Pink in the face, stung with the hot prickle of shame and rejection, Bast slowly picked himself up off the floor. Upon standing he tried to conceal the evidence of his earlier arousal, albeit slowly fading, but on seeing Kvothe's gaze inadvertently slide down his body then swiftly and deliberately snap away, he cringed in humiliation and knew the effort was pointless.

The damage was done.

He shuffled towards the door, misery oozing through his guts and pooling in the pit of his stomach.

A thousand and one explanations, apologies and excuses careened sickeningly around in his head until it was just a jumble of disjointed, unintelligible nonsense. No matter, he knew if he tried to open his mouth to say anything right now, he would probably just vomit the caustic contents of his stomach down his front out of sheer mortification. Perhaps that would be a favourable idea after all, he considered listlessly. At least the sound of his retching would break the awful silence that begun to settle on the situation, cold and bleak as mid-winter frost. Or, alternatively, he thought miserably, could say he was sick and delusional. He'd contracted some sort of hideous malady that triggered him to both vomit uncontrollably and temporarily lose his mind and try to screw anything with a pulse. He smirked to himself humourlessly. If there was ever an occasion for a half-starved, stray draccus to chance upon him and swallow him whole, right now would be excellent timing.

He stole one last, backward glance before he left the room. The cold look of indignity on Kvothe's face was enough to make what little remained of his previous excitement completely flaccid in two seconds flat.

To say the subsequent few days were unbearable would have been a gross understatement. Chaen, Felling and Reaving came and went and things were still painfully awkward between the two of them. Kvothe purposefully avoided being alone in the same room as Bast. His innkeeper façade became like a concrete mantle that wore as easily as clothing and he barely spoke two words together to his student. On the rare occasion he did glance up from polishing the bar or chopping the sweet purple onions that grew like weeds in the garden of The Weystone Inn and found they were unaccompanied, he would hurriedly make his excuses and leave.

It was a bittersweet situation which steadily grew considerably less sweet as the days crept on. By Cendling it had soured to curdled milk in Bast's mouth as the burning humiliation that had blanketed and numbed all initial emotion, seemed to ebb then slip away. At first Bast had been glad of the isolation, swallowing it like medicine to ease his burning discomfort. But as the dawning reality of his circumstances took hold, realisation that their easy friendship was now broken, beyond repair, was a lead weight in his gut.

Thus, despite his loneliness, Bast kept mostly to his room, only descending for meal times and on the rare occasion Kvothe decided to take up his narrative once more. If Chronicler had noticed the icy tension that had grown so swiftly and unexplainably between the pair, he didn't acknowledge it. Well, not openly at least.

It was late evening and the three were sat in the bar, sharing a light supper before bed, when it happened. The polite, half forced conversation had flickered and died just minutes before and an awkward, heavy silence seemed to sit in its place; an unwelcome guest at the table. The sound of chewing seemed unpleasantly loud.

Chronicler cleared his throat uncomfortably, lifting Bast from his forlorn reverie. He was suddenly, unaccountably infuriated. Why should he have to put up with this?

Completely out of the blue, a reckless impulse seemed to bubble up in Bast like molten magma. He looked up from his untouched plate.

'So, Reshi,' he exclaimed, as if there had been no break in the conversation, 'Just what was it about Felurian that turned you on so much you spent over a year in the Fae, at it like rabbits?'

Chronicler choked on his mouthful of bread.

Kvothe's eyes turned to his student, wide with disbelief. Not only was this the longest sentence either had spoken to the other in days but the subject of the query was dangerously close to the mark.

There was a nasty pause.

'That, is an interesting question,' Kvothe replied at last, the false politeness in his voice failing to conceal the danger behind his words. His subsequent laugh seemed a little too forced.

His eyes were locked on Bast's now, forest green, dangerous, calculating.

'So…. go on then, I'm sure we'd all love to know.' He smiled at Chronicler, who averted his eyes, embarrassed. His voice was cheery, conversational. Inside, his heart was a panicked bird, his ribs a steadfast cage.

When there was no reply he continued recklessly.

'Was it her unquestionable beauty? Her witty conversation?'

'…Or perhaps it was her tight fit?'

Chronicler stood, his chair scraping noisily across the wooden floor.

'I should probably turn in, it's late…'

'No!'

It was almost a shout.

Bast dropped his voice, half embarrassed.

'No… c'mon, stay….. The conversation's just getting interesting.'

Chronicler dropped back into his seat, looking uncomfortable.

'Yes stay Devan. Who knows… wait long enough and Bast might surprise us all with some hitherto exceptionally concealed intelligence.' His eyes glittered viscously.

They glared at each other across the table until Kvothe spoke again, his voice casual.

'I'd have to say it was her undeniable womanliness,' He looked directly at Bast, his mouth twitching at the corner, amused at his own joke.

'And yes,' He smirked, reclining in his seat, 'Her 'fit' was nothing to complain about either.'

Bast's expression soured, hurt flickered like lightening across his face and then was gone.

'Reeeallly… that surprises me,'

Kvothe raised an eyebrow, 'Oh, How so?'

'Oh I just know what you like, Reshi… I know what gets you… stirred up.'

Kvothe's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. He reached for the bread knife.

'Just didn't think that was it, tis all.' Bast popped a piece of roasted squash into his mouth nonchalantly.

'Well you wouldn't know, would you? His grip had tightened on the knife. 'I don't think you'd have the first idea about what I find appealing… or contrastingly, what I find perfectly abhorrent.' His tone was icy, his knuckles white around the handle of the blade.

'No I guess I wouldn't know,' Bast snapped, all pretences lost in the heat of the argument. 'But sometimes I doubt you can even recognise that yourself.'

'Oh trust me, I know what I want… And, more importantly, I know what I don't want.'

Silence.

Chronicler shifted anxiously in his seat.

After a time Kvothe began to slice more bread. He offered the board to Chronicler who looked surprised that innkeeper had remembered he was still there.

'No, no, none for me thanks. I think I've had quite enough for one evening.'

'Bast?'

'No… I'm fine.' His face was blank, void of emotion.

'Well since we've all had our fill, I better make a start on these dishes,' His tone was deceptively jovial once more.

He got up from the table and Chronicler, who had been staring bemusedly into the distance for the last few seconds, jumped up too and bustled to help him.

As Chronicler made his way into the kitchen and Kvothe leaned down to pick up the last of the wooden plates, his lips brushed for the shortest instance against Bast's ear. The words he breathed were soft and menacing.

'Play with fire, Bastas, and you're going to get yourself burnt.'