Shock and worry vanished in an instant, similarly to the pathetic excuse of a flame Oliver had managed to somehow produce. Pathetic. And it had to happen in front of Mr. I-Have-A-Clearing-Named-After-Me. Of-fucking-course. But more importantly — how sucked into the finger snapping must he have been not to notice that piece of work sitting opposite of him? Oliver’s eyebrows made a straight line, slightly connecting in the middle. “It’s always whine and complain with you,” whined and complained the hypocrite, “How about a ‘whoa, man, awesome fire work’ instead? That’d be fun for a change.” See, he even offered a smile with that line. “Anyway, not like your clothes aren’t half burned most of the time. ‘m just helping you keep that image”
With a frown, he sticks his pinky finger through the brand new hole in his sleeve. It isn’t really an honor to have a clearing in your name when it’s named after you because you burnt it down. More a MARK OF SHAME if anything. “Shh...shhhhh. Dubois, your voice gives me a headache. There’s nothing awesome about a match sized flame. That’s rookie shit.”
“—n believe it or not, I’m actually not too fond of the burn holes in my clothes image.”
