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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no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
"I'm going!" he shrilly insists, "I'm going, I'm going!"