He sniffs disdainfully, shutting his eyes for a brief second, though the likelihood of Inigo being able to distinguish him doing so underneath the mask is zero to none. It’s times like these in which he indulges in the privacy that the accessory gives him, for although Inigo was not a man of spiteful words — but rather, shallow loves and a seemingly-endless fountain of sobs and sparkling tears (he takes after his mother, in more ways than one) — it would not fare well for Gerome to reassume his solitude so soon, especially in a land of which he knew little.
“I’m glad to see that your brain isn’t entirely composed of air and horrible pick-up lines.” As he speaks, the tips of his fingers gently press the mask more securely against his face, readjusting it in post-haste; and, perhaps, to recover some minute degree of composure. His tone is imbued with his usual, curt mannerism, and there are things that he could say, such as how difficult it is to keep track of her, with her size and the unfamiliarity of the new terrain put together. But he doesn’t expect Inigo to understand.
There’s a certain frustration that wells up within him when Inigo lightheartedly suggests that he should keep a closer eye on Minerva; though the comment had been made in simple jest, the rider would not settle for such offhanded commentary. As if someone like Inigo could even begin to comprehend something as sincere as dedication! As if Inigo even understood the time and energy that he had poured into spending with Minerva! Sincerity as a concept overall was probably lost upon the mercenary, anyway.
“Speak for yourself,” he shoots back, crossing dark-sleeved arms across his chest, as his wyvern, after frolicking around what would come up to Inigo’s knees, resets herself by her rider’s side. But he doesn’t dislike Inigo, not by a long shot, and that is enough for him.
Yet, instead of arguing further, his brow furrows in deep thought, and he lets out a long sigh; it’s not an uncommon sound, from one as worrisome as him. His fingers slowly tap against his arm, as words are uttered softly, as a low rumble in his throat, with reluctance hinging upon its end in implications, for it was terribly unlike him to reveal such hidden compassion so directly. ”When you didn’t come back, we were… worried.”
