I don't think that's strictly applicable here...

"Where's Mythra?"

"Uh?"

Minoth had jogged in at speed, but now stopped in his tracks just as quickly, crossing his arms and looking to be halfway to furrowing his brow instead of splaying out his legs, propping right hand on right hip, and opening up his features. He looked like he wouldn't have preferred to come this way at all, even with Addam there. Not quite especially because of that fact, though, which was a truly Titanic relief.

"The Aegis? Your Blade?" The possessive was reluctant. "What, is she taking a nap just like her brother?"

Addam had seen Mythra asleep countless times. He knew, by this point, whether or not they snored (only in positions of particularly acute physical distress) and whether or not they napped at all (she didn't need to; she did it because she could).

He could have answered Minoth easily and straightforwardly on the joint bases of these facts and experiences, purely to irritate him and possibly even to irritate himself, because being an overearnest string of sunshine got old for even the best of us. But he didn't.

"I...I don't know."

His gaze had become fixed, somewhat predictably, on a particular stretch of grout bridging the tiles beneath his shoes, much as the streak of brown on Minoth's face (streaks, plural, if you counted the rogue piece of hair) cut him out into shapes - most attractive shapes - that one could focus on, and fixate on, and stare at ad infinitum...

The strand of hair gave a jerk, propelled by huffed air. "Tch. Figures. Somehow. Well, if you find her, tell her to come to Spefan. I need her."

"I need you." The retort escaped unbidden, because of course it did.

"You what? Come on, Prince." Minoth's voice lacked its usual high sparkle, and yet Addam found himself positively hooked on the bemused words.

"Listen, Charlet's holding a Glass Pen for me and I lent Mythra some money a couple days ago, so if I can't find them, I'm gonna be up the wrong end of Varnax." He looked ready to go there within the hour to find them, even.

Addam's hands drifted, drifted...ah, there, at his side, buried among the golden folds of the cloth that he probably shouldn't be wearing, all things considered, if he didn't want to be singled out as the throne-aiming hopeful. "You can have my entire wallet, every last coin." Ah, well. It served for symbolism.

Did Minoth care, though?

"I don't WANT your wallet, Addam, I want my money that Mythra owes me. Why is that so hard for you to understand?"

Not in the least. And neither did Addam.

"I want you."

Minoth grinned, sort of breathy, with the very corner of his mouth and with an exasperated droop in the corner of his scarred eye. "Whatever it is you want, I'm busy." Somehow, in the context of Addam's bizarre, repeated confessions, he'd generated a new, sidewards brand of off-keel patience. Of course Addam found it incredibly, nigh-debilitatingly attractive.

And speaking of: "I desire you carnally."

So Minoth dropped his arms, paced slightly forward, and took Addam's face in his hands. My god, Addam thought, and couldn't even finish the exclamation, let alone leave room to think about which deities actually pertained to his life in this realm.

"Tomorrow, Prince. Whatever you want. But right now I need Mythra."

A bag of coins hit the side of his head, square perpendicular to the ponytail, in absolute perfect time. When Minoth turned, Addam's face still in hand, Mythra's entire brow bone structure was quirking, and their lips were poised to speak.

"Listen. Do whatever you want? Just keep me out of it."

Addam grasped onto Minoth's right hand before it could slip away (he was ambidextrous, which was just gorgeous, he wouldn't mind at all) and followed him to the glassmaker's like his life depended on it.