In Which Casimiro Debates the Type

April 6, 1175

"Poor Is." It was the first phrase out of Bernardo's mouth since they'd headed up to bed fifteen minutes prior. "Figured that he'd get stuck with Searle."

"What?" Casimiro squinted as he joined his brother on the bed. Didn't Bernardo like Searle? They seemed to get along just fine... "He volunteered, remember? Besides, what's wrong with Searle?"

The sheets rustled as Bernardo's shrug rubbed against them; on his own side, Casimiro struggled to get comfortable in spite of the conversation. "Oh, nothing... except that he's a little..." The word was replaced with a hinting whistle. A fiber twitched in the back of Casimiro's neck. Did he mean...?

"Sorry?"

"You know." Bernardo nudged the tips of his index fingers together in what Casimiro guessed was some juvenile hand gesture for frotting. Casimiro had to groan. "Isidro and me, we took the kid to this whorehouse awhile back, and Isidro buys Searle a night with the prettiest little thing in the place and they're upstairs all night--only it turns out, they spent the whole time talking about--" he shuddered "--feelings."

Poor idiot looked absolutely scandalized. Casimiro wasn't sure whether he wanted to pat him on the head or smack him with the pillow. "All right, maybe he's sensitive. That doesn't mean he's--"

"Cas, you didn't see this girl." As if some sort of relapse had been triggered, Bernardo's eyes rolled backward, his lashes flickering in a dream-like rhythm. "My God. I must've spent a week regretting not getting to her before she went upstairs for that little bit of chit-chat. She looked like a Greek nymph."

As if that made a difference. No one was attractive enough to have everyone lusting after them and that was a fact, even the most beautiful person on the whole goddamn planet. Maybe this girl would have had millions of admirers had so many laid their eyes upon her, but surely it wasn't unreasonable to find that Searle was an exception? "Maybe she's just not his type."

Bernardo snorted. "That's exactly my point. She's not his type. None of the girls there were his type. Girls aren't his type." An annoyed sort of smile playing on his lips, he crossed his legs and dug one heel into the bedding. "I'm surprised you haven't figured it out by now. Kid spends half his time with his eyes glued to your ass, you know?"

"...What?"

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