Matthew's not exhausted--even as tired as he feels of late--but he's enjoying the slightly spent feeling of a long day spent with a friend and good drink and not a little mischief involved as well
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"Oh? Don't know that I could help you with that, friend," Matthew says readily, though there's a glint in his eyes that suggests possibly he can and will, if Caspian doesn't remember. "Dragons, you say? Shame."
The wrists are too small and thin to be a boy's, really, but the sleeves hang long and cover them well as he takes a long drink.
"Dragons," he agrees, taking a sip of his own ale. There is not even a flicker of the gray eyes to suggest that he might be watching the boy next to him--or that he might have noticed the way a slim wrist is covered casually by the sleeves of the very familiar tunic.
"Aye, well. They're trouble, to be sure, but they love my lady, and she loves them, and so they stay. Despite their clothes-stealing ways."
He appears to have dropped the topic of whom the young man reminds him of, in favor of studying his ale.
"Kind of you. I'm certain your lady must be appreciative, especially if they steal your clothing often. Matthew," he adds as an afterthought, offering a hand.
"Caspian," he replies, taking the hand and shaking it firmly. He gives no notice that it is smaller and somewhat more delicate than his own, though just as calloused.
"Maybe you should, and she'd tell you, then," reasonably as he drops the other man's hand and takes another swallow of the ale. Alan's caught sight of, from the corner of his eye, and the smallest wave away is made, for the moment.
"That would be a question I would very much like to know the answer to." His voice is very quiet.
He doesn't look away. His own mug is safe on the counter-top.
"So do excuse me, young sir, but I believe there's a lady I must find. You see, I've an important question to ask her.
"I asked her to stay, before, because she asked me to. And now I want to ask her to stay forever. I hope, because she chose me once, that she will do it again, because I won't spend another existence without her. And perhaps," he smiles, "she'll forgive the manner of asking, but it really can't wait any longer."
"You had to wait til I was dressed as a boy?" she demands, half-laughing, hand still over her mouth and muffling her words.
And then she's half launched herself at him, faster than she can remember moving, and she may look like a boy, and it may be silly, but she doesn't care at all, because his face fits perfectly in her hands and she kiss him as hard as she likes and as long as she likes and it doesn't matter at all that it's his tunic she's wearing instead of her own clothes.
Though her ale, sadly, has fallen over at this point, from being let go of very suddenly. Bar is understanding, though, and it's quickly absorbed away.
Something in the way he moves, in the way he holds his chin up (stubborn tilt, that), in--
Those clothes look very familiar.
So it isn't all that odd that Caspian, once he catches sight of the young man walking over to the Bar, watches him closely.
Yes. Very familiar, indeed.
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It's not Lucy's tone, or accent, for that matter, rougher and lower and carefully slurred. That's pure Matthew.
But the look in the green eyes--well, that's different.
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Sea-gray eyes are amused, though his voice remains conversational.
(He doesn't quite answer the question, but perhaps all will be forgiven.)
"Do you know, I've a tunic exactly like that one."
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On someone, anyway.
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Standing, he makes his way to the bar, and sits down beside the boy, ordering an ale of his own.
"Do you know, you remind me of someone, though I can't think who, at the moment."
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The wrists are too small and thin to be a boy's, really, but the sleeves hang long and cover them well as he takes a long drink.
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"Aye, well. They're trouble, to be sure, but they love my lady, and she loves them, and so they stay. Despite their clothes-stealing ways."
He appears to have dropped the topic of whom the young man reminds him of, in favor of studying his ale.
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"And I couldn't say. I've never asked."
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Politely, he doesn't pry as the young man nods over at, presumably, an acquaintance of his.
"I think I've a few other things to ask her, before I get round to that particular question." He takes a swallow of his own ale, appreciatively.
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"Only I have an idea that, in the grand scheme of things, asking her to marry me is rather more important."
He looks over, tries to meet the young man's eyes with his own merry ones.
He's smiling.
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He can't actually tell if he's still holding it, though.
Looking. Looking would tell him that.
Except the thing is, he can't look away from Caspian, and he does know he's laughing, briefly, then not, because her hand's over her mouth.
Nothing loved is ever lost, she thinks, and it didn't need proof, but this is proof all the same.
(The mug is not, in fact, dropped. For the record. It's gripped rather firmly, in fact.)
"Oh," she breathes, and can't quite think beyond that.
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He doesn't look away. His own mug is safe on the counter-top.
"So do excuse me, young sir, but I believe there's a lady I must find. You see, I've an important question to ask her.
"I asked her to stay, before, because she asked me to. And now I want to ask her to stay forever. I hope, because she chose me once, that she will do it again, because I won't spend another existence without her. And perhaps," he smiles, "she'll forgive the manner of asking, but it really can't wait any longer."
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And then she's half launched herself at him, faster than she can remember moving, and she may look like a boy, and it may be silly, but she doesn't care at all, because his face fits perfectly in her hands and she kiss him as hard as she likes and as long as she likes and it doesn't matter at all that it's his tunic she's wearing instead of her own clothes.
Though her ale, sadly, has fallen over at this point, from being let go of very suddenly. Bar is understanding, though, and it's quickly absorbed away.
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