It's hard not to think of Pheres as a kid, even knowing he's nine, when he's so small and cowed. He's as tense as a steel rod under your arm, his broad-ass shoulders one rigid slant, and you don't know what the fuck his problem is. You're being nice as hell right now.
He angles his head back to peer up at you, his weird, mismatched eyes skimming across your face like he's searching for something. Whatever he finds, he evidently doesn't like: his face blanches, the skin pulling tight, and just as you're getting ready to ask what the fuck he thinks he's looking at, he laughs.
"What... what are you calling yourself?" the little redblood asks, imitating your cadence, and you quirk an eyebrow. It's impossible to tell if the playful lilt is mockery, or teasing, or both. "I can't just call you OA."
"Sure you can." You're not entirely sure why he laughed, and the uncertainty makes your words sharp: there's nothing worse than being left out of a joke. "The fuck is wrong with OA?"
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He angles his head back to peer up at you, his weird, mismatched eyes skimming across your face like he's searching for something. Whatever he finds, he evidently doesn't like: his face blanches, the skin pulling tight, and just as you're getting ready to ask what the fuck he thinks he's looking at, he laughs.
"What... what are you calling yourself?" the little redblood asks, imitating your cadence, and you quirk an eyebrow. It's impossible to tell if the playful lilt is mockery, or teasing, or both. "I can't just call you OA."
"Sure you can." You're not entirely sure why he laughed, and the uncertainty makes your words sharp: there's nothing worse than being left out of a joke. "The fuck is wrong with OA?"