[ Something licks over the back of his neck, a frisson of awareness that has a shock zinging down his spine. Mydeimos is watching him so closely, his mouth tilted in such a smug, satisfied curl — as though Phainon's just performed some clever trick. Resentment builds in his chest like a caught burr. Practicality dictates he drink the water when it comes without obvious strings attached, but the grating feel of playing right into the vampire's hands rankles.
And still, Phainon doesn't look away from the man. Can't look away, eyes bright with banked fury and defiance both, and he meets Mydeimos' gaze unflinchingly. Every swallow of water is a draught of bitterness, but he forces it down until there's only drops left in the cup.
Then, he carefully leans back — waits to see if he's allowed, or if Mydeimos will reach for his hair again, or yank at his freshly splinted arm, or any other number of ways he could bodily take offense.
Even if punishment comes, it's worth it to throw a gauntlet. ]
More that I have doubts in your ability to be one.
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And still, Phainon doesn't look away from the man. Can't look away, eyes bright with banked fury and defiance both, and he meets Mydeimos' gaze unflinchingly. Every swallow of water is a draught of bitterness, but he forces it down until there's only drops left in the cup.
Then, he carefully leans back — waits to see if he's allowed, or if Mydeimos will reach for his hair again, or yank at his freshly splinted arm, or any other number of ways he could bodily take offense.
Even if punishment comes, it's worth it to throw a gauntlet. ]
More that I have doubts in your ability to be one.