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[cozen]

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[altusimperius]

Sucking in a breath, Benedict gives the briefest impression of having been stabbed right in the heart. He’s quick, however, to remember how easily Clarisse recalled him, and this is enough to get his mind on straight.

“You’re not serious,” he says weakly, calling Bastien’s bluff as sweetly as he can.

[cozen]

Years of grueling training and decades of do-or-die refinement all lead to this moment, now, when Bastien doesn’t crack even a little. He shakes his head, faint and wondering and a little apologetic not to recognize this poor confused man.

“Sorry,” he says again. A freshly ordained Chantry brother couldn’t be more sincere.

[altusimperius]

There’s a pause, in which the oft-credulous Benedict struggles to believe him, but he simply knows Bastien too well by now. His face reddens with indignation, his expression darkening. He doesn’t deserve this, he thinks.

“You’re an arsehole,” he says in an undertone, his voice quavering, and he gets up from the table just as quickly as he sat down.

Before he’s completely stepped away, however, Benedict turns with a toss of his hair to snip, “and Rattie loves me more than you.”

[cozen]

The quavering is right on the verge of making him crack — because no, Benedict doesn't deserve it, not for more than a few seconds — when the comment about Rat Red lands and all hope evaporates. His eyebrows pinch together, a faint hint of what are you talking about to maintain the pretense in place of a more genuine and more miserable I fucking noticed, and he doesn't try to stop him from going.