…
he’s a bit tall, isn’t he?
not that it does too much for his stature, but perhaps the heir knew that already. he must, considering how his chest was always held high with his arms square behind his back. oscar understands that all too well, a small frown coming across his face as he straightens his back some to combat his awful habit of slouching. ( they’re both set to inherit something great, so learning to play the part as early as possible was something that would always sit on their shoulders, whether they liked it or not. ) if his memory serves correctly, this meeting won’t be pleasant by any means. still, the boy continues to stare, wondering for just a moment if spirale really was a vacation town for the lot of them remnants.
“ … haha. right. “ the threat of avoidance. oscar knows all too well of the response a wounded animal gives when approached, and its that reaction that only makes it all the more important for him to talk. “ well, to start, i guess… “ wringing his hands some, he looks to the side, before meeting the schnee’s gaze.
“ are you okay? “
All things considered, Whitley can’t say that he’s used to this. He’s scarce ever needed to look down on someone, not until recent—and after that, not until now.
Still, it doesn’t feel right, looking over the boy like he has the higher ground. ( Of course, for every floor and balcony that towers over old, tilled dirt, he has it, in money, in height, and in estate—but the further away from Atlas that they compare, the lower the ground beneath him sinks. ) He’s always been trained to do just that, especially in recent, so it shouldn’t; still, though, perhaps it’s for how little he knows about the other. Compared to the meetings, where he could recognize every associate as subordinate to the company and his father, or most of those officially invited to the banquet, the boy standing behind him seems little more than the clothes on his back.
Are you okay?
( What gives him the right to ask? )
“I’m perfectly fine,” Whitley snaps, but his arms have frozen and his eyebrows have furrowed to hide widened eyes. The line in front of them hasn’t moved an inch, and the longer he stares at him in silence, the longer it seems the line will remain encased in ice. He shakes his head and closes his eyes; when he reopens them, diaphane sheets have iced over his eyes, indifference striving to cover him. “You don’t need to care about my wellbeing. I’ve been managing well enough on my own.”
“Besides,” Whitley pauses, and turns on his heels to fully face him. Earlier, he had only half-turned, his neck and shoulders craned around. Now, hands holding one another tight behind him, his back faces the front of the line. “You said ‘first.’ So? What else do you want to say?”
