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    Summary

    He peeked inside and instantly felt all tension leave him, mouth widening in a grin around his cigar.

    Inside, a familiar mop of black hair pecked out from inside one of their sadder, smaller wash tubs. Cid could see he was sitting, curled up, in the tub barely holding his frame in all its muscled glory. The sides of the frame barely came up to his tiny little waist as he looked to be scrubbing his feet. There was a green bottle on the floor next to the tub, corked.

    Cid’s stray he’d picked up not even a few weeks back.

    Clive Rosfield.

    Clive and Cid are two different kinds of fools.

    Language:
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