Since their confrontation with the Siren and Guydelot’s (frankly embarrassing, in hindsght) passionate declaration, things have been remarkably easy with Sanson. Friendly, even.
And that’s fine. It works.
If on the journey back he cannot sleep for the knowledge of Sanson’s nearness, he chalks it up to passing fancy. Who wouldn’t fall for someone after a near-death experience? He wouldn’t be any bard at all if he hadn’t heard that one before.
And if after they deliver their reports (Guydelot’s with surely more embellishment than Sanson’s) they linger too long, and if Guydelot is barrelled over by a Treant on patrol because he was thinking of Sanson, and if passing Sanson in the hall and saying hello is enough to buoy him for a day or even two, then. Then.
Guydelot realizes, with no small amount of horror, that he may very well love Sanson.
It doesn’t matter, he decides. Really, it doesn’t. Not all of the criticism directed Guydelot’s way is unwarranted, and Sanson is. He’s popular. He’s probably got suitors, or. More than that. He doesn’t really want to think about it.
Guydelot’s not going to mess up a good thing (one of the only good things he has, if he’s being honest) by getting carried away and doing something ridiculous. He may be a bard, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have good sense.
Ohku’s making a face.
Guydelot knows the face. It’s her I’m trying not to be nosy but it’s so incredibly hard face.
You’d think the famed Warrior of Light would know how to hide her emotions better, but he guesses she's not technically a diplomat. He knows he's not one to talk, anyway.
He sighs, waves his hand in her direction. This composition’s been giving him trouble anyway, he could use the distraction. “If you’ve got something to say, I’m all ears. Hasn’t been much in the way of assignments since you freed Ala Mhigo.”
“It’s just,” She starts, ignoring his obvious bait, “I don’t know why you don’t just tell him. I don’t think he’s as sensitive as you think he is.”
“I still don’t know where you got that idea, but -”
“Oh, please, even the padjals know at this rate -”
“ But , even if there was something to tell, there’s no point in doing it just to be shot down.” He shrugs. “It’s fine like this.
Ohku looks unimpressed. “You are the densest person I’ve ever met, Guydelot the Spent.”
She leaves, then, probably to go be nosy somewhere else. Leaving Guydelot to wrestle with this piece, and not think about valiant heroes trying to be cryptic.
After everything with Nourval and the journal, Guydelot reconsiders his approach. Or lack of approach.
Having a second near-death experience with someone will do that to you. That’s just his guess, of course.
Ohku gives him another look when they leave the Adders’ Nest, but she goes to see Jehantel, and leaves Guydelot to check on Sanson. Which is for the most part easy, because the guy is embarrassingly predictable.
He catches up to Sanson just outside the Lancer’s Guild.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” Guydelot says, and nearly winces. What is he, Sanson’s mother?
Sanson stops and turns, clearly surprised. “I thought you would have gone to see Jehantel.”
“Our dear friend Ohku has kindly taken care of that.” Guydelot says, folding his arms and trying for his best disapproving look. Which is probably pretty good, considering how much time he spends around Sanson. “I was left with the unfortunate duty of looking after someone who’d sooner reopen his wounds than relax for a single day.”
Sanson frowns. (It’s really more of a pout, but if Guydelot acknowledges that he’d have to deal with it being kind of cute, which is counterproductive at the moment.) “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What were you going to do at the Lancer’s Guild?”
Sanson frowns properly this time. “I was going to speak with Ywain.”
Sanson rolls his eyes, clearly frustrated. “Look, Guydelot, I know you don’t have a lot to do but I’m -”
“The leader of our merry band, yes, and that means you should be going back to the barracks and resting .” Guydelot says, tone obliging, as he puts his hands on Sanson’s shoulders and steers him away from the Guild and towards the barracks.
To which Sanson squawks and, torn between making a scene and not having Guydelot manhandle him, hisses, “Guydelot!”
“How are your wounds, by the way, do you need me to carry you?” Guydelot asks, grinning.
Sanson snorts. “I’d rather you not hurt yourself, thanks.”
They bicker, amiably, for a bit, before Sanson abruptly clears his throat. “You can let go of me now, you know. I’m not going to run off.”
Guydelot looks at his hand, still on Sanson’s shoulder, and hops away from him like he’d been burned.
“Do you even know where my room is?” Sanson asks, and if Guydelot would almost think he was blushing.
Guydelot shrugs. “You know I don’t think that far ahead.”
“No,” Sanson says, and Guydelot doesn’t have to look to know he’s smiling. “I suppose not.”
Guydelot ends up walking him to his cozy officer’s room (cramped is more like it, but it is in in the barracks), so now he knows where it is. Or, at least, that was his excuse.
“You can - you can come in, if you want to.” Sanson says, staring at the doorknob. “It’s not much, of course, but I have, ah. Tea.”
“Oh, well. If you’re offering.”
Sanson goes to put on some water, and Guydelot takes a look around. The room is meticulously clean, but he can see Sanson in the figures on his desk, the potted flower in the window. He sits on Sanson’s bed without really thinking about it, and then thinks about it. And really wishes he hadn’t.
“So, you know. I suppose it’s good that you stopped me at the Guild.” Sanson says, a blessed distraction, talking more to the kettle than to Guydelot. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while.”
“Oh?” The tea smells like some kind of fruity flowery thing, which he’d never pegged Sanson for liking, but you learn a lot of things in one day sometimes.
“About us, and all that we’ve been through.”
“I’ve been thinking about that too.”
“When I first met you I thought you were a pompous fool who was more of a jester than a bard. And while you are pompous, and a fool - you are also clearly passionate about your work, and very - very charming, if I’m being honest.”
Guydelot blinks. This was all sounding a bit familiar. “Sanson Smyth. Is this a confession?”
Sanson turns, and Guydelot can see he’s blushing right to his ears. “What kind of question is that? Yes, unfortunately for me, I’m in love with the most tactless bard the realm has ever known!”
Guydelot huffs. “I’m just shocked the only man stiffer than his own lance beat me to the punch!”
“You,” Sanson begins, and then, deflating, “oh.”
Guydelot stands, and before he really thinks about it and more importantly before Sanson has time to mistake his intent he crosses the room and, taking his face in his hands, kisses Sanson.
There is a second where Guydelot worries he’s made a very big mistake. Then Sanson is pulling him in closer, and he’s really not bad at kissing, even if he has clearly never invested in lip balm in his life.
The kettle starts whistling, and Sanson pulls back in surprise. Whether or not Guydelot whines is not the point.
Sanson clears his throat. “We should talk about this first.”
“Yeah,” Guydelot says, and though it really pains him to, he says, “You should. Rest.”
“Right.” Sanson says, looking disappointed.
“I could stay, of course. Keep you company, community service and all.”
Sanson snorts, and pushes him toward the bed.
“I missed you, you know.” Guydelot mumbles, tracing out notes on Sanson’s palm.
Sanson pauses. “I wasn’t gone that long.”
“I mean I missed you. Working with you.” Guydelot says, then adds, “Or, well, under you, as the case may be.”
Sanson groans, resting his head on Guydelot’s shoulder. “Gods, Guydelot, could you please shut up for a minute .”
Guydelot hums. “I think you’ll have to make me.”
“I think,” Sanson says, pulling back to look at Guydelot seriously, “You are a terrible nurse.”
Guydelot starts laughing, and Sanson pushes him back into the bed, and does his valiant best to shut Guydelot up.