[Guy would never admit it. But... maybe it wasn't the best idea to come back to the apartment.
There was only so much he could do in this place. Only so many ways he could work himself just a little too hard. Often Guy would find himself repeating a chore for a second or third time and feel the deeper wounds of his shoulder ache from the effort, sometimes even re-opening and bleeding out once more into the bandages. He'd stop with a grimace of pain; applying pressure, downing a gel and waiting it out, cursing himself as he did so.
He couldn't stop. He couldn't just sit and wait. But at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to face people in the village right now. He was pretty sick of receiving questions that people weren't quite willing to hear the answers to.
Luke still hadn't returned. Not that Guy had expected him to. Even with the words Luke had spoken only days before, there was still a part of Guy's mind that didn't expect him to come home. Flee to the sanctuary of life with his lover. Find Asch and cling to him, make him feel secure. Protect him.
Surely he wouldn't be stupid enough to come back here, of all places.
And yet, despite those thoughts and insecurities, Luke's bed was being re-made one too many times a day. Belongings were cleaned. Laundry was folded and put away in its entirety. One could say it was out of boredom. Or just something else entirely.
He was just plain exhausted. And he didn't quite know what to do.
But giving himself a couple days to think was... invigorating. Refreshing, in a sense. It helped calm the nerves he felt knowing that, according to the way Luceti ran, today was apparently the day that Asch would return.
Somehow.
It takes him all day to muster up the courage to check. To just... open up the journal. To see that entry or message; from Asch, maybe from Luke, saying who knows what and teasing at that twinge of discomfort twisting in his gut.
The afternoon drifts by, as does the entire evening. Only then, when Guy can't bring himself to work any longer, does he find himself dropping to a seat on his bed, his journal on his lap.
He hesitates, exhaling slowly, before turning the cover over, flipping through the pages gently for the first time in over 8 days, looking for those familiar names...
my feels are so not ready for this thread just fyi
There was only so much he could do in this place. Only so many ways he could work himself just a little too hard. Often Guy would find himself repeating a chore for a second or third time and feel the deeper wounds of his shoulder ache from the effort, sometimes even re-opening and bleeding out once more into the bandages. He'd stop with a grimace of pain; applying pressure, downing a gel and waiting it out, cursing himself as he did so.
He couldn't stop. He couldn't just sit and wait. But at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to face people in the village right now. He was pretty sick of receiving questions that people weren't quite willing to hear the answers to.
Luke still hadn't returned. Not that Guy had expected him to. Even with the words Luke had spoken only days before, there was still a part of Guy's mind that didn't expect him to come home. Flee to the sanctuary of life with his lover. Find Asch and cling to him, make him feel secure. Protect him.
Surely he wouldn't be stupid enough to come back here, of all places.
And yet, despite those thoughts and insecurities, Luke's bed was being re-made one too many times a day. Belongings were cleaned. Laundry was folded and put away in its entirety. One could say it was out of boredom. Or just something else entirely.
He was just plain exhausted. And he didn't quite know what to do.
But giving himself a couple days to think was... invigorating. Refreshing, in a sense. It helped calm the nerves he felt knowing that, according to the way Luceti ran, today was apparently the day that Asch would return.
Somehow.
It takes him all day to muster up the courage to check. To just... open up the journal. To see that entry or message; from Asch, maybe from Luke, saying who knows what and teasing at that twinge of discomfort twisting in his gut.
The afternoon drifts by, as does the entire evening. Only then, when Guy can't bring himself to work any longer, does he find himself dropping to a seat on his bed, his journal on his lap.
He hesitates, exhaling slowly, before turning the cover over, flipping through the pages gently for the first time in over 8 days, looking for those familiar names...
And it's then that the messages come.]