It’s… better in the elevator. Not by much, no, but. Better. Not as many things clawing over each other to get at their senses. Not as many things to trigger the song. The teeth are still there, sure, so is the stretch of their mouth, but. It’s not growing, and that’s better than the alternative.
Caelan looks up at Hugh from under their hood, yellow eyes practically glowing from under the shadows there. They watch him for a beat, two, three, before dragging their eyes away to Cassius, his soft little body practically drenched in concern.
“...better now,” comes their reply, a gear grind against a mouth made to tear.
And they are better. Hugh – Caelan can see what Cassius sees in him. He smells like a dumpster fire, like sex and drugs and a desperation for – they don’t even know what, just that it’s there, but – he also smells… kind, maybe. Certainly trying to be, anyway, with how he’s trying to hold their attention. Trying to keep them from slipping any further.
(It’s working.)
They take in a long breath (shudder around phantom bodies painted in the walls), before their attention focuses back on Hugh, on the way that little laugh sounds vibrating up and out of his throat. On how the squirming worry hitches for a moment and softens into something worse.
(Hurt.)
“...don’t say shit like that,” they find themselves saying in a tone that can’t decide if it wants to be tired or annoyed. “Not with him right there. You’re hurting his feelings.”
no subject
Caelan looks up at Hugh from under their hood, yellow eyes practically glowing from under the shadows there. They watch him for a beat, two, three, before dragging their eyes away to Cassius, his soft little body practically drenched in concern.
“...better now,” comes their reply, a gear grind against a mouth made to tear.
And they are better. Hugh – Caelan can see what Cassius sees in him. He smells like a dumpster fire, like sex and drugs and a desperation for – they don’t even know what, just that it’s there, but – he also smells… kind, maybe. Certainly trying to be, anyway, with how he’s trying to hold their attention. Trying to keep them from slipping any further.
(It’s working.)
They take in a long breath (shudder around phantom bodies painted in the walls), before their attention focuses back on Hugh, on the way that little laugh sounds vibrating up and out of his throat. On how the squirming worry hitches for a moment and softens into something worse.
(Hurt.)
“...don’t say shit like that,” they find themselves saying in a tone that can’t decide if it wants to be tired or annoyed. “Not with him right there. You’re hurting his feelings.”