D giggled.
"Shut up," Myles snapped, loading the bow quickly—and badly. The arrow fell and, in his attempt to grab it, so did the bow. He cursed, and D roared with laughter behind him. Face flush red, he retrieved the items, much more carefully.
Myles really didn't see the point of this. Sure, D was teaching him self-defense—but since when had anyone actually used bow and arrows? He was familiar with guns, steadily becoming comfortable with knives, and could actually handle throwing a punch or two—most unlike his sheltered, rich older brother, who taunted him ever so thoroughly with that disgusting goody two shoes "killing people is bad, Myles; turning off major power supplies is bad, Myles…"—what more did D want? And what did it have to do with a more medieval weapon than was practical?
D calmed his laughter—although the smirk never gave way—and slid up next to his business partner (and boyfriend, and trainer), gently holding both Myles arms in his own.
"Here. I'm not going to show you again, little rabbit, but a last demonstration couldn't hurt. Just like this."
Myles pulled his arm as instructed, the arrow effortlessly sliding into place with D's guidance. He took a deep breath, eying his target as D whispered in his ear ("Patience, relax, it'll work…"), before releasing the arrow in a woosh.
The arrow narrowly avoided the (large) target board. It landed straight in a tree quite a walks away standing out like a sore thumb.
D couldn't help himself. As his voice reached a shrill pitch in his laughter, Myles snapped the bow in half and stomped away, not even bothering to snark .