The gentle approach didn't work. Edgard pulls up his sleeves, grabs the blanket with his hands, and pulls it off Benedict. He throws the blanket on the floor.
With a gasp, Benedict curls suddenly, the crisp air hitting him like a an icy wave. Of course, the sudden movement makes all his muscles cry out, which results in another little whine.
"Benedict." Edgard lowers the register of his voice to a stern harsh growl. The sound of his voice signals danger and is distinctly different from the tone he usually uses with Benedict.
The tone remains unchanged and Edgard's eyes are crazed and wild. It becomes wildly apparent that this is a man who's both been to war and seen horrors.
"Then get your arse out of bed and go to training or I will MAKE YOU."
It's not a turn Benedict was expecting in the slightest, and his face even goes a little white from the shock of it. Glancing from side to side, it's clear there's a small part of him that wants to continue resisting just to see what will happen, but this is frightening enough coming from Edgard that he leaves it be. For now.
He slips out of bed and begins to get dressed, casting the occasional nervous glance back at Edgard. I'm up, I'm up.
Edgard stays silent and serious. This approach seems very effective. He is, in truth, surprised at how well this works and files that information away. His eyes stay wild. When Benedict glances back at him, he claps twice.
With a flinch when Edgard claps, Benedict looks at him like he's lost his mind, but has not stopped tucking in his shirt. He bends to put on his vest and begins to lace it up, watching him warily.
Now fully dressed, with his shoes on, Benedict looks like he might just be compelled all the way. But then he pauses, realizing he's been acting on instinct the whole time-- but Edgard hasn't actually moved, he's just been yelling.
Edgard who has been pretending to be mad this whole time suddenly gets Actually Mad at Benedict. He sucks in a lot of air, but responds in a menacing whisper.
"Or I will drag you there. Maybe in pieces if you make it difficult."
He throws up his hands and starts towards Benedict, reaching out to grab him by the shirt. What a little shit.
Seeing that change in Edgard's eyes, if nothing else, alerts Benedict to the fact that he may have pushed him a little too far--
but what's it to him anyway, how is this any of his business?--
--and Benedict starts away, as though to think better of it and run, but the very genuine soreness of his muscles prevents him from putting any distance between himself and Edgard before he's snatched by the shirt.
"Don't touch me!" he yelps, even if that ship's already sailed.
That request is not granted when Edgard fully lifts Benedict by the shirt and tosses him towards the door, prodding his back. All the way he is ranting,
"Do you know how fucking lucky you are to get properly trained? Do you know how many people, myself included, go to war knowing nothing and either figure it out or die? You sit here with your smoking and your taking people for granted and want to complain about your muscles being sore? Non!"
If Benedict hesitates, Edgard will kick him. Edgard likes Benedict, but is extremely pissed at this upper class asshole.
A gasp of alarm when Edgard picks him up turns to one of dismay when he's tossed forward, and once again unable to control the sore, wobbling noodles that are his limbs, Bene immediately collapses to the ground. But he keeps moving, the kick landing square on its intended target and met with another yip of pain as he scrambles to his feet.
"I'm going!" he shrilly insists, "I'm going, I'm going!"
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It is day two.
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“You don’t look like you’re dying. What’s this training?”
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“What are you dying of?”
Edgard has a suspicion, but waits for confirmation.
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Then, "everything hurts."
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"You are not dying, Benedict, you are sore from training. If you stay in bed, you will only get more sore."
back to this idgaf
zooms right in
"Time to get up!"
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"Stop it!" he grumps over his shoulder.
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"Are you a coward?"
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"..um," he says timidly, "no...?"
Trying not to be counts for something, right?
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"Then get your arse out of bed and go to training or I will MAKE YOU."
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Glancing from side to side, it's clear there's a small part of him that wants to continue resisting just to see what will happen, but this is frightening enough coming from Edgard that he leaves it be. For now.
He slips out of bed and begins to get dressed, casting the occasional nervous glance back at Edgard. I'm up, I'm up.
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No more Mr. Nice Edgard.
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"Hurry or you will be late. You don't want to make a bad impression." says Edgard, who is always late and always makes terrible impressions.
Do as I say, not as I do.
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"...or what," Bene says, carefully.
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"Or I will drag you there. Maybe in pieces if you make it difficult."
He throws up his hands and starts towards Benedict, reaching out to grab him by the shirt. What a little shit.
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but what's it to him anyway, how is this any of his business?--
--and Benedict starts away, as though to think better of it and run, but the very genuine soreness of his muscles prevents him from putting any distance between himself and Edgard before he's snatched by the shirt.
"Don't touch me!" he yelps, even if that ship's already sailed.
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"Do you know how fucking lucky you are to get properly trained? Do you know how many people, myself included, go to war knowing nothing and either figure it out or die? You sit here with your smoking and your taking people for granted and want to complain about your muscles being sore? Non!"
If Benedict hesitates, Edgard will kick him. Edgard likes Benedict, but is extremely pissed at this upper class asshole.
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"I'm going!" he shrilly insists, "I'm going, I'm going!"