They were a strange sort, these two: so fearless and reckless and self-sacrificial on the battlefield, but the moment it came to matters of emotion and family, they shrank behind their towering walls. (It was no surprise where Rictor picked up this habit. Lord Eriks was the stony sort, all stubborn and indomitable and unyielding.) "I might as well," Rictor said flippantly, even as their roasted meat and vegetables finally arrived. He'd almost plain forgotten about the food. But he and Aspel were meeting each others' eye now, at least, and the man cleared his throat and took the plunge.
"One, two, three—" Deep breath, hoping Aspel would take this silly little game seriously and so the two of them could stop walking circles around each other: "Almalexia is just a friend, though Faram knows I wouldn't mind if it was more."
There.
He hadn't admitted it to anyone until now. Hadn't said it anywhere aloud, almost superstitiously, lest naming it would inadvertently shatter whatever it was, whatever this delicate arrangement he was grasping at. Even Rictor hadn't quite realised it about himself — not truly, not until recently, not until the Festival of Lions.