Unprepared for Hera’s message, it had taken Hephaestus seconds to respond - but when she’d asked him to check in on her boys, worry clear to read in the undertones of her hastily typed messages, he’d agreed quickly enough, quite accustomed to the idea of Hera as a protective mother - although it had taken him three days at the leastto reach that state of acceptance.
When he’d pulled up in front of the gate to her manor, however, he realized immediately upon hearing the faint, thumping pulse of music and the multitudes of teenagers loitering about, some of whom he could see silhouetted against the windows - laughing, screaming, making general nuisances of themselves - that her motherly instincts had been spot-on.
Fighting the urge to stomp his feet at this sign of an impending headache - there was no telling what awaited him behind closed doors - Hephaestus strode with purposeful steps toward the wraparound porch, hazel eyes narrowing on the few kids he could see raising hell on someone else’s property, not a care in the world for the fact that someone would be expected to pick up after them. “Scat,” he snapped, the deep, gruff tone of his voice adding weight to the demand. And they most likely would have tried to argue the point if not for his intimidatingly large size when compared to theirs. But rather than wait to ensure they obediently followed his order, he ascended the porch steps and drew to a halt in front of the front door, giving the hard, wooden surface a firm, heavy knock.
“Arden,” he greeted calmly as soon as the younger male opened the door, taking careful note of his frantic appearance - his claws and fangs were out, and there were tears in his eyes; tears of what he assumed to be relief. “You stopped responding to her texts …” His gaze slid past him to the crowd of teenagers congregated in the foyer, quite a few of them spilling into the living room, their suspiciously odd behavior calling attention to the possibility of there being alcohol, perhaps even drugs, at this party. “And I can see why … You don’t mind if I step in, do you?” He flashed a reassuring smile at that, then stepped around him, bringing two fingers to his lips and giving a loud, shrill whistle, one that could even be heard over the irritatingly, atrociously loud music playing all throughout the house. With a shake of his dark brown head, Hephaestus immediately went in search of the source of the music. “Much better,” he muttered as soon as sweet, blessed silence met his efforts, turning to give the room at large a hard glare. “I’m giving you brats to the count of three to vacate the premises.” But when all they did was gape up at him, no doubt too far gone to recognize an order when they heard one, he snapped his fingers, a small flame erupting from the tip of his index finger.
More stares, but this time, awe and fear had joined the confusion.
With every second, the flame grew steadily bigger - until it looked seconds away from engulfing his entire hand in fiery orange.
And with that, he advanced forward in a threatening manner, not at all surprised when most would-be party-goers suddenly scrambled frantically for the door.
Pressing tight against the wall as the teenagers began to scatter, Arden did his best to keep from snapping his claws through the drywall. Already, he would have a horrible mess to clean up, from all the alcohol scattered through the house, the broken glass and the stench of sex that no doubt filled certain rooms.
Tilting his head, watching Hephaestus with wide eyes, he heard a gagging sound from the closet even as a boy he recognized from the swim team bolted past him, and Arden raced for the door handle. Yanking the closet door open, impeding the escape of several teenagers from the foyer, he carefully pulled David out from inside.
“S’ fuckin’ colorful, Denny!”
Hefting his younger brother against his chest, wobble-walking the two of them toward the couch, Arden carefully deposited his brother in the recovery position before crouching down by his head, mindful of his own claws.
“Heph, I-I need a trashcan, please.”
