Were you around when I had joined the Fatui that wouldn't be the case. Besides you've seen my hair like this before.
[Admittance that Tartaglia has a minor point without saying as much, lest outright agreeing with him leave the Eleventh entirely unbearable for the night. His longer hair, more reminiscent of his youth, is something the younger Harbinger has seen, though only once unless he were to count the man's time as a child. It isn't something Scaramouche sees as particularly different, it doesn't change his appearance so much so that he can't be recognized. Even his outfit and makeup choices are similar to how he goes about on a daily basis, it's really just his hat missing, to act as a clear indicator for who he was.
It didn't go with the outfit, and it didn't fell right for a party situation as this was.
Tartaglia teases, maneuvers him into a better position for the dance floor they're standing on, and verbally prods at his ego. Fingers curl into the fabric along the Eleventh's shoulder, the displeasure on his face only growing. He's attempting to get under his skin, he always is, and the Sixth can't help but take the bait.]
I know how to dance, loser.
[His voice is a near hiss, defiant and clearly annoyed. It's not a lie, he does know how to dance, knows enough to actually be able to manage himself in situations like this even if dancing with a partner wasn't his strong suit. He doesn't expect that claim to do anything - assuming that Tartaglia will drag him around like some doll regardless of his own skill - but he feels the need to state it. The only reason Tartaglia could lead at all was because he let him, not because of a false idea that he was incapable of it.
Not that the man was doing much leading so far, instead staring at his legs as though he didn't have eyes of his own to notice. It's shameless, makes both his blood boil and face heat up from the sheer audacity. So much so that when Tartaglia's gaze returns to where it should be, Scaramouche's face is red despite looking like he's ready to throw a punch.]
What, no picture this time? It would serve you better than staring.
[There isn't much time he's permitted to berate the other Harbinger before he's being told to stand on his feet, and pulled into actual steps. It's sudden enough that the Sixth stumbles at first, shorter legs not quite prepared to move alongside the other unannounced, though he manages to fall into step fairly quickly.
no subject
[Admittance that Tartaglia has a minor point without saying as much, lest outright agreeing with him leave the Eleventh entirely unbearable for the night. His longer hair, more reminiscent of his youth, is something the younger Harbinger has seen, though only once unless he were to count the man's time as a child. It isn't something Scaramouche sees as particularly different, it doesn't change his appearance so much so that he can't be recognized. Even his outfit and makeup choices are similar to how he goes about on a daily basis, it's really just his hat missing, to act as a clear indicator for who he was.
It didn't go with the outfit, and it didn't fell right for a party situation as this was.
Tartaglia teases, maneuvers him into a better position for the dance floor they're standing on, and verbally prods at his ego. Fingers curl into the fabric along the Eleventh's shoulder, the displeasure on his face only growing. He's attempting to get under his skin, he always is, and the Sixth can't help but take the bait.]
I know how to dance, loser.
[His voice is a near hiss, defiant and clearly annoyed. It's not a lie, he does know how to dance, knows enough to actually be able to manage himself in situations like this even if dancing with a partner wasn't his strong suit. He doesn't expect that claim to do anything - assuming that Tartaglia will drag him around like some doll regardless of his own skill - but he feels the need to state it. The only reason Tartaglia could lead at all was because he let him, not because of a false idea that he was incapable of it.
Not that the man was doing much leading so far, instead staring at his legs as though he didn't have eyes of his own to notice. It's shameless, makes both his blood boil and face heat up from the sheer audacity. So much so that when Tartaglia's gaze returns to where it should be, Scaramouche's face is red despite looking like he's ready to throw a punch.]
What, no picture this time? It would serve you better than staring.
[There isn't much time he's permitted to berate the other Harbinger before he's being told to stand on his feet, and pulled into actual steps. It's sudden enough that the Sixth stumbles at first, shorter legs not quite prepared to move alongside the other unannounced, though he manages to fall into step fairly quickly.
He refuses to let himself look like a fool.]