“What?” Connor asks, not rudely, but his curious tone makes up for his lack of finesse in English.
“I was only thinking,” Achilles says, staring at the bloody mess Connor’s made all over the stables. The boy had gone out hunting again. “You are nothing like your namesake.”
Connor’s eyebrows rise. “Like how.”
“Other Connor most likely would not have apologized, and would have said something to earn a bar of soap in his mouth.”
It feels surprisingly nice to not have to toe around the subject anymore, Achilles thinks, watching with amusement as Connor’s face becomes impassive.
“I suppose he would have gotten it from you,” Connor replies tartly.
And the only thing that hurts is when Achilles drops his cane to tackle a yelping Connor to the ground, laughing too hard to care at all.