toothbrush.
7 AM turns to 12 PM turns to 3 PM and 6 PM. Days in the Hive always pass either too quickly or too slowly–spend them thinking about the gunk stuck in your teeth and the day will never cease continuing.
“Hi,” Yixing greets by way of usualness, sitting across Havoc and placing his dinner on the table; always a sort of wide-eyed anxiousness to the way he operates, like a baby chick just a few days out of his egg, or a newday gladiator people say had too much of his mind erased, (or a mole controlled by a machine.) Either/or.
And there’s a charming awkwardness to every silence–just enough done deliberately to make nothing seem like it was. “Hey, Havoc, listen…” he starts, pauses scattered in all the right places, so much worded in so little. “I … … left … my toothbrush. In your room.” An apology, a statement, a request–people always say Beast is an open book.
(Dot, dot, dot. Cricket noises.)
they’re light touches and hidden stares, coexisting in secret within the public’s blind spot. even with the fiery red strands that make up his hair their presence combined is still something that people miss out on. and he thinks its better that way; no funny ideas about making them the next ‘star-crossed lovers’ or some shit like that.
like now, during dinner. nobody bats an eye when beast takes his dinner straight to his table without doubt. busy with their own clinking utensils and bread of the day. nobody turns their head when beast tells him about his toothbrush. safe and sound.
“and?” raises an eyebrow, but it doesn’t take long for him to smile again. beast does that to him all the time. “it’s okay. I think I left mine too in your room. probably.” shrugs, tries to act as casual as possible when he takes a dip of the soup with his spoon and lets it fall into the bowl instead.
smooth, havoc.
“so uh, how’s your day?” another poor attempt of a distraction. “I got the movie. you can sleep over for the night, if you want to.”
“just don’t forget the popcorn this time.”
