( the aesthetic!! the aesthetic!!!! and also shut up maybe he does.

and wow, of course the grandpa would imagine classical music and not techno, which is what all the young hip kids like these days. dropping them beats.

at the prodding about growing into his old age, Aoba opens his mouth in offense and wrinkles his nose, gaze narrowing in mock annoyance. wrinkles. excuse you, his face is youthful—people still think he's in high school!!!

but it's not nearly as offensive as Crowley telling him to drink milk. )

No way. I'll keep my brittle bones, thanks.

( before he can make an additional snarky comment Crowley mentions being human and Aoba quites down some, listening with mild fascination. all red and shorter.... can he really be blamed for the comparisons to Naine, in that case?! it's beginning to border on the uncanny. but, blue eyes....

blue eyes... they were probably very pretty. it's a sudden pull in his chest, a hard ache that makes him wish that cameras were a thing back then. he'd love to see a picture of what he looked like before. even scars—he wants to touch things like that, trace along them, learn them.

Crowley's hand moves and Aoba watches, picturing the mark that used to be there, sweeping across the flawless stretch it is now. )

Mmph. ( he snugs even harder in the blankets when Crowley calls him unfair and pulls on them, ) This fortress is for people who are getting old. With wrinkles.

( requirements both of which Crowley does not meet. )

If you really want to come in you'll have to convince me.

( flattery, perhaps? tell him he's got the prettiest mullet in town )