Enzo
Enzo barks a laugh, far from scandalized. He was Flora’s first ever wingman, he knows how hot she is. Even better, he was there for all the ugly duckling phases too - but some things remain secret, even from her man. Just not her workout routines. “That’s why she does it in secret though, to make it look easy,” he finishes with a snobbish sigh and flick of his chin to whip hair he doesn’t have. Though he wishes he did, shooting Kaisel an affronted look at his threat and poking him in the stomach with the middle stuffed toe of his slipper. Which takes a bit of bending but they’re already clustered together like puppies on the mattress so a bit of jostling is just extra. “Your threats are empty, small fry. She loves me more, I’ll get off the hook way faster.” Flora won’t care if Enzo gets fat on ice cream, he’s not the one she ogles.
Dropping onto his elbows as Kaisel cozies up to the bottle, Enzo’s foot bounces as he ponders, incapable of sitting still. “All of the above, actually. We still help each other do those torture-stretches where you sit on the floor with your legs spread and pull each other across the middle with your hands? It’s like controlled trauma bonding for the sake of flexibility.” He may be genetically blessed, or so he will say, but flexibility is a whole other ballgame. “But that’s how we keep the mental ab-link open and current. Mort TV was just a way to pass the time.” And thank god most Torchers (or maybe just the people Flora befriends?) don’t worry about dancing around the topic of his death. If they did, he wouldn’t be able to use half his joke repertoire.
Sitting up and using the momentum to stand, he bows with a grand flourish fit for Kaisel’s praise, ruining it by bleating like a goat the way one would say ‘thank you’. Solemnly, of course. A solemn goat bleat.
“I’d argue the appeal of cult vibes, but we’re wasting valuable sneak time. I’m going to go get the ice cream - you figure out what we’re making these babies in, deal? Anything clean.” They’re miscreants but they still need standards.
Saluting jauntily, Enzo scrambles out the door (making sure to close it to hide their crimes) and goes scuttling off to the kitchens, sliding around corners in his slippers and dodging gross early risers in twice as many clothes. Only once he’s staring down ice cream does he realize he didn’t ask what flavors Kaisel liked. Shit. Well, law of averages it is - he grabs as many as he can carry and hauls ass back up the corridor. Cursing all the while as the cold tubs press against his naked chest like white fire. His nipples are gonna fall off. Fumbling with the handle with full arms, Enzo half-trips into Kaisel’s room and launches his armload toward the bed with a yelp, immediately hissing and rubbing frantically at his pecs to warm them back up. “Fuck! Didn’t think that one through!”
Dropping onto his elbows as Kaisel cozies up to the bottle, Enzo’s foot bounces as he ponders, incapable of sitting still. “All of the above, actually. We still help each other do those torture-stretches where you sit on the floor with your legs spread and pull each other across the middle with your hands? It’s like controlled trauma bonding for the sake of flexibility.” He may be genetically blessed, or so he will say, but flexibility is a whole other ballgame. “But that’s how we keep the mental ab-link open and current. Mort TV was just a way to pass the time.” And thank god most Torchers (or maybe just the people Flora befriends?) don’t worry about dancing around the topic of his death. If they did, he wouldn’t be able to use half his joke repertoire.
Sitting up and using the momentum to stand, he bows with a grand flourish fit for Kaisel’s praise, ruining it by bleating like a goat the way one would say ‘thank you’. Solemnly, of course. A solemn goat bleat.
“I’d argue the appeal of cult vibes, but we’re wasting valuable sneak time. I’m going to go get the ice cream - you figure out what we’re making these babies in, deal? Anything clean.” They’re miscreants but they still need standards.
Saluting jauntily, Enzo scrambles out the door (making sure to close it to hide their crimes) and goes scuttling off to the kitchens, sliding around corners in his slippers and dodging gross early risers in twice as many clothes. Only once he’s staring down ice cream does he realize he didn’t ask what flavors Kaisel liked. Shit. Well, law of averages it is - he grabs as many as he can carry and hauls ass back up the corridor. Cursing all the while as the cold tubs press against his naked chest like white fire. His nipples are gonna fall off. Fumbling with the handle with full arms, Enzo half-trips into Kaisel’s room and launches his armload toward the bed with a yelp, immediately hissing and rubbing frantically at his pecs to warm them back up. “Fuck! Didn’t think that one through!”
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I'm the only one, give me all your attention
