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"Mademoiselle, if you would lead in our equine friend?" Antoine directed with a wave of his hand, his back turned to the young couple as he adjusted his easel to the correct height. "Don’t get to close to his mouth, either! He’s a biter!"
"I thought you’d be used to that by now," Grantaire teased, quickly ducking to avoid the cloth his master chucked at him without even looking.
"Here’s a good boy," Floréal cooed, her fingers scratching beneath the beast’s chin. He didn’t seem annoyed with her at all, much to Antoine’s consternation. “What’s his name?”
"Clemence." Antoine and Floréal startled as Grantaire made a noise like a bear with a sore head sneezing.
"No wonder he’s sour! You would be, too, with a name so- so- ugh. We must rename him!"
"You can’t just change his name, can you? He wouldn’t answer to it!" Floreal raised a brow at them both, but clearly agreed with Grantaire.
"He doesn’t answer to the name he was given, either," Antoine sighed, know they’d never get anything done until he let Grantaire have his way, as always. "Go on then. I have no doubt he’ll let you know if he doesn’t like your choice."
"Excellent!" Grantaire approached the horse, looking deep into what Antoine thought of as eyes as deep and black as hell, but perhaps his young student held a different opinion, as he often did.
"What of Asopos!" The horse tried to take a bite from Grantaire’s face. "No, I suppose not, I agree, mon ami. Telkhine and Chrysaor don’t quite fit either. You are a bit of a giant and a man-eater, though, perhaps Laistrygon is more fitting?"
"Oh, he’s not a man-eater, are you, you beautiful boy," Floréal argued, leaning her face against the beast’s neck and glaring sideways at Grantaire. “He’s a great warrior, I think.” The horse nayed it was seemed to be agreement.
"This will end in tears and bleeding," Antoine warned them in a voice with more song than reproach.
"Perhaps he should call him Chrysomallos, then—" and with that the horse charged forward, chasing Grantaire halfway across the room until he managed to escape range on top of a large bookshelf Antoine only kept around as a prop. "Not the son of Theophane, then! A little assistance."
"You made the bed," Antoine called up to him. Floréal seemed to be having trouble regaining composure.
"Aerion, then, my friend?" Grantaire asked the horse. "Great son of Poseidon and Demeter, mount of Herakles and Adrastos—a warrior in his own right, hm?"
The horse nodded in agreement. Antoine needed a drink.