[As starved for lusus-esque doting as Gamzee is, of course he'd be delighted with such a home. He does ted to think of the complex as a big, miraculous lusus, though...
That "lusushome" has yet to provide him any sopor, no matter how hard he tries to pray to it, or talk to it. It keeps dropping mattresses in his room. And the mattresses are cool enough in their own way, but...
He's distracted by your suggestion, though. Are his spongeclots deceiving him?
You can't see under his makeup, but his neck flushes bright indigo. He's shocked, and absolutely elated.
He trembles a little--so fast, actually, that his outline seems to blur for a second.
Cal's whispering at him again, he glances at the puppet. That's right, he's got to play this cool. Just because it's a red gesture doesn't mean it's the right degree of red. It could be as pale as the blanket itself.
Right, he's got to play this cool.
He proceeds to hurl himself into your lap, probably knocking the page of breath right out of you. You can't even protest before he's wrapping his (FREEZING) arms around your neck, clinging to you.]
[You're so warm. It's pathetic but he really doesn't want to let go. And on some level, that feels really really stupid, and like he's stepping on whatever feels you might have going on like so many secret horns he didn't see.
But...then again...
He doesn't know how much longer he's going to be him. His slime's running low. And so much of it's just not...effective anymore, not to mention he feels a lot more certain of his feelings. A lot more feeling in general.
Time was he'd just zone out in his room for days on end, but here he feels like he's been doing so much.
Like he has all this need to move.
He grips your back.
It's not like he can run when it's all in his head, though.
His voice cracks.]
[He's glad you can't see his face for a second as he sniffs.
He really is feeling a lot more than he ever has, he thinks. Cal whispers at him, though, distracts him, tells him it only ends one way. He waves off the puppet with a massive hand, sniffling again, and wishing he had a moirail. (Or is it just a moirail who'd remember him?)
The nightmare with your cold severed head in his hands. It's never going to happen. He's never going to let it happen. Not again. Even the voices have promised him that.
They all agree on that much.
There are a few more pops outside, and he brightens a little, leaning back and letting up on his vice-grip hug.]
PFFFFF. TAVROS THAT IS SO FLUSH OF YOU. CUE INNER OVERWHELM.
That "lusushome" has yet to provide him any sopor, no matter how hard he tries to pray to it, or talk to it. It keeps dropping mattresses in his room. And the mattresses are cool enough in their own way, but...
He's distracted by your suggestion, though.
Are his spongeclots deceiving him?
You can't see under his makeup, but his neck flushes bright indigo. He's shocked, and absolutely elated.
He trembles a little--so fast, actually, that his outline seems to blur for a second.
Cal's whispering at him again, he glances at the puppet. That's right, he's got to play this cool. Just because it's a red gesture doesn't mean it's the right degree of red. It could be as pale as the blanket itself.
Right, he's got to play this cool.
He proceeds to hurl himself into your lap, probably knocking the
page ofbreath right out of you. You can't even protest before he's wrapping his (FREEZING) arms around your neck, clinging to you.][You're so warm. It's pathetic but he really doesn't want to let go. And on some level, that feels really really stupid, and like he's stepping on whatever feels you might have going on like so many secret horns he didn't see.
But...then again...
He doesn't know how much longer he's going to be him. His slime's running low. And so much of it's just not...effective anymore, not to mention he feels a lot more certain of his feelings. A lot more feeling in general.
Time was he'd just zone out in his room for days on end, but here he feels like he's been doing so much.
Like he has all this need to move.
He grips your back.
It's not like he can run when it's all in his head, though.
His voice cracks.]
[He's glad you can't see his face for a second as he sniffs.
He really is feeling a lot more than he ever has, he thinks. Cal whispers at him, though, distracts him, tells him it only ends one way. He waves off the puppet with a massive hand, sniffling again, and wishing he had a moirail. (Or is it just a moirail who'd remember him?)
The nightmare with your cold severed head in his hands. It's never going to happen. He's never going to let it happen. Not again. Even the voices have promised him that.
They all agree on that much.
There are a few more pops outside, and he brightens a little, leaning back and letting up on his vice-grip hug.]