Meddling — Hadrian & Alessa (Patreon)

He tries his hardest not to stare.

Hadrian clenches his jaw and sets his eyes on the tankard in front of him. The dark beer sways gently from side to side, looking stale and thick, but despite it, Hadrian brings it to his lips to take a deep gulp.

It tastes as bad as it looks. He grimaces as it goes down his throat, burning his tongue and prickling his eyes, but Hadrian welcomes the sting. Anything to keep his mind off...

You.

His eyes betray him once more. He glances to the side, gaze drawn to you like a moth seeking the warmth of a flame. You're leaning on the counter across the common room, with one elbow propped on the back of your chair while your free hand plays with a mug exactly like his own.

The light is low, the tavern dusty and prone to suck in the shadows, but you stand behind a sconce, and its orange glow circles your head like a halo. Beautiful. The thought rises without prompt, and while Hadrian pushes it away, he can't deny that it's true.

Your side is turned to him, your profile delimited by the flames, and a tress of hair falls loosely down your forehead. Hadrian turns his head to take you in, forgetting to try and stay as inconspicuous as he can. Father in Heaven, but you are...

Beautiful.

He snaps his eyes away. His fingers tighten on his tankard, pressing down on the rough ceramic as hard as he can. Lord. He has to stop it. His hand itches for his cross, but Hadrian doesn't reach for it. He just tightens his grip and sets his eyes on a droplet of dark, stale beer that drips down the front of the mug.

The tavern isn't full, so even as he stares intensely at the beer, convincing himself that it's the most interesting thing he has ever witnessed, he can still make out your shape in the corner of his eye. You're so silent and still. Hadrian wonders...

He glances at you again.

Hadrian tries to make himself small. He ducks his head, hunches his shoulders, and scoots harder against the corner of the wall as if he can disappear in the shadows. But, for all his efforts, Hadrian thinks you wouldn't notice him even if he was shouting bloody murder. Your fingers play absentmindedly with the handle of your tankard while your eyes are dead set on the counter. Your mouth is pressed in a pensive line, and never before has Hadrian seen someone physically there but so obviously far away.

You're in a world of your own, and Hadrian shouldn't pry, but he can't help but wonder what it is you're thinking of. He can't help the apprehension he feels at the absent look in your eyes and the grim lines on your face. He can't help the want to go to you and offer his company, as lacking as it may be.

Hadrian can't help but wonder—

"Orland, gimme the usual." A large, barreled-built man barges into his line of sight. He spoke to the bartender, but Hadrian can see his eyes are set on you. He stands just behind your chair with his belly touching the back of it, while his head is cocked to the side to peer down at you.

And now Hadrian's nails turn white when he sees his lips quirking in a leering smile. "And who are you?" the man speaks, setting his hand on the counter beside you. He's looming over you now, trapping you between his chest and the counter.

Fire spreads through his veins. Not so close.

You finally take note of the brute. Blinking, you snap out from whatever thoughts held you, and slowly lift your head to look at the man. His smile turns wider when you exchange glances, and he leans even closer toward you. Hadrian doesn't know when he grabbed his cross, but he's squeezing it so hard that part of him fears the wood might crack.

He wants to go to you, but he shouldn’t. Lord in Heaven. You can deal with this. Maybe you want this. Who is Hadrian to meddle? Who is he to think that disgusting, rotten man shouldn't be within a mile of you, much less two feet apart? What right does Hadrian have?

"Never seen you around before," the man continues when it's clear you won't answer.

You look him up and down, your neutral face slowly morphing into one of... disdain. "You won't see me again," you say then, voice cold, and turn away from your seat.

And may God forgive him, but Hadrian has never been gladder. He smiles, relieved, and hopes that—

"Come now, no need ta be like that," the idiot presses. The man chuckles when you glare at him, and Hadrian's hand shakes on his cross. "Get to know me first, will ya?"

You roll your shoulders. "Fuck off."

The man's smile stiffens, and now his canines flash, and he's not smiling any longer. He's snarling. Hadrian half-rises from his chair, ears deaf to the world but you. "You stuck-up bitch/bastard. Look at me."

The man grabs you by the arm and yanks and beer spill everywhere when your tankard goes flying.

Hadrian is out of his chair before it hits the ground. He rushes in, long strides crossing the room in less than a heartbeat, and he can only be thankful he left his sword in his room, for his fingers itch for the pommel. God is protecting this filth.

"Unhand me," you're saying, pulling on your arm.

But the idiot has a strong grip and digs his fingers in. "Whatcha gonna do— Ah!"

Hadrian closes his hand on the man's wrist and squeezes hard. He grunts and lets go of you, and Hadrian yanks him away from your chair, pushing him against a table. "Damn it!" He yells when his hips crash on the corner, but before he can straighten up, Hadrian grabs his arm and bends it until it's almost out of its socket. "Ah, fuck! Stop!"

"Go away," Hadrian growls, pushing his face near his. The man is tall, but Hadrian's taller, and he makes sure to use that to his advantage. He puts more weight on his shoulder until he whimpers. His eyes are blown wide, half in surprise and half in pain, and they switch between Hadrian's eyes frantically.

"The hell are you?"

"Get out of here," Hadrian repeats. His voice is rough, sounding strange to his own ears. The man hesitates, and he sees him considering if it's worth the fight. Pride flares behind his eyes, but Hadrian squeezes his shoulder harder and makes sure to snuff it.

"... you fuckin' lunatic," the man spits at last, but when he pushes against him, Hadrian lets him go because he knows he's given up. "Have at it," he spits, trying to preserve his last shred of dignity as he makes his retreat toward the door.

The bartender cackles at his back, but Hadrian has already turned away. He grabs onto his cross as his eyes fall on you.

You're standing beside your chair, looking up at him with an unreadable face. As adrenaline melts away, Hadrian feels heat begin to creep up his neck. Oh, no. "H— hey," he says dumbly and takes a small step closer. "I, uh. I was around."

He scratches the back of his neck and looks up at the ceiling. Lord in Heaven, you're harder to face than a thousand leering bastards. "I didn't think you needed help, I know you can help yourself. I just—"

Hadrian exhales and looks back at you. You're closer than before, standing a foot away from him. Your face is still unreadable, and your eyes are like deep pools as they stare into his. "I just acted," he admits at last.

Silence for a beat, and then slowly, you smile. "So, I noticed."

Hadrian loves your smile but right now, it makes the tips of his ears burn hot. "Right," he says awkwardly. He's such a fool. "Right. Look, I, uh, I still have a beer. To finish. So, I'll go and leave you alone."

Your fingers brush his wrist. Hadrian snaps his mouth close.

"I could use the company," you say, gesturing at your overthrown chair. You lower your eyelids, peeking upwards at him, and if he didn't know better, Hadrian would say your smile looks uncertain. "If you don't mind, of course."

Mind? Lord.

"Yes," he says at once. Your eyebrows lower, and Hadrian wants to punch himself. "I mean, no! I don't mind. I’ll keep you company."

You smile again, letting go of his wrist. Hadrian misses the contact, but not too much because he follows you to the counter and sits beside you. And you looked beautiful from afar, silent and cold, but it can't compare to how you look now.

Smiling and vibrant as you talk. And close. So very close.

- - -

Alessa's eyes narrow into slits.

The sun burns bright, and its insistent rays guard the world behind their shine, but although she's almost made blind, Alessa would never miss you. The cobblestones sizzle, the distant walls of crumbling buildings oscillate in the heat, and you stand amongst the stalls of a busy market day.

Alessa quietly steps into the shadows, feeling the sweat already building at the back of her neck, and lightly rests her shoulder on a post. Her legs cross at the ankles, and while her hand plays with the rim of her belt, ears always listening for any threat, Alessa decides she shall take a moment to observe you.

Just one moment. One small indulgence.

You are bent over, inspecting the counter of a stall with a tall, red cloth arranged like a tent over the merchandise. Half of you is dipped in shadows, while the other lays under the merciless sun, but you do not seem to mind the heat as you take your time studying whatever it is they sell. Alessa's lips quirk on their own accord, but she decides not to fight the smile.

'Tis hard to see from a distance, but she bets you have scrunched your eyebrows as you always do whenever you are thinking hard. She can even imagine the slight press of your lips, and her eyes narrow even further against the rays of an inconvenient sun, but her smile grows wider.

Alessa taps her fingers on her elbow, the rings flashing in bands of gold and silver, and she ponders if perhaps, she should approach you. It is... frustrating how much she finds herself wanting to. Embarrassing would be an even better word. I am a fool. She inhales, blue eyes shifting toward the ground.

You would not know.

You would not know she was drawn to your company; you would simply assume she found you amongst the crowd. Perhaps she could walk nearby and wait until you took notice. The problem was, of course, if you then decided not to call for her. Alessa's lips twist as a sour taste invades her tongue. 'Twould be unfortunate indeed. It would—

She looks back up and sees you are alone no longer.

Seemingly appearing from the cobblestones, a woman suddenly stands beside you. She is tall and dark, and the sunshine covers the world, but her beauty manages to outshine even the brightest glow. Alessa cannot help but admire her long, black hair, braided near her forehead to fall freely down her back. She wears a blue and yellow dress that is both light and intricate, and against her dark skin, she sees the multitude of stones and gems that adorn it.

She bends beside you, her neck elongating to peer down at the counter. Alessa wonders if she is the seller or simply another customer, but she mostly wonders why this woman feels comfortable standing so close beside you. And why do you allow her to do so? She is a stranger, should you not move away? Are you not concerned for your own safety?

But it seems that you are not. You stay in place, and now you turn your chin, and Alessa sees your lips moving.

The woman pauses, smiles, and then moves her long, gracious arm to pick something from the counter. Alessa's eyes are not slits, for the pupils have all but disappeared. There's no blue as she stares, stiff now, stiff over her whole body. The woman — the merchant — moves her other arm, and Alessa sees her brushing her hand between your shoulder blades.

And yet, you do not mind it. You do not mind her touching you, for you seem more interested in what she's saying. You turn towards her and extend your arm, and perhaps the heat has gone to her head after all, but Alessa is suddenly sure she sees hallucinations.

The merchant grabs your hand, your gloved hand, the one you do not allow anyone to touch, and then turns it over.

Alessa could not tell you what goes through her mind. There are no thoughts, just several feelings. A pit in her stomach, a burning below her skin, a sense of... loss. She has no thoughts, so she does not know when her legs started working, but Alessa plunges under the rays of a terrible day and starts to approach.

Her eyes stay glued to you as she prowls through the crowd, walking past women and men, and children. The merchant steps closer to you, both of her hands now holding yours, and her painted lips move around words Alessa cannot hear. She's closer, so now she can see the finer details of the woman's dress. The way it teases the top of her ample breasts and hugs the curves of her shapely hips. The merchant is plump, and her smile welcoming, and Alessa bets her best knife that her fingers are not cold but warm, just as her dark eyes are welcoming too, so different from her own.

Alessa could bet—

"Alessa?"

She halts.

The merchant looks at Alessa with surprise, but it pales in comparison to you. You're staring at Alessa with your brows scrunched and your mouth parted, and she would think you look charming were it not for the bitterness of seeing your hand kept in another woman's touch.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, and is that an accusation that she hears? Would you prefer it if she had stayed away?

Alessa's face closes. "'Tis curious, for I find myself with the same query," she says, making sure to keep a cold tone. It would not do to show you how much she's hurting. "What is it that you are accomplishing here?"

You frown and look away from her, and she hates then, how it stings. You avoid her gaze. You avoid—

"I was pointing how old and worn this poor glove has gotten glove," the merchant woman speaks, turning your wrist between her hands. She smiles at Alessa before she turns the smile back to you. "Perhaps your paramour can help you choose a better one?"

The woman lets go of your hand to lightly graze the blue stone hanging from Alessa's throat. She feels her fingers brushing her skin, but Alessa is too numbed to snatch them away. Paramour?

"You have exquisite taste," the merchant says, pinching the necklace between her nails. "I would welcome your input, lady of winter."

You clear your throat. "That's— that's alright," you say, clenching your hand behind your leg. You are uncomfortable. Alessa follows your gaze to the stall and sees it filled with belts, scarves, holsters, and, in one corner, a collection of gloves. "I'm done here," you declare.

The merchant's smile drops. "What? But your glove is abhorrent. Let us find you a better one."

"Perhaps another day," you mumble and motion at Alessa to follow as you begin to walk away.

But the merchant hasn't played all her cards. "I can offer you a discount," she says, and grabs hold of your elbow. Alessa's eyes narrow at the contact. "Three silver off the price, hmm?"

"My good woman, I said no."

"But—"

Alessa's hand shoots forward like a snake in the grass. "You are quite a touchy merchant," she says, voice a hiss, nails digging just the slightest bit around the woman's wrist. She gasps, more out of surprise than anything else, as Alessa steps between you and her. "Perhaps you should learn to keep your hands to yourself. And accept a no when you hear it."

Alessa drags her hand away from you. The merchant's beautiful, painted face is not warm any longer. "Get out," she spits, clutching a glove as if it's a weapon. "Few things reek as bad as frugality."

Alessa smirks, but she turns on her heels and follows you out onto the street. She matches your steps, watching you from the corner of her eyes. You walk with your head lowered and your mouth set, and Alessa guesses that you did not like that interaction. Her amusement slowly dies as silence clings to the both of you.

"I apologize." She hears herself speaking.

And it must surprise you as much as her, for you stop walking. "What for?"

Alessa clenches her jaw. "I should not have interrupted. You evidently desired to be alone." She has more to say, but she does not. Alessa makes herself hold your gaze and tries to ignore the shame that bubbles up her stomach.

You stare at her. Alessa cannot read what goes on in your eyes. "You're not going to ask?" you say then, looking down, and she follows your gaze to the glove on your hand.

"I will not."

And now, you smile. "Thank you."

She cannot help it. She smiles back. "Make no mention of it."

When she starts to walk, you follow, but now you stand closer than before. Alessa takes a short inhale when you bend to come whisper near her ear. "For the record, I didn't want to be alone," you say, and she hears the hint of amusement in your tone. "What was it she called you? A paramour? Well, I'm always happy to see my paramour, Alessa."

Alessa's cheeks burn hotter than the sun. "Hush," she says, but despite the wave of embarrassment, her lips quirk when you throw your head back and laugh.

'Tis a good sound. 'Tis a darling one.