"They are not the same color," Benedict insists, with a touch of impatience, "and I'm the one in charge of the decorating, so I think it's my decision."
See what happens when he tries to be diplomatic? See??
"Maker's breath they're not the same color!" Benedict answers, tense but cheerful, and hands over the down payment so the merchant can begin taking a proper order. He's focused on that until they've got it settled, then turns toward Athessa again with a smile that seems to say 'are we done!'
He gives her the stinkeye for a moment, but then, with control of the situation back in his own hands, he perks up and withdraws the list. "Candles," he chirps, and beckons for her to follow.
"Not the nice scented ones," Bene replies pleasantly, and off they go to another stall.
This goes on for a while: once they get the candles, they need ribbon for the candlesticks and other accoutrements, flowers, feathers, all ordered in detail and set to be delivered to the Gallows the day before the event. The fabric is given over to an artisan to be made into drapings, and it's evening by the time they've finished.
Checking off the last of the list, Benedict smiles down at Athessa, clearly having had the time of his life. "Ready to head back?"
And by the end of it all, Athessa doesn't feel like she's learned anything at all about party planning. Which is fine, honestly. She's not planning on throwing any parties.
"Sure," she says, and shrugs. Looking at him with the same appraisal she did earlier, she tilts her head and says: "It's weird. I don't think I've ever seen you...like this."
"Like what?" He's prepared for it to be a barb of some kind, but is in a good enough mood to let that particularly anxiety slide as they board the ferry.
It's a distracted syllable, still buried under her scrutiny, being examined and pulled apart and reexamined. Unable to really quantify it, she looks out over the bay as well.
"Aw, fuck," she groans, realizing something. Something terrible.
The height difference and the force with which she pushes him away results in sudden tragedy, which seems to him like it happens in slow-motion: he's laughing, trying to get his footing back, but is tall enough that his center of gravity is able to surpass the railing of the ferry, bringing the rest of him with it.
What results is a wild flailing, a yelp of horror, and a heavy splash.
He emerges again a moment later, scrambling for the base of the railing like a wet cat, his expertly coiffed hair drenched and matted to his head in a black sheet.
She makes a pointless grab after him and leans over the railing, staring until he resurfaces. And then she just can't help it. The laugh forces its way out of her, puffing her cheeks out and making the first hint of amusement sound more or less like pffthbt.
Then she's downright cackling, clinging to the rail to keep herself upright. The sight of his hair alone, stuck to his face like a weird mask, is enough to make the day of shopping worthwhile.
Without the upper body strength to hoist himself up, Bene requires the help of the ferryman to drag him up by one skinny arm and deposit him, shivering, on the deck, where he grips his arms and gives Athessa a wounded, pitiful look.
"It's not funny," he mumbles, but not loudly enough to be admonishing her directly. He's cold.
"It is, though!" She wheezes, the sole of her sandal slipping on the wet deck and sending her thudding onto her bottom. It doesn't do much to cease her giggles.
He scowls at Athessa, but now that she's down here too and laughing as hard as she is, it's a bit difficult not to smile at least a little. Self-consciously, he pushes his hair back out of his face and returns to shivering, his previously perfectly warm jacket now nothing but a contributor to the damp cold.
"You're an arsehole," he mutters, the curve of his lip suggesting, okay, maybe it's a little funny.
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"They are the same color. And the curvy lines of this one will match the rounded arches."
How much of this is contrarianism? How much is actual opinion? Who knows!
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See what happens when he tries to be diplomatic? See??
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"But they are the same color."
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"Anything else?"
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She holds up her empty hands, because at some point the list ended up in his pocket. How'd that happen?
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"Candles," he chirps, and beckons for her to follow.
See, this is fun!
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It's nice that he's having fun, anyway. One might think that Athessa was the one who got dragged along on this shopping trip.
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This goes on for a while: once they get the candles, they need ribbon for the candlesticks and other accoutrements, flowers, feathers, all ordered in detail and set to be delivered to the Gallows the day before the event. The fabric is given over to an artisan to be made into drapings, and it's evening by the time they've finished.
Checking off the last of the list, Benedict smiles down at Athessa, clearly having had the time of his life.
"Ready to head back?"
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"Sure," she says, and shrugs. Looking at him with the same appraisal she did earlier, she tilts her head and says: "It's weird. I don't think I've ever seen you...like this."
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He's prepared for it to be a barb of some kind, but is in a good enough mood to let that particularly anxiety slide as they board the ferry.
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The word catches him off-guard, and he blinks at her, then out at the bay.
"...I guess I am." He smirks faintly, uncertainly. Then, with a sheepish shrug, "...thanks for bringing me out."
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It's a distracted syllable, still buried under her scrutiny, being examined and pulled apart and reexamined. Unable to really quantify it, she looks out over the bay as well.
"Aw, fuck," she groans, realizing something. Something terrible.
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"We're friends, aren't we."
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"Ew."
He nudges her with his elbow.
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What results is a wild flailing, a yelp of horror, and a heavy splash.
He emerges again a moment later, scrambling for the base of the railing like a wet cat, his expertly coiffed hair drenched and matted to his head in a black sheet.
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Then she's downright cackling, clinging to the rail to keep herself upright. The sight of his hair alone, stuck to his face like a weird mask, is enough to make the day of shopping worthwhile.
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"It's not funny," he mumbles, but not loudly enough to be admonishing her directly. He's cold.
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"Y-Your h-h-hahaha-hair!"
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Self-consciously, he pushes his hair back out of his face and returns to shivering, his previously perfectly warm jacket now nothing but a contributor to the damp cold.
"You're an arsehole," he mutters, the curve of his lip suggesting, okay, maybe it's a little funny.
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