A Living Weapon

     Henry had moved to sit down, letting out a sigh as he felt himself sink back into the cough. He ignored the few strands of hair that fell across his forehead, closing his eyes as he just reveled in relaxing for the moment. One could easily mistake him for actually being asleep with how deeply he was breath and by how still he was being.      Slowly opening his eyes he turned his head to look at Jacket and furrowed his brows, needing to connect the words and think for a moment or two before he nodded. He didn't realize how dry his throat had become in the time he'd drank earlier and now. It must just be from straining himself and healing. He was just blaming everything on that it seemed.      Gaze dropping down to his hands, he moved to clasp them together. It wasn't really to do anything but distract himself for the moment. He tried not to let his gaze linger for too long so he turned his attention to the television and stared at the moving frames instead.

     Henry resisted the urge to run his fingers through his hair and further messing the damp mess, he should have dried it better. With twitching fingers, he rose a hand and gave a thumbs up. It was true, he was feeling much better than earlier. Perhaps all he needed was just a quick clean up. Dropping his hand, the other came to run a couple of fingers across his knuckles and he looked off to the side for a second or two.     Jacket's offer had him look to the couch and he tilted his head to the side. Not only did he not want to take up the entirety of the piece of furniture, but he wasn't exactly ready to power down for the night. His head was still jittery from earlier and the fact that he'd nearly had a panic attack in the bathroom over whether or not he was healing was still very fresh in his mind.     Patting his pockets, he frowned and looked around. Where had he left his notepad again? He hadn't taken it with him when he went out, so he knew it wasn't in his coat pockets...perhaps it was in his bag among his things? He mentally cursed, he really needed to have some form of paper on him at all times. He could only explain through vague hand gestures for so long before he was unable to describe what he was trying to say. Going to kneel down next to his things he dug around for his pad and a pen, finding them both moments later thankfully. Jotting down his thoughts, he moved to stand back up and held the paper up for the other to see and gave a small shrug.       'Don't want to kick you out, don't mind sharing the couch.              Only if you're comfortable with it, I can sit at the table.'

let them fear your ferocity  (via faeyries)

                   H U R T  S O M E O N E  I  C A R E  A B O U T

     Freezing, he snapped his attention towards the door. How long had he been sitting there? Not too long, right...? It must have only been a few minutes... He wasn't sure, which was a bit worrying, however he decided not to think about it too much and forced himself to stand.     There was a slight tension along his spine that seemed to spread to his shoulders and he winced, reaching up to apply pressure to the back of his neck as he reached the door. Flexing his fingers, Henry moved to give a small knock against the door frame; not too hard, but not too soft either. He didn't exactly feel himself just yet, but he didn't want the other worrying over something so minuscule. It could really have been nothing, after all, perhaps his insides were still patching themselves up and he was just feeling the nauseating side effects. That had to have been it. If it were something more damaging he would have felt it right away... Then again, he was still healing so not everything might have been working to full capacity. That was a troublesome thought and caused him to rub his hands together anxiously, fingers smoothing along the damaged tissue of his knuckles, the silver sheen of metal that peeked out between the broken skin glinted in the dull bathroom light.     Deciding it better to just put on his dirtied clothes and worry about it later, Henry moved to begin getting dressed; being careful not to strain himself any further than he already had. Running his hands through his hair, he hoped that it looked somewhat decent. He didn't want to look in the mirror and see- well, himself. Making sure that the bathroom was tidied up, he moved to open the door, chewing on the inside of his cheek nervously as he tried to make himself look...well, not like he was on the brink of an anxiety attack.

romeo and juliet

Guilty (via justanotherrpmusing)

Manuel de Freitas, from “Fado Menor”, translated by Richard Zenith (via soracities)