Chapter Text
When they entered the tavern Inigo peeled off towards the bar to order their dinner (and sweet-talk the lovely old woman who ran the place) while Gerome grabbed a table, probably in the shadowiest corner he could find to brood and look mysterious in. After the first few disastrous—in Inigo's opinion—wingman dinners, they had gotten into a bit of a routine of eating meals together once or twice a week when they had time. Inigo was still trying to figure out just why Gerome was so much more popular with the ladies, but he also sort of enjoyed Gerome's company. He figured Gerome must feel the same, since he only put up a token protest these days.
Inigo was not surprised, when he turned, to find that despite the bright and cheerful interior of the tavern Gerome was snugged into a seat in the corner furthest from the fireplace, just very slightly shadowed by the walkway of the second floor. A tiny smile crossed Inigo’s face at how predictable his friend was.
Inigo scanned the room, but it was regrettably empty of ladies at this hour; probably better anyways, he was really getting tired of watching them fawn over and paw at Gerome while ignoring his own existence. Inigo still couldn’t understand it—sure, Gerome was annoyingly handsome, but Inigo thought he was pretty good looking himself, and he was a trove of charming pickup lines where Gerome just growled and looked uncomfortable with the attention.
Inigo was pretty sure it wasn’t the growling; he would ask Severa later, because she would call him an idiot but she would also be honest.
Inigo turned to accept a tray with their dinners, and when he faced the table Gerome had claimed there was another man standing there next to Gerome. Not anyone Inigo recognized, probably a local from the look of him.
He wondered what the guy wanted for about three steps, because then the unexpected wave of white-hot jealousy rolled through him and he wasn't really thinking at all anymore.
It wasn’t just one thing, it was everything all at once: the way the stranger tilted his head to talk to Gerome, the hand he dropped onto Gerome’s arm just so, the way Gerome seemed to seize up at the touch and his suddenly red cheeks under that damn mask and he wasn’t growling at this guy who was obviously flirting and Inigo did not understand why in the hell he was so blindingly jealous.
Usually it was village girls giggling and complimenting and trying to sit in Gerome’s lap or finger-comb his hair, and of course Inigo was jealous because that was the attention he wanted, but this guy? He had no reason to be jealous that some guy—who was only moderately attractive anyways—was hitting on Gerome, who didn’t seem to be too bothered about it—
He got two more steps to the table before he stumbled because—oh cripes—he had just realized—oh damn—keep walking keep walking—oh gods—set the tray down on the table like everything is normal and you didn’t just realize you are attracted to Gerome.
When he glanced up from the tray, suddenly certain his revelation was written across his face, Gerome was looking slightly…relieved? The flirting stranger looked mildly disappointed, and when Inigo sat down he gave Gerome a rueful smile.
“I’ll leave you gents to it, then,” he said, and then left.
Inigo wordlessly placed Gerome’s plate in front of him and then dug into his own food. He was not going to ask what that had been about, he was going to eat his food and do his damnedest to forget he had a crush on Gerome, of all the people he could have suddenly discovered an attraction to. If he opened his mouth now he was going to say something stupid or embarrassing, or maybe both, because his thoughts were a hell of a mess and entirely a mess about Gerome.
Unfortunately Gerome was generally the “silent and brooding” type, which meant since Inigo wasn’t filling the silence with chatter there was nothing to distract him from reevaluating his own behavior of the last few weeks. By the time he remembered yelling in Gerome’s face about wanting to be manhandled, his whole face had gone red.
“Inigo? Are you unwell?” What was visible of Gerome’s face under that stupid, mysteriously alluring mask appeared slightly concerned.
“Ah—wh—no! Why would you think that? I’m totally fine, everything is very normal!” Inigo punctuated it with a laugh that was supposed to be flippant but came out slightly crazed; Gerome did not seem reassured.
“You’ve been sitting there with your spoon in front of your mouth for a solid minute.” Inigo looked down at the spoon, hovering in his frozen grip mere inches from his face.
“Actually,” he had to get the hell out of here, “I just remembered I promised to pick up something for Severa and she’s going to break my arms if I don’t get it tonight, so, I should go and, uh, get that.” As he spoke he dropped his spoon into his food and hopped out of his chair. Gerome was definitely concerned now.
“The market just closed—”
“Oh boy, I guess I’d better hurry then! This was nice, bye!” And then he was out the door and almost running to a bakery he knew was still open, because while he had been using Severa as an excuse to escape, it wouldn’t hurt if he had a gift when he went to cajole advice from his prickly friend.
Gods, she was going to tease him about this.