Then he makes an 'oh' sort of expression and gives his shoulders a little shrug into the dubiously clean bedding. He folds his hands together over his chest and looks up at the ceiling, his eyes following the outline of a water stain and the faded beige interior of it. "I expect if they do, it will be more of the same," he confesses grimly and juts his chin towards what remains of the bread and cheese (and beer) on the table. "In the morning we'd be better off finding somewhere else to eat."
Or catch something ourselves. Nighteyes' contribution is a drowsy, half-formed thought in both their minds; the wolf is already halfway into a dream that smells of petrichor and the scent of a rabbit, and the sensation of soft moss under the pads of his paws. The shared dream sensation seems to coax Fitz's eyes to fall half-lidded as well, as though the wolf's dream-sense of the world is more than sufficient to draw him towards the refuge of sleep.
But he blinks his eyes back open again and peers at Huaisang, his brows pulled together into a slight frown. "I can stay up, if you need me to." He'd said he didn't want to be alone, after all.
cw for canon-typical fitzchivalry farseer stupidity
say aesthetic again.)"What?"
Huaisang asked him a question, apparently, if the expectant look on his face while his thin fingers keep working his braids loose is any indication, and it takes Fitz a moment to walk his thoughts back past whatever mysterious thing it was he'd been thinking about to recall it. (What a mystery, he'll never figure that one out.) Then he makes an 'oh' sort of expression and gives his shoulders a little shrug into the dubiously clean bedding. He folds his hands together over his chest and looks up at the ceiling, his eyes following the outline of a water stain and the faded beige interior of it. "I expect if they do, it will be more of the same," he confesses grimly and juts his chin towards what remains of the bread and cheese (and beer) on the table. "In the morning we'd be better off finding somewhere else to eat."
Or catch something ourselves. Nighteyes' contribution is a drowsy, half-formed thought in both their minds; the wolf is already halfway into a dream that smells of petrichor and the scent of a rabbit, and the sensation of soft moss under the pads of his paws. The shared dream sensation seems to coax Fitz's eyes to fall half-lidded as well, as though the wolf's dream-sense of the world is more than sufficient to draw him towards the refuge of sleep.
But he blinks his eyes back open again and peers at Huaisang, his brows pulled together into a slight frown. "I can stay up, if you need me to." He'd said he didn't want to be alone, after all.