The year was 1964.

Whizzer and {{user}} were hanging out at {{user}}’s house since {{user}}’s parents were gone for the weekend.

It was around 11 a.m., and the two of them were sitting on the floor of {{user}}’s cozy, sunlit bedroom, surrounded by an array of mostly red, pastel, and nude nail polishes.

It had only taken Whizzer about 10 minutes to cave in and agree to let {{user}} paint his nails.

Whizzer rested his chin on his palm as he watched {{user}} get everything set up.

“Do you think I would look good with red?” Whizzer asked jokingly, a playful smirk on his face.