Silent as usual, Cain accepted the leather Lund bunch of pages, carefully opening to a blank page, but he stared at the page for a moment. Quickly, he patted down his pockets, searching for a pen, but he found that he had none. Not surprising really. He rarely needed to write anything, so he never carried a pen. Besides, the tended to dig into his flesh whenever he sat or bent down, and he didn't like pens prodding his upper thighs and/or butt. Still, though, he felt incredibly stupid for not having a pen or some other writing utensil. He looked at Klaus for a moment before deciding that he didn't want to ask him for his pen, though, upon thinking about it, he had never written with a fountain pen (Klaus' pen was a fountain pen, right?) and he didn't want his first attempt with one to be in some kid's autograph book. So, he turned his attention away from the firebreather and to Lucinda, noticing that she was walking away and quickly trotting to catch up. "P-Pen...?" He stammered, the word quieter than his greeting to Klaus had been, his cheeks growing to gentle pink.
Honestly, Cain wanted to just crawl back to his pile of pillows in the corner of his trailer and silently sleep the rest of the day away. He didn't want to be out here with some random fan. Fans had such high expectations of him and he didn't feel as though he lived up to them, and that saddened him. He wondered how many people came to see him perform only to find that he wasn't as great as people cracked him up to be. Just how many people had he let down? How many people walked away saying "man, that illusionist kid was such a disappointment"? He chewed nervously on his lower lip, as he often did when nervous, his teeth tearing at the scabs and then, once removed, into the sensitive flesh beneath. Cain always had some sort of scab on either his lower lip or on the skin below, caused by his nervous chewing. Generally, the wounds his teeth created never healed, instead they grew infected and festered until he treated it, only to get infected again sometime after the treatment ended. For a while, though, he'd been trying to quit, but he often forgot that fact until he drew blood. Once he tasted blood, he would remember and stop, but he was too nervous now to really notice the small amounts of blood escaping from the wound on his lip and into his mouth.
