[It's the sort of logic that'd apply years ago: over who got what days off or what color shirt or even if— once the dynamic betwixt them all settled— Fenris got a deal more praise than he did. Now, though. Now it couldn't be farther from the truth. And the weight of said truth sits heavy in his lap the way he sits heavy atop Fenris, suddenly angry (or still? Still angry?) and unwilling to move. Keyed up on a landslide of a thousand different feelings, none of them with names.

Trying to shove him like that does less than nothing, only flattens his palms against the center of a willow-lean chest.]

How many times do I have to tell you? No, she wouldn't have— [Because I have standards. Because I asked you to come here and do this with me, you impossible, empty headed— ] How you even got so good at kissing is a mystery when you can't even listen, anyway! [Another shove is just to stand up on his feet, but the sheer momentum of it compared to how small he used to be smacks his head into the ceiling, dredging up an irate hiss.]