Re: Wainright Manor: Hunter R & Damian W
Never in Damian's life had he had to worry over the trivial matters of living. There were no bills where he had grown—not up, just grown, because that's what it was. The finer notions of finances, the brass tacks of taxes, rent, and the like, had to be learned from books and lessons, or else fed into the information he marinated in for the first ten years of his life. And, in fact, now he was quite knowledgeable, but it was not firsthand knowledge. It was why it was so simple for him to view it through a lens of logic and practicality, without pride attached, rather unlike his second cousin. He had more resources than Hunter. Therefore, it made perfect sense he pay for bills that would otherwise crush the other man. For him, it was nothing.
However, he learned it was not so easy for Hunter to accept. Damian thought he understood it, the reasoning, but he still thought it was stupid.—He grappled with the idea that someone sharing his blood was as Hunter was. By which I mean, stupid. Legacy meant much to him, and he understood it through lineage. The dilution of blood wasn't something he had accounted for before now.
The man turned on lattice-brick at the sound of footsteps approaching, noting the footfalls and extrapolating Hunter was accompanied by an animal companion. Dogs. Blue-green eyes traced over the canines before they ever reflected on Hunter, and Damian allowed a smile for the creatures. He had a fondness for animals. He might have come forward to extend a hand, to allow them to understand his new, different scent, but he was distracted by the bag hooked over thin wrist, and his gaze followed its course, moving to Hunter and his horrible shirt. Damian felt he could see something of the Wainrights in the other man's face, but it was muted, diluted. He was as pale as everyone else, young, fair-haired, but his eyes were a muddy color. That one Wainright attribute Damian possessed with clarity was nowhere to be seen on the face scowling in his direction.
Damian lifted his chin coldly, his smile gone. He still did not stand broad or puff-chested. He was short of stature, and he tugged at his hood once, before he quashed the impulse of betrayal. "Hello," he said finally. His voice had the cadence of English that was long-learned. It wasn't an accent, it was just a cadence, a melody. "You may come in closer." There was derision there, along with amusement. Overlarge eyes remained unblinking on Hunter. "What is in the bag?"