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[color=gray][indent][indent]Everything ached but in a good way. Ambrose couldn’t say that was usual. The only thing he didn’t care about was the few scratches on the palms of his hands from handling the wood. They’d heal quickly enough, but for someone that had a “moisturizing routine,” it was a nuisance. After Freyja vaulted off, the child in toe, he found himself swallowed by the night of festivities. The goings-on of the day had distracted him from whatever his brain could pry out. Silence was the crowbar of discontent for him. 

He wasn’t paying attention to anyone around him or anything that might have been said in his direction as they were abandoned by his car on the outskirts of the festival. He hit the key fob and opened the backseat, peeling off his dirtied and sweated-in shirt. It was then he realized that the guy from earlier was still loitering around. More so, that he was talking to Ambrose.

Ambrose stood there without a shirt on, the coolish air picking at his bare skin. It was without a blemish, scar, or other imperfection, and perfectly crafted like it’d been sculpted out of marble or some other slick, sexy rock. “Uh. Why would I know your mother?” Violet Cheeseman raised no alarm bells in his brain. She sounded like a character out of a children’s book with that name. Then again Brown Cheeseman sounded like a rare brand of some hard cheese served at one of his mother’s wine tastings. He’d gotten blitzed at a young age thinking it was a weird grape juice and scarfing all the cheese his little mouth could hold. He’d been a solid circle of a child.

He pulled his shirt over his head and slid it over his chest, it was form-fitting, allowing the warm light of the festival to leave little to the imagination regarding his musculature underneath. His shirt was a deep blue, and on it was an anime character of some kind. He didn’t know who it was. One of his friends back in New York had mailed it to him for his birthday. He’d tossed it into the back of his car as an “emergency” shirt. It layered with his distressed khakis and sneakers quite well. As if Ambrose could ever wear something unattractive.

“Ambrose,” he said, “Ambrose Hightower. I’m sure you’ve heard of me before, or at least my mom.” He shrugged. “Sure, I can hang out with you. I’m surprised you have friends.” He paused, realizing how that sounded. “Considering I don’t know who you are or your mom for that matter. Are you new to town?” He gestured to himself. “If we don’t find your friend, we can find some of mine. [i]Mi[/i]… uh… friends… [i]es… su…[/i] friends.” [/indent][/indent][/color]
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