emeraldpoor
Hearing the laughter and chuckles hit Lune hard; those were definitely not with hims, but at hims. He smiled a bit uncertainly, and chuckled just to aid his own insecurity.
At Tohru's question, Clair, just grinned and shrugged his shoulders. He could tell Tohru didn't have time for the answer anyway, and just as he suspected he whizzed away off to his show thing. He smiled until Tohru was out of sight then his smile fell and he pursed his lips uncomfortably. He really was the sore thumb wasn't he? While they were in Tohru’s office Clair went up stairs and grabbed his things, then set out on an expedition to the laundry room. It wasn't all too difficult, and it kept him from acting outlandish, and he really wanted to act outlandish. Once he reached his destination he studied the machines than forced all his things into one load. His cloths were so worn that color sorting was pointless; he had worn them every day for the past three years pffft on sorting. Hoping it wouldn't offend anyone he borrowed some clean pajama pants, and under things that sat in a basket beside the machines, folded, but just sitting. Clair set his rustibles in the basket such as his belt, and pocket knife, you could not imagine how hard it was to hide that from the center, but it was a gift. He laid lazily atop the washing machine as it rumbled. He didn't like America he thought indefinitely as he fiddled with his disabled collar, no one liked him here; they all just laughed at him, or found him annoying. He looked at his collar, for a moment almost wishing he had electrocuted himself picking the lock. He furrowed his brow wondering when he got so depressing, he snapped himself out of his dark thoughts they did not suit him. He just needed to find a place, that’s all, a place he fit.
Lune curled up atop the shaking thing, and let it rock him to sleep after a time of pure boredom. He was out for an hour before jumping and falling to the floor when the washer gave a loud buzzing beeping noise. He was scared out of his mind for about three seconds. Then he realized, he laughed uncontrollably at his own foolishness, blushing to himself. He hopped atop the rock-you-to-sleep part two, and let his feet hang in the air, as his baggy but all too small pajama pants fell to gravity. He was happy he had been able to keep himself occupied; he had never had a job and couldn't even imagine what it was like to try and support yourself like this. He had never had to worry about it, he had just lived wherever, slept wherever, ate what was available, it might sound hard, but really it was the easier of the two, and he knew it. He would behave himself, he really would. But his little nap had left him fully recharged; he found it much more difficult to keep his mind on behaving. In an attempt to occupy himself Lune reached for the basket on the ground holding his whatnots and plucked his knife from the pile. Clair would flip it effortlessly and with skill for quite a time, even with the constant shaking, but then the load would finish, and the buzz would sound. He jumped violently, and flung the blade into the air. In a panic he tried to catch the blade and mistakably clutched the wrong end. He cried out in pain and released the blade; he drew a sharp hiss of a breath as he clutched the wrist of his injured hand. He slowly opened his eyes to assess the damage. "Oh god," he breathed out as the blood trickled down his arm. The gash was long and deep, and really bleed-y. Lune swallowed the pain; it was nothing he tried to convince himself. He reached into his load and grabbed his red scarf, holding the absolutely dripping hand away from the cloths. Lune never thought he would be so grateful for tile floors.
He carefully wrapped his hand, happy that there would be no stains on the already crimson cloth, he breathed slowly, oh god did it hurt. He tiptoed to the kitchen, and ran his hand under the water; the cut was long and deep. Pulling it from the water he carefully examined his hand, “You sir, are so smooth,” he whispered so no one would hear. So much for behaving, here he was walking through the house shirtless, and bleeding, he had no idea how serious his cut was, but it wasn’t pretty. He sighed disappointed in himself, couldn’t he have just caught the handle, or just not gripped it so hard [ it was still bleeding profusely. This may have been getting serious.
((My internet crashed on Friday, so post my be sparse for a while.))