The stance alone spoke volumes of how familiar he was within any golf adjacent range. Legs apart and hands firmly planted on his hips, Clarence looked a fool for resting at a power stance but that was besides the point. Every ounce of attention was poured into the other’s shot as he waited with bated breath. Yet the hope he held was shot clean through, just as the ball had done with the windmill. 

Clarence began to shift his position into another just as ridiculous as the last. Knees bent a bit too far, ass stuck straight out, and back oddly bowed – he glanced back and forth between a newly placed ball and the obstacles ahead. 

“Never got how the balls are kept track of. Like the ones you just whammy into space with all the strength you got. But, yeah, sure, I’m game.” As per usual, it’s all said with a smile; bright and warm, but fueled by an air of competitiveness. Arms arced back, held, and then whap! Off the ball went, hit with way too much force to have it roll on the ground. Instead, it was sent sailing past the turning blades. 

         ❝ You sound like you’ve got some bad ideas, ❞ and Eggsy sounded like he approved; the more trouble he could get into? The better, he thought, because it spiced things up and kept everyone on their toes. There was no keeping off guard so long as he was around, but, still. Now that Clarence mentioned it … ❝ You positive demons ain’t fuck-withable? That a firm no or something? ❞

Both eyes round to the size of saucers as he blinked a few times. What a half-assed attempt at innocence. “Me? Bad ideas? Don’t know where you’re gettin’ that from.” Then came an unmistakable scrunch to his face when the topic of the big D continued. “They’re all hooligans, the lot of them. Always with their tricks and big honcho egos and constant murderous intents. I didn’t get royally trampled twice to live a fool, Eggsy.”  Did he say twice? Sorry, three times was the actual charm to get his head fucking straight. 

He’s gone, come back, gone again, and come back again. One turn around a corner and, yep, there she was, still chasing after something he hadn’t an inkling about. What’s even more mindboggling than that was the fact that he hadn’t disappeared for the day. There’s nothing for him to do here other than sneeze over upswept dust and wallow in boredom. 

Oh, the things he does for a friend’s interest. 

❝ I FEEL CLOSEST TO THE ANGELS when i’m in the middle of a thunderstorm, soaked to the skin, shook up with sound, waiting for my bones TO BECOME BRANCHES OF WHITE LIGHT. ❞

For once, he’s quiet. Composed, even. No more flyaways wisped from a head of unkempt hair. No more nonsensical chatter that could span every subject of the universe and then some. No teetering, colliding, shuffling, or skipping. For all intents and purposes, Clarence Luc Watts was fit to chameleon his way through the masses.

He stepped into the space with a rare surety. Posture held slightly slumped but relaxed. Feigning interest was a specialty of his. Second nature as a means of masking through the mess of his neurosis. One by one he inspected the wares available for purchase. Drew his features into a contemplative set, interested but not overly so, all while he cased the room in utmost discretion.

So imagine his surprise when an eerily familiar voice registered a moment later. Time didn’t stop, it never did for anyone or for any thing, but an unseen montage avalanched into his psyche. All at once and then nothing at all.