[It takes some effort, but the journal is slowly closed and placed to the side. Guy slides his hands down enough to rest his head in them, elbows against his knees. Fingers still clench as he works at taking in a shaky breath.
Another.
And another.
He's still shaking. That frustration is still bubbling up within him, eating away. But god... he needed to calm down. He needed his composure back. He hated feeling like this - feeling out of control and restless.
Feeling vulnerable.
He treasured his self-control around others. He'd managed it as best he could. Even with everything that happened.
So why...
The slam of a door echoes through the apartment, cutting through the mess of his thoughts. Guy stiffens, straightening up just slightly. Fingers slowly uncurl from his hair, moving to press into the side of the bed.
The soft sounds of movement. A muffled voice, the timber and tone achingly familiar.
He can feel himself holding his breath.
And then the call of his name, right outside his door.
...
It was Luke.
He was home.
...
It takes a long, long moment. Enough for Guy to pry his fingers from the edge of the mattress, slow his breathing... and pretend he wasn't as pale as he knew he probably appeared.
Composure. Composure had to be his ally again.
It was only then that he got to his feet, trudging to the other end of the room and slowly pulling the door open. He looked weary, and he couldn't quite fight the heaviness that lay over his expression. His shirt seems to have been shrugged on, unbuttoned; his bandages are easily visible, only one of his wings sitting properly against the fabric against his shoulders. But he still stood tall and straight, with that same chipper grin making its way onto his face at the sight of Luke.
Whether it was genuine or just slid on out of habit was hard to determine. Even for him.]
Hey. [Damn, his voice was heavy... alright, drawing in a breathe and letting his tone be a little stronger this time.]
Hooray for being honest with ourselves!
Another.
And another.
He's still shaking. That frustration is still bubbling up within him, eating away. But god... he needed to calm down. He needed his composure back. He hated feeling like this - feeling out of control and restless.
Feeling vulnerable.
He treasured his self-control around others. He'd managed it as best he could. Even with everything that happened.
So why...
The slam of a door echoes through the apartment, cutting through the mess of his thoughts. Guy stiffens, straightening up just slightly. Fingers slowly uncurl from his hair, moving to press into the side of the bed.
The soft sounds of movement. A muffled voice, the timber and tone achingly familiar.
He can feel himself holding his breath.
And then the call of his name, right outside his door.
...
It was Luke.
He was home.
...
It takes a long, long moment. Enough for Guy to pry his fingers from the edge of the mattress, slow his breathing... and pretend he wasn't as pale as he knew he probably appeared.
Composure. Composure had to be his ally again.
It was only then that he got to his feet, trudging to the other end of the room and slowly pulling the door open. He looked weary, and he couldn't quite fight the heaviness that lay over his expression. His shirt seems to have been shrugged on, unbuttoned; his bandages are easily visible, only one of his wings sitting properly against the fabric against his shoulders. But he still stood tall and straight, with that same chipper grin making its way onto his face at the sight of Luke.
Whether it was genuine or just slid on out of habit was hard to determine. Even for him.]
Hey. [Damn, his voice was heavy... alright, drawing in a breathe and letting his tone be a little stronger this time.]
You're home pretty late. What's the occasion?