[ despite how casually he tends to address wriothesley, even he knows he can't show up in anything less than his best. it's as much for wriothesley's sake as his own, really, on the off chance someone does recognize him. appearances mean everything when it comes to these kinds of things.
case in point: as expected, even if he says the ball is a waste of time, wriothesley is still out here, dressed to the nines and looking like he just woke up like that. he probably did, the asshole. there's still an odd little flutter of—nervousness? anticipation, more likely, at the thought of going together; of occupying a space outside of the occasional round of wriothesley beating him up. in the end, he still decided to invite akira, however, and that probably says something, doesn't it?
things to dwell on later, when he's not getting distracted by that open collar. ]
That depends, [ he bats his lashes, because just because he's cleaned up doesn't mean he's any less of a cheeky shit. ] Will you bring me back home before midnight?
[ what, don't you think his hair looks at least a little more neat than usual? no changes whatsoever? for once, wriothesley looks less like some underground thug (no pun intended) and more like your usual hobnobbing noble, you know. he would be insulted, if he even cared an inch about something like that - just like how he doesn't seem to care whether his date for the night is someone else more polished and respectable, or just some no-name part timer of several establishments from the depths of common populace.
he doesn't go so far as ruffle akira's head (look, he knows how long it takes to wrangle these things to some semblance of order, he just had to live through a similar experience) but wriothesley does snort, each movement exaggerated as he leans towards the other, extending his arm so akira could take it. ]
That depends on whether you've been a good boy or not.
[ he's trying not to look too closely, because he knows he wouldn't be able to look away once he does and that would give everything away, wouldn't it? not that he thinks wriothesley can't tell—the man may be obtuse but he isn't blind, and akira hasn't been subtle either. but no one's called him out on it (yet), and if plausible deniability is his only saving grace, then he'll take it. underground thug and hobnobbing noble or not, he doesn't think he's ever had a choice anyway with the way he lets himself be pulled into wriothesley's orbit, so hopelessly attuned to him; like a weight hanging from his every word or maybe a noose (either way, they sway).
even outside of their sparring wriothesley's still knocking him on his ass, hitting him with the one two punch of good boy and offering his arm. it takes effort not to look away, to hide the blush that is most definitely spreading over his cheeks, and he only hopes that it's dark enough to at least tone it down a little. ]
So you'll have me suffer with you for the rest of it, if not? [ his tone is dry as he lets his hand settle in the crook of wriothesley's elbow, and since they aren't keeping any pretenses at the moment, he may as well sidle a little closer until their shoulders brush. ] You're a cruel man, Your Grace.
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no subject
case in point: as expected, even if he says the ball is a waste of time, wriothesley is still out here, dressed to the nines and looking like he just woke up like that. he probably did, the asshole. there's still an odd little flutter of—nervousness? anticipation, more likely, at the thought of going together; of occupying a space outside of the occasional round of wriothesley beating him up. in the end, he still decided to invite akira, however, and that probably says something, doesn't it?
things to dwell on later, when he's not getting distracted by that open collar. ]
That depends, [ he bats his lashes, because just because he's cleaned up doesn't mean he's any less of a cheeky shit. ] Will you bring me back home before midnight?
no subject
he doesn't go so far as ruffle akira's head (look, he knows how long it takes to wrangle these things to some semblance of order, he just had to live through a similar experience) but wriothesley does snort, each movement exaggerated as he leans towards the other, extending his arm so akira could take it. ]
That depends on whether you've been a good boy or not.
no subject
even outside of their sparring wriothesley's still knocking him on his ass, hitting him with the one two punch of good boy and offering his arm. it takes effort not to look away, to hide the blush that is most definitely spreading over his cheeks, and he only hopes that it's dark enough to at least tone it down a little. ]
So you'll have me suffer with you for the rest of it, if not? [ his tone is dry as he lets his hand settle in the crook of wriothesley's elbow, and since they aren't keeping any pretenses at the moment, he may as well sidle a little closer until their shoulders brush. ] You're a cruel man, Your Grace.