The look on Wicked’s face darkens from smirk to sneer to scowl as his brother’s words go on. He comes close, very close, to losing his temper. To doing something he shouldn’t. Then he see’s a laugh on the wind, and things become… calm. A laugh on the wind is a sign that you should lighten your face, brighten your mood, and surrender to your sense of humor. Silly coincidences, absurd happenstance, all contribute to Fate’s meddling in temper. This one happens to be a bird taking that precise moment to take such precise aim as to drop a bold white stain on Wicked’s dark jacket shoulder. Mid-scowl he looks up at the bird, stares, and doffs his cap to the creature flying away.
He turns back to his brother.
“You… you brought HER into this. That was uncouth brother Truth. It appears one of us has changed much. I will admit I have been a foolish wastrel. You however, have been a nattering old maid. We are the same age you twit, for all that you feel the need to mother me. I took that tone, that stance with you to approach you on familiar ground. We are siblings, we are soldiers, and we are old. We should fight. It is our purpose. But your words very nearly prompted me to try to kill you, you silly ass! So, we have reached an awkward point with two ways to deliverance. We can fight. Sparring naturally, I have no wish to kill you. You and I are the last, and there will be no more. Our lives should be spent in something greater than a cheap reenactment of Cain and Able. Or we can drink. Having broken the rules of civilized discourse first, you will be buying the first and last rounds. Having the greater obligation to repair old damages and repay old debts, I will be buying the rest. The type, origin, and style of each drink need not matter so long as each round is older than the previous. While we drink, we may talk and catch up as brothers and comrades, but SHE will not be mentioned again. Are we agreed?