Glibt reached out to steady himself against the wall, looking at his hand momentarily; wrinkle-free, smooth skin, this was just plain odd. He let himself get his bearings for a moment... he was only an inch or two shorter, but he was definitely skinnier. Tugging at his hair lightly to bring it down in front of eyes he knew were blue and would always stay blue, in his male form, at least, he was pleased to see that the shade hadn't changed too much, although it was thicker and a tad wavy.
After he'd taken stock of himself, he finally looked up toward the bed, cocking his head slightly and shaping new lips into their first smile. It was disconcerting to be able to feel Mark, feel the presence of the Democratic Party, in the room with him, but not immediately connect the person before him to Mark, his Mark. But he definitely knew that the attraction was still there; how could it not be? While Glibt would always love Mark Harden and always miss him, Mark Garrett, well, it was like Glibt had told Mark when he'd first seen the picture. Glibt wasn't going to kick him out of bed.
"I wasn't going to!" Glibt protested lightly, wincing just a tad at how different his voice sounded, younger and with more emotion infused into each word. Yes, he could already tell that his stringent self-control, his way of internalizing negative emotions, his ever-calm exterior, they hadn't survived the transformation intact. Stepping forward, his foot caught in the hem of his slacks as they slipped a few inches down his waist and Glibt stumbled, blushed, and reached down to cinch his belt tighter, to the most inner belt-hole. That accomplished, he moved closer carefully, looked at Mark carefully, and when he reached out to brush newly sensitive fingertips over Mark's forearm, he relaxed slightly. That jolt of connection was still present, still strong. Mark was still Mark.
"You look good." He murmured, letting his hand fall away after a moment. "We're going to have to add clothes shopping to our list of things to do this weekend, however."