（ cy, by contrast, is dressed like a fucking bird of paradise. an obnoxiously loud paisely style shirt, collared, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. sand coloured slacks round the outfit off, and he makes it look effortless mostly because there is an almost uncanny sense that he occupies his own body to its fullest extent, like he is aware of himself and careless about it in a way that humans don't usually achieve in a lifetime.

he sits with ease, and those long spidery limbs stay neatly folded so he's not taking up unnecessary space, on request. likewise, a bag gets set down on the table between them.

the hoodie gets a look, but for now he's not going to speak to it. ）

You're not little, I was just stretched on a rack. （ haha, well... ） So, did your laundry like a fifties housewife. I'm hoping you've seen somebody about whatever injury it was you had going on?