(Read description first, please
The awkward silence is tangible, laying like a heavy blanket over the two occupants of the small tent. Inigo is trying not to sulk, really- or gods forbid, cry- but he hardly knows how to deal with a comrade who all but spits in the face of his frequent attempts at friendliness. He had barely known Gerome in the future, though their mothers had been friendly and they had been introduced as children. A vague memory comes to mind of Gerome ignoring his attempts to get the older boy to play with him, and he is reasonably sure that the afternoon ended with his younger self sobbing into his mother's skirts. Apparently, the situation has improved less than he might have hoped.
"Look, I didn't ask to be put in a tent with you either, tall-dark-and-antisocial. You really could be a better sport about this." Gerome shoots him a long, withering stare from beneath the mask and Inigo falls silent again, fidgeting uncomfortably under his gaz