08-26-2018, 11:22 PM
[table][tr][td][div style="width: 70px; height:70px; background-image:url(https://i.imgbox.com/4XVwGFUK.png); background-size: cover; background-position: top;"][/td][td][div style="width: 100px; text-align: center; font-family: arial; font-size: 7pt; color: #8A8A8A; line-height: 100%; padding-top: 5px; padding-left: 10px; opacity: 0.75; text-transform: lowercase"]Secrets on Broadway to the freeway, you're a keeper of crimes; Fear no conviction, grapes of wrath can only sweeten your wine
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Organised chaos, Rialto explains to the dorm supervisor who comes around about once every four months even before they peek into his room. He has a method to this. Socks in the drawers, weekend clothes on the floor, slightly more appropriate as in not back-baring tutorial clothes piled in the rolling chair he never sits on. It's a system, really. Don't touch that corner, it has all his art things, if you ruin it you owe him fifty bucks because he has orders lined up on Etsy -
Actually, those every four months they come around, a sensible broke person would then do their damnedest to straightforwardly football tackle that supervisor right into their pile of palm-sized papier-mâché butterflies and cross-stitched Scoobies just to make a quick profit, but Rialto wasn't that person. He had his own pride. Not pride that meant he wouldn't beg Alex to lie flat so he could paint on them just to make sure he's still got it, but pride in what he made. His shoe add-ons were absolutely cutting edge. Avant garde. The day he destroyed his creations with his own two hands meant a zombie outbreak was on the rise and you had to kill him.
Rialto, already fully dressed long before his cracked abomination of a mobile device buzzed against his thigh, was only late on account of scribbling intricate abstract shapes over the sides of his cream Docs.
You couldn't disturb him while he was neck-deep in the creative process. No one could.
He slunk into the room about ten minutes later when he was finally finished, also without texting back, if only because he actually couldn't - the screen lit up when he pressed the button, but with fragments of the glass missing and the surface just one more drop from being too scarred to even touch without fear of electrocution, he figured that They'd Realise. Somehow. 'One day,' he said languidly, folding his arms over the back of Cat's seat and unabashedly peeking at her screen, 'we're going to get caught in a heist, and the police is going to be after our asses. Then Marko's going to text us an awesome cover story, and you're going to get arrested because you don't have an alibi.' Rialto smiled. 'Then you'll know.'
And then he got a thin sliver of her hair to start braiding until Marko came, knocking his knee against the back of the chair, but whatever. Domesticity in the Addams family.
Actually, those every four months they come around, a sensible broke person would then do their damnedest to straightforwardly football tackle that supervisor right into their pile of palm-sized papier-mâché butterflies and cross-stitched Scoobies just to make a quick profit, but Rialto wasn't that person. He had his own pride. Not pride that meant he wouldn't beg Alex to lie flat so he could paint on them just to make sure he's still got it, but pride in what he made. His shoe add-ons were absolutely cutting edge. Avant garde. The day he destroyed his creations with his own two hands meant a zombie outbreak was on the rise and you had to kill him.
Rialto, already fully dressed long before his cracked abomination of a mobile device buzzed against his thigh, was only late on account of scribbling intricate abstract shapes over the sides of his cream Docs.
You couldn't disturb him while he was neck-deep in the creative process. No one could.
He slunk into the room about ten minutes later when he was finally finished, also without texting back, if only because he actually couldn't - the screen lit up when he pressed the button, but with fragments of the glass missing and the surface just one more drop from being too scarred to even touch without fear of electrocution, he figured that They'd Realise. Somehow. 'One day,' he said languidly, folding his arms over the back of Cat's seat and unabashedly peeking at her screen, 'we're going to get caught in a heist, and the police is going to be after our asses. Then Marko's going to text us an awesome cover story, and you're going to get arrested because you don't have an alibi.' Rialto smiled. 'Then you'll know.'
And then he got a thin sliver of her hair to start braiding until Marko came, knocking his knee against the back of the chair, but whatever. Domesticity in the Addams family.