Avery
Tipple-Tossing Tatterdemalion
Conscious of his clothes' condition, dust-spangled and smeared, Edmund hung back, remained at the top of the stairs. There was something symbolic to it. Their stations juxtaposed in that moment. He, like some subterranean wretch, vermiform and maggot white, stood at the boundary between privation and privileged. Between the suffocating dark and the benevolent light which Oliver lived in. The candle was set aside.
Edmund crossed his arms, leaning into the door frame. "If you have a heart," he echoed, "then bear it. You'd bait me now? After we talked circles about the wedding yesterday?" Expecting to be let down, for the whole charade to finally bite him back, Edmund's patience was thin. He was bracing for the fall. What optimism he had was quickly waning. A weariness eclipsed any of his usual, cynical playfulness. With a sigh like defeat, he entreated.
"Just say it."
Edmund crossed his arms, leaning into the door frame. "If you have a heart," he echoed, "then bear it. You'd bait me now? After we talked circles about the wedding yesterday?" Expecting to be let down, for the whole charade to finally bite him back, Edmund's patience was thin. He was bracing for the fall. What optimism he had was quickly waning. A weariness eclipsed any of his usual, cynical playfulness. With a sigh like defeat, he entreated.
"Just say it."