[ Everything happens so fast that Cal has no idea what's going on up to and including the moment she has her mouth pressed against his, and then many moments after that. He pretty much dies and hits rigor mortis the second their lips meet, a six foot tall carbonite cast of a man who just met the biggest shock of his life, half-bent at the waist and hands frozen, claw-like and futile, in the air between them.
He blinks. Realizes that he's looking her directly in the eyes, the frames of her glasses digging into his cheeks, and closes his, a little too tightly like he's anticipating a sucker punch. Because that's what you're supposed to do, right? During a kiss.
Because. That's what this is, of course. A kiss. His first kiss too. Why is she kissing him?
A great many things come to his immediate attention then, chief among them the rapid pace of his heart, thumping against his ribcage. The awkward angle of her mouth against his—but despite that, the very real impression of it. The death grip she has on his head and shoulder, fingertips digging into his skin.
Slowly, his body starts to reanimate, and he curls his hands around her wrists to ease her hold on him, then draws back, complete astonishment written all over his face. Madam Vermeer is sputtering something in the periphery, but he barely hears it, like a fragmented holomessage.
He opens his mouth to say something. Closes it again. Opens it one more time, but all that comes out is: ]
https://i.imgur.com/DdzlipT.png
He blinks. Realizes that he's looking her directly in the eyes, the frames of her glasses digging into his cheeks, and closes his, a little too tightly like he's anticipating a sucker punch. Because that's what you're supposed to do, right? During a kiss.
Because. That's what this is, of course. A kiss. His first kiss too. Why is she kissing him?
A great many things come to his immediate attention then, chief among them the rapid pace of his heart, thumping against his ribcage. The awkward angle of her mouth against his—but despite that, the very real impression of it. The death grip she has on his head and shoulder, fingertips digging into his skin.
Slowly, his body starts to reanimate, and he curls his hands around her wrists to ease her hold on him, then draws back, complete astonishment written all over his face. Madam Vermeer is sputtering something in the periphery, but he barely hears it, like a fragmented holomessage.
He opens his mouth to say something. Closes it again. Opens it one more time, but all that comes out is: ]
Fukawa...