"You have hobbies more unsavory than this?" He questions keenly, scrutinizing Edmund with lively, gently teasing eyes. Small hands roam the back of his scalp with lazy curiousity, mapping out the cranium and the top of his spine, those tiny but critical muscles supporting the brainstem, as if Ienzo fancied himself an amateur phrenologist, or was simply as dedicated to giving a little head stimulation physically as he was intellectually. Drunkenness could be blamed, perhaps, for his funny whims. Or perhaps he'd been his way with his beloved senior schoolfellow, attentively rubbing temples or massaging shoulders in the breaks between long writing sessions.

Edmund's goals sounded almost disappointingly grounded and practical and terribly nobleminded, cementing in his mind that this was someone a little too altrustic at heart, for him. All the same, it could be a carefully patent answer, feeling out how Ienzo felt about surface values. He tried to seem enthusiastically curious.

"So you'll what- join up with local committees, eventually, wherever home is for you?" The boy prompted. "Join a party and try to politick?"

Damn tough work he has cut out for him, if his school popularity had anything to show for it.

Memories, though, memories were a subject he could carry on at length about, if nudged in the right direction. Ienzo inhaled through his nose, trying not to get carried away by the rub of Edmund's fingers over his trousers. "There's plenty to be said about them, yes.But where shall we begin? How about you tell me an old memory, something perfectly clear and seeingly insignificant, in the larger sea of things "