[ Stephen's stood by the fire when Quentin arrives, stoked from embers or started fresh with a flick of his wrist. He turns, and the turning makes clearer the starts of dark stains oozing through at his thighs where he's buried his hands in pockets, like blood pooled in a sack of fresh meat. Swiped stains too on the sides of his shirt, slick smears of pitch on his face, in his hair.
There's tension in him, expression grim and tipping a little toward helpless at the sight of a friendly face. His hands stay embedded in his pockets. He doesn't move yet. ]
no subject
There's tension in him, expression grim and tipping a little toward helpless at the sight of a friendly face. His hands stay embedded in his pockets. He doesn't move yet. ]
Thank you.
[ First and foremost. ]