There are a few constants in this world, one of which being that Grendel love-love-loves his baby brother. Money’s tight, but him and Holly scraped together whatever they could to spoil him this year — an ornate red wooden box, flat, with a silver latch, is slid across the table to him; inside, a tin of pomade, cool mint aftershave, thick shaving cream, a straightrazor, its complementary whetstone. “You’re starting to grow your whiskers, kid.” Twinkle in his eyes. “Lemme teach you how to shave.”
They’re both artists — it’s one of the many things they’ve got in common. Sure, Belial could get Gren something from the store, but it’s just not the same as sitting down and working on it for him. That feels too easy and artificial for Bel’s liking. Ain’t no heart in that.
He’s hunched over his desk, putting the finishing touches on Grendel’s Christmas present — a little grey stegosaurus carved out of soapstone — when he hears that gentle knock on the door he’s come to recognize as his brother’s. Quickly, Bel throws the sheet over it, spinning his ratty leather chair around.
“Come in!” he calls, and Grendel does, arm folded behind his back and a big smile on his face. Belial’s heart skips a beat — it’s Christmas morning, so of course he knows what’s about to happen. Not that that makes him any less excited!
His eyes light up as Gren passes him that beautiful box, gingerly picking it up and turning it over in his hands. He can tell a lot of care was put into this by whoever crafted it; has a hunch that Gren and Holly either did this themselves, or commissioned a friend in Fabletown. Pinocchio, maybe? Regardless, Belial is mindful not to break the latch as he undoes it, thinking back to all those times his strength has gotten the better of him. Last thing he wants to do is ruin such a nice gift.
The box pops open, and Bel peers at the contents inside. Immediately feels a tightness in his chest, sinuses starting to tingle. He has to blink back fucking tears. He hadn’t been… expecting something like this. It’s such a a little thing, sure, but it’s so fucking personal. The kind of gift you get from your dad. And considering how theirs had deserted them, hell, Gren might as well be. Belial swallows ( or Tries to swallow ) the lump in his throat, turning to look at his bubba with glassy eyes. Manages a wobbly little smile of gratitude, nodding his head. He’d like that — more than anything, he’d like to learn this from him, just as he’s learned so many other things from him.
“Hell yeah, man.” Bel rubs his chin, a touch of pride unfurling in his chest. He has finally managed to grow a couple hairs, hasn’t he? “I’d be honoured.”
The ‘thank you’ is silent, but broadcasted to Gren all the same.