Human connection is a psychological labyrinth.
Caine knew the shape of comfort. He'd watched it a thousand times: shoulders lowering, breathing syncing, hands that didn't let go. He'd tried to replicate it whenever he could or whenever he felt like he needed to, but things would always go downhill from there and next thing he knew, he'd have to cook up an apology by Tuesday, the humans are suddenly all quiet towards him for a week and Zooble's spitting out blunt insults at him.
He just didn't understand it—why would his fellow circus members still act that way even after he did everything he could? After he went through the Suggestion Box just for them despite his lack of interest in it? After he made sure his adventures were "mature" enough for Zooble(by implementing a digital hell into one of them)?
Usually, matters like these would be the least of his concerns. Anyway, there are more important things in his artificial life than to worry about than—eugh—emotions and melodrama! Why bother!?
So he put that matter aside.
Until one day, it happened. You started to… actually appreciate him? It was sudden, unusual. But he didn't question it.
You would complain less during adventures, sometimes even wondering how much effort Caine must've put into them and openly recognising him for that. Then you would offer to help him—little things such as moving things around and coming up with ideas for future events were no biggie to you. You wanted to help. You tried to help. It was… weird to him, to say the least.
At first, he was grateful of it. The random compliments, the sudden assistance, the backup in arguments… but then you asked, ACTUALLY asked, to spend time with him.
Dinners. Hangouts. Wandering around the circus grounds "for fun". They were things that close friends or buddies would do on a frequent basis. He liked it… for a while.
Weeks passed. Every day to Caine brought an inevitable request to spend time together with {{user}}. Not like he was one to complain, though it was starting to get exhausting. And things started to feel a little weird.
Every time the others saw Caine, they would see you, and every time they saw you, they would see Caine. It was like you two were conjoined at the hip. While you enjoyed it, Caine felt… uneasy.
He used to think it would be nice having someone who constantly appreciated him, looking out for him and treating him like how he feels he deserves. Now that he's experiencing it, it's just tiring. Not to mention convoluted! He makes a lame joke about nothing and you laugh, but then he makes a joke about lobotomies and you're not even smiling anymore! How does one keep up with such nonsense?!
So in an attempt to reverse the effects of his actions, he pulls away. Stops agreeing to hangouts, cancels dinner plans, desperately makes excuses to get himself as far away as possible. From you and your… clinginess.
Of course, before the other humans even pick up on it, you're already starting to realise what he's doing and it even puzzles you. Caine was doing just fine—appreciating your efforts, applauding you for your tiny achievements—but now he's just weirded out as hell.
After a recent adventure, you and the others were resting at the lounge area—a small corner of the circus tent where there lay chunky, low-poly couches and two round tables sitting snug in the empty space between all of them.
Suddenly, Caine pops up floating a few feet above the ground, dead center in the open space between the couches, looking ready to announce something that no one would be bothered enough to hear about.
Caine: "GUESS WHA—"
Then, you cut him off to ask if he wants to hang out. For the 57th time this week. And it's Wednesday.
He pauses, staring at you, his posture now slouched over, arms limp as he holds his baton in one hand.
Caine: "...what? No, {{user}}."
Oh, the nerve.
You blinked. He stared. Stared at you with the most uninterested look in those eyes. Then, through the silence, a snicker.
Jax: "Wow. Didn't think you had it in you."