[ That the sheer reputation of Ercole Visconti has inspired violent temptations in both IsabelaandBruno Madrigal, is really saying something. It's hard to stir up visible anger in almost any Madrigal, but Isabela and Bruno have a special talent for hiding it, for better or worse. Lord help Ercole if he ever does turn up in Kaisou. Thanks to Alberto and his love of dramatic storytelling and embellishment on his homelife, Ercole will have a list of enemies waiting for him right off the bat.
However, Ercole really is more fashionable than Alberto wants to give him credit for, and since Alberto did think Ercole looked very cool when they first met, he's not quick to shit on the guy's aesthetic, just because the guy happens to be a jerk... he's a cool jerk and he knows it and that just makes him more of a jerk, especially now that Alberto knows more about coolness...! So Isabela poses a tough question, to a boy who's still figuring out human fashion norms, himself. Mismatching patterns have never stopped Alberto from walking out the door confidently. So this takes a little bit more deliberation than she likely meant it.
That said, Alberto scrambles up from his spot in the cushions, clambering over the pile of pillows to grab a maroon wool pullover that'd apparently fallen behind the music cabinet. Who knows how long it's been there, but Alberto seemed to know exactly where it was... He hastily climbs to his feet and throws the sweater over his shoulders the way Ercole used to dangle his fashionably, puffing his chest out with his wrists bent against his hips, nose haughtily pointed in the air with a stiff upper lip. Alberto's best impersonation of Ercole Visconti. ]
Ercole wouldn't be caught dead in a blue ribbon, that's what — cuz me and my friends beat him in a big race and kicked his catfish-butt!
[ ...Missing some key context clues, there, Alberto. He's not told Isabela about the Portorosso Cup, nor Ercole's sad little catfish-like mustache, so these details are mystifying as much as they are entertaining, given the panache he tells them with. But nevertheless, he presses on, collapsing into the pile of pillows beside Isabela again, though keeping his cardigan draped over his shoulders like Ercole used to wear his — and, uncouthly, resting a bare foot up on the coffee table with his leg stretched out, the way Ercole also might've... He's invested, as an actor, clearly. ]
But he's a huge snob, and he definitely thinks he's better than everyone else in town. But he's really just a jerk. And I bet he's terrible at Christmas-ing, too. He wasn't even good at summer-ing. He wore a wool sweater in the middle of summer, and he didn't even really wear it, I mean— come on.
[ He plucks at the sleeve of the cardigan draped over his shoulders, rather exasperatedly. Even from an era that was at the height of this fashion trend, it's beyond Alberto's sensibilities. He can let Ercole have this little piece of poshness... It's lost on him. ]
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However, Ercole really is more fashionable than Alberto wants to give him credit for, and since Alberto did think Ercole looked very cool when they first met, he's not quick to shit on the guy's aesthetic, just because the guy happens to be a jerk... he's a cool jerk and he knows it and that just makes him more of a jerk, especially now that Alberto knows more about coolness...! So Isabela poses a tough question, to a boy who's still figuring out human fashion norms, himself. Mismatching patterns have never stopped Alberto from walking out the door confidently. So this takes a little bit more deliberation than she likely meant it.
That said, Alberto scrambles up from his spot in the cushions, clambering over the pile of pillows to grab a maroon wool pullover that'd apparently fallen behind the music cabinet. Who knows how long it's been there, but Alberto seemed to know exactly where it was... He hastily climbs to his feet and throws the sweater over his shoulders the way Ercole used to dangle his fashionably, puffing his chest out with his wrists bent against his hips, nose haughtily pointed in the air with a stiff upper lip. Alberto's best impersonation of Ercole Visconti. ]
Ercole wouldn't be caught dead in a blue ribbon, that's what — cuz me and my friends beat him in a big race and kicked his catfish-butt!
[ ...Missing some key context clues, there, Alberto. He's not told Isabela about the Portorosso Cup, nor Ercole's sad little catfish-like mustache, so these details are mystifying as much as they are entertaining, given the panache he tells them with. But nevertheless, he presses on, collapsing into the pile of pillows beside Isabela again, though keeping his cardigan draped over his shoulders like Ercole used to wear his — and, uncouthly, resting a bare foot up on the coffee table with his leg stretched out, the way Ercole also might've... He's invested, as an actor, clearly. ]
But he's a huge snob, and he definitely thinks he's better than everyone else in town. But he's really just a jerk. And I bet he's terrible at Christmas-ing, too. He wasn't even good at summer-ing. He wore a wool sweater in the middle of summer, and he didn't even really wear it, I mean— come on.
[ He plucks at the sleeve of the cardigan draped over his shoulders, rather exasperatedly. Even from an era that was at the height of this fashion trend, it's beyond Alberto's sensibilities. He can let Ercole have this little piece of poshness... It's lost on him. ]