Whatever form of God or deity existed had no mercy for Tycho Maximilian Riley Leppit, for who should address him but Eugene Hardie, Lyra’s newest crowned Prefect? Tycho glanced up briefly toward the sky, as if asking that same potential higher being, Why? Then he resumed glaring at Eugene over his chicken. Munch, munch, grump grump, etc.
And then, oh god, the humble brag! Now, Eugene was definitely not the kind of person to rub it in Tycho’s face on purpose. It seemed like in his enthusiasm, Eugene had just completely forgotten to consider the fact that winning the badge meant that Tycho hadn’t. But that kinda only made Tycho madder. How dare he not consider Tycho’s feelings. It wasn’t like he was being especially subtle, either, but Eugene was pretty obtuse sometimes.
“Eugene,” said Tycho flatly, “I’m literally going to-” It was his original intention to end that sentence with something to the effect of stab you, but then all of a sudden Eugene was presenting him with a gift. “....Cry,” he concluded instead, even though he wasn’t a crier. “You made me something?” he repeated incredulously. To free up his hand, he passed the end of his chicken leg, mostly bone by now, to a passing elf, sticking it right in the little dude’s open hand. “Do you want me to open it now?”