Autor shifted, a bored outburst pushing against the back of his teeth. Dark blue pooled at the top of the sky, dripping pastel paints into the sunset, and still Fakir was writing. Autor wanted to read, badly, but he kept his hands pressed bloodless against his knees, instead of grabbing the papers to examine with a haughty smirk. Part of his patience in the face of this maddening position might have been because he wasn't sure he could have managed the requisite smirk, in fact. He was privately impressed with the degree of the ex-knight's concentration, and the idea of interrupting him seemed distasteful at best. Autor could have almost acknowledged Fakir as a fellow artist; he would have been a good writer if he wasn't so... clunky, most of the time. It was possible that Autor's respect was gradually growing for him, and that was ignoring how it had climbed above the level of nonexistent to somewhat grudging already. A sigh slid through the musician's tight jaw, though it wasn't exactly annoyed. At least, it was more than only frustrated.

Fakir turned to him, and arched an inquiring eyebrow. “What?” He didn't really seem to care for Autor's thoughts, however, he had only wanted to put an end that irritating appraisal of his back. He quickly returned to his reason for stopping, lighting the lamp against the encroaching night. Autor blanched, apparently having forgotten that Fakir could communicate without writing.

“What in the world were you doing? We're still sitting here, so it doesn't seem like much,” Autor  said, more sharply than he had intended. He stiffened, and folded his arms against whatever Fakir cared to come back with. He had been sitting there for just as long, and he believed in his right to needle Fakir about why. Of course, he might have chosen to at least occupy himself in some other way, but if he was to be honest with himself, he'd been too anxious for that.

Fakir ignored him. Autor's fingers twitched, an almost physical ache urged him to grab Fakir's shoulder and tug him around, but he was fairly sure it was his pride. And such an extreme would only damage that worse. He pushed his glasses farther up his nose, and huffed, “Fine, don't answer me.” I'm leaving, I've got better things to do- But no, he couldn't, and he told himself that it was just because he wouldn't admit Fakir was bother him, nothing to do actually wanting to see what Fakir was writing. He yanked the cuff of his jacket straight fussily, and leaned back into his own chair. “But really, you should be a little more polite.”

A heavy sigh. “If you're going to make that big of an issue out of it, sorry.” The disdain sounded more like a cover for a genuine apology, and that did silence Autor. He could not fathom what had convinced Fakir to say that. The trouble was that he did appreciate it, however reluctantly. That was unquestionably harder to answer to than any snide comment would have been, so he merely nodded.

Fakir didn't catch the gesture. He felt his seemingly constant frown loosen around his lips, though more with hesitancy than happiness. He owed something to everyone involved, even Autor, at this point, and though he supposed Autor's repayment would be simpler than most, Fakir had swallowed his frustration for the sake of honor. That was all that was required of him for the moment, and even if that hadn't been the case, it was all he was going to do.