There she was.
As if heralded by her longtime friend, Jonas's little sister too emerged from behind his back, forgoing the simulated deathstrokes instead for a quiet huff and an inclined head. Her carefully cultivated air of stoic professionalism was ever-present, and would have most never even second-guessing her affability, but Danaye Harada couldn't hide from him when she was at least a little upset. It seemed he'd pushed it with the headpat after all.
"Hey." he greeted, favoring the slender girl with a knowing grin as he reached for her head. "Thought you'd never show."
But she would doubtlessly live.
Instead of attacking her perfectly arranged locks of black hair, he reached further, down to the furred collar of her bomber jacket (his bomber jacket, the cheeky little thing), and pulled her into a close, tight hug that lifted her off her feet. Dana could be upset all she wanted that she didn't get the privilege of first hair-ruffle, but she knew better than to for a second believe she was being ignored or passed over. That wasn't how her brother operated.
They were two of a preciously small kind, you know? Even in the face of the oncoming social storm that was his returning best friend, his own sister in tow and merrily extending his reunion to anyone that entered his field of view, Jonas wasn't gonna just abandon his imouto. To do so would have been truly heartless, let alone a surefire death-sentence by way of a five-finger retribution strike. If you knew Dana, you knew that she made up for being half her brother's weight with the ability to hit probably twice as hard when she wanted. What a messy scrap to get into, never worth it. She embodied her father's raw aggression and capacity for violence better than he ever could.
Then again, even for him, some worthless battles stood on the virtues of fun alone. How often did he really go as far as he could, anyway?
His time back home had been controlled in excess. Every waking moment, he would choke his strength, brake his speed, limit his entire athletic profile so as to remain within the understood bounds of humanity. He suspected it a bit easier for most of his peers than himself— even those of them that were sportsmen rarely had to pass the test of others feeling your exertion. It was one thing to simply stop lifting at a certain weight or change directions a little lazily on your feet, but it was altogether different to convincingly fail to muscle your way out of a collar tie or a keylock. Very annoying.
But there was certainly no need for either child of Ares to lie about their capabilities to one another. That alone changed the game quite a bit, and while he had long established his technique-first mindset to his peers as a large college-age everyman, in Olympus was where it could shine to its fullest extent, and potentially no brighter than against his dear sister.
And all that nonsense aside, he hated not having her around. Who else could critique his clothes long enough to convince him to take her to at least an H.M. and play pack mule?
"Y'know, I shoulda guessed you were the one who'd pilfered that damn thing." he spoke again, this time through wry laughter, after setting her down. Slipping in a friendly, acknowledging "yo, viv" to his adopted brother's half-sister, he then continued to pester his own. "Thought you hated my wardrobe. What gives? You go climb a mountain back in Japan?"
Translator's Note: What have you been up to lately?