[ No sooner have the words loosed Ryuji's lips than Keita's knees have begun buckling, bent to obey. From his own perspective it's faster than instant, no chance given to even understand what he's heard before his mic-addled mind is already accepting of their objective truth, that behind him all along has been a seat suited to handle his weight.
So it is all doubt's dispelled as to whether or not the mic actually works. Not that Keita ever held such doubts; he lacks the capacity, for surely nothing could be wrong with so awesome a device, yet Ryuji's asked he hang on, and so hang on he shall. Gotta make sure it works for real. He understands.
It's a given of course that no seat exists behind him, but this alone cannot keep Keita's subconscious from playing along, powerless to resist the reality Ryuji's jammed between gears. One might compare it to one of those old-fashioned trust exercises, the way Keita simply slips back into a perfectly-placed chair — and somehow, he holds. Though before Ryuji starts celebrating what power over physics his little microphone holds, he might take note of Keita's calves, and how they strain at maintaining that pose. Not that Keita knows it, of course. All he's aware of is the fact he's planting his ass on a chair.
Or rather, a cactus. ]
Son of a—!
[ Good thing for Keita: No-one said anything about him having to stay in the cha-- cactus, so no force bars him from leaping to his feet, hands grabbing his poor prickled hiney, and casting a withering glance back at the totally-there spiny plant behind him. Good thing for Ryuji: When Keita immediately steps forward and grabs Ryuji's collar, he stops at glaring and forming a fist. Threats are fine, but no further. Pissing himself at the very prospect of harming one hair on Ryuji's pretty head is simply who he is now. Don't crush me! carved in immutable stone. ]
The hell, Sakamoto? Is this why you called me here? To prank me? You want me to crush you that bad, huh!
no subject
So it is all doubt's dispelled as to whether or not the mic actually works. Not that Keita ever held such doubts; he lacks the capacity, for surely nothing could be wrong with so awesome a device, yet Ryuji's asked he hang on, and so hang on he shall. Gotta make sure it works for real. He understands.
It's a given of course that no seat exists behind him, but this alone cannot keep Keita's subconscious from playing along, powerless to resist the reality Ryuji's jammed between gears. One might compare it to one of those old-fashioned trust exercises, the way Keita simply slips back into a perfectly-placed chair — and somehow, he holds. Though before Ryuji starts celebrating what power over physics his little microphone holds, he might take note of Keita's calves, and how they strain at maintaining that pose. Not that Keita knows it, of course. All he's aware of is the fact he's planting his ass on a chair.
Or rather, a cactus. ]
Son of a—!
[ Good thing for Keita: No-one said anything about him having to stay in the cha-- cactus, so no force bars him from leaping to his feet, hands grabbing his poor prickled hiney, and casting a withering glance back at the totally-there spiny plant behind him. Good thing for Ryuji: When Keita immediately steps forward and grabs Ryuji's collar, he stops at glaring and forming a fist. Threats are fine, but no further. Pissing himself at the very prospect of harming one hair on Ryuji's pretty head is simply who he is now. Don't crush me! carved in immutable stone. ]
The hell, Sakamoto? Is this why you called me here? To prank me? You want me to crush you that bad, huh!