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If there was any way to describe Lord Lawrence Christopher Charles Cook, Steve would say ridiculous but, frankly, he’s sure anyone would get that from the Australian’s name alone.
He spends 2 hours in the morning in the bathroom, preening his appearance like he was going to meet royalty. A carefully brushed and lightly hair sprayed mane of hair that Molossia is sure he’s never seen greasy, a thin layer of foundation and concealer to cover the blemishes, not that he’s sure Hutt River had them, and plucking those poor beasts he called eyebrows into something more shaped and graceful.
Australian in birth but not accent, at first the put on, vaguely English at a push, accent had annoyed Steve Jones to no end but now it just became an indication of mood. Smooth and dulcet when flirtatious and happy, a slight Australian twang when stressed, a twang that got only broader and broader when irritation and annoyance turned into full blown anger and it is, by far, the single most hilarious and bizarre thing the American has ever heard.
Molossia has lost count of the amount of times they’ve been late for dates now or the other has arrived so late he may as well have not bothered, the micro nation having already counted it as being stood up. It’s his clothes, he can’t wear anything the day after the other, even if he’s just at home, Molossia convinced Hutt changed his clothes more often than his underwear.
He speaks in tongues about fabrics, about chiffon, damask, silks and cottons. Colours are the same, Steve never unable to give Lawrence a sceptical look every time he went on and on about how something wasn’t just purple, it was Velvet or Eggplant or Orchid or how it wasn’t simply green, it was Harlequin, Sea, Pear or Persian.
Simplified terms didn’t exist to the fellow micro nation, that was for sure, the American long since having lost count of the number of times they’ve bickered about this, Molossia usually giving in as he may be insufferable when a smug little shit but he’d rather have him smug and happy than upset.
Even if Steve was right and Lawrence was wrong.
Lawrence is a Primadonna, a giant sissy baby who panicked whenever it rained and he was outside and got upset whenever he got mud on himself, even if it was just his shoes. He wants compliments left right and centre, vocal appreciation of himself and everyone, be they human, micro nation or an actual nation, throwing them down on the floor him and then kissing the ground he walked upon.
His ego and vanity would be off putting and a nightmare if it wasn’t for his sweetest of moments. Complaining the other was disgustingly filthy every time he visits and yet still wearing any one of his jackets or shirts in the cold Nevada mornings despite the fact they probably hadn’t been washed in a while.
The way he begrudgingly accepts flowers, like he doesn’t appreciate the gesture, threatening to bin them only for Steve to find them in a vase less than an hour later, cut and arranged so the flowers stand at different levels and the colours blend together. A small appreciative kiss on the cheek given that Molossia always turned one on the lips with a quick turn of his head, earning him a bark of a thick Australian accent.
Part time allowances to go to the bathroom first and the ever so rare opportunity to go whilst Lawrence is in there, the Australian always side eyeing him as he did his business, which would lead to quips about the other wanting to see the American micro nation’s cock, an embarrassed Australian and whatever he was holding clattering into the sink.
When his fingers would messy with his thick black hair, complaining about how greasy it was getting and how nasty it was to touch but not stopping, teasing and stressing the hair in places to make his tangled nest of hair into something vaguely presentable even if Molossia did still look like he’d been dragged through a bush backwards. Hutt River just enjoyed playing with his hair.
But, most of all, he likes those moments when Lawrence wakes up early and bakes. It’ll only happen once or twice; mostly when Lawrence thinks Steve won’t be getting up any time soon, filling the house with the smell of baking bread, a smell that clings to the other regardless of if he’s baked any or not.
He goes overboard, there’s no denying that, Steve usually making a remark about if Lawrence was trying to feed the five thousand with the amount he’d made. Though there’s one thing he can’t deny, Lawrence loved bread and Steve could only wonder if, one day, he could make the other feel half as happy as he looked when eating his home baked break and thought nobody was watching.
He’d only have to ask, though. Lawrence would tell him as much.