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Lazuli von Klassen

You can put your kettle on, but I'ma make the thing pop

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Lazuli von Klassen

The ship was quiet these days, given the general propensity to actually get to know their aggressively ordinary hosts and equally insufferable co-visitors, and it would be a lie if Laz said he hadn't been up to the same. But there were certain things that one simply could not do with their new friends, or in the general comfort of the castle they were supposed to call home for the next year.


One of those things was showering, which approximately 85% of the Durmstrang population did with any semblance of regularity.


Laz was one of those people. Obviously.


And so there he was, wrapped in the fluffiest of towels (thank you, house elves), taking part in his daily self-care regimen and indulging in the tingling sensation of a well-made seaweed mask and checking his eyebrows to ensure that they were at peak levels of perfection. He had no shame in his hygienic game; after several days trapped on this boat with the same twenty people, you lost most senses of decorum pretty quickly. He didn't even bat an eyelash when Elio walked out of one of the shower stalls.


"Oh I know that smell," the Swede said in their native tongue, catching a glimpse of his ex-whatever in the mirror, a mischievous grin on his face. "That's your hetero-desperate shampoo. Who are we peacocking for this time, Nygaard? Hmm?"

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