sterne ; cotly, sylvestre ; blitz

Click. He drops his pen on the floor, wincing with the sharp thud that follows suit; his ears ring hollow, and the tips feel numb, but the sound is excruciating to someone so unaccustomed to noise... emptiness- that's the word he thinks of when he tries to rub the pain away with the palms of his hands. It doesn't work. He tries again, this time with a more forceful pressure. It doesn't work. He thinks about taking the pen in this fist and stabbing the pain away, but he figures that Sylvestre would think he was crazy if he did that. It really doesn't work. Cotly doesn't want Sylvestre thinking he's crazy, now does he?

Instead of harming himself, though, the boy simply sighs and picks the ballpoint up, setting it next to the drawing he had been etching into some paper and carefully lifting himself from the seat. "Sylve...." he murmurs, placing his fingers to his neck just to feel the vibrations of each syllable, "...stre." Cotly smiles at this and walks over to the door, turning the handle with the pads of his fingers, not the flatness of his palm. "Hey Sylvestre..?" His voice echoes down the stairs without hesitation and he leans in the doorway, either waiting for the welcomeness of a face or the warmness of a response. Today had made him sadder than usual (this peaked his interest, for he had no clue why) but he figured that his big, bad best friend could change that. His vision flickers between reality and outer space, leaving astral thoughts to fill his mind as he waits, squishing themselves between stitches and imprinting an idea into his head. He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, the excitement building up within his core as he hears footsteps approaching his mass from somewhere else in the house.

Maybe they could look at the stars... maybe they could look at the moon... maybe they could melt into the sky.