@redwineprince || cont. from [ x ]
Red Wine didn’t want to admit it, but Steak was far more bearable to be around whenever that uncouth mouth was silent. Even as the red-haired Food Soul was actually humming as his hair was scrubbed at, it only served to tell the noble vampire that he’s doing a good job at giving his comrade-in-arms a warm bath. Of course, a good job done with his hands would only be expected of him!
As this was a very rare opportunity, Red Wine took advantage of the chance to use whatever high-quality bathing products he’d collected, all for the sole purpose of making Steak look and smell more ‘presentable’. If he could get away with dressing the ruffian in fine clothes afterwards, then all the better!
— “You’re making me smell like a woman.”
Red Wine clicked his tongue against his teeth before splashing a hand bucket’s worth of water over Steak’s head to silence his complaints. “Oh, hush you; we are not having this argument a second time.” he huffed, working up a third lather on Steak’s hair. “What’s so wrong with smelling nicely for a change? I daresay you’ve been rolling in mud all day, with the amount of dirt that’s clung upon you.”
“But, I shouldn’t be surprised, considering that it’s you.”
If Steak claimed he completely hated the aromatic scents from the bottles of shampoo -- or any other fanciful product Red Wine had deemed necessary to use, it would actually be a lie. The lathering was pleasant, though he’d sooner associate the sweetly perfumed smells with the Food Soul currently scrubbing at his hair rather than himself. It just didn’t suit him, and there was no doubt others would feel similarly when they eventually picked up on the fragrance as he passed by; the thought of which caused Steak to wrinkle his nose in distaste.
A half-hearted complaint had been made, and in return Red Wine had splashed him with even more of the water. Spitting and spluttering out the small amount that had gotten in his mouth, Steak decided to get his revenge by suddenly shaking his head like a dog might it’s fur after jumping into a pool of water, hopefully soaking the other in the process.
“It’s not an argument, it’s a statement,” he countered. If it wasn’t an argument before, it would be now, but compared to any past clashes, this would still fall under the category of ‘playing nice’.
“It’s called training. Perhaps if you spent less time sulking about in the shade and joining in, you might get close to beating me, for once.”
