In which Locke does not enjoy Tent Time.
It’s raining in the Badlands, and that means it’s Tent Time.
Locke hates Tent Time.
For one thing the Tent is ugly, and he’ll be damned if he’s spending his hard-earned coin buying something better. And no amount of wheedling and other such convincing arguments have so far persuaded Aryas to get something different—the Tent works, the lawkeeper says, and so it stays.
The other reason Locke hates Tent Time is that it traps him in a nightmare box that consists of a few square feet of thick canvas, two bedrolls, and one Aryas Knightshield. Who is currently shirtless and cross-legged on his bedroll, frowning at the section of plate-mail in his hands whilst the lantern throws warm shadows over his perfect brown skin and Locke contemplates just walking out into the Badlands and never coming back.
“You hungry?” he asks, to make the silence go away. Aryas rubs at a spot on the plate-mail.
“Don’t start a fire in the tent again.”
“That was one time,” Locke grumbles, and goes rummaging in his pack for whatever’s left in there that’s edible. He’s still got rations, probably, and if he doesn’t, Aryas will. “Are you ever going to let me forget that?”
“Are you ever going to pay me back for the tent you destroyed?” Locke doesn’t answer, and Aryas makes a noise halfway between a huff and a hum. “Then no, I’m not going to let you forget it.”
Locke finds a package of jerky and a thick chunk of nutty bread, still fresh—thank the gods for enchanted haversacks—and chows down while Aryas finishes with his armour. Every night, without fail, he polishes it to perfection. They could be on the run from tireless horrors, trapped in the depths of an active volcano, marooned at sea, and Locke’s certain Aryas would not skip his armour maintenance routine. And while he likes to make fun, because it is obsessive, the truth that even outrageously aggressive wild horses couldn’t drag from him is that he likes it. It’s stable, certain.
And gods know how little stable certainty he’s had in his life.
Still, armour maintenance doesn’t take all night, and it’s late now; time for good little half-elves to take their rest. Only there’s no way he’s chancing sleep with Aryas less than three feet away in an enclosed space. He talks in his sleep, he knows he does—and he knows Aryas knows he does. He’s been dealing with Locke’s nightmares and mumbling and occasional screaming since they were kids. And more and more lately Locke’s petrified that he’s going to blurt out something incriminating whilst he’s unconscious, and then Aryas will have to firmly but politely point out that he doesn’t like men, and even if he did, he wouldn’t like Locke, and then things will be hopelessly awkward forever, and actually, why not follow up on that walking out into the Badlands idea? That was a pretty good idea.
Aryas blows out the lantern. Locke blinks in the sudden darkness, greys and semi-sepia tones taking over as his darkvision kicks in. Aryas tells him goodnight, same as most every night for most of their lives, saving those weird few years when he was off in the Caer Cyflen guard and Locke was off…doing other things. Outside, the rain’s still thundering down, white noise, background noise, it’s been going on so long. Locke’s glad for the racket of it—it handily covers the stutter in his breath. He can’t help it.
Because Aryas tells him goodnight, and tucks himself into his bedroll, one foot sticking out the bottom edge because he always gets too hot, and his hair’s tied up like usual, and Locke knows it’ll come undone in the night and in the morning he’ll be messy hair and half-awake eyes, and he won’t get dressed until they’re leaving because armour is awkward, and Locke’s going to have to sit there, with messy haired, shirtless Aryas two feet away from him, and—
“Go to sleep,” Aryas says, without turning over. Locke freezes.
“How do you know I’m not?”
“You’re not snoring.”
“I do not snore!”
“You do, you always have.”
“Then why are you the only one who ever complains about it?”
“I’m the only one who’s had to put up with it for more than one evening.”
“Berenike and Serenrae never say anything.”
“They have the good sense to sleep as far away from you as possible. Now shut up and go to sleep.”
Aryas tugs his blanket higher over his shoulder—conversation over. Even in the dark, Locke can see the back of Aryas’ neck, soft and warm and gods help him, he wants to put his mouth on it so fucking bad. He swallows hard and kicks off his boots and squirms out of his shirt and buries himself like a forgotten relic beneath his blankets. He lies there in the dark and listens to Aryas’ breathing even out as the human falls asleep.
Locke squeezes his eyes shut.
Yeah. He hates Tent Time.