➵ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓: 𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐒 [𝐊.𝐓𝐇]

"HE'S SO WHIPPEDDDD."

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Taehyung was moping.

You were avoiding him, and Taehyung was moping.

Taehyung's lips folded into a sad pout as he curled up on the couch in the living room, throwing his arms over the backrest and letting his head loll back as he stared at the ceiling, his sword dangling from one of his hands and glinting a vain, attractive bronze in the sunlight streaming in from the windows.

Yesterday, when he'd lost his temper with you, it was enough to make you close off. He'd known it, he'd known that just a push in the wrong direction would shatter everything he was supposed to be working for, and yet he'd lost sight of it anyway. It wasn't much, Taehyung knew that. When Taehyung was younger, it had taken him a while to master control over his anger and his bloodborne fits of violence. Being a son of the war god wasn't a pretty business— even before he'd been claimed, still just a lanky teenager with the strength and stamina of a horse helping his grandmother support her strawberry farm, he'd been the kid no one wanted to provoke, lest Taehyung came home with blood splattered over his knuckles and bare chest streaked from wrestling in the mud.

And then promptly be smacked upside the head by a displeased grandmother for fighting with the village boys again, because how many times had she told him they were trouble, but that was beside the point.

This was why Taehyung seldom allowed words to affect him, allowed himself to express frustration, even if it was just for a moment. It was dangerous to the people around him.

And yet his heart had been aching and twisting in on itself so much that he'd forgotten, let the side of him he'd always been determined to bury shine through.

You are not your father, Taehyung.

If only he could believe it.

With a long sigh, Taehyung let his precious kopis fall into his lap, the diamonds studded up along one of the razor edges glinting, and twisted his fingers in his hair, trying to ignore the dull pain pulsing in his chest, in time with his every heartbeat.

He'd scared you off.

He'd done it again.

It surely couldn't have been a coincidence that you hadn't said a word to him after, shutting yourself in your room and not even bothering to eat anything as you'd quietly spoken on the phone with whoever had been trying to contact you then for at least 30 minutes, voice muffled and quiet through the wood of your bedroom door.

It couldn't have been a coincidence that when Taehyung had (carefully maneuvering through the war zone you called your 'kitchen' this time) rummaged around in your huge food-cooling machine and pulled out some fruits, bread, and milk you had in there and knocked on your door maybe a few hours later, guilt eating him up inside, you hadn't answered, perhaps by sleep or just to ignore him.