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The thing that Sinclair was most concerned about in Heathcliff's body, besides the possibility that he might never return to his own, was how everything seemed suddenly both so close and so far away.
He'd never quite noticed how long all of Heathcliff's limbs were until now, what with his head being so close to Mephistopheles' ceiling that it was making him feel claustrophobic. It reminded him a little of being in a richer friend's house, wherein he was just familiar enough with everything to know that he should be careful of breathing too hard, lest he break something by accident.
Not to say that Heathcliff was delicate, not at all like porcelain statuettes and blown glass drinkware. More that Sinclair found himself entirely too aware of the space he took up.
So far, he'd narrowly avoided:
- slamming Heathcliff's hip into every seat on the bus
- slamming Heathcliff's dick into every seat on the bus
- slamming Heathcliff's forehead into the bus's doors
- tripping into Meursault (Rodya?)
- tripping over Don Quixote (Faust?)
and worst of all
- nearly getting impaled on his own halberd
They weren't even in a fight; he'd just miscalculated where to put Heathcliff's feet.
It was quite a surprise to hear his own voice taking that tone with him. He was by no means sheltered at this point (he hardly even flinched at the sight of his own viscera anymore, as disturbing as the thought was) but he didn't even know what some of those words meant. Were some of those even real words? Were some of those phrases acts of violence or esoteric acts of-
No, he wasn't going to think about that while in Heathcliff's body. What if it responded like Sinclair's usually did? He wasn't going to invade Heathcliff's privacy like that!
Is what Sinclair thought, before taking a quick glance downwards. His shoes were quite far away, weren't they? Heathcliff was... broad, and tall, and definitely older than Sinclair, and now that his thoughts had wandered in that direction, it wasn't easy to rein them back in.
He tried to be subtle, really. Crossing his legs. Squeezing his thigh. (Wow, Heathcliff had some strong thighs, huh.) Just a quick look, just to answer the question nagging at the back of his mind. Was Heathcliff average, whatever that meant? Smaller than? Sometimes he acted it.
Or was he...? It was natural to be curious about this sort of thing when such an opportunity presented itself!
But Sinclair stopped tugging at the hem of Heathcliff's pants as Heathcliff berated him, loudly, obviously, both blushing like they were on the verge of a stroke each. Was Sinclair always that obvious? The worst part was that it wasn't like Sinclair could blame him for being so touchy this time.
Sinclair didn't even try to explain himself, squeaking out apologies that only seemed to incense Heathcliff further as Sinclair's hunkered down into the seat like it might swallow him up.
Dante couldn't wake up soon enough.