The (Flesh) Valeyard slides on his knees down the one dressing room bench that isn’t frozen, his fingers clenching the sleek invisible lines of a decent air guitar, hoping Rassilon can’t see him.
Easing off the bench, he applies the pressure of his breath to the dark tie dangling at an apropos angle off his head and sticks his eyes out the burnt-gold edges of the window-door, to look for the man.
Yep. Same spot. The fiend, in plain view across the street, like a winsome pervect.
‘Are you done yet?’ the man’s very posture seems to call out casually, not looking up from its fingernails.
The Flesh Valeyard ignores him in favour of ducking back into the dressing room and stuffing his shirt down his trousers like a good little boy.
“We must be clean, for a pic-a-nic, after all,” he singsongs to himself, reaching down to tug the trousers the rest of the way over his hips and on top of the wibbly shirt.
His fingers find the small lump become belly, and he sighs.
“What is it you want from me? I can’t understand you. Well, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll give you Mehgudi, when this is over...” he murmurs, smiling down at his body, “...you think you’ll like that? If you think I’m doing a belt with this, you’re dreaming.”
He finds himself wanting to touch.
Wanting to caress, despite himself.
He floats his fingers over the bump again, feeling his mouth curving upward in a smile.
“Ah, well...” he reasons as he adjusts the subtle grey tie around his collar with his one free hand, “...maybe you’re not so bad...”