If there’s one person Inigo’s not exactly expecting to see, it’s him.
How long had it been, now? Weeks? Day after day after day of nothing, no means of contact, no effort, nothing could be said on Inigo’s own behalf either. It’s not exactly that he didn’t know where to start, where to look, but the fact that it was hard to bring himself to. It wasn’t often that Inigo let his pessimistic thoughts deter him from the things he knew he needed to do-- but this situation was more delicate than the rest.
More his fault than he’d thought at first.
The prince stutters in his steps when he walks into the tailoring room, feet catching themselves with all the grace he possesses in his body to keep him upright. Fingers grip at the door frame beside him when Gerome looks up, and Inigo can see every muscle tense-- or maybe he was just feeling his own tense. Who really knew?
Inigo hesitates, hand dropping from the door, fingers twitching idly at his side. Fight or flight instincts have a brief battle before he shakes his head almost vigorously and stomps the remainder of the way into the room, firmly shutting the door behind himself. The burst of courage lessens as he turns from the door to face the wyvern rider once more, hands balling into fists at his sides before they loosen and relax.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” it’s not an accusation, not at all, it’s a fact and one Inigo is very aware of, “.. Do.. you hate me now?” It’s a question he asks all too often, even now, even in this situation. But what else is he supposed to think? Both of them had been rightfully angry at the time, and Inigo can’t say he’d blame the redhead, But he’s not the only one at fault here.
