Re: Wainright Manor: Hunter R & Damian W
Hunter thought Damian looked rich. He was very clean, and groomed, but in his hair and in the close shave of his chin, a shave Hunter never managed himself. His shirt looked ironed, and only rich guys had time to iron their shirts. If you tried to iron Hunter's shirt, there probably wouldn't be anything left afterward.
Hunter, having never met a vegetarian, stared loose-jawed at his cousin, the look of concentrated bewilderment growing deeper in the crevices of his mouth. Meat was such a staple of Hunter's life, the representation of nutrition and a sort of 'we're-doing-good-boys-let's-buy-a-steak' kind of attitude, he literally couldn't imagine not eating it if it was available. It seemed to him a luxurious and unnecessary thing to do. He looked down at his bowl, and was conscious that the offering was not a good one. "Oh," he said, disappointed. He brought his arm back, and kept his bowl, placing it back into the canvas bag in its bed of plastic.
The puppy looked disappointed.
"Who is Barbara?" Hunter picked up the pace and followed after Damian, passing the gate without fear but also without visible interest. Wealth did not impress Hunter, not really; it was simply alien. He turned his head from side to side, wondered who had time to clean all this, and then returned most of his attention to Damian. He forgot the dogs might not be welcome, because this was a home and the dogs came into his home. They trotted along with him, all three now ranging to his left, right and back in a obviously trained and practiced fashion. Even the puppy stayed pretty close, sniffing here and there only briefly.
The bag still dangling from his hand, Hunter stopped in the kitchen too. This seemed a logical, friendly place to have a conversation to him, but he did not feel at home in it. He didn't touch the fridge.
Hunter looked down at his clothes, and then back up to Damian. His brown eyes narrowed in a surprisingly Wainright expression of analysis. "I don't want your clothes."