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It was an entirely pathetic display, what Attila glanced over his shoulder to see, but nothing he was not unfamiliar with. The younger brother, handsome and tall, wearing the scowl; the older brother, cowardly and shying away, tearing up and yowling some amount of stuttering nonsense Attila could only understand thanks to well-trained ears and experience with it. He snorted: So Claudius was no different after all. Attila had expected nothing but proof of the same. His compassion now wasted, the Aston's cruel iced eyes stared down his older brother with similarities from their childhood. Attila had tried, and he'd meant it — and Attila Aston was not one to be flip-flopped around and manipulated. He knew better than to take what little shit Claudius could attempt to throw at him.
Attila cared about him, but not enough to argue back and forth with a crying, whining moron.
"Stand up straight," he snapped suddenly, twisting back around. "If you're going to talk back to me, stop your fucking crying. For God's sake, Claudius, straighten up, come on!"
He was well aware Claudius would most likely only cower more, but once again, Attila had tried. He sighed, letting that temporary rage subside, and attempting to address him in sympathetic tones once more. "I do care, Claudius. I don't want you dead. I don't want our mother dead and you never seeing her again. I don't want you wasting your life away here because you're too scared. I was starting to help Noir. I ran out of time."
I don't want to run out of time again. "You're my brother and one of our crazy mother's sons. You're capable of more than this." You just need ... pushing.