[10/10 for trying, this is exactly what K would do.
[And... here they are.
[Good God this really is a maintenance closet and they really are supposed to spend seven minutes in here, doing... stuff. Still: K doesn't want to let his team down. And he doesn't particularly want to hand Hurricane a Sharpie and tell him to go nuts, either.]
[He ducks his head, and tries (unsuccessfully) not to blush like crazy, and follows K into the closet.]
[It looks... very little like an actual maintence closet, because dreams are funny like that. The space is small and dark, yes, but the walls are lined with costumes and props, rows upon rows of them. There is a pile of clothes on the floor. There is also a mannequin head wearing googly eye glasses.]
[So long as C really isn't hanging from one of the coat hooks, anyway.
[K pulls the door closed, leaving the closet (close, cramped, fabric brushing against his cheek and his sleeve and his hand) illuminated by nothing but the screen of his cellphone as he fumbles for the stopwatch.
[Yup, Exactly like that. The pocky was... well, okay, so it helped to have some other excuse for doing what he's about to do, but-- well, it was an excuse, wasn't it? He's got a hand on Hurricane's wrist - to steady himself, that's all.
[He's cautious, and gentle as he knows how. For a moment K just sits there, trying to focus on breathing right, and a thought occurs: How the fuck do you keep this up for seven minutes?
[Is Hurricane nervous?
[He sure is.
[He swallows. Draws back a bit.]
I-is that...
[Am I doing it right?
[I mean, was that... you know, bearable?
[Should we go and find a permanent marker instead?]
[Seven minutes feels like a real long time, when it's too dark to see and there's no way to gauge the time, and the only thing to distract you is someone else's lips. And they are distracting, Hurricane finds, flushing darker and shifting in a little nearer, almost despite himself.]
[His hands hover, uncertain, before settling at K's waist. His lips part, just slightly, into the kiss.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[Why's it got to be a closet anyway? Seems weirdly specific.]
Maybe we can pick the lock.
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[Spoilers: he knows that because he once tore down half the ceiling trying to get up into the crawlspace in there, oops.]
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Sounds good. You know the way?
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Yeah... c'mon, it's over here.
[He leads K to the maintence closet - stops by the door, and fidgets a little.]
After you...?
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[And... here they are.
[Good God this really is a maintenance closet and they really are supposed to spend seven minutes in here, doing... stuff. Still: K doesn't want to let his team down. And he doesn't particularly want to hand Hurricane a Sharpie and tell him to go nuts, either.]
Uh, sure.
[Let's... get this started.]
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[It looks... very little like an actual maintence closet, because dreams are funny like that. The space is small and dark, yes, but the walls are lined with costumes and props, rows upon rows of them. There is a pile of clothes on the floor. There is also a mannequin head wearing googly eye glasses.]
...uh.
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[K is just gonna stare at that mannequin head and just C WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS CAN I NEVER GO ANYWHERE WITHOUT REPRISALS.]
Christ, he better not be in here.
[Just gonna check these coats. Maybe he's hiding in one of them, hanging up.]
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[Yeah, totally checking all the clothes hanging up, including the pockets for smoke bombs.]
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[Oh my God what is this.
[K holds it up for inspection in the light from the open door and oh good they're trapped in a closet with a decaying rainbow furby.]
Well, Seven Minutes in Heaven... and he has been going round calling himself God? Guess this is just what it looks like these days.
[He dumps the Furby through the door. No, you stay out.]
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[He tosses this thing out the door, too.]
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[K helps him to bundle out the back end.]
At least we only gotta stay here for seven minutes?
[Then we can go back to being damned.]
You figure we're actually alone yet?
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[But he knocks on the wood of the door jamb, anyway.]
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[K pulls the door closed, leaving the closet (close, cramped, fabric brushing against his cheek and his sleeve and his hand) illuminated by nothing but the screen of his cellphone as he fumbles for the stopwatch.
[This seems sort of... anti-something.]
So, uh... I guess seven minutes from now?
[He holds up the phone.
[Seven minutes is like... two whole songs.]
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[He's blushing again, though it's hard to tell in the dim lighting.]
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[Likewise. God damn it, so very likewise. Maybe Hurricane can't see it, but he can feel it, creeping hot and uncomfortable across his cheeks.
[It's only seven minutes. All he has to do is--
[--lean forward, right?]
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[They did it with Pocky already, right? This isn't that different.]
[He leans forward, too, a little uncertain.]
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[Their lips brush, almost by accident...
[okay
[now what?]
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[Hurricane flushes darker still - leans in a little.]
[His lips are oddly cool to the touch, dry and slightly chapped.]
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[Is Hurricane nervous?
[He sure is.
[He swallows. Draws back a bit.]
I-is that...
[Am I doing it right?
[I mean, was that... you know, bearable?
[Should we go and find a permanent marker instead?]
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Yeah. That was good.
[He steps in a little closer, hesitant.]
You wanna...?
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[K blinks, but that's easy to miss, in the darkness--
[That's an okay, isn't it? Sure, it's hesitant - as hesitant as he feels - but, well, it's not like Hurricane hates this, right?
[Right?
[He's not much less uncertain of himself this time, but he kisses him again anyway.
[It's what they're meant to be doing, isn't it?
[How long is seven minutes?]
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[His hands hover, uncertain, before settling at K's waist. His lips part, just slightly, into the kiss.]