@lambsmarrow
toller has been in his home before. it wasn't this lived in then, but they've spoken, and luther was a sweet and tentative host at the time. he poured coffee, confided tearfully, and smiled with charm and practiced grace. today, in his best sweater, he hugs a pillow and stares blankly at the tv in the living room. perhaps this is truly his element. forget the nights spent looking for love in smoky clubs, forget the oppressive blank prison walls and barbed wire. perhaps, this is where he belongs: curled up and unresponsive, valueless and yearning, with the distinct stink of omega hormones creeping off of him.
"he won't talk to us." henri explains, looking tired. she's tired physically, tired emotionally, and most importantly, tired of luther. resentment had never found a home in the twins' friendship, but it still paid them a visit now and again. "he no-showed at work the past two days. when they called me, i thought he was dead."
henri isn't sure if her brother can hear her, and she doesn't care. he licks his lips, takes a slow and steady exhale, and continues to feel hollowed out and despondent.
"i don't know, can you... talk with him? i mean, honestly—" she shrugs. "either do, or don't, it's your call." she wouldn't blame toller for making either decision. "i have to go to work." and she means it. like that, she's gone. luther is tempted to sneak a look at toller, compelled to see how toller reacts to his new opportunity. but there's an image to maintain, even if that image is just a pretty, distraught young man, overburdened by his feeling and loneliness.
so he doesn't look. he only shifts in his arm chair, wincing only slightly at the throb of organs deep inside as they prepare for his imminent heat. it's ugly business. he's ashamed of it. call it some self inflicted punishment, to bear through this for the first time in his life without suppressants. after all, why should he be protected from the ache of his body?
