“Of course you had to go and pick the tallest tower,” comes a voice from somewhere behind; Anther turning his head over his shoulder to see Thæon stood behind him.
He can’t help but frown—not that he didn’t want Thæon here, his heart somersaulted in his chest and squeezed affectionately at the sight of him—but Anther was more confused on how Thæon could’ve appeared without him hearing, having had to climb up all the echoey stone steps of the northern tower just to reach him; not to mention climbing up a worryingly-rotted ladder, that he has somehow managed to do, not just silently, but also bearing the gifts of two bowls and a bundle of something tucked under one arm.
He’s breathing tightly, in that way that he’s trying to staunch his air like he’s hiding the fact that climbing five storeys and juggling food hasn’t affected him in the slightest.
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