|
his grin was always halfway a smile— Baptista does not like to be summoned. From his father, it had been an unfortunate but necessary evil, and one that he respected; from his brother, it simply rubs him wrong. There had been a time when Augustine would find him on his own, and they might share a drink together before returning to the musty stone walls of their home, and their father's office. Now, some pageboy or another is sent to retrieve him, and this one is too much of a sniveling fool to even manage to set paw inside. Baptista has earned his seat in this bar, and his noble title holds no bearing here—but it is still his, and so he must answer when called. He is slow to set down what remains of his drink when a patron kind enough to indulge the secretary informs him that he is being looked for; Baptista is slower yet to nudge away the girl who had been cozying up to him, barely withholding a sigh. "Another time," he promises with an easy wink that betrays the irritation flaring in his chest. Making his way to the exit, his demeanor towards his brother's secretary is notably less friendly. "Yes?" Baptista grits out, his lips settling into a fine line as the message is relayed. He dismisses the wolf with a jerk of his chin, and then disappears back inside to finish his drink. Then he has another. Baptista delays just enough that he knows Augustine will notice. He wants his brother to notice, though he isn't quite certain why he's so eager to get a rise out of him. He supposes he would prefer anything other than the aristocrat he is trapped with now, who sees his younger brother's antics as a thorn in his side rather than charming or funny. Augustine had always been the more serious of them, but even so, he had been certain that his brother loved him unconditionally. Now, there are conditions. Baptista would prefer not to conform to them. When he enters the building, he is grateful for one thing: Augustine is not in the office. Baptista will never say it, but he hates seeing his brother in that office, behind that desk, in the seat their father sat in. He releases a low breath when he finds the older male waiting for him in the foyer, and then offers a slight tilt of his skull and a tight-lipped smile. "Brother," Baptista greets neutrally, and though he'd slowed as he passed beneath the doorframe, he had not stopped; rather, he continues past Augustine and across the room to the bar, taking note of his sibling's already-damp glass with a soft huff of a laugh. He refills Augustine's drink and pours one for himself, leaning onto his haunches across the bar from his brother. Nudging the glass across the worn wooden surface, he eyes the other male over the rim of his own, a brow quirked inquisitorially. Whatever his kin has called him for, Baptista is certain that he won't disappoint. Augustine never has been the sort for half-measures. —and halfway a threat |
|
his grin was always halfway a smile— That brow arches ever higher, and his gaze is intent on Augustine, never straying. "I wasn't aware that this meeting was optional," he returns, his voice considerably less jubilant than his sibling's. It is not often that August is so...boisterous, and it puts Baptista in a state of unease—though the only outward sign is the slight raising of the hairs on the back of his neck. If his brother is as inebriated as he suspects, it will go unnoticed. Slowly, the pale wolf sets his glass down without having yet taken a sip, his mismatched eyes fixated on the pretentious features of his brother's too-happy face. "You're drunk," Baptista comments flatly, though the comment lacks any noteworthy threads of judgement. It is an observation, and one that sets the gears of his too-sober mind grinding. He suspects that his brother does not think this meeting will go well, which means that Baptista is not going to like what he has to say. A long sigh drifts from between his jaws, and then the younger sibling repossesses his glass and drains it one go, dropping it back onto the counter with a soft clatter before immediately refilling it. He drains that glass, too. Perhaps it would be wiser for one of them to stay relatively sober, but Baptista has never been the most responsible of the pair, and he's hardly about to start now. "Out with it, then," he prompts with an idle tilt of his skull; already, the burn has settled comfortably in his stomach, and his posture is more relaxed than it was a few minutes ago. All the same, Baptista remains wary and on edge; he side-eyes the bottle of whiskey and wonders how many glasses he truly needs for whatever conversation is to follow. —and halfway a threat |
|
his grin was always halfway a smile— "A choice your wife would have preferred, I'm certain. How fortunate for me that you've chosen my company instead," Baptista drawls; unlike his brother, he is not a joyous drunk—or perhaps his leery mood has soured his ability to enjoy it—but his tongue has undoubtedly loosened all the same. He even offers Augustine a simper that flashes teeth, though he cannot yet bring himself to laugh. There is, perhaps, not enough liquor in the room for that at the moment. His sibling goes on, crowing about having an iota of Baptista's time, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes, though he does allow a soft huff to slip from his jaws. "Am I such a rarity these days?" he muses, and the smile that crosses his face is almost sad—and definitely thoughtful. Who could blame him, truly, for avoiding the ghosts of this house? One of them is still breathing, and Baptista avoids her more than he should. It's selfish of him, in hindsight. Augustine does not have the luxury of abandoning these halls whenever he pleases; he must live within close proximity of his demons, who no doubt lurk over his shoulder every time he sits at that damned desk. Baptista, on the other paw, runs far from his. And tonight, the drink chases them further, until he doesn't think of their father at all. Augustine's easy, sly smirk is followed by a question that is as innocently worded as it is barbed—a double edged sword, and one he is no doubt intended to fall upon. Slowly, Baptista returns his brother's wry expression, a glint of amusement sparking in his eyes as his head tilts critically to the side. "Do you want the honest answer?" he queries with a pointed arch of his brow, a faint thread of mischief lingering in his tone. Baptista leans across the bar then, foregoing his drink to swallow the space between them before he whispers conspiratorially, "remember that you're not liable for what you don't know." A promise, a threat, or a game—he knows he's as good as provoking his brother, and Baptista is willing enough to engage in the russian roulette of uncertainty. Whether Augustine pulls the trigger is up to him. —and halfway a threat |
|
his grin was always halfway a smile— Unlike his brother, Baptista has an abundance of time. Perhaps this is why he is so willing to waste it, whilst Augustine is not; he stifles the thought that reminds him how he misses the days when his kin was more indulgent. Though never so...errant as the younger of the pair, they'd had their fair share of fun together over the years. Much as he expected, he can see the remaining patience slipping from Augustine's grasp—he is so very close to the edge that Baptista is certain he would topple with little more than a nudge. He refrains. Instead, Baptista waits. Whilst his brother's mood sours with every word that drips from his tongue, his own vague sense of amusement grows; he watches the darker wolf with mirth in his eyes. He only just manages to keep himself from repeating a mockery of the elder Scowcroft's words—heaven help us. He sounds like their father. Somehow, Baptista withholds his scoff. Finally, Augustine levels his gaze back on him, and Baptista's faint simper grows, his head tilting to the side. He is quiet for a heavy moment as he leans back, once again out of his brother's reach, and raises a forepaw conversationally. "I'm certain I don't know what you're talking about, August," he states casually. He offers a simper with a flash of teeth, and then, "surely you aren't suggesting I would do anything to sully our good name." Whilst there is little doubting that they are both aware that Baptista indulges in...uncouth behaviors behind closed doors, there is much that Augustine must leave to speculation. Baptista keeps his more lucrative affairs private, and with good reason; he is rather fond of his family's estate and finances—and the luxuries they provide. Baptista would be hard-pressed to sacrifice his status without cause, and Augustine knows it. It is the greatest reason, perhaps, that he heeds his brother's command—for the most part, anyway. He could try harder, but where would the fun be in that? —and halfway a threat |
|
his grin was always halfway a smile— There it is: the flip of the switch. Baptista can see it the moment his brother's face shutters—signifying that whatever game they have been playing up until now has concluded. He has the sinking, grating feeling that Augustine is about to show his hand, and that he has lost. He watches his sibling prowl over to his accumulated parchments and books, his gaze warily intent upon the mottled wolf as his ears cant back slightly against his skull in a symptom of his wariness. He waits, biting his tongue and biding his time, as Augustine launches into what is no doubt a prepared spiel. He will not have Baptista tarnish their name; there is a leash that he has reached the end of, and his brother is about to pull it taut. Augustine flashes him a sickly-sweet simper before revealing the gift he has procured for his younger sibling; Baptista's eyes widen for a moment, and then his jaw clenches. A wife will severely hinder his extracurricular activities, and the mayor knows it. Evidently, he would rather pass the leash on to someone else. Baptista makes no effort to interrupt, but mulls over Augustine's demands with a look of irritation growing on his face—a muscle ticking in his jaw. He allows the silence to settle for a heavy moment when his brother is done, tapping a nail methodically against the edge of his glass before he finally speaks. "A wife," Baptista repeats slowly, carefully, and he manages to keep his tone even despite his mounting frustration. "Whatever you need me to do, you mean," he corrects flatly, his narrowed eyes settled firmly upon his brother's proud features. Oh, Augustine has certainly won—and Baptista is something of a sore loser. "Who is she?" he demands, his tone increasing in volume and growing more harsh. Baptista has no doubt that his brother has made the arrangements ahead of this meeting—to refuse would cause a scandal; Baptista must play what few cards he has left carefully. Augustine might eagerly saddle him with this fate, but he intends to make the most of it—one way or another. —and halfway a threat |