Much Ado About Nothing

"How many dry cleaners' bags did you pack? I don't remember all these being put into the car on the way there..."

Shaking his head with an elusive sigh, Minoth crosses the miniature mudroom to relieve Addam of his burdens, neatly hooking his fingers around the hangers and tugging. To answer the question, he holds out a demonstrative arm: "Just the one, Prince. They all come along together."

Two outfits for one renaissance faire is all well and good, Addam thinks, but five? What can this be about?

He can't be irritated if Minoth's bought himself some new costumes. Not aloud, anyway. What Minoth does with his side of the closet is his business, and since he doesn't hang his jeans, he's got plenty of extra room.

Room for leather pants, of course, and vests and ties and suspenders and cravats and all the formalwear that no regular office job ever requires. Half his graphic t-shirts are hanging up, with the other half carefully folded and tucked into a bottom drawer.

Addam's got to manage his own suitcase, meanwhile, packed with all the bulky bits of his armor that he'd seen no reason not to methodically organize into a puzzle of interlocking plates and straps and chainmail pinned to the corners of the luggage's floor.

It really doesn't matter all that much either way, so long as they haven't forgotten something irreplaceable. Addam tries not to take anything of such value with him on any such trips, while Minoth's much better at counting his things, once and again; if he ever has misplaced a trinket or an identification card, Addam's not been made aware.

Neither has he been made aware of the hanky-panky currently afoot (though the foot is dropping, shuffling itself into position for rest and bows) with the garment bags or other objects masquerading in their shape.

Maybe he won't know. Maybe it's to be one of life's great mysteries. Maybe the secret's an unpaid tax levied in lieu of duty-free.