Clemente
Clem's heart swells with love for these two silly, stupid men. The corners of his lips twitch with mirth even as he groans dramatically, sagging playfully beneath Nate's weight as if to send both of them to the ground before catching himself. Take that, sucker. "Hey, I've got style!" The offended whine has a bubbling undertone of laughter, having no real quip to give when he most certainly doesn't have style. Or suaveness.
But he is quite good at running. So when Amun whispers to them, he obediently closes his eyes, and even though his heart can't hammer his brain still rabbits about with frantic energy. Restrained and steered only by Nate's guiding hand, and released all at once as the distraction frankly erupts. Amun's voice and Nate's pulling hand kickstart him, and he follows alongside the older man, his own hysterical enthusiasm far easier to hear than Nate's withheld glee.
But he is quite good at running. So when Amun whispers to them, he obediently closes his eyes, and even though his heart can't hammer his brain still rabbits about with frantic energy. Restrained and steered only by Nate's guiding hand, and released all at once as the distraction frankly erupts. Amun's voice and Nate's pulling hand kickstart him, and he follows alongside the older man, his own hysterical enthusiasm far easier to hear than Nate's withheld glee.
