[READ] Letters and Assorted Mail [IC]

[a_perfect_end]

⥢IIIF.i Domus Minerva⥤
(Drop a note! Or bang on the door. Will loves that.)
⥤ Fidenter percunctare

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[spaceparanoids]

[ While his other hand has lifted up to mirror the first, soap left forgotten on the ledge, both freeze momentarily, assessing, concerned.

Oh no. ]

Does it hurt?

[a_perfect_end]

[The strangeness, the eerie but familiar way way his nerves are singing is not a hurt. He’s not injured.

Flynn’s dismay pulls at something sharp in his chest.]

No! No, not at all. [With a slight duck of his head, lip in his teeth] That’s just—intense.

[spaceparanoids]

[ Well, now his interest is piqued. He suspects...actually, he's not sure what he suspects–

His fingers sweep soap bubbles down Clu's back and up once more, drawn inexorably to that disc and daring–so faintly!–to trace a circle inside it, the palm-sized space where his dock ought to be. Electricity tingles low in his gut, but it must be imagined, surely. ]

How? [ Very, very gently, ] Tell me about it?

[a_perfect_end]

[Tell him? How to describe it, the reaction clear and strong but somehow changed—the hair at the nape of his neck fans almost vertical for the attention.]

It’s like—! [Fingers tracing live heat into the roots of his brain in a way that has him shifting restlessly on the bench] I can feel you, when you do that, and it’s good.

[spaceparanoids]

[ He finds a knot of muscle in the outer ring, where the edge of Clu's shoulder blade borders the ink, and idly sets to working it out. ]

Good! I, uh– [ Electricity turns over into a slow flare of heat, as hot as the steaming water. Flynn wets his lips, his mouth dry. ] Good.

[a_perfect_end]

[The tension is what comes of holding himself back, of waiting to see what others’ reactions are to things they take for standard—and also of overdoing it in the mud. He still doesn’t quite have the trick of balance, at, anything, even as he’s gaining strength and skill.

It’s good that even one other person understands.

And that feels great, insistent fingers digging out an entirely genuine groan of relief.]

Yeah. [The word stretched low and lazy, spine flexed to draw his shoulder blades closer together—to nudge the hand tending them.

Because that’s—he wonders.]

What about you? You feel anything?

[spaceparanoids]

[ The knot gives under the gliding pressure of his thumbs, working heat and affectionate care into the sore little spot.

Clu's groan itself scores a path up his spine, running fingers into his hair. Feel anything? He feels more than he probably should. ]

Well, I– [ Flynn's chuckle is low and dark, an effort to ease his own tension, while he keeps tracing the black line work with quiet fascination. ] It's hard to say, man.

[ Two cupped handfuls of water rinse the soap from his back. His fingers can't stray too far, now that he's here, and close, murmuring his answer over Clu's shoulder. ] Tingling, warm. A rush like...like pure energy.

[a_perfect_end]

[Clu hadn't thought he could relax any further, half-melted under the deft pressure of dedicated strong fingers and gently rinsed clean. Flynn hovers close, thoroughly absorbed, pressing the truth low against his shoulder.

Clu feels a lot better about that than he should, which no towel is gonna hide for long, and anyway he's not wearing one.

But it's more than that, or more than just that. It's more even than the live-wire thrum of very old input in brand new senses--there's a wash of curiosity, an intent interest he can almost feel in his veins, all his nerves alive with fascination.]

Yeah, [drawn out slow, breath back in with the steam through his teeth] it's a lot like that. Is that even a thing, here? [He really should be more precise.] You feel good, all invested in a problem.

[There's no sting in it, low and playful.]

What're you working on back there, anyway?

[spaceparanoids]

[ He never really let his touch stray into Clu's circuits at home. Tron explained once, in his usually straightforward way, the intimacy of it, the exchange of energy and more that had him temporarily concerned he'd been throwing off all sorts of mixed signals to anyone he'd ever come in contact with. Was there an obvious Program signal that blared DTF that he, the only User, didn't realize he was broadcasting?

Flynn traces the border of that tattoo one last time, and drags his fingers aside, to slip his arms around Clu and pull him in close. ]

You.