As anticipated, Oliver did not comment on Dietre’s new attire, but the smiles the German boy was treated to made him forget about feeling any kind of disappointment. He knew enough not to accept the lie as truth, and so he played along, amused. “Oh, I’m so very sorry,” he apologized for leaving Oliver waiting with an equal lack of sincerity. “I’ll have to make it up to you.”
The former friends Dietre lamented over had both been about as tall as himself, so Oliver’s lack of height was something new. But not something bad. Though shy and often awkward, Dietre had never developed that apologetic stoop some tall men inevitably acquire. His nervousness manifested in other ways, like wringing his hands or biting his bottom lip, but his posture remained straight and regal. His father saw to that.
“Adrian’s fed me, so… I’m ready when you are, Romeo.” The use of their nicknames pleased him greatly. He very much liked having something private to share with someone, names they’d call each other and no one else. It felt… special.
The shoes weren’t forgotten, a fact that brought a rare curl to Dietre’s lips. “Good, good… Should I switch them now or wait until we get there?” Speaking of getting there, “...Do you drive?” Dietre had no license. “Or are we taking public transportation?”