“Hm.” Too quickly, too sharp. But Ophion did not wish to risk implying that inside was the right place to catch up with his old friend. Pity the other man did not smoke, the mage was not lacking in cigars (though he usually lacked the desire to share). “Not inside with that. Pick another.”
The corner of Lavitz’s lips twitched. He’d expected as much. “Spoony Bard, Puzzles, Drunken Bard. I don’t have much of a preference, but there might be singing at the last one.”
“Puzzles. No singing, fuck’s sake.” Whatever foul language he used, Ophion’s tone did not lend to his usual bitterness.
This time, the dragoon choked on a laugh. “I don’t think I can promise no drag, either, but I think the likelihood of that is low.” For as scarred as he felt, laughing lifted a weight off his chest. “Any week that’s better for you?” The closer it came to the end of the year, the least likely he’d feel like doing much of anything, but that went unsaid.
The mage snorted, the release of mirth closer to positive emotion than what he had shown all night. Ophion’s free hand reached up to scratch the back of his neck while the other returned the cigarette to his mouth. “Hm. Two weeks from now before the pubs crowd with Faram’s Mass drunks,” he offered. “Evenings. You?”
Lavitz fisted his hands inside his pockets. “That’s good for me. I’ll let you know.” He angled his neck toward the door leading into the tavern, and sighed. “Walk you where you’re going?”
Ophion nodded, his word of agreement lost somewhere between a mumble and a grunt. Flicking the cigarette into a gutter, he slipped his hands into his own pockets. He sidestepped to make room for the dragoon to walk beside him.
Like matching ghosts, both men strode out of the alleyway.