[Kavinsky touches people in a one-way street context wherein his hands smooth over arms, chest, back, but he's always a little too animated to be pinned down himself. He's always been the captain and the leader of ragtag groups of youths with too much free time on their hands. No one put their hand directly on the match-- they blew it out. He liked the breeze.
Fingers graze him. Not the pads, but the backs, the knuckles, the thin skin over bone and veins. White light before him, like headlights turned on suddenly when the night was otherwise dark, lit by stars and cigarette cherries.
Then: never mind.]
Do I know you?
[He knows him as much as he knows most of the hive. He 'heard' his message to all of them, inviting them to this gala in the first place. They hadn't met, yet, though. This is a first face-to-face.
no subject
Fingers graze him. Not the pads, but the backs, the knuckles, the thin skin over bone and veins. White light before him, like headlights turned on suddenly when the night was otherwise dark, lit by stars and cigarette cherries.
Then: never mind.]
Do I know you?
[He knows him as much as he knows most of the hive. He 'heard' his message to all of them, inviting them to this gala in the first place. They hadn't met, yet, though. This is a first face-to-face.
Hand-to-neck.]
( I'm not leaving yet. )