faderift | ( OPEN )

[ Spies are supposed to be a little more agile than this, probably, but it's to his credit that he catches some of his weight with a palm against the wall and a heel hitting a lower step, hard. The rest of it's caught by the hand at his shoulder, and Caspar mirrors the gesture without much thought, twisting the fabric at Kostos' upper arm to stay steady.

There's a dramatic and ostensibly comedic pause as the books and papers pepper the stairway. Then fuck at the very tail end of the last page fluttering to the ground, and then an entire split second during which Caspar does not realize whom he's speaking to. ]

If you— [ Two words, accompanied by a slight grin and a certain look that's fairly unmistakable, but all of those things stop abruptly. Caspar's brow furrows, eyes narrowing. ]

You're Kostos?

[ There's a very, very subtle eureka hint to his voice. ]

[ He's Kostos, and he lets go of Caspar's shoulder so he can convey as much with a measured one-hand flourish, a bow without a bow, topped with the sort of flat but not entirely humorless expression that can turn a silent gesture into sarcasm.

There are plausible explanations beyond the actual explanation for the recognition. Someone might have described him, pointed him out across a courtyard. But they definitely haven't met. He would remember. And he at another time could say that—we haven't met, I would remember—with some dark off-brand charm, but not even Caspar's face can recover his mood that thoroughly, given the scatter of papers down the stairs behind him.

Instead: ]

Who are you?

[ Nikos isn't exactly the sharing type, and he's definitely not the sharing type when it comes to the topic of family. There have been rants, of course, curt and dark comments to shut down the subject. The powerful implication that Caspar is best left in one corner, and all blood relations left in entirely another corner.

Implications that Caspar had brazenly ignored by showing up here. Still, shockingly, his consideration for Nikos' feelings (threats? maybe threats) makes him hesitate, an uncharacteristic deer-in-the-headlights pause as he rethinks the obvious answer and instead goes for: ]

I know your brother.

[ Suitably vague. But Kostos knows his name, of course, and you can only get so far in introductions without giving that out. A fake one would be temporarily entertaining, but also disastrously short lived. ]

My condolences.

[ His tone is clipped and sincerely irritated, not a dry mask over transparent affection. Whatever fondness he has for his brother—or whatever willingness to take a knife for him, fondness being entirely superfluous to that sentiment—is buried deeper than that, somewhere strangers in stairwells won't see, no matter how pretty their eyes.

Kostos sidesteps to move around him, to bend and begin gathering sheets of notes and rolled scrolls, but don't mistake that for dismissal. Between the first and second bit of paper, it occurs to him that being able to tell the difference between the two of them so quickly means it's unlikely someone knows his brother only in passing.

He doesn't look up. ]

How?

[ He can't hide the small smile the initial remark gets, though he ducks out of view slightly in order to help gather the papers and scrolls. He's careful not to look at them, or to give the impression that he might be — he doubts there are any vital secrets scattered in them, but it'd be rude to pry.

He pauses to hand a tidy bundle of scrolls off to Kostos at the question, and there's a very quick second of thinking, then rethinking; again, there's no point in lying. It isn't particularly convenient, but it's inevitable, and if he's being completely honest — well, Nikos wasn't going to introduce them. They may as well meet like this. ]

My name is Caspar.

[ It's very simple and, admittedly, very self-important. The thing is, Nikos being cagey about family means that he doesn't know exactly what Kostos knows. Wouldn't want to overshare in the introduction. ]

[ What he knows isn’t much. Not as much as he acts like he knows. And what he guesses—what he built out of sparing details and allusions in letters from his family, when they knew correspondence sent to a Circle would hardly be confidential, when his mother reported that Nikos seemed very fond of his new friend Caspar but made no evaluation of Caspar’s feelings on the matter—falls short of accurate.

In particular, in the story he’s imagined for the last ten years, Caspar has perhaps a larger share of the blame (or the credit) than he deserves, for dragging Kostos’ foolish, smitten, reckless brother into ruining them all. But he imagined it for a very long time, while he was staring at the shitty walls in his shitty new home in shitty Ghislain. It’s gotten lodged pretty solidly into his head. It won’t budge easily.

His hands still on the papers. When he raises his eyes, that mustache is suddenly more villainous than charming. ]

What the fuck are you doing here?

[ Welcome to the Inquisition? ]

[ That's what he knows, then. Caspar's demeanor doesn't entirely shift; he doesn't seem offended or defensive, and he doesn't seem at all meek. Slightly more focused and careful and yet, somehow, never quite dropping the impression that he's entirely at ease. ]

I am here to work with the Inquisition.

[ Obviously. The delivery's straightforward, perhaps a little patronizing by association. After a moment to consider, ]

And I am here to see your brother.

[ He's got no interest in dancing around the issue. Not that it seems like an option. ]

I’m sure you are.

[ Kostos gathers up the paper beneath his hands with more haste, stands, and shuffles what he’s holding around in his arms so he can clasp it to his chest and extend a hand for what Caspar’s gathering, too. None of it looks at ease—crisp, but agitated, the sullen angle of his jaw a compromise between a natural compulsion to look down and a learned refusal not to. ]

And what is he doing here?

[ He doesn’t expect an answer—not now from Caspar, not later when he’ll ask the exact same question of Nikos—and he could guess that, if he did get one, it would be the same as his, as Nell’s, as Marisol’s, as anyone’s. The world is falling apart, and the Inquisition is the best position from which to try to influence what crumbles away, what is restored, what is built new. But he asks anyway, so they know he’s paying attention.

The hypocrisy is fair game for insult and discussion, but it’s also rooted deeper than whatever rationalization he might offer. Never mind what’s fair and reasonable on the larger scale. His stupid doomed cause didn’t get stupid Nikos or his stupid handsome friend thrown out of their stupid country. ]

He's your brother. Have you not asked him?

[ Ask a stupid question. It's returned plainly, eye contact a bit too direct to make it anything other than pointed; he knows that the two of them don't talk, or that even if they do, they hardly communicate. He's got no intention of ferrying messages or grudges between the two of them.

Well, he's got no intention of bringing Kostos' grudges to Nikos. He doesn't actually have a problem with bringing Nikos' to Kostos, outside of perhaps getting yelled at by Nikos for meddling.

Caspar hands off the papers after a measured beat, taking a moment to consider Kostos and his glare and his hostility. He understands, on some level. He knows how the story appears from certain angles; particularly angles that do not give Nikos enough credit. ]

Will this be a problem? Professionally.

[ Important qualifier. ]

No.

[ That might be more convincing if he ungrit his teeth slightly more to say it. If, overall, he sounded less like a man parroting what he was required to say while plotting mutiny beneath it. Despite all of that, though, he does mean it. He works with Templars, with Orlesians, with mages who are now enjoying freedom they didn't bother helping the rest fight for. And he's only ever hit one of them in the head with a well-aimed sweet roll.

The gritting of his teeth comes more from the first question, and from several possible answers, all barely stoppered in his throat: he hasn't asked Nikos so directly, brothers means nothing and he barely knows him, he had thought Perakis' absence warranted giving Nikos the benefit of the doubt.

But after that syllable and a breath, he unsticks his jaw. ]

Not until you give me a reason for it to be.

[ Please. He'd sort of like one. ]

Then it will not be a problem.

[ Not a guarantee, of course, but he's got no current plans to rock that particular boat. He has very little plans at all, where Kostos is concerned; he might have been fine with never meeting him. There are no problems here that he can fix, and it's frankly none of his business until Nikos says it is.

Which he has not. He's done the opposite, very enthusiastically. Caspar smiles slightly, mostly polite and only barely amused, and then ducks his head in a casual bow. ]

But I already owe you an apology— I've interrupted your errands. I'll leave you to it.

Edited 2018-11-03 23:36 (UTC)

[ Errands, in Kostos' current bristled state, only doesn't bristle him further because he's hit his bristle limit.

Instead it will sustain for a few extra minutes, after Caspar leaves, his present bristle level—a level that means he doesn't play at niceties even to his already-limited standard extent, doesn't offer a grudging thank you or a pointed please to the man's apology and impending departure. He only glares at him. (He has more things in common with Nikos than either of them would like, probably, and one of them is a disinclination to play along with anything for the sake of making people comfortable.)

Errands.

Fuck him. ]

( OPEN )

here a year later w/lots of regret

with our powers combined1!

cries

dries your tears

no subject

no subject

twirls mustache

evil!!!!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject