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It was quiet at the BARian. Too quiet. But Durbe figured that maybe it wasn't too good to be true and decided to settle in for the night and read a bit to unwind because Alit had been getting on his case about his lack of "chillaxing" and if there was one thing Durbe knew, it was that Alit was... well... right (as much as he loathed to admit it).
So there he was, sitting at the counter with a copy of some cheesy-titled novel that Alit had shoved his way the week prior while the bartender mixed him up a milkshake (it totally looked like a martini though and when he took a sip it was bitter and weren't milkshakes supposed to be creamy and sweet? But he digresses), when Mizael taps him on the shoulder. The first thing Durbe noticed when he looked up at him was blonde, straggly, wet hair. The next thing he noticed was that he was only wearing a towel.
"Durbe, I can't find my round brush."
Durbe sighed. "I think Alit borrowed it again to curl the ends of his hair."
"Well, he should know to buy his own damn brush, he knows I need it to dry my hair properly!" Mizael ranted. "Does he expect me, an Emperor and dragon-tamer, to walk around undignified with frizzy hair?"
"I dunno, you should ask him."
Mizael let out a frustrated grunting huff of a noise before stomping away and leaving Durbe to reread the entire last paragraph.
He's just on the next page and the plot is starting to get interesting when he hears Mizael scream. Moments later, his shoes were clacking down the stairs and he was back at Durbe's side.
"Can you believe Gilag used my gloves as feather dusters?"
This time, Mizael was almost dressed, pants on and shirt half-buttoned. Durbe gave him one look and frowned.
"You have fifty pairs of those ridiculous gloves," he deadpanned before turning back to his book, but Mizael was insistently staring him down so Durbe glanced up and furrowed his brow. "What? Am I supposed to be appalled at Gilag for mistakes your gloves, which are made out of feathers, for feather dusters?"
"Yes!" Mizael nearly screeched.
"I pity you--"
"Good!"
"--because you're insane. Do I need to take you to one of those human therapists?"
Mizael glared at him before turning on his heel and stomping away again, his still-wet hair flying in clumps behind him.
Durbe stared wistfully at his book and prayed that he could at least finish this chapter before turning in for the night.