The one shoulder he lifts in an elegant shrug seems poised to nudge Edmund's chin out of the way, should he hover any closer. Ienzo's slid some sort of semi-transparent paper over the school text, and makes his notes in a very soft pencil, tiny yet immaculately printed scrawlings, a mess of ideas. There's only so much radical thought you can pull out of Plato, nowadays, but he's still prone to writing notes that are punctuated by question marks and slanted emphasis.
"Lectures are lectures." It's a dismissive sort of answer, and it takes a moment for Ienzo to decide on how he ought to tease back. A dull huff of a sound presses up from his lungs but gets captured by his throat and closed-up mouth, shaking his head. Has it really been weeks now?
"No need to flatter yourself." He tsks crisply, and adopts a relaxed sort of posture that carries considerably less of the New Boy jitters that he's been very fortunate to skip over adopting, up until the horrors of being thrust backwards in his boarding arrangements this year. A worn out Tart by third year? Some of older lads whisper that it's sad, what's become of him, but he still has his scholarship placements, and he'll be off to (hopefully) better places two years before the burning of their envy has time to cool.
"I do notice when you come and go, it's true. Some take refuge here more relibly than others. And I see some of the things you read." He cocks his head toward the books in Edmund's satchel. "But there's a lot to absorb about everyone."
Some just take a little longer to make decisions about, to let them sink in fully. His gaze sits levelly on Edmund's now, thoughtful.
"You're worth mulling over," Ienzo admits, rolling his tongue against the inner pouch of his cheek and rubbing at the smooth like of his jaw. "If that's something your self-esteem desperately needs to hear? Your brother was far simpler to suss out."
That could either be taken as a mild compliment, or a very casual familial insult, but it's certainly an intentional bait, to at least garner an honest reaction.
no subject
"Lectures are lectures." It's a dismissive sort of answer, and it takes a moment for Ienzo to decide on how he ought to tease back. A dull huff of a sound presses up from his lungs but gets captured by his throat and closed-up mouth, shaking his head. Has it really been weeks now?
"No need to flatter yourself." He tsks crisply, and adopts a relaxed sort of posture that carries considerably less of the New Boy jitters that he's been very fortunate to skip over adopting, up until the horrors of being thrust backwards in his boarding arrangements this year. A worn out Tart by third year? Some of older lads whisper that it's sad, what's become of him, but he still has his scholarship placements, and he'll be off to (hopefully) better places two years before the burning of their envy has time to cool.
"I do notice when you come and go, it's true. Some take refuge here more relibly than others. And I see some of the things you read." He cocks his head toward the books in Edmund's satchel. "But there's a lot to absorb about everyone."
Some just take a little longer to make decisions about, to let them sink in fully. His gaze sits levelly on Edmund's now, thoughtful.
"You're worth mulling over," Ienzo admits, rolling his tongue against the inner pouch of his cheek and rubbing at the smooth like of his jaw. "If that's something your self-esteem desperately needs to hear? Your brother was far simpler to suss out."
That could either be taken as a mild compliment, or a very casual familial insult, but it's certainly an intentional bait, to at least garner an honest reaction.