Re: Wainright Manor: Hunter R & Damian W
Damian did not eat meat because he did not believe in slaughtering creatures for his own personal consumption. That seemed a luxurious and unnecessary thing to do, in his opinion. Certainly, he understood it was a part of the natural cycle of life. But, Damian believed need and want were quite different. Where a lion needed zebra, he did not need to eat beef. Humans had options, so he chose the one that did not involve death of a creature unlucky enough to have been born into the agricultural industrial complex. He did not particularly begrudge Hunter his choice, but perhaps only because he did not think of it as choice. He thought of it as a reality the other man had taken in as a child and had not thought to question—which was true for very nearly every American, in Damian's experience.
Still, he did not apologize. An expression of disappointment adorned Hunter's fairer features, and, while he perhaps felt a strange twinge of discomfort, it would never have occurred to him it was something he ought be sorry about bringing to fruition.
He turned and walked inside.
"Barbara is my friend," Damian told his second cousin without hesitation. It was more complicated than that, truthfully, but the nuances did not much matter for the general purpose of the conversation. "She lives here as well."—He had no reaction to the dogs trailing Hunter with paws clicking on expensive, spotless flooring. (They had a maid to clean. She came in from the Capital.) They were as welcome as their so-called master.
Damian leaned against the countertop in the kitchen, his shirt not ironed, as it was a hoodie. He slid his hands into his pockets, with what he imagined was casualness. There was a packet of cigarettes in the right and he opened it, without much movement of arm, and he played his fingers across filters in a habit he would have been disgusted to recognize as nervous. He smiled beatific in the face of Hunter's expression of narrowed eyes made for looking down on people. Very Wainright. "You do not have to have them. It is called an offer," he explained with a roll large, light eyes. He was not forcing clothing upon the man. Offering was what you did for family—or at least, that was what Damian thought. "You have a difficult time discerning the differences between mandates and choice? My clothing is simply superior, newer, and I have more than I need."
It seemed obvious to him. He wasn't attempting to insult Hunter as he might others. Facts were purely facts and he stated them thusly.—And, truth be told, Damian wore the same few things, black jeans, black hoodie, with a small rotation of t-shirts. The clothing in his closet otherwise was nothing he wanted or wore. He learned Americans—Westerners, really—often took more and bought more than they could ever need. It was not a habit he had picked up in his short duration inhabiting the culture.