After taking a luxuriously long shower -at least five whole minutes- Ciro almost immediately managed to come up with a dilemma: there was no way he could get back in his grimy tunic and pants, no matter how much he loved them.
But he had seen a fully-stocked closet on his way in here.
However, that would not only be snooping through somewhere he didn’t belong, but, since he’d neglected to think of the possibility of this very predicament before he’d gotten in the shower, he’d be outright wearing Kevin’s clothes without his permission.
But he also could not go downstairs to ask in his current state of nakedness. And, somehow, wrapping a towel around his waist to meet decency’s bare minimum requirement didn’t sit well with him.
So, he cracked open the door, crept to the closet, and did the ultimate unforgivable deed.
He sped back to the bathroom the moment he had sufficient clothes clasped in his hands and wasted no time in getting into them- well, maybe, they’d be less hot if he got dressed fast enough.
The white cotton tank-top fit snugly enough, but the weirdly holeless blue jeans needed some help to make them work. But, luckily, the bathroom door offered an array of polished leather belts; though it pained Ciro to take possession of another one of Kevin’s things, he found it fixed the bigger waist to his quite nicely. And the lengthy legs were simply fixed with folding the cuffs up twice.
Ciro couldn’t help feeling satisfied when he straightened up and looked at his bettered self in the mirror. He definitely owed it to Kevin’s clothes for making him look this decent, because there was no way this sloppy hair was cutting it. And when he ran his less-burnt hand across his face to even out the shadows beneath his eyes, he got pricked.
He looked at his hand accusingly and leaned in closer to the mirror. Though it was far from uniform, there was no doubt that he’d manifested stubble.
That was very new. Then again, when was the last time he’d looked in a mirror? Borealis didn’t exactly grow them on trees, despite all the oddities that actually did.
He could just hear Gabriela's crisp chirp now- “Ciro has got a fuzzy face!” And then Alicia would undoubtedly chime in with, “¡Su barba llegará a sus pies!”
His sisters were drastically different, even in language. Their mother had insisted they all learn English to further her hope that all her children could someday achieve a professional future in America if they wished it. But while Gabriela had taken to it like a cockroach in Carnival, Alicia had wholeheartedly reverted back to Spanish the moment she’d mastered the basics of English. Sure, she still retained what she’d been taught by the tutor -the tutor that Mama’s treasured gold bracelet had paid for- but she spoke speeding Spanish day in and day out without a shred of remorse.
Oh, ¡Dios guarde that they might be suffering in my absence. Ciro shook his head vehemently to bring himself back.
Was it ethical to use somebody else’s razor? Even in his extremely limited exposure to men’s shaving tools, Ciro didn’t think so, especially with his current clothes considered. If he did anything else insanely brash today, he was liable to morph into a certain pushy direwolf.
Now he really frowned.
Just what had he done with Taquikkar while he was in here?
The last thing Ciro saw of himself was widened, largely white eyes. He hurled himself across the bedroom and into the hall, where his worst fears were confirmed by the rising fog of breakfast aroma. He resisted saying something that would have his mama frown at him for weeks and descended the entire staircase in an easy single bound that proved he hadn’t rusted at all in his time away from Tepito’s obstacled alleys.
But the scene he threw himself into managed to be even worse than what he’d envisioned. This high-strung pandemonium was no doubt the work of a hungry direwolf.
“Oh Dios mío, I’m so sorry, everyone,” Ciro spluttered miserably, raking desperate eyes across the kitchen. “I completely forgot about...Ta?”
There was a complete and utter lack of Taquikkar that dropped his stomach into his feet. But before he could lapse into a full panic over where she was and what she was up to, he zeroed in on movement outside the front door and he promptly made his exit.
He heaved an immense sigh of relief when he was greeted by a relatively placid Taquikkar lounging beside Aella. But both of his hands gripped the back of his neck as he rocked back on his heels, singing far more of his anxiety than he could ever express aloud. He glanced down at Taquikkar again, who was working on drooling out an entire lake to express her far-from-satisfied hunger. “I have no idea what I am going to do with her."
He’d become so accustomed to the hunters giving her the leftovers of their kills and she herself even hunting when the prey was stupidly easy that he hadn’t given any thought to how she’d be fed here.
Hotcakes wouldn't even begin to cut it.
And there was a full farm of livestock here.
Penned, fattened livestock.
Ciro slapped his palm to his forehead. Hard.
In the style of his usual ruinous haste, he'd brought her here to starve, slaughter, or get shot.
“Butcher,” he said the millisecond he was struck with the saving inspiration. “I have to see a butcher.” Then, of course, another part of him, likely reason, had to shoot that down. "Do they have butchers in Russ...Russ...wherever we are?"
But he had seen a fully-stocked closet on his way in here.
However, that would not only be snooping through somewhere he didn’t belong, but, since he’d neglected to think of the possibility of this very predicament before he’d gotten in the shower, he’d be outright wearing Kevin’s clothes without his permission.
But he also could not go downstairs to ask in his current state of nakedness. And, somehow, wrapping a towel around his waist to meet decency’s bare minimum requirement didn’t sit well with him.
So, he cracked open the door, crept to the closet, and did the ultimate unforgivable deed.
He sped back to the bathroom the moment he had sufficient clothes clasped in his hands and wasted no time in getting into them- well, maybe, they’d be less hot if he got dressed fast enough.
The white cotton tank-top fit snugly enough, but the weirdly holeless blue jeans needed some help to make them work. But, luckily, the bathroom door offered an array of polished leather belts; though it pained Ciro to take possession of another one of Kevin’s things, he found it fixed the bigger waist to his quite nicely. And the lengthy legs were simply fixed with folding the cuffs up twice.
Ciro couldn’t help feeling satisfied when he straightened up and looked at his bettered self in the mirror. He definitely owed it to Kevin’s clothes for making him look this decent, because there was no way this sloppy hair was cutting it. And when he ran his less-burnt hand across his face to even out the shadows beneath his eyes, he got pricked.
He looked at his hand accusingly and leaned in closer to the mirror. Though it was far from uniform, there was no doubt that he’d manifested stubble.
That was very new. Then again, when was the last time he’d looked in a mirror? Borealis didn’t exactly grow them on trees, despite all the oddities that actually did.
He could just hear Gabriela's crisp chirp now- “Ciro has got a fuzzy face!” And then Alicia would undoubtedly chime in with, “¡Su barba llegará a sus pies!”
His sisters were drastically different, even in language. Their mother had insisted they all learn English to further her hope that all her children could someday achieve a professional future in America if they wished it. But while Gabriela had taken to it like a cockroach in Carnival, Alicia had wholeheartedly reverted back to Spanish the moment she’d mastered the basics of English. Sure, she still retained what she’d been taught by the tutor -the tutor that Mama’s treasured gold bracelet had paid for- but she spoke speeding Spanish day in and day out without a shred of remorse.
Oh, ¡Dios guarde that they might be suffering in my absence. Ciro shook his head vehemently to bring himself back.
Was it ethical to use somebody else’s razor? Even in his extremely limited exposure to men’s shaving tools, Ciro didn’t think so, especially with his current clothes considered. If he did anything else insanely brash today, he was liable to morph into a certain pushy direwolf.
Now he really frowned.
Just what had he done with Taquikkar while he was in here?
The last thing Ciro saw of himself was widened, largely white eyes. He hurled himself across the bedroom and into the hall, where his worst fears were confirmed by the rising fog of breakfast aroma. He resisted saying something that would have his mama frown at him for weeks and descended the entire staircase in an easy single bound that proved he hadn’t rusted at all in his time away from Tepito’s obstacled alleys.
But the scene he threw himself into managed to be even worse than what he’d envisioned. This high-strung pandemonium was no doubt the work of a hungry direwolf.
“Oh Dios mío, I’m so sorry, everyone,” Ciro spluttered miserably, raking desperate eyes across the kitchen. “I completely forgot about...Ta?”
There was a complete and utter lack of Taquikkar that dropped his stomach into his feet. But before he could lapse into a full panic over where she was and what she was up to, he zeroed in on movement outside the front door and he promptly made his exit.
He heaved an immense sigh of relief when he was greeted by a relatively placid Taquikkar lounging beside Aella. But both of his hands gripped the back of his neck as he rocked back on his heels, singing far more of his anxiety than he could ever express aloud. He glanced down at Taquikkar again, who was working on drooling out an entire lake to express her far-from-satisfied hunger. “I have no idea what I am going to do with her."
He’d become so accustomed to the hunters giving her the leftovers of their kills and she herself even hunting when the prey was stupidly easy that he hadn’t given any thought to how she’d be fed here.
Hotcakes wouldn't even begin to cut it.
And there was a full farm of livestock here.
Penned, fattened livestock.
Ciro slapped his palm to his forehead. Hard.
In the style of his usual ruinous haste, he'd brought her here to starve, slaughter, or get shot.
“Butcher,” he said the millisecond he was struck with the saving inspiration. “I have to see a butcher.” Then, of course, another part of him, likely reason, had to shoot that down. "Do they have butchers in Russ...Russ...wherever we are?"
