How did this happen? Widsth and Pheres
“Really?” you demand, outraged, and jump straight up at Riccin’s hand.
The mistletoe dangles just out of reach, close enough for your claws to fray the leaves, but not near enough to get a grip. “Careful, brother,” they laugh, pulling back. “Don’t go wreckin’ my sprig. Ain’t like I didn’t ask you earlier --”
If Widsth is less amused, it’s only by small measures. His mouth is upturned! His eyebrows are up! He and Riccin are two of a kind, that’s the problem with them, and if he’s polite enough not to laugh out loud right now, you know he’s apt to start..
.. oh, not until you leave. He’s a considerate sort of highblood.
“If thou art uncomfortable, sir Dysseu,” he starts, serious enough that you flush red, patronising enough it makes you want to bristle: “then I wouldst assure thee -”
You hate the considerate sorts.
He keeps trying to talk even after you kiss him. It’s appalling, honestly.
“There,” you sniff, snagging his glasses as you pull away. There’s a smear on the lense. You don’t know he survives sometimes, honestly: ragged hair, pupa glasses, road-worn clothes.. it’s like he’s seven, not nearly nine. “I’m not uncomfortable. And, Riccin - I stand by it. I’d still rather kiss the cholerbear.”