this really says something about our society

"Mythra, how tall am I?"

She gazes at her Driver steadily for a fraction of a second, the contact piercing, before producing the dry result: "183.88 centimeters." At Addam's blank expression, she clarifies, "Six peds, plus a little."

Addam seems satisfied with that answer, because the tip of his chin (half a point, half a blunt) descends about the same relative fraction, and he asks, "And Minoth?"

Mythra thinks "187.96 centimeters" to herself, but aloud only responds, "Six peds, plus a little more."

"A little more?" Addam repeats. Minoth, wisely staying out of it, quirks a jagged brow.

"Yeah. Six peds, plus a little, then plus another little. He's got two inches, or about five centimeters, on you, and I know neither of those measurements mean a thing to you, so just roll with it."

Addam nods again, decisive. He'll roll, indeed, he'll roll! In fact, he watches Minoth's shoulders do just that, and that's the very thing.

Of all the things Addam's ever thought he'd find to complain about when it came to Minoth (in other words, a sum zero total), his broad shoulders have never been one.

The only trouble is, the bastard prince of Torna has been tall all his life - sometimes lanky, sometimes stout, but always generally statuesque in one way or another. He should think it perfectly easy to just reach over and give Minoth a peck on the cheek, should he want to and should his Blade (acting, not acting, whichever) be amenable.

But Minoth's a third as broad as he is tall, no matter how amenable he is, whether he's drawn up his arms and crossed them or not, and even on the tippest toes of his pointy clogs, Addam can barely find himself reaching - he has to hang on for dear life, and thank the Architect, that's not particularly difficult to maneuver.

He'd like to do it now, in fact. It's possible that with the foregoing conversation about heights and comparisons thereof, Minoth will never suspect a thing. If that's ever been true a day in his awakened life.

Addam glances at Mythra. Mythra glances back at Addam. She's only five peds, plus a little (and then maybe minus another little bit), otherwise known as just about 157 centimeters, among rational people, so she doesn't have to care. It's quite literally over her head.

"Just as long as you don't start talking about taking his jacket off."

Minoth's eyebrows exchange places.

"Whatever. I'm out."

They could watch her go, and waste a shameful amount of time worrying about what it all means, but instead Addam turns to Minoth and thinks about where his left hand might end up fitting, somewhere on his waist just over the juncture of chaps and leotard, once his right hand has clasped near the golden ridges at the corners of the bulky black sleeves.

He won't say that he isn't complaining, because he just has, and at considerable length, even if only inside the bounds of his own princely head, but...well. Well, well, well.

"You don't have any input on the matter, Minoth?"

Addam's coy invitation garners no retort until he's already made up his mind and made it to his destination.

"Why should I?"

Addam freezes, nose nearly poked into the unscarred eyeball.

(Why should he? It isn't as if Minoth has just jerked away in recoil and disgust.)

Minoth grins, lazy; he's leaning into it, except that he absolutely isn't, because you can bet your bottom dollar he's making Addam work for it.

"That's your job." And it's worth it every damn time.