Frederick had about had enough of the incandescent man before him. His teammate, he tried to remind himself. Keep your cool, he told himself, but all to no avail. How dare Match turn him down? Why the hell wouldn't he budge, when all he wanted... oh, no. Wait. He felt a flareup of his infamous temper, and ignored Match's last question altogether.
"Oh, Christ, man! What?" He turned his voice mocking. "You like having Jamie as a roommate, do ya?" He laughed harshly, an ugly sound. "Oh, so you want Jamie for yourself, is that what you're trying to tell me?" Frederick's voice turned a little grating, he really was infected with the Slade sore loser gene something fierce. "Well, good luck with that," he spat at poor Match. "O wait," he added sarcastically, grabbing his bags and kicking the box towards the door while leaving the thought hanging.
"You're too late, you know. He's already fucking that skeevy looking Brit down the hall," he said, his tone belligerent and snide. "So there!"
Yes, Frederick was secretly five years old, and he could throw a tantrum with the best of them. Burning bridges, it seemed, was Scion's favorite pastime. He didn't stop until he'd kicked the box out into the hall, grumbling bloody murder under his breath in a long-drawn streak of cursing that could have made a sailor blush.