Basil was still sour with Atticus, despite the way the day had gone. He could only color himself surprised then as said brother meandered over to him, evidently a little dipped in alcohol, and slung an arm around his shoulders. Dinner had gone much better than Basil had anticipated, conversing with the lovely Ms. Mountbatton, but that fared neither well enough nor dramatically enough for him to forget everything that had transpired a few weeks past. After the ladies had been excused to pass through to the parlor and the gentlemen had remained, Basil had done everything in his power to avoid the birthday boy, though it hadn’t been particularly difficult. With all of Atticus’ friends smoking cigars and having after dinner drinks, clapping him on the back, Basil had slipped by relatively undetected. It was only now, in the gardens again before the close of the festivities for the evening, that his brother seemed to remember he existed. “Am I?” Basil replied curtly, skirting out from under Atticus’ arm. His eyes darted involuntarily to where Anthony was standing, unable to quip back that he was the only brother when it was Anthony that Atticus really treated as such. He wasn’t jealous; not really. Basil liked Anthony well enough in his own way. They were friendly and Anthony in part served to be there for Basil for the silly little things that he couldn’t count on for his actual brother. He trusted Anthony’s guidance, and his gut, for things Basil himself had no real notion of, but he knew better than to think he compared between the two of them. Shrugging then, as Atticus asked about the croquet game from earlier, he didn’t respond. Maybe if he was cold and distant, Atticus would go away.