[It's strange. It's really, really strange, watching his mom interact with his Stand like this, because Star is a part of him but he's not and it's like he's on the other side of aquarium glass, peering in and observing this interaction like a third party with no role in it. But that's not quite true, either, because the phantom sensations still make it through to him, too; the whisper of fingers running through his hair, the pressure of a hand beneath his chin — it's there but it's not and it's strange because he thinks he'd probably hate it if he were Star right now, if that were him, but when it's filtered through his Stand it's...
...It's.
It's like...a soda bottle shaken up, and he's the thin plastic walls keeping it in, he's not sure if he likes it because it's weird and intense and a little bit wrong except that wrong isn't synonymous with bad and his throat feels weirdly thick, for someone who hasn't done anything but stand there at all.]
He...doesn't talk...
[Which is irrelevant, because that's not what Holly is asking, but it's something to say and he's hoping if he does, some of that odd champagne pressure will release. It doesn't, not in the slightest, but Star lifts his head where Holly guides it and smiles at her with an expression that's soft rather than manic, and without a hint of malice.
Their features aren't much alike, but it's an expression that might resonate with her, anyway. It's one her son sometimes wore for her, years ago, when he still beamed in photographs and held his chin up with boyish pride instead of defiance.]
action;
...It's.
It's like...a soda bottle shaken up, and he's the thin plastic walls keeping it in, he's not sure if he likes it because it's weird and intense and a little bit wrong except that wrong isn't synonymous with bad and his throat feels weirdly thick, for someone who hasn't done anything but stand there at all.]
He...doesn't talk...
[Which is irrelevant, because that's not what Holly is asking, but it's something to say and he's hoping if he does, some of that odd champagne pressure will release. It doesn't, not in the slightest, but Star lifts his head where Holly guides it and smiles at her with an expression that's soft rather than manic, and without a hint of malice.
Their features aren't much alike, but it's an expression that might resonate with her, anyway. It's one her son sometimes wore for her, years ago, when he still beamed in photographs and held his chin up with boyish pride instead of defiance.]