the question gives the warrior of light pause, ear flicking in halting surprise. though years of diplomatic meetings and bargaining and building upon a thousand and one compromises has allowed tai yang to better his manners and tone when speaking to others, there is no denying the occasional and uncontrollable heat which burns through his typical leisurely melody; no disregarding when that heat makes their song seem crueler than it's intended to be. confusing can he be, with his infrequently loud and impassioned voice and knit-together brow.

"enrage me?" incredulous is the repetition, and confused are tai yang's features as the words tumble from his mouth, still sizzling with that residual heat. they begin to cool when he next speaks, though, those flames flickering to a dim nothing. "is that what you - do you think you frustrate me, sincerely?"

well - alright, perhaps thanatos does frustrate them, the barest bit, but in that way where you do not genuinely dislike a person or are annoyed by them, you only want to grab them by their shoulders on occasion and rattle them. tai yang doesn't trust himself to try explaining that, though, so he wisely avoids making any kind of mention of it. moves, instead, to an honest apology: "i hadn't intended that. that assumption. my words escaped me, i apologize. i was, truly, only meaning to ..."

he can't claim it praise, for that wouldn't be entirely truthful, would it? or, rather, it wouldn't be accurate. ears flatten as tai yang searches for the best phrasing, takes his time so as to not offend thanatos a second time in as many minutes. never mind how unwise it would be to speak ill of such an individual to their face (as he's worried he's done by accident), they're more worried about their own manners now.

there would have been a time, many moons ago, where the vampyre's wounded and sniveling form would have been a source of entertainment and relief for the wolfman, a spectacle worth savoring. such violent delights had been borne not necessarily of clichéd and deep-rooted feuds between their ilk, but rather, of a personal frustration, as well as - much as ivaylo loathe to admit - some measure of shame. shame in the curse that now wrought his blood, shame in the sins that might grip his heart, shame in the man he had become in the wake of his own self-inflicted tragedy. eris, despicable as he had been, despicable as he was, had been an outlet, one that brought the burning and hissing pain of what ivaylo had once convinced himself was penance.

as it were, the two of them were well beyond penance. he knew that, now. the realization had been a cold and sickly one, and, in a rather exciting and terrifying way, freeing. it did little to soothe the shame in its entirety, of course, and there was still plenty to wade in frustration about, but there was no hiding anymore. no shirking from the reflected light of god's stained-glass cathedrals, no balking at the weeping and praying statues that may watch him between their clasped stone fingers. he could not apologize for the state of himself forever, could not spend his days thrashing himself before the lord's prismatic gaze.

with freedom, however, came a new kind of fear.

the cruel and clawing thing that yet existed between ivaylo and eris had taken on a life of its own, a creature that was perhaps leagues more raw than either had anticipated. where ivaylo would have once basked in the sheen of eris' blood staining his own pallid skin, or glistening at the edge of his talons and his maw, now drips worry; a disgusting, vulnerable beast that threatens to gag him and dismember what little pride he may yet have. worried! about that damnable bat, who had been gored as he was wont to do, butchered in a brawl of his own design! what a nauseating truth, to fear for him.

he can smell the vampyre through those red and velvet drapes, all sickly and blood and death. it is nearly as overwhelming as his own hammer-pounding heart in his chest, thrumming away with the anxiety of some bereaved widow. a delectable beat to any blood-sucker that may chance to hear it, no doubt, but he thinks little of that as he stands, rather awkwardly, on the opposite side of that curtain to eris, who is more voice and scent than body to him right now. a hand lifts to grace the edge of the curtain. ivaylo sucks in a shock of air before cursing to himself, cursing this, whatever this is, cursing this cruel fear.

"you will not order me out like a dog," ivaylo hisses, stubborn in spite of all things.

the wolfman grips the drape's edge; he will suffer eris' ire at his blatant disobedience (something the lord should be used to at this juncture), much as it may irritate the both of them. pulls the fabric back, just enough to slip behind and into the cool shade it cast, to join eris in the miserable dark. upon crossing that threshold, thin as it may be, the stench of rot grows stronger, the poison languishing in eris' flesh potent. eyes, glistening in the dark, flit down to his form on the floor, and there it is, the tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump of fear.

he kneels down to @aetherdrift's level, one hand moving to grab his jaw and keep his head lifted, far more gently than he would have a year prior. "by christ…"

disregard the slight waver in his voice, the tremble that threatens to shake each vowel and syllable into disarray. but vulnerability cannot be welcome here, can it? already it is too much, even though he is the one who didn't want to listen to eris, who came here of his own accord, who now kneels aside him upon his own free will. it takes everything in him not to cradle eris' sharp features, to enact further gentleness upon him. oh, how his hands mean to shake with the pressure of his restraint. how the bile rises in his throat, doubly strong at the realization that he is more sick with vengeful anger than self-intended disgust.