[There's nothing there to touch, but Chatterclock turns to Yu like he felt it, and for a second, for the first time, their eyes meet.]
Hm?
[It takes him a moment.
He realizes all at once that the angle's wrong, that the hand he felt wasn't on his hilt or his blade or on any part of him that makes sense, that Yu's staring at him like he's seen a ghost and what the hell, why is he over here, what is--k n e e s.
Chatterclock scrambles upwards and the mattress doesn't even bend beneath him, but he stands on the bed with his back to the wall and he has a back, he has hands, he is slapping both of them over his mouth and whispering--]
Fuck!
[But beneath his hands is a disbelieving, open-mouthed half-smile, tugging the corners of his eyes into shocked laughter that he doesn't let out. He moves his hands away from his face and stares at them for several seconds, rubs the pad of his thumb over the calluses--calluses!--on his fingers and palm--then dive-slides for the window to see if he can make his reflection out in the glass.
His makeshift mirror is not particularly effective at this hour of night, but he makes an attempt to restyle his hair anyway, running his hands back through it until it's swept artfully to his satisfaction. Only then does he look back at Yu, pull those long limbs back in to sit properly (all legs to himself this time), and clear his (!) throat.]
I knew I was hot shit.
[How he tries to hide his shock, excitement, bewilderment, how terrifyingly little he understands about his own existence--it's all so much more obvious on his living, moving face, in the tension of his shoulders.]
no subject
Hm?
[It takes him a moment.
He realizes all at once that the angle's wrong, that the hand he felt wasn't on his hilt or his blade or on any part of him that makes sense, that Yu's staring at him like he's seen a ghost and what the hell, why is he over here, what is--k n e e s.
Chatterclock scrambles upwards and the mattress doesn't even bend beneath him, but he stands on the bed with his back to the wall and he has a back, he has hands, he is slapping both of them over his mouth and whispering--]
Fuck!
[But beneath his hands is a disbelieving, open-mouthed half-smile, tugging the corners of his eyes into shocked laughter that he doesn't let out. He moves his hands away from his face and stares at them for several seconds, rubs the pad of his thumb over the calluses--calluses!--on his fingers and palm--then dive-slides for the window to see if he can make his reflection out in the glass.
His makeshift mirror is not particularly effective at this hour of night, but he makes an attempt to restyle his hair anyway, running his hands back through it until it's swept artfully to his satisfaction. Only then does he look back at Yu, pull those long limbs back in to sit properly (all legs to himself this time), and clear his (!) throat.]
I knew I was hot shit.
[How he tries to hide his shock, excitement, bewilderment, how terrifyingly little he understands about his own existence--it's all so much more obvious on his living, moving face, in the tension of his shoulders.]